"Borges and Myself" by Jorge Luis Borges

It's to the other man, to Borges, that things happen.  I walk along the streets of Buenos Aires, stopping now and then -- perhaps out of habit -- to look at the arch of an old entranceway or a grillwork gate; of Borges I get news through the mail and glimpse his name among a committee of professors or in a dictionary of biography.  I have a taste for hourglasses, maps, eighteenth-century typography, the roots of words, the smell of coffee, and Stevenson's prose; the other man shares these likes, but in a showy way that turns them into stagy mannerisms.  It would be an exaggeration to say that we are on bad terms; I live, I let myself live, so that Borges can weave his tales and poems, and those tales and poems are my justification.  It is not hard for me to admit that he was managed to write a few worthwhile pages, but these pages cannot save me, perhaps because what is good no longer belongs to anyone -- not even the other man -- bur rather to speech or tradition.  In any case, I am fated to become lost once and for all, and only some moment of myself will survive in the other.  Little by little, I have been surrendering everything to him, even though I have evidence of his stubborn habit of falsification and exaggerating.  Spinoza held that all things try to keep on being themselves; a stone wants to be a stone and the tiger, a tiger.  I shall remain in Borges, not in myself (if it is so that I am someone), but I recognize myself less in his books than in those of others or than in the laborious tuning of a guitar.  Years ago, I tried ridding myself of him and I went from myths of the outlying slums of the city to games with time and infinity, but those games are now part of Borges and I will have to turn to other things.  And so, my life is a running away, and I lose everything and everything is left to oblivion or to the other man.  

Which of us is writing this page I don't know.