Granta
Borges and Me, and Me: Was this the most significant moment of my life so far? Who knew if this collision with great literature would be the trigger of other stories, or the Fukuyama-esque end of my history as a writer – because what would be the point of writing anything if I went down in history as the person who killed Borges? Luckily for me, Borges was alive. I saw Borges, on his back, the stick across his chest, opening and closing his mouth like one of those canaries sent down into the bowels of coal mines to detect a lack of oxygen. It was poetic justice, I think: the plot that brought together two invisible men who managed to meet, and, upon not seeing each other, collide.
