For myth is at the beginning of literature, and also at its end.

Writing is nothing more than a guided dream.

We are our memory, we are that chimerical museum of shifting shapes, that pile of broken mirrors.

Two aesthetics exist: the passive aesthetic of mirrors and the active aesthetic of prisms. Guided by the former, art turns into a copy of the environment's objectivity or the individual's psychic history. Guided by the latter, art is redeemed, makes the world into its instrument, and forges, beyond spatial and temporal prisons, a personal vision.

The future is as irrevocable as an inflexible yesterday.

I might accept immortality, if I had to do it. But I would prefer - if there is any afterlife - to know nothing whatever about Borges, about his experiences in this world.

It only takes two facing mirrors to build a labyrinth.