Eric Benson tries to search for Borges in Texas on the fiftieth anniversary of the Argentine’s visit to the state.
My uncle hasn’t read much Borges. The copy of Labyrinths in his office has a stiff, unbroken spine and appears to have been only lightly skimmed. Nonetheless, I view his lifelong obsessions with chess, number theory, and literature as profoundly Borgesian traits. His house, a secret and vast library nestled into a remote hillside, exists for me as a Borgesian conceit. Even Texas—its history and myths and tall tales—now feels Borgesian in its composition. “If I am not mistaken, the heterogeneous pieces I have enumerated resemble Kafka,” Borges writes in the essay. “If I am not mistaken, not all of them resemble each other.”