The son has gotten into philosophy of late. Summer camp had a “philosophy buffet” or “philosophy lunch” or maybe it was “philosophy cafe” as an elective activity at which he was a constant diner.

I have a tenuous relationship with Philosophy; even concepts I feel that I understand have been known to go spinning merrily away from my comprehension. The boy and I have spent a few nights discussing such lovely topics as Russel’s balding king of France, philosophical zombies, the exact meaning of “self”, and other esoteric constructs. I find some of these maddening in that it seems that understanding is just dancing off to the side as I grope for some sort of meaning.

Which brings us to this week’s author, poet, (and I would say) philosopher Jorge Luis Borges. I discovered Borges through a book of his essays and poems that I friend of mine - scandalized that I had never read his works - gave me for Christmas one year. His masterful “The Library of Babel”  was the gateway essay that drew me in. Borges discusses concepts in his writings that perplex, confuse, and cause me to question my relationship with reality nearly as much as some of the philosophers that I discuss with the boy.

I think today’s poem is a good representation of everything I love about his writing.

We are the time. We are the famous
by Jorge Luis Borges

We are the time. We are the famous
metaphor from Heraclitus the Obscure.

We are the water, not the hard diamond,
the one that is lost, not the one that stands still.

We are the river and we are that greek
that looks himself into the river. His reflection
changes into the waters of the changing mirror,
into the crystal that changes like the fire.

We are the vain predetermined river,
in his travel to his sea.

The shadows have surrounded him.
Everything said goodbye to us, everything goes away.

Memory does not stamp his own coin.

However, there is something that stays
however, there is something that bemoans.