Jorge Luis Borges 1976 Interview

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In 1976 and 1980, Jorge Luis Borges gave two interviews for the Spanish TV show A Fondo (English: "Thoroughly") hosted by journalist Joaquín Soler Serrano. The talk show was famous in the late 1970s for its interviews of several art, literature, and sciences celebrities.
Some of guests that appeared on A Fondo are Julio Cortázar, Salvador Dalí, Roman Polanski, Bernardo Bertolucci, Yehudi Menuhin, Manuel Puig, among others.

Translation Notes

The translation of the one and half-hour interview was done by me, a friendly anon from Argentina. As English is not my first language you'll probably find some grammar mistakes and words that sound a bit artificial. Spanish is also a difficult language to translate from as its grammar differs a good deal from English. Plus, Borges was 77 years at the time and some portions of the dialogue were inaudible.

I've chosen to do the most literal, yet readable, translation possible as Borges is known for his phrasing and selection of words and only the rambling questions of the host were slightly simplified.

Original book titles are formatted in italics with the English translation between brackets and quotation marks. Most of the poem translations were taken from the Internet and were done by professional translators.
Almost every reference and translation note can be found at the bottom of this page and some short notes are simply displayed between brackets in-line with the rest of the text for an easier read. Author names and other important figures link to their respective Wikipedia entries.

Even though I proofed this translation a couple of times, feel free to edit this page if you find any weird or broken English phrasing.

The Interview

Part 1

Joaquín Soler Serrano (Host): Today we are happy for having achieved one of our goals since the beginning of this show, which was to have Maestro Jorge Luis Borges honoring us and filling our spirit with joy. El Maestro Borges, has honored us coming from Argentina to chat with us for a long time. He has imposed no conditions. He has asked us to spur him and to harass him. Maestro, we are willing to harass you lovingly—

Jorge Luis Borges: Why, heh... I'm very timid, so I hope there's I can be worthy of your time...

Serrano: I'm absolutely sure that everything you say will be of great interest to our audience.

Borges: I'll do my best.

Serrano: You have many friends and fans here—

Borges: Yes.

Serrano: People that knows you for your work—

Borges: Spain is very generous.

Serrano: But they have never seen you in person, heard your voice, or known, directly from you, your opinion on so many things. You are a living monument… of intelligence... You are a man who's been said to be all brains, but I think that's an exaggeration.

Borges: I think so too, heh.

Serrano: Not because your mind is not a mind is not of genius and cosmic proportions, but because you also are a living body. And as such, you are a sensitive being. You've been accused of being a cold man—

Borges: No, that is untrue. I'm... unpleasantly sentimental. I'm very sensitive. When I write, of course, I try to, well, to have a certain pudency. And as I write through symbols and I never openly confess, people think this algebra means... coldness. But it's not like that. It's the complete opposite. This algebra is a form of pudency... and emotion, of course.

Serrano: I think that turning feelings into mathematics is something very complex and very beautiful.

Borges: That's the task of Art. It is to transform whatever happens to us into symbols, to transform it into music, to transform it into something that may last in the memory of men. As artists, that is our duty. We must comply with it. Or else we'd feel very unhappy.

Serrano: We could then say that feelings and sensibility are primitive, basic things, that are given to human beings in the very act of birth, of existence.

Borges: Yes, but in the case of the writer, or in the case of every artist, we have the duty, for the most part, happy duty, of transforming everything into symbols. Those symbols can be colors, shapes, sounds. In the case of the poet, they are sounds but also words... Also fables, tales, poems. What I mean is that the work of the poet is endless. It's not about working from one hour to another. You are constantly receiving something from the outer world. It all has to be transformed; it eventually has to be changed. And in any moment a revelation may come. That is to say, that the poet never rests. He is working constantly, when he dreams too.
In my last book, La Moneda de Hierro ("The Iron Coin"), there's a poem I composed while dreaming. It's not worth much, but... well, it provides a psychological curiosity.

Serrano: That capacity of composing poems even in world of dreams must be incredible. How did you feel when you found yourself with that dreamed poem? It was like a different finding, yes?

Borges: Well, I dictated it the following day. I didn't know if it had any value or not. And after some days, I asked to re-read it and I found out that, well, it was seemly poem and that it could be published... especially after explaining that it was a gift from a dream. I thought of Coleridge, who dreamed the poem Kubla Khan, the entire poem, and while he was dreaming, he heard a music. He saw that very same music building a palace... and he also heard the poem. A long poem, it's extraordinary. In my case, no, it's a short poem without other value that being a psychological curiosity. A gift of the dream. Possibly, a Greek present. Possibly it's not worth much. But in any case, I published it with all the others, and nobody noticed that it was any different from them.

Serrano: The poet—

Borges: I think I changed one word.

Serrano: Yes?

Borges: Yes, only one. Now I don't remember which one, but I know that something had to be changed because the dream had made a mistake. In the end, my vigil mind was better than the dream mind, yes.

Serrano: So you believe that even in dreams, mistakes can be made.

Borges: Yes. And also while awake (he laughs), no matter how strange it may sound. In the vigil, more so, without any difficulty.

Serrano: Maestro, you like to say you've made every possible mistake.

Borges: I think that yes. And eventually, after 77 years, I've found some successes. Every mistake should have to be discarded, of course. And I've repeated many, naturally.

Serrano: So you mean that making mistakes is necessary?

Borges: Yes, I think it is necessary. And possibly, if I ever reached the age of 200, I could have learned something about the craft of writing. I'm still learning.

Serrano: What distance do you see, speaking of these things of evolution and transformation, between the Borges of 20 years ago and the Borges of today?

Borges: I think that, essentially, we are the same. But, the Borges of today learned some cunnings, learned some skills... and something about modesty too. But I think that, essentially, I am who I was when I published my first book, Fervor of Buenos Aires in 1923. And I think that in it, everything I would have done later is laid out. Except it is between the lines, and only for myself. It's like a secret writing, that lays between the lines of the public writing. And I think there's everything, except that nobody can see it but me. I mean that what I've done afterwards, it's been to re-write that first book, which was of no great value, but with time it expanded itself, branched itself, enriched itself. And I think that now, well, I can finally boast of having written a few valid pages, a so-so poem; and what else could a writer want? Because to breathe out a whole book is too much already.

Serrano: Those figures, those keys, those secret codes, that secrecy... do you care to share it with someone? You don't write for yourself alone, or do you also write for others to understand, to decipher, to unravel?

Borges: No, because once something has been written it's beyond me. When I write, I do it urged by an intimate necessity. I don't have in mind an exclusive public, or a public of multitudes, I don't think in either thing. I think about expressing what I want to say. I try to do it in the simplest way possible. Not at first; when I began writing, I was a young baroque like all youths are, on account of shyness. The young writer knows that what he says has little value so he wants to hide it, mimicking a writer of the 17th Century or a writer of the 20th Century. Now, instead, I don't think about the 17th or the 20th centuries. I try to simply express what I want and I try to do it with common words. Because only the words that belong to the spoken language are effective. It's a mistake to assume that all the words in the dictionary can be used. There's many that can't.
For example, in a dictionary, you see as synonyms the words "bluish", "cerulean" and "azureous", and some other word too. The truth is that they are not synonyms. The word "bluish" can be used, because the reader accepts it, so to speak. But if I put "azureous", or if I put "cerulean", no, they are words that point to different or opposite directions. So, actually, the only word that can be used is "bluish", because it's a common word that glides along the others.

Serrano: So the other words would sound artificial.

Borges: So if I were to put "cerulean", it's a decorative word. It's as if I suddenly placed a blue spot in the page. So I believe it's not a permissible word. It is a mistake to write with the dictionary. One has to write, I believe, with the language of the conversations, of one's intimacy.

Serrano: But that can be reached with the passing of time, with the incantation?

Borges: Yes, it comes with time. Yes, because it's very difficult for a young writer to resign and write with common words. And possibly, there may be some words that are common to me but not to others. Of course, there's that mistake. Because every human group has its own dialect. Each family has its own dialect. Possibly, there may be words that are common to me and not to others, but anyway...

Serrano: But there are, there have been, there will be writers, mature writers, some even with Nobel's, that write with that Baroque-ism, with that rhetorical thing, full of metaphors--

Borges: But I think that's a mistake. I think that the Baroque style stands between the writer and the reader. It could also be said that the Baroque style has a sin, the sin of vanity. If a writer is baroque, it's as if he was asking to be admired. Baroque art feels as an exercise of vanity. Always. Even in the case of the great ones. I speak about John Donne, Quevedo. What I mean is that it feels like an exercise of vanity, like an arrogance of the writer.

Serrano: There's something like a plea. A plea is being asked to the reader.

Borges: Yes, yes, yes. That phrase of yours is better. Yes, like a plea. And sometimes a tribute is demanded, which is even worse. Both things are unpleasant.

Serrano: What's been said (in Spain), and perhaps that is why, that accusation of coldness—

Borges: But it's entirely untrue. People that know me can tell I'm not like that.

Serrano: Perhaps it's the conciseness, the precision, the strictness, which I believe is the most desirable, and the hardest thing to achieve—

Borges: Well, my master, I still call him master, although I know I will never write like him, Rafael Cansinos Assens, spoke once about my "numismatic" style. It's a lovely phrase, if only I could make coins...

Serrano: Well, I have some clippings here of some of Cansinos Assens remarks about you—

Borges: Oh, well, no doubt he's been very generous with me and probably there we'll find the "numismatic" remark—

Serrano: He says "Borges passed between us like a new Grimm, full of discrete, smiling serenity (...)". You've always been a great discreet.

Borges: I could only hope so (he laughs).

Serrano: "(…) fine, even-tempered, with the head of a poet, held back with a fortunate intellectual frigidity", Cansinos said, "with a classical culture of Greek philosophers and Oriental troubadours for his liking of the past, forcing him to love calepino's (Latin dictionaries), folios and underminer of the modern wonders".

Borges: That's fine, it's Cansinos' style. His musical style.

Serrano: There's that world of yours, somewhat enigmatic--

Borges: Yes, "underminer of modern wonders." There's the iteration, eh?

Serrano: You met Cansinos on your first stay in Spain.

Borges: Yes.

Serrano: Which was around the 20's.

Borges: Around the 20's, I don't remember the date. The truth is I remember a lot of things but not dates.

Serrano: I have some dates here, and with your help we'll remember them together. Let's go back to Buenos Aires, to August 24th, 1899—

Borges: Alright.

Serrano: The day Jorge Luis Borges Acevedo enters this world.

Borges: So they told me. Well... (he laughs)

Serrano: They've told you all this?

Borges: Yes, all that. So, possibly, none of it actually happened.

Serrano: You were the son of Don Jorge Borges Haslam, and of Leonor Acevedo--

Borges: Leonor Acevedo.

Serrano: And you came from an old Argentine family, pioneers of Independence.

Borges: Yes, I'll tell you more as I can go further. I'm the descendant of a certain mister, Juan de Garay, who founded the city of Buenos Aires. And of somebody else, Jerónimo de Cabrera, Andalusian, who founded the city of Cordoba. I'm the descendant of conquerors, Spanish conquerors, and as of late, of Argentine soldiers who fought against the Spaniards, which in the end was the natural thing to happen. And then of warriors of Uruguay. Mine was a family of warriors. On my English grandmother's side… hers was a family of Protestant pastors, which is fine with me, because it means I carry the Bible in my blood.

Serrano: In this lineage of warriors, your father was a notable exception.

Borges: Yes, it was an exception due to his myopia. But my grandfather, Col. Francisco Borges, died in 1874 in the combat of La Verde. After the battle, he had himself killed deliberately. He wanted to die for I don't know what political circumstances. General Mitre had already surrendered, and he (his grandfather), rode on horseback, a white dappled horse; he wore a white poncho, and moved forward, not galloping but trotting, offering himself as a nice shot for the sharpshooters of the enemy army; he received two bullets and was killed. But the problem was that Remington rifles were first used in that battle. So, it appears, the bullets that killed him had a new sound to them.

Serrano: However, what's surprising about you is that, well, being the heir of all those bloodlines, of that war dynasty, you are more of a skeptic man regarding this subject.

Borges: It is true. But I've probably been wrong for a long time. Because I believe the Arms are a honorable exercise. Never mind exercising them for such and such cause. Being a soldier is something noble. I know that by saying this I make a lot of enemies, but I don't try to befriend or ingratiate myself with nobody. Besides, you have to think poetry starts with the epic, doesn't it? The epic is the first expression of poetry. In every culture of the world. It always begins with the Arms and men. And that happens always.

Serrano: You've always been a person of great independence. You always speak your mind.

Borges: Well, I try do so. And that's why I'm frequently indiscreet. Today, for example, I'm speaking with complete sincerity.

Serrano: And we thank you for it, Maestro. Now, let's go back. We left at your father, being a peaceful English professor.

Borges: Yes, but he was also an individualistic anarchist, a Spencer reader too. Disbelieved in the government, in all governments in general. Actually, he was a Psychology professor.

Serrano: He was also a Romantic poet.

Borges: Yes, he was also a poet. And he left some good sonnets. But he wanted that I would have the destiny that didn't happen to him. The destiny of a writer. I knew since I was a kid that my destiny would be a literary destiny. It was indicated to me since I was a kid, tacitly, which is the only way to appoint things. To take them for granted. And ever since childhood I knew mine was going to be a literary life. And my father gave me free run of his library. A library of, mostly, English books, and I was educated in that library. I remember, between books, a Garnier edition of Don Quixote. I read and re-read that edition. And many years later, when I returned to Buenos Aires, I wanted to re-read Don Quixote in the same edition, which was very hard for me to find, with the same steel engravings, because I thought that was THE Don Quixote edition, being the first one I ever read. I've spent my whole life reading, and I have a good memory for verses, and even a little time for a few pages in prose too.

Serrano: Your sister, Norah, has said on several occasions that she remembers you being a child, lying face down reading all the time.

Borges: That's true. It's an exact memory. I don't know if—­

Serrano: And did you read everything that fell on your lap? Or did you have a capacity of selection—

Borges: No, I remember I was a hedonic reader. I read what I liked. And since my father never made me read anything in particular, he never told me, for instance, "This is Don Quixote and it's a masterpiece". No, he would let me open the book and read it. And he never discussed literature with me.

Part 2

Serrano: Do you remember what impression did Don Quixote leave you? Your encounter with this work.

Borges: Well, at first, it was a paradox. Because what I admired in Don Quixote was what Cervantes loved, yet it was precisely what he attacked. The world of chivalry. For me, Don Quixote, was a novel of chivalry. And in a certain aspect, it is one. Because, without a doubt, Cervantes feels no sympathy for the priest, for the barber, for the bachelor, for the Dukes. He feels sympathy for Alonso Quixano. Besides, in some ways he is Quixano and not the others. What a strange book, a very strange book.

Serrano: Yes, don't you think that it cannot be categorically affirmed that he wanted to make a parody of the book of chivalry?

Borges: No, I don't think so. Gurza has noted that by the time Cervantes published Don Quixote, those books were not read so much, that perhaps Cervantes was the only remaining reader of those books. And that he liked them very much. But Cervantes noted that there was something absurd in those books, and so he wanted to cure himself from that passion.

Serrano: And as a writer, what do you think of Don Miguel?

Borges: Well, I had a conversation with Ernesto Sábato. Sábato told me something that I find very right. He says, "It's always said that Cervantes wrote poorly, just as it's always been said that Dostoyevsky wrote poorly. But if that poor writing served them to leave us Don Quixote and Crime and Punishment, so to speak, or Stepanchikovo (The village of…), they didn't write so badly." They wrote what was necessary to meet their ends.

Borges: It is Sábato's opinion, but I think that... we can't censor what Cervantes wrote from a rhetorical point of view. Of course, Quevedo, could have corrected any page of Cervantes', Don Diego de Saavedra Fajardo too, Lope de Vega as well. But they couldn't have written it. It's easy to correct a page, but to writing it is very hard. They wouldn't have been able to write the entire oeuvre.

Serrano: Anyways, didn't you preferred Quevedo?

Borges: Yes, but I think I was wrong. I think I prefer Cervantes now and, I'm going to be blasphemous now... because I feel something, in the end... I've admired Quevedo a lot, I do admire him, but, he's only an admirable object, only an admirable thing. Instead, Cervantes and Alonso Quixano, who wanted to be Don Quixote and whom he was, they are personal friends of mine. It's something else. It's a friendship that is never established with Quevedo. Nobody befriends Quevedo. One can admire him—

Serrano: We went offtrack, to Don Quixote—

Borges: It's true, it's been so long since we left that library.

(To be continued...)