next to the toffee tree

This a short fiction in the form of “House of Asterion” by Jorge Luis Borges, which is probably my favorite short fiction work that I have come across in my life thus far. My new English assignment is this: to analyze a piece studied in class by writing another creative piece. Thus, inspired by this approach, or technique, I decided to let you in one of my interpretations of Borges’ “House of Asterion”. Obviously many, many of the idea’s entertained in “Mi Casa” are directly taken, or re-interpreted from ”HoA”. I do not claim the clever plot, or the basic idea’s as springing up from my own ponderings, but rather only by my reading of Borges, and expanding. Or perhaps choosing a different route in “a garden of forking paths” as it were. I’m a nerd. And well aware.

And just in case you were wondering, we did not study “HoA” in my English class – I’m just a restless soul when it comes to writing lately, I purely desire the expression. Like I said, well aware.

House of Asterion – Jorge Luis Borges

And the queen gave birth to a child who was called Asterion.

(Apollodorus Bibliotecha III, I)

I know they accuse me of arrogance, and perhaps misanthropy, and perhaps of madness. Such accusations (for which I shall exact punishment in due time) are derisory. It is true that I never leave my house, but it is also true that its doors whose numbers are infinite are open day and night to men and to animals as well. Anyone may enter. He will find here no female pomp nor gallant court formality, but he will find quiet and solitude. And he will also find a house like no other on the face of this earth. (There are those who declare there is a similar one in Egypt, but they lie.) Even my detractors admit there is not one single piece of furniture in the house. Another ridiculous falsehood has it that I, Asterion, am a prisoner. Shall I repeat that there are no locked doors, shall I add that there are no locks? Besides, one afternoon I did step into the street; If I returned before night, I did so because of the fear that the faces of the common people inspired in me, faces as discolored and flat as the palm of one’s hand. the sun had already set, but the helpless crying of a child and the rude supplications of the faithful told me I had been recognized. The people prayed, fled, prostrated themselves; some climbed onto the stylobate of the temple of the axes, others gathered stones. One of them, I believe, hid himself beneath the sea. Not for nothing was my mother a queen; I cannot be confused with the populace, though my modesty might so desire. The fact is that that I am unique. I am not interested in what one man may transmit to other men; like the philosopher I think that nothing is communicable by the art of writing. Bothersome and trivial details have no place in my spirit, which is prepared for all that is vast and grand; I have never retained the difference between one letter and another. A certain generous impatience has not permitted that I learn to read. Sometimes I deplore this, for the nights and days are long.

Of course, I am not without distractions. Like the ram about, to charge, I run through the stone galleries until I fall dizzy to the floor. I crouch in the shadow of a pool or around a corner and pretend I am being followed. There are roofs from which I let myself fall until I am bloody. At any time I can pretend to be asleep, with my eyes closed and my breathing heavy. (Sometimes I really sleep, sometimes the color of day has changed when I open my eyes.) But of all the games, I prefer the one about the other Asterion. I pretend that he comes to visit me and that I show him my house. With great obeisance I say to him “Now we shall return to the first intersection” or “Now we shall come out into another courtyard” Or “I knew you would like the drain” or “Now you will see a pool that was filled with sand” or “You will soon see how the cellar branches out”. Sometimes I make a mistake and the two of us laugh heartily.

Not only have I imagined these games, I have also meditated on the house. All parts of the house are repeated many times, any place is another place. There is no one pool, courtyard, drinking trough, manger; the mangers, drinking troughs, courtyards pools are fourteen in number. The house is the same size as the world; or rather it is the world. However, by dint of exhausting the courtyards with pools and dusty gray stone galleries I have reached the street and seen the temple of the Axes and the sea. I did not understand this until a night vision revealed to me that the seas and temples are also fourteen in number. Everything is repeated many times, fourteen times, but two things in the world seem to be repeated only once: above, the intricate sun; below Asterion. Perhaps I have created the stars and the sun and this enormous house, but I no longer remember.

Every nine years nine men enter the house so that I may deliver them from evil. I hear their steps or their voices in the depths of the stone galleries and I run joyfully to find them. The ceremony lasts a few minutes. They fall one after another without my having to bloody my hands. They remain where they fell and their bodies help distinguish one gallery from another. I do not know who they are, but I know that one of them prophesied, at the moment of his death, that some day my redeemer would come. Since then my loneliness does not pain me, because I know my redeemer lives and he will finally rise above the dust. If my ear could capture all the sounds of the world, I should hear his steps. I hope he will take me to a place with fewer galleries, fewer doors. What will my redeemer be like? I ask myself. Will he be a bull or a man? will he perhaps be a bull with the face of a man? or will he be like me?

The morning sun reverberated from the bronze sword. There was no longer even a vestige of blood. “Would you believe it, Ariadne?” said Theseus “The Minotaur scarcely defended himself.”

Mi Casa — David Cairns

In the spirit of their great power and authority over all nations,

In their strength they bore a child. (Anchorus Verti XIV)

I know they accuse me of arrogance, and perhaps of coldheartedness, and perhaps even heartlessness. Such accusations clothe me in the daytime, and by my clothing these men will be punished in due time. They call this a place a prison, but are there not great gaping holes in all the concrete walls? Is it not free passage for human and beast? Anyone may enter. You find no illusions of comfort here, no pillow on which to lay ones head, only life in naked reality. No dualism regarding the physical and spiritual for all is one, here.

There is no house like this one in all the world. (Some say there is a similar one in Babylon, but they lie.) Even my hecklers must admit that the wind blows freely through my unlocked house, unhindered. It is a ridiculous notion that my people say I am the prisoner, they don’t know Mi Casa. Did I not tell them that no heavy wooden doors (or semblance thereof) bar me in any direction? Besides, once I did walk in the market, my head held high; If I returned before noon, I did so because the faces of the people inspired me. They were dark and angry and lonely. The sharp whistles of the onlookers and the sneers of the elderly told me I had been recognized. The people prayed, and fled, mothers whisked their children away with silent feet. Many gathered stones. One man, with a long white beard, looked up to the sky as if it were ever expanding, and opened his fragile mouth — in silence he cried to God. Not for nothing do I wear these garments, these symbols of power. I cannot be confused with the populace, though a remnant of humility might desire this, the fact is that, I am unique. I am not interested in what one man might transmit to other men by writing. The grafiti artist and poster maker have no value in my mind. Philosophy and politics escape me, for I must simply be and do – not think. (I do this for my own sanity.) Sometimes I deplore my reluctance to ponder, for the nights and days are long, and it haunts me like a phantom.

Of course I am not without distractions. I can run at a furious pace with my strong legs and heavy feet; releasing short up-bursts of dust where my foot had previously been (but only for a fraction of a second). I jump over walls, and through the holes in the walls (that I have previously mentioned), and climb ropes that lead nowhere. I crouch where two perpendicular walls meet, pretending that I am being followed. Sometimes it is not pretend, I do think I am being followed. Sometimes I may lay so still that you may think I am only part of the shadow that protects me from the white sun. Sometimes I am only a shadow, and the real me is in a different room of the house. But of all the games the one I play most is when I imagine that I am many shadows. That I am everywhere, I am in all the rooms at once. Watching the whole house, and watching all versions of me that watch the house. We stare at each other until one gives up, then all die, except for me. I cry earnestly when this happens.

It is in these moments that I meditate on the house. All parts of Mi Casa are repeated infinite many times, any place is another place. There is no one path, courtyard, pile of sandbags, or crumbling wall; the paths, courtyards, sandbags, and crumbling walls are infinite. Mi Casa is the same size as the world; or rather it is the world. Yet I have seen the sea, and a greener place than this dust, but then I realized that they are also infinite in number. The grassy slopes are as the jeering men: infinite. The children running with no shoes, and their mothers who vainly protect them from a poison rain, are infinite. The people praying in the sanctuary are infinite and the men on their death beds are infinite. The man that shall receive grace from God is infinite, and the man to recieve His wrath is also infinite in number. Everything, all knowledge and exploitation (and even Babylon) is repeated an infinite number of times. Only two things, to me, are repeated once, the God that created Mi Casa, and the shadow that stands amongst the imaginary corpses of myself.

Every day men search me out, so that I may deliver them from evil. The ceremony lasts only a few seconds. They fall one after another without my having to bloody my hands. They never remain where they fall, but let my shadow-corpses rest in peace. I do not know who they are, but I know that one of them prophesied, at the moment of his death, that one day my redeemer would come. Since then my loneliness does not pain me, because I know that my redeemer lives and he will finally rise above the dust. If my ear could capture all the sounds of the world, I should hear his hands snap the metal into place. I hope he will take me to a place of fewer paths, fewer children, and fewer crumbling walls. What will my redeemer be like? Will they be a shadow-man on an empty path, a child with a closed fist, or will it be an old woman with a thick padded belt under her baggy shall?

The Afghan snow fell in large flakes, mixing with the cold grey dust. The butt of the man’s rifle nudged the body over. A semi circle of dust had fixed itself on the sweaty cheek, now deftly cold. A deep poetic beauty lay on the Hispanic face, which stirred like the words of the an ancient prophet in the depths of the men that now stood over the body. Smoke still weeping from their guns, they became vexed as to why their enemy would send such a strange warrior. “Would you believe it?” one said to the other, “She continued on, not even trying to hide herself, even after the first shot had been fired and missed.”