from Lacanoodle@literature.cafe to shortstories@literature.cafe on 24 Feb 2024 15:33
https://literature.cafe/post/7269696
The narrative hinges on Borges’s self-perception as a writer, underscoring the difference between the private self that cannot recognize his persona or public mask as a famous storyteller. The former insists that he has nothing to do with the task of writing, that only Borges alone imagines the stories and completes the work of setting them down on paper. His determined attempts to fight these claims are useless since he always loses to the celebrated author. Indeed, whatever he does to extricate himself from Borges becomes irrevocably tied to Borges. [Wikipedia]
- Borges’s story raises many philosophical questions of Self and epistemology. Viewed through the analytic lens of Russell’s knowledge by description, the story explores the interesting concept of knowledge of Self by description (as opposed to the more expected knowledge by acquaintance). This is emphasized by the mention of receiving Borges’s mail and reading about Borges in a book.
Also, the distinction between persona and Self can be interpreted as a distinction between author and writer. The author would be analogous to the persona and Borges. The writer would be the Self and “I”. Theoretically, the writer could be anyone, it just happens to be Borges. With this interpretation Borges is seen to be commenting on the cognitive differences between processing third person information and first person information.[Wikipedia]
- It implies that the author’s creations may take on a life of their own, shaping literary traditions beyond Borges’ original intentions or sense of self. I willingly admit that he has written a number of sound pages, but those pages will not save me, perhaps because the good in them no longer belongs to any individual, not even to that other man, but rather to language itself.
On a personal note: One reason this struck me was because at the point I first read this story I had come to a realisation that I had splintered my own identity. I grew up muslim in an extremist country. Here I’d be killed if I were to publicly confess I was an atheist, but I was bold enough to do so amongst friends early at college and received a death threat from an eavesdropper. Barring 10-15 people noone has ever known of my beliefs. As my identity grew beyond that point I split myself in 2. A politically correct public figure and my alternate identity.
I named this alternate identity Faust, Faust is an anarchist, Faust loves art and literature and philosophy. Faust may exist only in my head. Faust longs to escape.
I do not know where one identity ends and the other begins. I discover myself as I read and write and as I remain in solitude, my public self is no more than a facade which, despite being my nemesis manages to give me meaning. He’s still friends with people who’s beliefs I (faust) detest. My public persona is similarly vain.
Perhaps Spinoza was wrong, for I do not wish to be me. I wish to be Faust for once. For once in my life I want to experience being myself infront of a real human. For once I don’t want to watch what I say and live in fear.
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