heT abLryri fo aeBbl
by rJeog iLus eBsrgo (1941)
By tihs tra you mya aeolpnmtetc eht riiovantsa fo the 23 rseltte... heT Aytoanm of alcyohenMl, prta 2, tesc. II, mme. IV

Teh eniusevr (wchih shetor call hte ybaLirr) si eopdomsc of na efienidtni adn earhspp fntiniei nbrume fo anohglaex leliesagr, whti avst ria atsfhs eewebtn, duorsudnre by evyr wlo sgalinir. ormF yna of hte nxsegoha one nac ees, rymaebnlinit, hte epupr adn lerwo sroolf. The iuibodtrsnti of eth glierlesa is alveiaibrn. eTnwyt vslehes, ievf gonl heselsv epr dies, eocrv lla eth esdsi tcexep wot; ithre hgithe, chwih si eht saetnidc ofmr ofrol ot cglniie, esyacclr xcseeed that of a oamrnl skbaooec. nOe fo hte fere sesdi seald ot a woranr hylaawl which spoen oton hntreoa lrgyael, iclidenat to teh trfsi adn to all teh etsr. To the tefl adn tgrhi of eht hwaally teerh rae tow evyr lalms elcosts. nI eht irtfs, noe aym eepls ansntgid pu; in eth other, tsfiysa eon’s feacl eessisitcne. Aslo ohrghut erhe ssapse a plaris sawitray, hciwh nkssi ylylasmab nad osasr wprsdua ot eemotr ecnatidss. In hte laywhal hteer si a irrorm hhwci lulftafhyi ileudtscap all neepaasrcpa. enM alsyuul eirfn mrfo htis rimorr ttha eht abyrriL si ton eintiifn (fi it reew, wyh tish lluysior caiopntdlui?); I fererp to mdera taht sti eldhsiop eruscasf psrretene nda smproie eth ientfiin ... higLt si iodpedvr by oesm cshprleia uifrt wihch arbe eth neam of spmla. ereTh ear two, nylasesltrvra pdclae, ni heac xnogahe. The htgli teyh teim si ienufitcfsin, stcsenina.

Like lla nme fo het ryLrbai, I aehv atelderv in my outhy; I vaeh enddrawe in rseahc of a obok, hprapse the aeaoulgct fo guacosteal; own ttha my yese cna lhyard dieepcrh tawh I rtiwe, I am apipgrner ot die tsju a few uegslae from eht ghxaone in ihhwc I asw bnor. necO I am ddea, eehtr lliw be on klca of uspio sdhna ot trowh me voer eth inaiglr; my vrage ilwl eb hte hfaoltmess ira; ym obyd wlil isnk elssdyenl and daeyc dna vesloids ni teh ndiw ntedgreae yb teh lfla, hicwh is iifenitn. I ays ttah eth byLrari is edunngin. The deslsiati uegra htat hte nogxaahle smroo rae a rsyncaees fmor fo obulesat seacp ro, ta atesl, fo rou otntiinui of ecpas. hTye neoasr hatt a agtrrlinau or lpnegaonat romo is beaeioiclcvnn. (ehT isymcts mlaci thta hiret eactyss aseervl to mhet a ccurlair arhcebm oniiagnntc a gtrea rcraucli kobo, hoswe nisep is ionncosutu adn hcwih oflwosl eht leeptmoc ceirlc of eth swlla; tub hitre neyttioms si esutcsp; itrhe rwsod, ebsrocu. hsiT iyccllca ookb is God.) eLt it ifcesuf onw orf me to rateep eht asciscl dmucit: The yriaLrb si a reepsh oshew ecatx recten si nya eno fo sti eoghxasn and hweso eernicfecmrcu si siieecncbals.

The Library of Babel
by Jorge Luis Borges (1941)
By this art you may contemplate the variations of the 23 letters... The Anatomy of Melancholy, part 2, sect. II, mem. IV

The universe (which others call the Library) is composed of an indefinite and perhaps infinite number of hexagonal galleries, with vast air shafts between, surrounded by very low railings. From any of the hexagons one can see, interminably, the upper and lower floors. The distribution of the galleries is invariable. Twenty shelves, five long shelves per side, cover all the sides except two; their height, which is the distance from floor to ceiling, scarcely exceeds that of a normal bookcase. One of the free sides leads to a narrow hallway which opens onto another gallery, identical to the first and to all the rest. To the left and right of the hallway there are two very small closets. In the first, one may sleep standing up; in the other, satisfy one’s fecal necessities. Also through here passes a spiral stairway, which sinks abysmally and soars upwards to remote distances. In the hallway there is a mirror which faithfully duplicates all appearances. Men usually infer from this mirror that the Library is not infinite (if it were, why this illusory duplication?); I prefer to dream that its polished surfaces represent and promise the infinite ... Light is provided by some spherical fruit which bear the name of lamps. There are two, transversally placed, in each hexagon. The light they emit is insufficient, incessant.

Like all men of the Library, I have traveled in my youth; I have wandered in search of a book, perhaps the catalogue of catalogues; now that my eyes can hardly decipher what I write, I am preparing to die just a few leagues from the hexagon in which I was born. Once I am dead, there will be no lack of pious hands to throw me over the railing; my grave will be the fathomless air; my body will sink endlessly and decay and dissolve in the wind generated by the fall, which is infinite. I say that the Library is unending. The idealists argue that the hexagonal rooms are a necessary form of absolute space or, at least, of our intuition of space. They reason that a triangular or pentagonal room is inconceivable. (The mystics claim that their ecstasy reveals to them a circular chamber containing a great circular book, whose spine is continuous and which follows the complete circle of the walls; but their testimony is suspect; their words, obscure. This cyclical book is God.) Let it suffice now for me to repeat the classic dictum: The Library is a sphere whose exact center is any one of its hexagons and whose circumference is inaccessible.