The allegory of the palace | Borges

∞ Author, 1960

The Maker

Allegory of the palace[1]

On that day, the Yellow Emperor led poets to visit his palace. Gradually, they abandoned the first row of terraces in the west, presented in a long column, which, like the stairs of an almost boundless amphitheater, tended to a paradise or a garden, with metal mirrors and intricate juniper fences foreshadowing the labyrinth. They happily lost in it, at first as if condescending to play a game, and then not without anxiety, because its straight path is subject to a very subtle but constant curvature, secretly winding into several circles. It wasn't until midnight, by observing the stars and sacrificing a turtle at the right time, that they were able to escape from the area that seemed to be enchanted, but the feeling of being lost could not be shaken off, and they accompanied them until the end.

They then walked through the front porch and the courtyard and the library, and through a hexagonal hall with a dripping copper pot, and one morning they saw a stone man from a tower, after which it disappeared forever. They crossed many shining rivers in ebony boats, or crossed a single river many times. When the Imperial Guard passed, everyone bowed down, but one day when they came to an island, some people did not act accordingly, because they had never seen the Son of Heaven, so the executioner had to behead him. They look at the black bun with the black dance and the confused golden mask, and there is only indifference in their eyes; the real is mixed with the dream thing, or better said, the real thing is one of the many forms of the dream. It was as if the earth could not be anything other than gardens, water, buildings, and brilliant forms. Every hundred steps there was a tall tower that broke through the sky; at first glance the color was the same, but the first tower was yellow, the last one was bright red, the gradient was so subtle and the sequence was so long.

It was at the foot of the last second tower that the poet (as if indifferent to the marvelous spectacle) recited the short psalm, which we now inextricably associate with his name, which, according to the more elegant historians, has repeatedly brought him immortality and death. The original text is gone; some argue that it consists of a single verse; others say there is only one word. Exactly, incredibly, in this poem this monumental palace is contained in complete and meticulous detail, along with every piece of noble porcelain and every pattern on every piece of porcelain and the gloom and splendor of morning and dusk, and every moment of good and misfortune of the glorious dynasties of mortals, gods and dragons that have inhabited it since the beginning of the endless past. Everyone was silent, but the emperor exclaimed: You have taken my palace! So the executioner's iron sword took the poet's life.

Someone else told the story in a different way. There can be no two things in the world that are the same; just (according to them) the poet reading the poem is enough to make the palace disappear, as if it had been abolished and burned by the last syllable. Such legends, obviously, are nothing more than literary fictions. The poet was born a slave to the emperor, and so did he die; his psalms slipped into oblivion because they should be forgotten, and his descendants were still searching, not finding, the word that boiled down to the universe.

Translation Notes:

[1] This article was deleted in the 2012 edition of Borges's Poetry Collection.

In this poem, this monumental palace is completely and meticulously contained, along with every piece of noble porcelain and every pattern on every piece of porcelain and the gloom and splendor of morning and dusk, and every moment of good and bad fortune of the glorious dynasties of mortals, gods and dragons that have inhabited it since the beginning of the endless past.

—Translated by Borges | Chen Dongbiao

—Reading and Rereading—

Parable of the palace

That day, the Yellow Emperor showed his palace to the poet. They were leaving behind, in a long parade, the first western terraces that, like steps of an almost unfathomable amphitheater, decline towards a paradise or garden whose metal mirrors and whose intricate juniper fences already prefigured the labyrinth. They happily got lost in it, at first as if condescending to a game and then not without trepidation, because their straight avenues suffered from a very smooth curvature but continuously and secretly they were circles. Around midnight, the observation of the planets and the timely sacrifice of a turtle allowed them to dissociate themselves from that region that seemed bewitched, but not from the feeling of being lost, which accompanied them to the end. Antechambers and courtyards and libraries then toured and a hexagonal room with a clepsydra, a ma ana spotted from a tower a stone man, who was then lost forever. Many sparkling rivers crossed in sandalwood canoes, or a single river many times. The imperial entourage passed by and the people prostrated themselves, but one day they arrived on an island where someone did not, because they had never seen the Son of Heaven, and the executioner had to behead him. Black hair and black dances and complicated gold masks saw his eyes indifferently; the real was confused with the so ado or, rather, the real was one of the configurations of the sue o. It seemed impossible that the earth was anything other than gardens, waters, architectures and forms of splendor. Every hundred steps a tower cut through the air; for the eyes the color was identical, but the first of all was yellow and the last scarlet, so delicate were the gradations and so long the series.

At the foot of the penultimate tower was that the poet (who was oblivious to the spectacles that were everyone's wonder) recited the brief composition that today we link indissolubly to his name and that, according to the most elegant historians, brought him immortality and death. The text has been lost; there are those who understand that it consisted of a verse; others, one-worded. The truth, the incredible thing, is that in the poem was whole and meticulous the huge palace, with every illustrious porcelain and every drawing on every porcelain and the glooms and lights of the twilights and every unfortunate or happy moment of the glorious dynasties of mortals, gods and dragons that inhabited it from the endless past. Everyone was silent, but the Emperor exclaimed: You have snatched the palace from me! and the iron sword of the executioner took the life of the poet.

Others refer to history in a different way. In the world no two things can be the same; it was enough (we are told) that the poet pronounced the poem so that the palace disappeared, as if abolished and fulminated by the last syllable. Such legends, of course, are nothing more than literary fictions. The poet was a slave of the Emperor and died as such; its composition fell into oblivion because it deserved oblivion and its descendants are still seeking, and will not find, the word of the universe.

Chen Dongbiao translation and others

Caption: Borges

PepperHiggins

deviantart.com/pepperhiggins