Complete summary of Jorge Luis Borges’ The Garden of Forking Paths. eNotes plot summaries cover all the significant action of The Garden of Forking Paths. Full text of “The Garden Of Forking Paths Jorge Luis Borges “. See other formats. The Garden of Forking Paths To Victoria Ocampo In his A History of the. To say that Jorge Luis Borges was a librarian, of course, is like saying Wallace The concept Borges described in “The Garden of Forking Paths”—in several.

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The Garden of Forking Paths – Wikipedia

Two circumstances showed me the direct solution to the problem. The almost unbearable memory of Madden’s long horseface put an end to these wandering thoughts. Sometimes the pathways of this labyrinth converge.

I argued that so small a victory prefigured a total victory. The family, as you doubtless know, wished to consign them to the fire, if the executor of the estate – a Taoist or a Buddhist monk – insisted on their publication. Then I reflected that all things happen, happen to one, precisely now. I walked through the carriages. The book is a shapeless mass of contradictory rough drafts. As Albert turns to retrieve it, Tsun draws a revolverand declares his friendship before murdering him in cold blood.

Archived copy as title Pages using deprecated image syntax Articles containing Spanish-language text. I recall that I told the driver to stop short of the main entrance. His hands and voice could, at any moment, knock and beckon at my door.

We do not exist in most of them. All were Albert and myself, secretive, busy and multiform in other dimensions of time. A high-pitched and almost syllabic music kept coming and going, moving with the breeze, blurred by the leaves and by distance.

Silently, I dressed, took leave tthe myself in the mirror, went down the stairs, sneaked a look at the quiet street, and went out.

The Garden of Forking Paths is a picture, incomplete yet not false, of the universe such as Ts’ui Pen conceived it to thhe. Cambridge, Massachusetts and London, England: This may have suggested the idea of a physical maze.


Immediately I recollected the voice that had spoken in German. However, he has “most abhorrently triumphed”, as he has revealed to Berlin the location of the artillery park.

He knew that my problem was to shout, with my feeble voice, above the tumult of war, the name of the city called Albert, and that I had no other course open to me than to kill someone of that name. My voice, my human voice, was weak.

Now then, this is the only problem that does not figure in the pages of The Garden. I lifted my eyes and the short nightmare disappeared. At one time, Ts’ui Pen must have said; ‘I am going into seclusion to write a book,’ and at another, ‘I am retiring to construct a maze. A bird streaked across the misty sky and, absently, I turned it into an airplane and then that airplane into many in the skies of France, shattering the artillery park under a rain of bombs.

I also imagined a Platonic hereditary work, passed on from father to son, to which each individual would add a new chapter or correct, with pious care, the work of his elders. I was going to the village of Ashgrove, but took a ticket for a station further on.

I have translated the whole work. Madden, in Viktor Runeberg’s office, meant the end of all our work and – though this seemed a secondary matter, or should have seemed so to me – of our lives also. I thought that a man might be an enemy of other men, of the differing moments of other men, but never an enemy of a country: That was why I had accepted it fully, without paying it any attention. There was about him something of the priest, and something of the sailor.

The advice about turning always to the left reminded me that such was the common formula for finding the central courtyard of certain labyrinths. The hazy and murmuring countryside, the moon, the decline of the evening, stirred within me.


Albert fell without a murmur, at once. He at last hits upon a desperate plan in order to achieve this. The Garden of Forking Paths was the chaotic novel itself. Madden broke in and arrested me.

The truth is that, in the deserted street, I felt infinitely visible and vulnerable. Furthermore, I knew an Englishman – a modest man – who, for me, is as great as Goethe. A man I recognized ran furiously, but vainly, the length of the platform.

The Garden of Forking Paths

He thus creates various futures, various times which start others that will in their turn branch out and bifurcate in other times. Metonymy and Metaphor in the Fiction of ‘Forking Paths ‘ “. A man ;aths, sitting in his i arid Berlin office, leafed infinitely through newspapers, looking in vain for news from us. He does forkkng even use the word which means time. In this one, in which chance has favored me, you have come to my gate.

His novel morge no sense to it and nobody ever found his labyrinth. He opened the gate and spoke slowly in my language.

He returned holding in his hand a piece of paper which had once been crimson but which had faded with the passage of time: Eagerly, but without understanding, I read the words which a man of my own blood had written with a small brush: The Chief, however, had already solved this mystery.

Through the railings I could see an avenue bordered with poplar trees and also a kind of summer house or pavilion. A tall man carried it. But from the end of the avenue, from the main house, a lantern teh a lantern which alternately, from moment to moment, was crisscrossed or put out by the trunks of the trees; a paper forikng shaped like a drum and colored like the moon. Abominably, I have yet triumphed!