Jorge Luis Borges on Baruch Spinoza

“Time carries him as the river carries A leaf in the downstream water. No matter. The enchanted one insists And shapes God with delicate geometry. Since his illness, since his birth, He goes on constructing God with the word. The mightiest love was granted him Love that does not expect to be loved.”

“Bruma de oro, el occidente alumbra La ventana. El asiduo manuscrito Aguarda, ya cargado de infinito. Alguien construye a Dios en la penumbra. Un hombre engendra a Dios. Es un judío De tristes ojos y piel cetrina; Lo lleva el tiempo como lleva el río Una hoja en el agua que declina. No importa. El hechicero insiste y labra A Dios con geometría delicada; Desde su enfermedad, desde su nada, Sigue erigiendo a Dios con la palabra. El más pródigo amor le fue otorgado, El amor que no espera ser amado. (A haze of gold, the Occident lights up The window. Now, the assiduous manuscript Is waiting, weighed down with the infinite. Someone is building God in a dark cup. A man engenders God. He is a Jew With saddened eyes and lemon-colored skin; Time carries him the way a leaf, dropped in A river, is borne off by waters to Its end. No matter. The magician moved Carves out his God with fine geometry; From his disease, from nothing, he's begun To construct God, using the word. No one Is granted such prodigious love as he: The love that has no hope of being loved.) [Translated from the Spanish by Willis Barnstone]”

“Las traslúcidas manos del judío Labran en la penumbra los cristales Y la tarde que muere es miedo y frío. (Las tardes a las tardes son iguales.) Las manos y el espacio de jacinto Que palidece en el confín del Ghetto Casi no existen para el hombre quieto Que está soñando un claro laberinto. No lo turba la fama, ese reflejo De sueños en el sueño de otro espejo, Ni el temeroso amor de las doncellas. Libre de la metáfora y del mito abra un arduo cristal: el infinito Mapa de Aquél que es todas Sus estrellas. (Here in the twilight the translucent hands Of the Jew polishing the crystal glass. The dying afternoon is cold with bands Of fear. Each day the afternoons all pass The same. The hands and space of hyacinth Paling in the confines of the ghetto walls Barely exists for the quiet man who stalls There, dreaming up a brilliant labyrinth. Fame doesn't trouble him (that reflection of Dreams in the dream of another mirror), nor love, The timid love women. Gone the bars, He's free, from metaphor and myth, to sit Polishing a stubborn lens: the infinite Map of the One who now is all His stars.) [Translated from the Spanish by Willis Barnstone]”