JORGE LUIS BORGES WITH THE FINISH LINE WRITERS, GLOUCESTER , MA

ME: Welcome Señor Borges. May we imagine that you are here with us at the Gloucester Writers Center, and that we are having a conversation with you?

JLB: You may imagine anything. You are a writers, are you not?  But, please, Señora, call me Jorge. It is good for me to be remembered. So you have been wishing to meet me?

ME. Well, I must admit Señor, I mean Jorge, I barely knew you existed until very recently, but now that I have read a little about you….

JLB: Ah! Then we have something in common, as ”I myself never knew if I actually existed.”

S. That is exactly why I am drawn to you. I feel that way sometimes as a writer between the thin veil of reason and imagination, reality and fiction.

JLB: Si si, si, my point, well one of my points. My work has been described by one critic as “irrealty.” You are experiencing what has become known as the “Bogesean conundrum”: "whether the writer writes the story, or it writes him.”

ME: Or “her"? When I heard what you had said about writing, and of coure how you write,  I knew I had to meet you.

JLB: You mean instead of Stephen King? Are you referring to my statement that, “I am all the writers that I have read, all the people that I have met, all the women that I have loved; all the cities that I have visited, all my ancestors.”

ME:. Yes, that’s it! I see your point. Who are we, fundamentally, if we are everything we have experienced, known or have ever been?

JLB: I am he, as you are he as you are me, and we are all together.

ME: “I Am the Walrus,” I loved that song—a man of your stature and erudition quoting the Beatles?

JLB: As you say, Señora, you barely knew I existed, so your reaction is understandable. The essence of life and the universe to me is “an inexplicable maze, a labyrinth: I have only my perplexities to offer you.” I said that when I was almost 70 years old.

ME: I just turned 70 myself, and I too am filled with perplexities, which keep me in wonder and doubt. I am agnostic—sometimes! 

JLB: Which simply means that, “all things are possible, even God. This world is so strange that anything may happen, or may not happen. I have given the major part of my life to literature, and I can only offer you—doubts.”

ME: I can say the same—living for literature, or at least with literature all my life, which is more real to me than most things—-the body of truth in it clothed in fiction. So, you mean to say you did not live by any one religion or system of thought?

JLB: I have lived in many countries, experienced many cultures, read and understood many philosophers. The most significant influence in my life was father’s library with its thousands of books. I have not thought to find answers to my questions or solutions to the enigma of being human, so I enjoy everything and employed everything as esthetically enjoyable constructs.

ME: Your thinking, and your writing remind me that, at times, I feel it is not I who is writing, as if  what comes to me is latent in my DNA, waiting thppo be expressed, but randomly…or maybe from somewhere else—again perplexities and doubt. Not that I am in your league, don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t presume to…

JLB: Gracias, but, Señora, there is no league—only labyrinths, mirrors and dreams.

ME. Oh, I don’t know what to say about that, do you mean in writing?

JLB: I mean in life, even for Shakespeare. Have you read, my “Everything and Nothing”?

ME: No, but I heard about it when I was listening to a New Yorker Fiction podcast in the introduction to one of your stories.

JLB: Really, I am mainstream now? I invented hypertext, did you know?

ME: What? I have to look that one up. Hmm and I am not sure you are mainstream exactly, but I wouldn’t be the one to ask. I do remember reading one of your stories when I was in college,  “Funes the Memorious,” about a young man who is haunted by his memory of absolutely everything he has ever seen and experienced.

JLB: Si si, So you have read something of mine and now heard of others. So, tell me about that New Yorker Fiction podcast.

Me:    Well, the story on the podcast was your “Shakespeare’s Memory,” and  made me think about…hmm, I guess it made me think about and understand more about irreality.

JLB: Ah, my story about a man who is given the gift (and curse) of having all of Shakespeare’s memories which displace his own. Wonderful, and you will read my “Everything and Nothing”?

ME: Yes, I will as soon as I get back to reality—whatever that is, right?

JLB: Right. I will briefly summarize it, if I may to you and  your fellow writers: Jane, Dan, Barbara, John, Stacey, Cindy 1 and Cindy 2, as it contains the essence of how I think about the relationship between writers and writing—creators, and creations.

x

ME: Yes, please do; we’d love to hear it

4 JLB: It involves Shakespeare, who he was and perhaps his own search for  a fundamental identity. We know him by his works, but little of his so-called real life. First, he was as an actor, and content to play someone else, but was that enough? No, he then imagined, moved, thought, spoke and felt through his characters in the plays—hundreds of them, many of whom also disguised themselves as others. He created “all possible shapes of being.” After twenty years of “controlled hallucination” he returned to the “village of his birth, where he dictated his final will, which excluded every trace of emotion and his life-long literary gifts.

In  “Everything and Nothing.” I wrote, “the story goes that before or after he died, he found himself before God and said: ‘I who have been so many men in vain, want to be one man: myself.’ The voice of God replied from a whirlwind: ‘Neither am I one self; I dreamed the world as you dreamed your work, my Shakespeare, and among the shapes of my dream are you, who, like me, are many persons—and none.”

ME: I will have to take that into my "ponder heart," as Grace Paley would have said. Thank you, Jorge Luis Borges, for being with the writers in Gloucester tonight, and for your life and work of imagination and inspiration. It was an honor--even in its unreality.

JLB: De nada, es un placer—to exist once again in the present among the living, rescued from death's oblivion to speak to fellow writers—seekers wandering in and recording life's labyrinth of everything and nothing.

CATCHING THE STARS

Fran thinks about the multitude of days she has taken the elevator to the 10th floor, walked down the hall to the blue door, put the key into the lock. Now, for the last time, she will open that door to her Play it Again music shop, maybe the last one in the country. It is a cherished space for her, and for the conductors, composers, musicians, opera singers and others for almost 40 years. 

     Fran turns the key to the familiar sounds of the creaking door and tinkle of a bronze bell, which in the last few days had not stopped ringing. Dozens of "guests" (as she called her customers), and well-wishers braved the wintry weather to visit the shop for a farewell--some for the first time, but all for the last. 

     She stands disoriented at the open door in temporary parlysis. Although she had anticipated this day for months, even years, she seems unable to step across the threshold. For a moment, she thinks she hears the strains of the music she loves—symphonies, fugues, concertos and sonatas emanating from the sheet music, now is boxes waiting for movers to take away to be archived at the University of Music and Performing Arts in Vienna.

    Taking a deep breath, she enters the familiar space with nothing to do now, except ponder the years spent here, and the memory of how guests thought Fran’s stewardship of the thousands of sheets of classical music, many rare, made her comparable to a maestro herself, orchestrating the vast collection: organizing, moving, expertly arranging, according to composer, edition, composition, or other more subtle aspects only she knows about. 

     Guests have wondered about Fran's uncanny insights and intuitions, which she shared with so many, both extraordinary and ordinary guests--always charmed by her dark eyes and flash of a smile that could seemingly fill the space with light. There was also light in Fran’s whole being for the love of music yet to be discovered, played and heard by others. No wonder she affectionately became known as, “the beating heart and soul of classical music.”

    Fran had been preparing for some time for the inevitable oblivion of the shop and its wares. There was no long a need for a brick and mortar shop,with the vapid sources on the internet, one could research, browse and download free anything and everything related to music and with oncerts performed with downloaded music to laptops instead of sheet music on stands. Rarely do musicians have that experience of touching and seeing music on paper, holding sheets in hand, turning pages, or even tucking them away somewhere until found again on a shelf, like treasured old books.

    Guests who had heard about the shop's fate came by often over this last week to Fran's universe of unheard music to take in again, or for the first time, the familiar ambiance of the space: that certain slant of afternoon light; the sound of distant traffic below, the mood of anticipation of what they would experience--like a concert hall before the conductor walks on and the overture begins. 

    Last week, when interviewed by a nice young man from the New York Times about the shop's closure, she had told him that hers was, “a place where there was one of everything. I just love that moment when you put something on the counter and the person says, ‘Ah! I can’t believe you have this.' " But, she always did, even if guests didn't know exactly what they were looking for. Her hands would deftly lift each sheet to lay before them, pointing out the uniqueness of a score, the subtleties of a particular version—like a mother who knows so well the virtues and foibles of each of her children.

    Over the years, new guests were not only amazed to learn of the scope and depth of her colossal collection, but also were curious about the basket of eggs and bunches of rosemary, sage and basil on the front desk. Frequent visitors knew that Fran had a little farm in western Massachusetts where she raised chickens and tended gardens. So, often guests left the shop with eggs and herbs along with their sheet music and receipts—always handwritten in pencil by Fran herself--all part of what she called, her “little stage,” happy that every day she got to “do her act.”

    When business began to dwindle to a few guests a day, then on some days not even one, she felt herself at the edge of a cliff about to fall over. If she herself could create a composition to accompany this last day, it would be a lamentation for the passing of an era, not able to hold on to it forever. That was not to be, as she conjured a memory of long ago--that fleeting moment of holding the stars in her hands. 

    She is moved to listen to Mendelssohn's The Hebrides Overture throughout the day, the strains transporting her to another time and place: she a young woman on the isle of Uist in the Outer Hebrides in a crofter’s cottage. While at first she had experienced the remote landscape of the island as start and austere, day by day she began to notice the subtlties of color of land and sea, to feel the purity of the air, to bask in brilliant sunlight, and to appreciate a simpler life, as she learned to collect seaweed, tend gardens and shear sheep. 

     Her last "guest," this day then, was the memory of the her last evening in Scotland, spent with the MacKays, who had welcomed her for a time into their family.  As the sun went down, they took a simple meal together, drank a wee bit of whisky, and recited and sang Robby Burns’ poetry and songs. Filled with the kind of sadness as now, she had spoken to the MacKays of her gratitude for their hospitality and for experiencing all the wild and beautiful things around them: Eagles flying high above, the wide drifts of flowers beyond the white sand beaches; the thatched-roofed cottages with their driftwood or whalebone timbers, the lovely low stone walls; and, most of all, the kindness and generosity of the MacKays.

    “I will never forget any of it, or you,” she had promised.

    “You haven’t seen everything yet, Lass," said Mr. Mackay. "Come with us now, but keep your eyes closed." Fran was led into the dark night by the two older MacKay children on to a narrow path approaching the sea, to the sound of slow waves on the shore. Then, she opened her eyes to the bright stars of the heavens perfectly reflected across the calm sea.

    Fran has never returned to the Hebrides, but on this day in her beloved shop, and as on many days since, she recalls that night-- "catching the stars," a memory of magic: wading into the sea, cupping the stars in her hands, even as they slipped through her fingers back into the dark water.