Response to Library of Babel by Borges-- He is just FABULOUS

I just had to write in response to this short story—“The Library of Babel” was simply too beautiful and universal (including issues of the universe and otherwise) not to write about. At first, it was the allure of the proposal that, “there was no personal or world problem whose eloquent solution did not exist in some hexagon (55),” and this idea that every existential issue, every theory, mistake, flaw, or solution, exists within the hexagon—on some shelf in some book. And, of course, “if the language of philosophers is not sufficient, the multiform Library will have produced the unprecedented language required, with its vocabularies and grammars (55.)”

Mathematically speaking, in one hexagon, there may be four billion, five hundred and ninety-two million letters (in black ink) used throughout the books in the hexagon. There are twenty-six letters in the alphabet that can potentially be used, and the number provided only constitutes a hexagon that has four walls of bookshelves with five rows by five columns, with 35 books in each section.

Then there is beauty in the irony of mathematics and its claim to encompass and define all that exists in the world, juxtaposed with its counterpart: language. Can language and mathematics be considered counterparts? Equals? Equivalents? Each discipline would define counterpart in its own terms. Returning to the Library, however, there is an extent to which language and mathematics are both inaccessible and intolerable in their immensity. Like the Library, that has too much information, often leaving its librarians in “suicidal despair,” these disciplines, like life, hold countless possibilities, until they are contained by their internal structures. In the Library, as in the universe, there are an infinite amount of sub-structures governed by their own internal grammars or laws, yet there are not boundaries for the amount of sub-structures or cultures.

The problem exists, however, in that human nature is always searching for an answer or a center to ground oneself in, so Borges discusses the Crimson Hexagon that would contain a book that would within it, contain the truth of all of the other books, and the librarian who reads it is a god-like figure. People begin to speculate then, that if this Crimson Hexagon exists (let us call it A), then there must be another source (B) that will lead to A, and then of course there must be another source (C) to lead to source B that will lead to the Crimson Hexagon (A)—and we see how this could go on forever and be an entire life’s journey that will lead to certain “answers” or “truths” that may not be particularly meaningful once they are found. The other idea is that if all books exist in the Library, then there must somewhere exist a book that is a catalog of the Library’s contents, and that the “Man of the Book,” a somewhat messianic figure, has read it, and followers must travel through the universe/the Library to find him.

Why do we need to find the truth and the pattern to all of the gibberish and nonsense in life? If we skipped past the parts that weren’t perfect or orderly, what would we have learned in life? Having a book that contains the truth of all other books sort of takes the fun out of reading them in the first place. If the Library contains all possible books (as in words, sentences, grammatical structure, and language) arranged randomly, then without the work of any individual’s mind, the Library may as well have no books. It is what the mind does with the material at hand that creates meaning, truth, and value.

Walls

I cannot figure out what I want to remember, but I know that I am not remembering enough. If I knew what it was that I wanted to remember then I would most certainly not be in this predicament. Here I am, kneeling into some dust and crumbs that have been pushed towards the bookshelf in order to avoid collecting food and dirt particles on the bottom of my moist feet, and I am thinking that the answer is amongst the rows of multi-colored, crooked teeth staring back at me.

My neighbor is apparently boiling water, possibly for tea or hot chocolate. Why has this neighbor of mine yet to remove the kettle from the shove? When I moved in I had no idea the walls were so thin. I do not recall any consideration of any sort concerning the walls. Of course when the owner first showed me my perfect little box on the 5th floor of 140 East 98th Street, I truly only remember my exhausted body from a 14 hour day of chasing three little girls around and the realization that I could fit two bookcases along the wall. My father, of course, who is far more practical than his daughter, examined the walls right after noticing the lack of lighting in the space.

“The walls,” he raised his two fingers to the wall and knocked twice, “seem pretty sturdy.” He walked to a few different places in the room and knocked once or twice.

“Solid. It’s an old building. Pre-war. Concrete walls,” said the owner whose most remarkable quality was his hair’s ability to hold more hair gel than I had ever seen in a head of hair. I never notice things of that nature, but I was, and still am, confused by the overabundance of hair gel. There were globs of it holding together multiple strands of dark hair speckled with a few grey roots.

What is it about the walls of my apartment? I feel like I know everything about my neighbors. They definitely have one young child and both parents work. They go to work around 7:45am each day leaving their child with a very sweet older woman whose accent convinces me that she was probably not raised in the United States.

Lexington Avenue and 98^th Street is noisy at night: a lot of trucks. I have never looked outside late at night to see what the noise is.

I swear I hear the fucking kettle again. I raise my arm above and behind my head and hit my knuckles against the wall twice. Solid? Certainly not solid enough.

Because Maybe Dead Writers Have Internet Access

Dear Hemingway, 

Our short-lived love affair has possibly run its course. You're an asshole and I'm so over you. 

Good luck in the future. 

Best Regards. 

Thank You KM

I am not quite sure of exactly what I am afraid of. I believe it's difficult to pin down because it's more of a concept than a physical entity. Sometimes it makes me cry, but more often than not, it makes me remove myself from the world because I don't want others to know I feel this way. And the absurd part is that I have no idea what feeling "this way" means exactly. I do know what I like, however. I like words and how they are strung together. I like structure that moves beyond individual words and their connections to their layers and foundation that they build to eventually come to be some beautiful structure-- beautiful in its strength. My thoughts are too jumbled right now and although I would love to place them on this page (or in this virtual place-- I'm still in the dark ages and quite confused by modern technology), I have to go run down Lexington Avenue as quickly as I possibly can in order to calm my brain and organize my thoughts. Before I walk away I do have to thank this lovely someone who inspired me to do this. You may not know it, but you challenge me and impress me and teach me so much about the world without even trying. Thank you.