Abstract

In an early poem, "Year's End", Jorge Luis Borges takes the turning of the year as an occasion to consider how "something in us" endures, despite the fact that we are products of "infinite random possibilities" and "droplets in the stream of Heraclitus": It is not the emblematic detail of replacing a two with a three, nor that barren metaphor that brings together a time that dies and another coming up nor yet the rounding out of some astronomical process that stuns and undermines the altiplano1 of this night, and compels us to keep listening for those twelve irreparable tollings of a bell. The true cause is a vague, pervasive apprehension of Time's enigma; a certain awe before the miracle that in spite of...