BORGES BIBLIOTHEK VON BABEL PDF
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Jorge Luis Borges Die Bibliothek Von Babel
By this art you may contemplate the variation of the 23 letters. The Anatomy of Melancholy, part 2, sect.
The universe which others call the Library is composed of an indefinite and perhaps infinite number of hexagonal galleries, with vast air shafts between, surrounded by very low railings.
From any of babbel hexagons one can see, interminably, the upper and lower floors. The distribution of the galleries is invariable.
Twenty shelves, five long shelves per side, cover all the sides except two; their height, which is the distance from floor to ceiling, scarcely exceeds that of a normal librarian. One of the free sides leads to a narrow hallway which opens onto another gallery, identical to the first and to all the bibliothel.
To the left and right of the hallway there are two very small closets. Also through bibbliothek passes a spiral stairway, which sinks abysmally and soars upwards to remote distances. In the hallway there is a mirror which faithfully duplicates all appearances. Men usually infer from this mirror that the Library is not infinite if it were, why borgse illusory duplication? Light is provided by some spherical fruit which bear the name of lamps. There are two, transversally placed, in each hexagon.
The light they emit vibliothek insufficient, incessant. Like all men of the Library, I have traveled in my bibliothei I have wandered in search of a book, perhaps the catalogue of catalogues; now that my eyes can hardly decipher what I write, I am preparing to die just a few leagues from the hexagon in which I was born. Once I am dead, there will be no lack of pious hands to throw me over the railing; my grave will be the fathomless air; my body will sink endlessly and decay and dissolve in the wind generated by the fall, which is infinite.
I say that the Library is unending.
The idealists argue that the hexagonal rooms are a necessary form of absolute space or, at least, of our intuition of space. They reason that a triangular or pentagonal room is inconceivable. The mystics claim that their ecstasy reveals to them a circular chamber containing a great circular book, whose spine is continuous and which follows the complete circle of the walls; but their testimony is suspect; their words, obscure.
The Library of Babel by Jorge Luis Borges
This cyclical book is God. Let it suffice now for me bibliothsk repeat the classic dictum: The Library is a sphere whose exact center is any one of its hexagons and whose circumference is inaccessible.
There are also letters on the spine of each book; these letters do not indicate or prefigure what the pages will say. I know that this incoherence at one time seemed mysterious.
Editions of The Library of Babel by Jorge Luis Borges
Before summarizing the solution whose discovery, in spite biibliothek its nabel projections, is perhaps the capital fact in history I wish to recall a few axioms. The Library exists ab aeterno. This truth, whose immediate corollary is the future eternity of the world, cannot be placed in doubt by any reasonable mind. Man, the imperfect biblkothek, may be the product of chance or of malevolent demiurgi; the universe, with its elegant endowment of shelves, of enigmatical volumes, of inexhaustible stairways for the traveler and latrines for the seated librarian, can only be the work of a god.
To perceive the distance between the divine and the human, it is enough to compare these crude wavering symbols which my fallible hand scrawls on the cover of a book, with the organic letters inside: The orthographical symbols are twenty-five in number. One which my father saw in a hexagon on circuit fifteen ninety-four was made up of the letters MCV, perversely repeated from the first line to the last.
Another very bibliohtek consulted in this area is a mere labyrinth of letters, but the next-to-last page says Oh time thy pyramids.
This much is already known: They admit that the inventors of this writing imitated the twenty-five natural symbols, but maintain that this application is accidental and that the books signify nothing in themselves. This dictum, we shall see, is not entirely fallacious.
For a long time it was believed that these impenetrable books corresponded to past or remote languages. It is true that the most ancient men, the first librarians, used a language quite different from the one we now speak; it is true that a few miles to the right the tongue is dialectical and that ninety floors farther up, it is incomprehensible. Some insinuated that each letter could influence the following one and that the value of MCV in the third line of page 71 was not the one the same series may have in another position on another page, but this vague thesis did not prevail.
Others thought of cryptographs; generally, this conjecture has been accepted, though not in the sense in which it was formulated by its originators. Five hundred years ago, the chief of an upper hexagon  came upon a book as confusing as the others, but which had nearly two pages of homogeneous lines.
He showed his find to a wandering decoder who told him the lines were written in Portuguese; others gorges they were Yiddish. Within a century, the language was established: The content was also deciphered: These examples made it possible for a librarian of genius to discover the fundamental law of the Library.
This thinker observed that all the books, no matter how diverse they might be, are made up of the same elements: He also alleged a fact which travelers have confirmed: In the vast Library there are no two identical books. From these two incontrovertible premises he deduced that the Library is total and that its shelves register all the possible combinations of the twenty-odd orthographical symbols a number which, though extremely vast, is not infinite that is, everything it is given to express: When it was proclaimed that the Library contained all books, bilbiothek first impression was one of extravagant happiness.
All men felt themselves to be the masters of an intact and secret treasure. There was no personal or world problem whose eloquent solution did not horges in some hexagon. The universe was justified, habel universe suddenly usurped the unlimited dimensions of hope. At that time a bibloothek deal was said about the Vindications: Thousands of the greedy abandoned their sweet native hexagons and rushed up the stairways, urged on by the vain intention of finding their Vindication.
These pilgrims disputed in bibpiothek narrow corridors, proferred dark curses, strangled each other on the divine stairways, flung the deceptive books into the air shafts, met their death cast down in a similar fashion by the inhabitants of remote regions. It is verisimilar that these grave mysteries could be explained in words: For four centuries now men have exhausted the hexagons.
There are official searchers, inquisitors. I have seen them in the performance of their boeges Obviously, no one expects to discover anything. As was natural, this inordinate hope was followed by an excessive depression. The bilbiothek that some shelf in some hexagon held precious books and that these precious books were inaccessible, seemed almost intolerable.
A blasphemous sect suggested that the searches should cease and that all men should juggle letters and symbols until they constructed, by an improbable gift of chance, these canonical books. The authorities were obliged to issue severe orders. The sect disappeared, but in my childhood I have seen old men who, for long bborges of time, would hide in the latrines with some metal disks in a forbidden dice cup and feebly mimic the divine disorder.
Nibliothek, inversely, believed that it was fundamental to eliminate useless works. They invaded the hexagons, showed credentials which were not always false, leafed through a volume with displeasure and condemned whole shelves: They were borhes on by the delirium of trying to reach the books in the Crimson Hexagon: We also know of another superstition of that time: On some shelf in some hexagon men reasoned there must exist a book which is the formula and bibliothem compendium of all the rest: Many wandered in search of Him.
For a century they have exhausted biblithek vain the most varied areas. How could one locate the venerated and secret hexagon which housed Him? Someone proposed a regressive method: In adventures such as these, I have squandered and wasted my years.
It does not seem unlikely to me that there is a total book on some shelf of the universe;  I pray to the unknown gods that a man—just one, even though it were thousands of years ago!
If honor and bqbel and happiness are not for me, let them be for others. Let heaven exist, though my place be in hell. Let me be outraged and annihilated, borgds for one instant, in one being, let Your enormous Library be justified. Borgs impious maintain that nonsense is normal in the Library and bofges the reasonable and even humble and pure coherence is an almost miraculous exception. In truth, the Library includes all verbal structures, all variations permitted by the twenty-five orthographical symbols, but not a single example of absolute nonsense.
These phrases, at first glance incoherent, can no doubt be justified in a cryptographical or allegorical manner; such a justification is verbal and, ex hypothesi, already figures in the Library. I cannot combine some characters. No one can articulate a syllable which is not filled with tenderness and fear, which is not, in one of these languages, the powerful name of a god. To speak is to fall into tautology.
This wordy and useless epistle already exists in one of the thirty volumes of the five shelves of one of the bibliothwk hexagons—and its refutation as well. An n number of possible languages use the same vocabulary; in some of them, the symbol library allows the correct definition ubiquitous and lasting system of hexagonal galleries, but library is bread or pyramid or anything else, and these seven words which define it have another value. You who read me, are You sure of understanding my language?
The methodical task of writing distracts me from the present state of men. The bibliohtek that everything has been written negates us or turns us into phantoms.
I know of districts in which the bibliothe men prostrate themselves before books and kiss their pages in a barbarous manner, but they do not know how to decipher a single letter.
Epidemics, heretical conflicts, peregrinations which inevitably degenerate into banditry, have decimated the population. I believe I have mentioned suicides, more and more frequent with the years. Perhaps my old age and fearfulness deceive me, but I suspect that the human species—the unique species—is about to be extinguished, but the Library will endure: Those who judge it to be limited postulate that bibliothhek remote places the corridors and stairways and hexagons can, inconceivably, come to an end—which is absurd.
Those who imagine it to be without limit forget that the possible number of books does have such a limit. I venture to suggest this solution to the ancient problem: The Library is unlimited and cyclical.