∞ Author, 1960
The Maker
Heaven, XXXI, 108[1]
Theodorus Siculus[2] tells the story of a god who has been torn apart and scattered.[3] Who, when walking through the light of the gloom or tracing back to a date in his past, does not feel that an infinite thing has been lost?
Mankind has lost a face, an irreparable face, and perhaps all wish they were the pilgrim (dreamed of on the highest heavens, under the rose), who saw the veil of Veronica[4] in Rome and whispered in faith: Jesus Christ, my God, the true God, so is this your face?
There is a stone face on a walkway, and an inscription reads: The true image of the Holy Face of God of Ha'an[5]; if we really know what it is, we have the key to understanding those fables, and we will know whether the carpenter's son is also the Son of God.
Paul[6] saw it as a light that knocked him down; in John's eyes it was like a sun shining in all directions; and Jesus Deland[8] saw it many times bathed in the light of tranquility, but could not determine the color of those eyes.
We have lost those faces, just as a magic number made of ordinary numbers may disappear; just as a figure disappears forever in a kaleidoscope. We may turn a blind eye to them. The silhouette of a Jew in the subway may be the silhouette of Jesus; the hand that finds us a few coins from a small window may reproduce the hand of several soldiers, one day, crucified.
Maybe the face of a crucified face lurks in every mirror; maybe that face dies, disappears, in order to make God all.
Who knows if tonight we will see it in the labyrinth of dreams, but tomorrow we know nothing.
Translation Notes:
[1] Dante, Divine Comedy in Heaven XXXI, 108: "So, is that what your face is?" ”。 This article was deleted in the 2012 edition of Borges's Poetry Collection.
[2] Diodoro Sículo, an ancient Greek historian of the first century BC, is the author of Bibliotheca Historica .compendium of histories.
[3] The Annals collection records that Dioniso, the god of wine, was torn apart by the sons of Gaia, the mother of the earth, and his scattered limbs were picked up and pieced together by Deméter, the goddess of harvest, and reborn.
[4] Verónica, a Jerusalem woman recorded in the Acta Sanctorum, gave Jesus her veil to Him to wipe her forehead as Jesus walked toward Calvary with the cross on her back, and jesus used it and returned it to her, by which time his face was printed on the veil.
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[5] Jaén, a city in south-central Spain, houses the Santa Iglesia Catedral de la Asunción, built in 1246, houses what is known as the true Veronica Veil.
[6] Pablo de Tarso (c. 5–67), one of the apostles of Jesus in the Bible.
[7] Juan el Apóstol (c. 6–c. 100), one of the apostles of Jesus in the Bible.
[8] Teresa de Jesús (1515–1582), also known as Teresa de Cepeda y Ahumada or Teresa de vila of Avila, Spanish mystic, writer, and Catholic reformer, was canonized as a saint in 1622.
The silhouette of a Jew in the subway may be the silhouette of Jesus; the hand that finds us a few coins from a small window may reproduce the hand of several soldiers, one day, crucified.
—Translated by Borges | Chen Dongbiao
—Reading and Rereading—
Paradiso, XXXI, 108
Diodorus Siculus tells the story of a god torn to pieces and scattered. Who, walking through twilight or tracing a date from his past, did not ever feel that an infinite thing had been lost?
Men have lost a face, an irrecoverable face, and everyone would like to be that pilgrim (so ado in the empyrean, under the Rose) who in Rome sees the shroud of Veronica and murmurs in faith: Jesus Christ, my God, true God so was, then, your face?
A stone face is on a path and an inscription that says: The true Portrait of the Holy Face of the God of Jaén; if we really knew what it was like, it would be ours the key to the parables and we would know if the carpenter's son was also the Son of God.
Paul saw it as a light that brought him down; John, like the sun when it shines in its strength; Teresa of Jesus, many times, was in a quiet light, and could never pinpoint the color of her eyes.
We lost those traits, as you can miss a magic number, made of usual figures; as an image is lost forever in the kaleidoscope. We can see and ignore them. The profile of a Jew in the underground is perhaps that of Christ; the hands that give us some coins in a window perhaps repeat those that some soldiers, one day, nailed to the cross.
Perhaps a feature of the crucified face lurks in every mirror; maybe the face died, it was erased, so that God may be everyone.
Who knows if tonight we will not see her in the labyrinths of the dream or and we will not know ma ana.
Chen Dongbiao translation and others
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