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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. Free summary and analysis of the events in Jorge Luis Borges’s The Garden of Forking Paths that won’t make you snore. We promise. Thus Borges’ “The Garden of Forking Paths” sets up a literary labyrinth, each path of which forks into another forking path until we are lost in a labyrinth of.

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Then I reflected that all things happen, happen to one, precisely now.

The Garden of Forking Paths

The bleak pafhs somber aspect of the rocky landscape made the soldiers feel that life itself was of little value, and so they won the battle easily. I had the revolver ready.

A bird streaked across the gray sky and blindly I translated it into an airplane and that airplane into many against the French sky annihilating the artillery station with vertical bombs. Yet he abandoned all to make a book and a labyrinth. I do garxen find it believable that he would waste thirteen years laboring over a never ending experiment in rhetoric.

The almost unbearable memory of Madden’s long horseface put an end to these wandering thoughts. How do you explain this voluntary omission? There was almost no one on the platform. The following deposition, dictated by, read over, and then signed by Dr. I told myself that I thus ran less chance of being recognized.

In Ts’ui Pen’s work, all the possible solutions occur, each one being the point of departure for other bifurcations. Madden broke in and arrested me. Search the history of over billion web pages on the Internet. This may have suggested the idea of a physical maze. One of them asked me: Tsun is a spy for the German Empire who has realized that an MI5 agent called Captain Richard Madden is pursuing him, has entered the apartment of his handler Viktor Runeberg, and has either captured or killed him.


Lost in these imaginary illusions I forgot my destiny – that of the hunted.

The Garden of Forking Paths – Wikipedia

I examined it once upon a time: He knew my problem was to indicate through the uproar of the war the city called Albert, and that I had found no other means to do so than to kill a man of that name I argued that it was 2 not so trivial, that were it not for the precious accident of the train schedule, I would be in prison or dead. He considers the Englishman Albert, whom he killed, a Goethe. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular.

How could it reach the ear of the Chief? The final paragraph does indeed synopsize the plot of the story: The truth is that, in the deserted street, I felt infinitely visible and vulnerable. I threw myself down on my narrow iron bed, and waited on my back. I argued that so small a victory prefigured a total victory.

In your country the novel is an inferior genre; in Ts’ui Pen’s period, it was a despised one. To omit a word always, to resort to inept metaphors and obvious periphrases [emphasis mine], is perhaps the most emphatic way of stressing it.

Rather, to be more accurate, he was obliged to be implacable. This network of times which approached one another, forked, broke off, or were unaware of one another for centuries, embraces all possibilities of time. I read the news in the same English newspapers which were trying to solve the riddle of the murder of the learned Sinologist Stephen Albert by the boeges Yu Tsun.


The language appears to be factual, authoritative—until we notice that the account is second-hand, indirect. The phrase ‘to various future times, but not to all’ suggested the image of bifurcating gxrden time, not in space. That was why I had accepted it fully, without paying it any attention.

I have communicated to Berlin the secret name of the city they must attack. I am withdrawing to write a book. I foresee that man will resign himself each day to more atrocious undertakings; soon there will be no one but warriors and brigands; I give them this counsel: Ts’ui Pen’s calligraphy was justly famous. It was a plain dirt way, and overhead the branches of trees intermingled, while a round moon hung low in the sky as if to keep me company.

Absurdly, I took it in my hand and weighed it in order to inspire courage within myself. Can I take another look at the letter? Something—perhaps the mere vain ostentation of proving my resources were nil—made me look through my pockets. Silently, I dressed, took leave of myself in the mirror, went down the stairs, sneaked a look at the quiet street, and went out.