Fervor de Buenos Aires
“Hard to believe Buenos Aires had any beginning. I feel it to be as eternal as air and water.”
~ Jorge Luis Borges, from The Mythical Founding of Buenos Aires (1929)
Joel Bowman with today’s Note From the End of the World: Buenos Aires, Argentina…
We arrive early for dinner, just after 9:30pm. The local porteños won’t sit down for an hour or so yet…
A few of them linger by the bar, unhurried, sipping aperitivos and chatting amongst themselves. Well attired in colorful scarves and navy blazers, they cast a knowing glance around the room.
The classic black and white checkerboard floors… the iconic light fixtures, fashioned from hanging forks and spoons… the smell of sizzling chorizo fat and papas a papas a la provenzal (roast potatoes tossed with garlic, parsley and butter)…
They know the setting well; they’ve been coming to this place – and places like it, in effortless, old-school brasserie aesthetic – for years. It’s their haven. Their sanctuary. Where red leather banquettes and white-jacketed waiters stand guard against the cruel vicissitudes of the world outside. Where a warm light glows as the cold moon falls on the windswept sidewalk, just beyond the front door. Here is a private refuge, where they can dine with friends and family, even as political tempests and currency crises and economic chaos rage beyond.
Among a crowd of familiar faces, they are anonymous to outsiders. They are the estancieros and empresarios, (landed gentlemen and wealthy industrialists), long descended from families after whom the city’s streets are named. They are politicians and insiders and media men. And they are artists, too.
Once we espied a famous pianist – a true virtuosa then well into her eighties, one of Argentina’s great gifts to the world – from the upstairs balcony. Discretely, we inquired of a waiter whether our eyes did not deceive us.
“Could it be?”
He could not say. (Nor could he stifle the faintest hint of a smile.)
Over by the vestibule, from a portrait maybe 5x3 feet in size, El Maestro surveys the room with eyes that cannot see. The brasserie takes its name from his first collection of poems: Fervor de Buenos Aires.*
Thumbing through the collection later that evening, the meal lingering in our memory, we are taken once again by the timeless universality of his sentiment. Please enjoy “Las Calles” by Argentina’s finest:
The Streets
By Jorge Luis Borges (translated by Stephen Kessler)
My soul is in the streets
of Buenos Aires.
Not the greedy streets
jostling with crowds and traffic,
but the neighborhood streets where nothing is happening,
almost invisible by force of habit,
rendered eternal in the dim light of sunset,
and the ones even farther out,
empty of comforting trees,
where austere little houses scarcely venture,
overwhelmed by deathless distances,
losing themselves in the deep expanse,
of sky and plains.
For the solitary one they are a promise
because thousands of singular souls inhabit them,
unique before God and in time
and no doubt precious.
To the West, the North, and the South
unfold the streets—and they too are many in my country:
within these lines I trace
may their flags fly.
And now for your Notes From the End of the Week…
Final Notes…
If the sum really is greater than the parts, and each new addition to the network a wealth of potential value, well… all the more reason to celebrate our growing Notes community!
Herewith, a selection of our favorite member comments from last week’s Notes. First up, a few choice responses to our musings on Old Fools and New Fools…
And these thoughtful comments on unbalanced, “New Rag Orders” and dying with laughter…
Thanks again to ALL our Notes members who bring their thoughts and comments to bear on our humble scribbles. We don’t always have time to respond individually, but we do read each and every comment.
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We’ll see you in the comments section next week. Until then, enjoy your weekend…
…and stay tuned for more Notes From the End of the World…
Cheers,
Joel Bowman
* Fervor in English doesn't quite capture the richness of the Spanish fervor, which for Borges probably meant something closer to “A passion for Buenos Aires” or “Devotion to Buenos Aires.”
As he later wrote of his first work, “I think I have never strayed very far from that book... I feel that all my subsequent work has merely developed the themes I first touched there.”
Wandering these streets, we scarcely begin to develop a sense of the author’s deep affection.
Joel, when you post poetry by Borges, or others, I suggest that you post the original, as well as the translation. Some of us read and speak some Spanish, and seeing the original, along with the translation, would be beautiful and helpful.
Beautiful.
Thank You Joel.