Que entre el que quiera. Mienten los que declaran que en Egipto hay una parecida. Hasta mis detractores admiten que no hay un solo mueble en la casa. No en vano fue una reina mi madre; no puedo confundirme con el vulgo, aunque mi modestia lo quiera. Cierta impaciencia generosa no ha consentido que yo aprendiera a leer.
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Such accusations which I shall castigate in due course are laughable. Anyone who wishes may enter. One will not find feminine extravagance here, nor gallant courtly ritual, just quiet and solitude. Here one will find a house like no other on the face of the Earth. They who declare that in Egypt exists another similar are lying. Even my detractors admit that there is not a single piece of furniture in the house.
Another ridiculous tale claims that I, Asterion, am a prisoner. Need I repeat that there are no closed doors? Should I add that there are no locks? Besides, I did one evening step out onto the street; if I returned home before nightfall, I did so because of the fear that the faces of the hoi polloi, faces discoloured and plain like an open hand, had induced in me. The sun had already set, but the helpless cry of a babe and the coarse supplications of the common herd signalled that I had been recognised.
The people prayed, fled and fell prostrate; some climbed up to the stylobate of the temple of Axes, others gathered stones. Someone, I believe, hid himself under the sea. Not in vain was my mother a queen; I cannot mix with the common people, though my modesty does so desire it. The fact is that I am unique. What a man can pass unto others does not interest me; like the philosopher, I think nothing is communicated by the art of writing.
Annoying and trivial minutiae have no place in my spirit, a spirit which is receptive only to whatsoever is grand. Never have I retained the difference between one letter and another. A certain generous impatience has not consented that I should learn to read. Sometimes I deplore this, for the nights and days are long.
Naturally, I am not without amusement. Like a ram on the charge, I run through the galleries of stone until dizzily I tumble to the ground. I conceal myself in the shadows of a cistern or in the corner of a corridor and pretend that I am being searched for.
There are rooftops from which I let myself fall until I bloody myself. At any time I can shut my eyes and pretend that I am asleep, breathing deeply.
Sometimes I really do sleep, sometimes the colour of the day has changed by the time I open my eyes. But of the games I play, the one I prefer is pretending there is another Asterion.
I pretend that he has come to visit me and I show him around the house. With great reverence I tell him: Now we return to the previous intersection, or Now we head towards another courtyard, or I knew you would like this drain, or Now you will see a cistern that has filled with sand, or Now you will see how the cellar forks. Sometimes I err and we both laugh heartily. Not only these games have I imagined; I have also meditated on the house.
Each part of the house repeats many times, any particular place is another place. There is not one cistern, courtyard, drinking fountain, manger; there are fourteen infinite mangers, drinking fountains, courtyards, cisterns. The house is the size of the world; better said, it is the world. Nevertheless, by dint of exhausting all the dusty galleries of grey stone and the courtyards with their cisterns, I have reached the street and I have seen the temple of Axes and the sea.
This I did not understand until a night vision revealed to me that there are also fourteen infinite seas and temples. Everything exists many times over, fourteen times, but there are two things in the world that seem to exist only once; above, the intricate Sun; below, Asterion.
Perhaps I have created the stars and the Sun and the enormous house, but I do not remember anymore. Nine men enter the house every nine years so that I may deliver them from all evil. I hear their footsteps or their voices in the depths of the galleries of stone and I run with joy in search of them. The ceremony lasts a few minutes. One after another, they fall to the ground without my having to bloody my hands.
Where they fall, they remain, and the cadavers help to distinguish one gallery from another. I know not who they are, but I do know that one of them prophesied, at the moment of his death, that someday my redeemer would come. Since then, the solitude does not pain me because I know that my redeemer lives, and in the end he will rise above the dust. If I could hear all the rumblings of the world, I would detect the sound of his footsteps.
Let it be that he take me to a place with fewer galleries and fewer doors. I wonder: what will my redeemer be like? Will he be a bull or a man? Will he be perhaps a bull with the face of a man? Or will he be like me? The morning Sun was reflected in the sword of bronze. No trace of blood remained.
Que entre el que quiera. Mienten los que declaran que en Egipto hay una parecida. Hasta mis detractores admiten que no hay un solo mueble en la casa. No en vano fue una reina mi madra; no puedo confundirme con el vulgo, aunque mi modestia lo quiera. Cierta impaciencia generosa no ha consentido que yo aprendiera a leer.
Claro que no me faltan distracciones. Me agazapo a la sombra de un aljibe o a la vuelta de un corredor y juego a que me buscan. Hay azoteas desde las que me dejo caer, hasta ensangrentarme. Finjo que viene a visitarme y que yo le muestro la casa. No hay un aljibe, un patio, un abrevadero, un pesebre; son catorce [son infinitos] los pesebres, abrevaderos, patios, aljibes. La ceremonia dura pocos minutos. Uno tras otro caen sin que yo me ensangriente las manos.
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La casa de Asterión
Plot summary The story takes the form of a monologue by Asterion. He begins by suggesting that certain defamatory claims — that he is arrogant, or misanthropic, or mad — are untrue. Asterion describes his house in detail: that it has no locked doors; that it has many corridors and rooms, pools and courtyards. He explains his hermetic ways by recounting how once, when he left his house, the commoners were so agitated that he now does not go out, believing that his royal blood sets him apart after all, he is the child of a queen. Asterion explains how he spends his days in solitude: running through the corridors; pretending to sleep; and sometimes pretending that "the other Asterion" has come to visit, and giving him a tour of the house.
La casa de Asterión de Borges
En poemas y narraciones aparecen personajes y motivos de la Antigьedad grecolatina que van integrбndose de forma natural en el complejo mundo de significados borgiano1. Para el presente trabajo he seleccionado el relato "La casa de Asteriуn", incluido en El Aleph, cuya referencia mitolуgica es el Minotauro y el Laberinto cretense2. El texto me interesa en cuanto ejemplo de reinterpretaciуn -y en este sentido, vitalizaciуn- de una historia mitolуgica antigua en la literatura contemporбnea a travйs de la manipulaciуn intelectual. El objetivo de Borges en "La casa de Asteriуn" no es rememorar fidedigna y admirativamente el mito, sino servirse de йl para expresar la bъsqueda cognoscitiva, problemбtica e inquietante, personal mбs allб de lo literario, que constituye esencialmente la ficciуn contemporбnea y su propia obra. A travйs del relato propuesto me serб permitido configurar el inquisidor mundo borgiano, y -lo que mбs me interesa para la ocasiуn presente- comprobar cуmo Borges ha sido capaz de extraer del mito antiguo dimensiones que, preexistiendo, resultan nuevas y personales. Con Borges, en efecto, la fбbula mitolуgica -literatura estйtica o lъdica, puro placer de fabular a la manera de las Metamorfosis de Ovidio- retorna a sus fuentes mнticas: mito como Metafнsica fabulada, esto es, explicaciуn del mundo, quй somos y por quй la vida, quй dioses hay, quй fuerzas, cуmo nos relacionamos con lo demбs, a partir de un mundo imaginario de historias y palabras que adquieren valor ejemplar y simbуlico. Juzgan que la metafнsica es una rama de la literatura fantбstica.
La Casa de Asterion-Jorge Luis Borges
Mocage Perhaps I have created the stars and the Sun and the enormous house, but I do not remember anymore. ChennieXi rated it liked it Nov 11, He begins by suggesting that certain defamatory claims—that he is arrogant, or misanthropic, or mad—are untrue. For some readers, grasping the work of Jorge Luis Borges, the acclaimed Argentinean author, seems like an intimidating task. The house is the size of the world; better said, it is the world. Fantasyhorror fictionshort story.