These are the words that a responsible and concern father, but oblivious to any pretense of literary arrests, could address to his young son. Or, also, the message that could be transmitt, adopting a paternalistic tone (and, again, without any hint of lyrical inspiration), to a friend torment by some existential or domestic problem. But is this poetry? Or, better (in case someone dares to give an affirmative answer), is it a text that could have been written by the one who gave life to the verses of The Maker, and conceiv those others found in Praise of the Shadow and The Cipher , among other dazzling works? I suspect that the answer to this last question is a categorical and overwhelming no.
Conformism Many Intellectuals
I am not a specialist in the work of Borges, but what I have read about this fundamental writer of universal literature (and who, due to extra-literary intrigues, as they say, was not award the Nobel), clearly honors the precept that govern the idea. that Borges himself had about poetic creation: as he had once said, “in poetry only excellence is admitt.” It is likely that b2b leads there were verses and prose texts written in his youth that he would have consider to be of questionable literary quality and perhaps downright bad (hence at some point Borges excommunicat the books I mention above), but no one could deny that his work, already be it poetry, narrative or essay, it reaches the highest peaks of creative beauty.
Such as the Historian Manuel
Author of poems, stories and essays, Jorge Luis Borges is one of the most representative figures of the last century. For this reason, it caught my attention to find a poem attribut to him, and which exhibit a strangely corny workmanship, a naive and simple tone, a register absolutely foreign to the virtuous lyricism that language adopts in a writer like Borges, who wrote with the prevention and the concentrat care to polish the details of a “diamond cutter”, as Phone Number IR María Kodama once mention. Of course, aesthetic appreciation is subjective, but one could hardly believe (and I am speaking, of course, considering the perspective of someone who has read something by the Argentine writer) that lines like the ones I have transcrib could have been conceiv by a marvel of writing.