has anyone else read it?
The Library is inhabited by librarians, or humans who are there to look after the Library; and inspectors, who are there to try to figure out the Library's meaning by inspecting any amount of books they deem necessary. Obviously these inspectors have little hope of ever achieving anything as every story is reprinted in every language ever invented, and again in every code ever encrypted. It is believed possible that one specific Hexagon is different from all the rest in structure, the Crimson Hexagon, which is equivalent to the meaning of Life. In it, a book resides that is comprehensible to only one man. However, whenever this man finds the Crimson Hexagon, whether thousands of years ago or thousands of years into the future, he will be the only one to ever understand the true meaning of infinite. This man is equitable to god.
Now each hexagon has a direct reason for existence. Whether it is an almost exact replica of an original, or whether it is an original and its faults were intentionally implanted and a perfect volume of the text is actually a copy, no one will know besides the One, who you, for sure, will never know. Each person, and each thing, no matter how insignificant it is, has its own hexagon, and this hexagons sole purpose of existence is its matter of interest. For example, I have a hexagon, and in that hexagon are books upon books of my life, including every detail of every facet my life has ever experienced. Not only that, but every facet that is detailed is also translated into every language ever known and every code ever encrypted. If an eternal person were to walk through this Library; through each individual hexagon, up and down every flight of spiral staircases, and into every latrine, after countless centuries he would retain the idea that the disorder is in some way ordered, which would in fact be The Order. However such immortality is not for the likes of humans, and as such humans will never understand the complexities of that which is greater then them.
To the restricted mind, the Library of Babel is a labyrinth of painful images. However, it is nothing more than a text. The infinitesimal foundation of it is that which leaves the human mind aching and at a loss of comprehension. Without such catalyses philosophy would not exist, for the Library of Babel is simply a catalyst for thought. If you open your mind wide enough to understand the infinite number of paradoxical ideas and contradictive statements you end up with a very exposed feeling, a feeling that numbs you. The loss of feeling is what, perhaps, is the most interesting aspect of the idea. The idea leads you into a physical, yet subconscious, response. Why have I become "numb" from reading this? Realizing that we are not able to comprehend infinity, and that infinity is precisely what we are being asked to deal with, we are already on an uneven playing field and are left at the mercy of clues, things that Jorge Luis Borges was extremely adept in leaving for his readers.
While the text clearly surpasses my intellect and there are easily an infinite number of subtle intricacies that I have missed, it is fairly safe to say that the general idea of the text is to understand that life in itself is a paradox; similar to saying life exists in life. No? How about a cell in a human, there is life living in a living life, or a frame within a frame. The other option that occurred to me is that Borges simply enjoys twisting minds, and that his sole purpose is to melt the brain of his readers' one word at a time, until nothing is left of their mind and they are unsure of what is real and what is not.
Poetry by Phill
Read 677 times
Written on 2009-10-07 at 23:17
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Essay on the Library of Babel
The Library of Babel is, in itself, a representation of itself, in that it leaves infinite possibilities in the context of an infinite composition. By contradicting itself into meaningless yet meaningful ramble it leaves itself open to infinitely more than what it writes of infinite. While not to be taken literally, it can almost be looked at in a literal term. Take a "hexagon" of any facet of your life, scrutinize it beyond the realm of human capability, and there are infinite tributaries to each infinitely numbered piece of matter in that one of infinitely many hexagons. The limit of lettering in the Library, the twenty two individual orthographical symbols, is relatively equivalent to the limit of mass, as mass can not be created or destroyed. There is a set number which limits the disorder into an orderly infinite yet limited catalogue of all catalogues. The Library itself is actually a circular spine, or to the best of my descriptive abilities, a book opened so wide as to bend the spine all the way around so that the edges touch, which could mean a god or the god if you happen to be religious.The Library is inhabited by librarians, or humans who are there to look after the Library; and inspectors, who are there to try to figure out the Library's meaning by inspecting any amount of books they deem necessary. Obviously these inspectors have little hope of ever achieving anything as every story is reprinted in every language ever invented, and again in every code ever encrypted. It is believed possible that one specific Hexagon is different from all the rest in structure, the Crimson Hexagon, which is equivalent to the meaning of Life. In it, a book resides that is comprehensible to only one man. However, whenever this man finds the Crimson Hexagon, whether thousands of years ago or thousands of years into the future, he will be the only one to ever understand the true meaning of infinite. This man is equitable to god.
Now each hexagon has a direct reason for existence. Whether it is an almost exact replica of an original, or whether it is an original and its faults were intentionally implanted and a perfect volume of the text is actually a copy, no one will know besides the One, who you, for sure, will never know. Each person, and each thing, no matter how insignificant it is, has its own hexagon, and this hexagons sole purpose of existence is its matter of interest. For example, I have a hexagon, and in that hexagon are books upon books of my life, including every detail of every facet my life has ever experienced. Not only that, but every facet that is detailed is also translated into every language ever known and every code ever encrypted. If an eternal person were to walk through this Library; through each individual hexagon, up and down every flight of spiral staircases, and into every latrine, after countless centuries he would retain the idea that the disorder is in some way ordered, which would in fact be The Order. However such immortality is not for the likes of humans, and as such humans will never understand the complexities of that which is greater then them.
To the restricted mind, the Library of Babel is a labyrinth of painful images. However, it is nothing more than a text. The infinitesimal foundation of it is that which leaves the human mind aching and at a loss of comprehension. Without such catalyses philosophy would not exist, for the Library of Babel is simply a catalyst for thought. If you open your mind wide enough to understand the infinite number of paradoxical ideas and contradictive statements you end up with a very exposed feeling, a feeling that numbs you. The loss of feeling is what, perhaps, is the most interesting aspect of the idea. The idea leads you into a physical, yet subconscious, response. Why have I become "numb" from reading this? Realizing that we are not able to comprehend infinity, and that infinity is precisely what we are being asked to deal with, we are already on an uneven playing field and are left at the mercy of clues, things that Jorge Luis Borges was extremely adept in leaving for his readers.
While the text clearly surpasses my intellect and there are easily an infinite number of subtle intricacies that I have missed, it is fairly safe to say that the general idea of the text is to understand that life in itself is a paradox; similar to saying life exists in life. No? How about a cell in a human, there is life living in a living life, or a frame within a frame. The other option that occurred to me is that Borges simply enjoys twisting minds, and that his sole purpose is to melt the brain of his readers' one word at a time, until nothing is left of their mind and they are unsure of what is real and what is not.
Poetry by Phill
Read 677 times
Written on 2009-10-07 at 23:17
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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