the watcher - jorge luis borges

The Watcher
by Jorge Luis Borges (tr. Alastair Reid)


The light enters and I remember who I am; he is there.

He begins by telling me his name which (it should now be

      clear) is mine.

I revert to the servitude which has lasted more than seven

     times ten years.

He saddles me with his rememberings.

He saddles me with the miseries of every day, the human

     condition.

I am his old nurse; he requires me to wash his feet.

He spies on me in mirrors, in mahogany, in shop windows.

One or another woman has rejected him, and I must share

     his anguish.

He dictates to me now this poem, which I do not like.

He insists I apprentice myself tentatively to the stubborn

     Anglo-Saxon.

He has won me over to the hero worship of dead soldiers,

     people with whom I could scarcely exchange a single

     word.

On the last flight of stairs, I feel him at my side.

He is in my footsteps, in my voice.

Down to the last detail, I abhor him.

I am gratified to remark that he can hardly see.

I am in a circular cell and the infinite wall is closing in.

Neither of the two deceives the other, but we both lie.

We know each other too well, inseparable brother.

You drink the water from my cup and you wolf down my

     bread.

The door to suicide is open, but theologians assert that, in the

     subsequent shadows of the other kingdom, there will I

     be, waiting for myself.