This landmark collection brings together for the first time in any language all of the sonnets of Jorge Luis Borges. More intimate and personally revealing than his fiction, and more classical in form than the inventive metafictions that are his hallmark, the sonnets reflect Borges in full maturity, paying homage to many of his literary and philosophical paragons-Cervantes, Milton, Whitman, Emerson, Joyce, Spinoza-while at the same time engaging the mysteries immanent in the quotidian. A distinguished team of translators-Edith Grossman, Willis Barnstone, John Updike, Mark Strand, Robert Fitzgerald, Alastair Reid, Charles Tomlinson, and Stephen Kessler-lend their gifts to these sonnets, many of which appear here in English for the first time, and all of which accompany their Spanish originals on facing pages.
|Publisher:||Penguin Publishing Group|
|Edition description:||Dual-Language Edition with Parallel Text|
|Product dimensions:||5.00(w) x 7.70(h) x 0.90(d)|
|Age Range:||18 Years|
About the Author
Stephen Kessler (editor, introducer, notes) is a poet, translator, essayist, and editor. He is the author of numerous books of poetry and the translator of books by Julio Cortázar, Vincente Aleixandre, Luis Cernuda, and Pablo Neruda, among others. He lives in Santa Cruz, California.
Suzanne Jill Levine (general editor) is a professor of Latin American literature and translation studies at the University of California, Santa Barbara, and the distinguished translator of such innovative Spanish American writers as Jorge Luis Borges, Adolfo Bioy Casares, Manuel Puig, Guillermo Cabrera Infante, and Julio Cortázar. She lives in Santa Barbara, California.
Date of Birth:August 24, 1899
Date of Death:June 14, 1986
Place of Birth:Buenos Aires, Argentina
Place of Death:Geneva, Switzerland
Education:B.A., Collège Calvin de Genève, 1914
Read an Excerpt
"Music Box" by Jorge Luis Borges
Music of Japan. Drops of slow honey
Or of invisible gold are dispersed
In a miserly way from a water clock,
And repeat in time a weaving that is
Eternal, fragile, mysterious, and clear.
I fear that each one may be the last.
It's a past coming back. From what temple,
From what fresh garden in the mountain,
From what vigil before an unknown sea,
From what shyness of melancholy,
From what lost and ransomed afternoon
Does its remote future come to me?
I cannot know. No matter. I am
In that music. I want to be. I bleed.