Last week I bought a book, a book that my friend Tubby had recommended to me roughly five years ago: the collected fiction of Jorge Luis Borges. I'm basically kicking myself for having waited so long to read this stuff. The stories are all amazingly well-told and usually have a fantastic idea at their core. Hmm. That's a bit weak, that praise. An illustration: these stories didn't just make me laugh or cheer or even utter brief, semi-articulate words of praise as I read them, they made me do all of that while walking down a crowded street. These stories are so good that they make me act like a crazy man. If this book were a woman I would propose to her on the first date and hopefully get the ring on her finger before she realized how far out of my league she was. She would be so much smarter than me...
Also, the translation-ing skills of Andrew Hurley are not to be underestimated.
Wait, wait. Let me try that again.