Wittgenstein's Poker by David EdmondsMy rating: 4 of 5 stars
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Review: The Circular Ruins
The Circular Ruins by Jorge Luis BorgesMy rating: 3 of 5 stars
When is a short story, not a short story? Do you include a short story as a ‘book read’ on Goodreads, or does the collection include one book? We had a family debate on this over Christmas and concluded that if a book is worthy of a separate review, it counts as a book.
I sometimes must reread Borges's short stories three or more times to understand them. In some ways, the books seem as recursive as some of the motifs included.
The narrative arc, where there is one, continues to increase like a Shepard-Risset glissando (the audio illusion where the pitch of the ensemble of frequencies is ever-increasing).
“The Circular Ruins” is a case in point: a mysterious meditation on creation, consciousness, and the nature of reality. Borges crafts a world where a lone dreamer attempts to bring a man into existence, only to confront the possibility that he is merely a dream. The circular ruins in the title refer to the amphitheatre-like-temple and the narrative's circularity. The imagery of the amphitheatre, where a single student is chosen from many, also evokes a sense of natural selection or cosmic refinement—an echo of larger forces at play. The references to fire, destruction, and renewal hint at further cycles of creation and collapse, like an expanding and contracting universe or an infinite chain of dreamers shaping each other’s realities.
Reading this story felt like staring into a hall of mirrors—each reflection leading to another, infinitely. It reminded me of Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude, where Macondo is described as a city of mirrors and mirages, capturing the same dreamlike instability of existence. Borges’ engagement with mythology is also evident. There are traces of Prometheus in the dreamer’s fire, echoes of Orpheus in the blurred boundary between dream and reality, and a sense of fate unfolding with the weight of an ancient epic.
Borges’ prose is deceptively simple but packed with grand, mind-bending ideas. Like The Library of Babel and The Book of Sand, this story plays with the paradox of infinity within the finite, a concept that feels eerily relevant in an age of endless digital information. This story lingers in the mind long after reading, leaving the unsettling question: are we the dreamers, or are we the dream?
I gave the book three stars.
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Review: Kafka on the Shore
Kafka on the Shore by Haruki MurakamiMy rating: 4 of 5 stars
This is one of Murakami’s more challenging novels, blending magical realism with dense literary and philosophical themes. Fans of 1Q84 and Killing Commendatore will recognize the dreamlike logic, shifting realities, and mythic undertones, but this novel (which predates 1Q84) leans even further into the labyrinthine.
As with many of his novels Murakami uses dual protagonists. Kafka Tamura, the runaway 15-year-old, embarks on a mythic, psychological journey, while Nakata, an elderly man who lost his intelligence in a mysterious childhood event, follows a more whimsical, fate-driven path. The two characters exist on parallel but interconnected tracks, embodying different ways of perceiving reality. Kafka struggles against his supposed fate, while Nakata drifts with the current of events, his ability to speak to cats and his detachment from conventional time making him a liminal figure. Their stories circle each other like the two halves of a Pomodoro timer.
The labyrinth and the library—both recurring Murakami motifs—are central here. The library where Kafka finds refuge is more than a place of books; it is a space of transformation, much like the labyrinths in Borges’ fiction (The Library of Babel), where knowledge is infinite yet meaning remains just out of reach. Borges’ labyrinths suggest that the act of seeking truth is itself an endless puzzle, and Murakami channels this same paradox. Kafka’s journey through fate, memory, and the subconscious mirrors this structure—every revelation leads deeper into uncertainty, as if he is navigating a maze with no center. The novel’s frequent reference to spilled guts, dense forest paths and subconscious trauma suggests that the real labyrinth is internal: the mind itself, layered with repression, prophecy, and dream logic.
There is an equally layered Crow character. He exists as both an external guide and an aspect of Kafka’s subconscious, but his symbolism extends beyond that. There are echoes of Loki, the Norse trickster—an ambiguous force, neither wholly benevolent nor malicious, who shapes events through mischief and transformation. This also brings to mind Ted Hughes’ Crow (Crow: From the Life and Songs of the Crow), a figure of survival, chaos, and primal instinct. Hughes’ Crow is a creature that endures, indifferent to human morality, and Kafka’s Crow functions in a similar way—pushing him forward, challenging him, but never offering clarity. Even Kafka’s own name suggests a connection to Franz Kafka, another writer fascinated with absurdity, fate, and unknowable forces. Crow, then, is both a personal daemon and a symbol of the novel’s larger themes: transformation, ambiguity, and the fluid boundaries between self and destiny.
The novel also reworks classical mythology—Kafka’s arc clearly follows Oedipus, as he flees home only to fulfill his fate, while also recalling Orpheus, descending into the underworld and being warned, “Don’t look back” on his eventual return. Time in Kafka on the Shore is fungible, looping in ways that recall Lost . Mysteries remain unresolved, leaving us suspended somewhere between science, myth, and the subconscious. Freud lingers in the background, especially in the novel’s handling of memory, repression, and desire, but Murakami is less interested in psychological explanation than in evoking a sense of deep, ungraspable mystery.
That mystery extends into the novel’s most unsettling aspects. Kafka on the Shore engages with deeply uncomfortable themes—incest, rape, and paedophilia—through a dreamlike lens that complicates their impact. Kafka is haunted by a prophecy that he will kill his father and sleep with his mother and sister, a fate that unfolds in a murky, surreal way. The novel doesn’t present these moments with explicit brutality, but the implications are undeniably disturbing. Saeki, Kafka’s possible mother, is portrayed as a tragic, spectral figure, locked in the past and existing largely as an enigma rather than a fully developed character. Similarly, Miss Sakura, who may or may not be Kafka’s sister, participates in a scene that blurs the lines of consent. Murakami’s detached, matter-of-fact style often makes these moments feel unsettlingly passive, as if they exist as narrative devices rather than as serious ethical reckonings.
And yet, for all its surrealism, Kafka on the Shore remains deeply grounded in physical, everyday details. Murakami lingers on classical music, home-cooked Japanese meals, the simple solitude of a hut in the woods (recalling Walden) and the comforting presence of books. The ordinary and the extraordinary sit side by side, making the novel feel both intimate and mythic: dreams and imagination are distilled into realities, yielding a narrative that shocks, and engages in an uncomfortable manner.
It’s a hypnotic, unsettling read—rich with literary and philosophical echoes, yet elusive, like a dream that resists interpretation. It doesn’t offer answers so much as it invites you to lose yourself in its labyrinth, knowing you may never fully escape.
I gave it four stars.
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Review: The Library of Babel
The Library of Babel by Jorge Luis BorgesMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
I was both amazed and perplexed by the Library of Babel. For such a slim book, it has an immense and almost infinite depth to it. I had to re-read the story several times (which is why I thought it worthy of a separate review, even though it formed part of a collection of stories in a Penguin Classics 1998 collection I received from my mother as a Christmas Present).
‘By this art you may contemplate the variation of the 23 letters…’ Anatomy of Melancholy, Pt 2, Sec II, Mem IV.
The preface quote is from a 1621 book by Robert Burton, a scholar and a clergyman writing under the pseudonym “Democritus Junior” (the full title of Burton’s work is delightfully long and reflective of its time: The Anatomy of Melancholy, What it is: With all the Kinds, Causes, Symptoms, Prognostics, and Several Cures of it. In Three Partitions, with their Several Sections, Members, and Subsections. Philosophically, Medicinally, Historically, Opened and Cut Up.)
Oddly, this appears to be a shortened (and different) quote selected by the translator (Andrew Hurley). The reference to 23 letters is to the 23 letters of the Latin alphabet used in Burton’s time. However, it could foreshadow the 23 pairs of chromosomes in the human body, in which the underlying DNA has gene sequences of repeating bases - Adenine, Guanine, Thymine and Cytosine. This, of course, would have been unknown to Burton, though not to Borges, and transported my mind to Hosftedter’s magnum opus Gödel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid or 'GEB', where Achilles and Tortoise are discussing modern genomics alongside information theory. There are many such delicious references, clues, and rabbit holes in the book and the Library itself - another name for the universe. This particular one ends in a dead-end as, later, we are told there are only 22 letters in the alphabet used by the universe.
Curiouser and Curiouser
The actual preface by Borges in the Spanish original is even more mysterious:
“Por qué no será posible un espejo en el cual se puedan ver todas las cosas del mundo, y qué no puede caber en una Biblioteca? Se dicen prodigios de la maravillosa cueva de Trofonio, en la cual se pueden oír y ver a la vez todas las cosas que se hacen en el mundo. Un curioso quiere leer un libro; no necesita más que ir a aquella Biblioteca y pedírselo al primero que encuentre. En ella están todos los libros que se han escrito y escribirán, cuántos son en el mundo, con todas sus variantes.”
This translates as:"Why would it not be possible to construct a mirror in which all things in the world could be seen? And what could not fit within a Library? Marvelous things are said of the wondrous cave of Trophonius, in which one could hear and see all the things done in the world at once. A curious person wishes to read a book; he need only go to that Library and ask the first person he meets. In it are all the books that have been written and will be written, as many as there are in the world, with all their variants."
In Greek mythology, Trophonius was associated with wisdom, prophecy, and the underworld. Different accounts of his origin exist, but in most versions, Trophonius was either the son of Apollo or an architect who, along with his brother Agamedes, built famous structures, including the temple of Apollo at Delphi. After their work, Trophonius mysteriously disappeared and was later deified as a chthonic (underworld) oracle.
The Cave of Trophonius was a legendary site of prophetic visions and secret knowledge in Lebadeia (modern-day Livadeia) in Boeotia, Greece. It was considered one of the most mysterious oracles in the ancient world. According to ancient sources (such as Pausanias in his Description of Greece), people seeking divine guidance or prophecy would descend into an underground chamber to consult Trophonius.
The rituals for consulting Trophonius were elaborate and intimidating:
Before entering the cave, seekers would undergo purification rituals, fasting, and sacrifices. They were then led to the cave, descending into a dark, narrow passage. Inside, they experienced visions or received revelations, often overwhelming or terrifying. Some accounts suggest encountering a divine or dreamlike state akin to madness or profound insight. Upon emerging, the seekers were said to be in a state of shock or profound reflection, and priests would interpret their account of the experience. It was believed that those who visited the cave would return forever changed, either gaining wisdom or stricken with lasting melancholia. This connection ties in beautifully with Burton’s The Anatomy of Melancholy.
The Cave of Trophonius became a recurring motif in literature and philosophy, symbolizing mysterious wisdom, the limits of human understanding, and the daunting pursuit of ultimate truth. In many ways, it foreshadows later philosophical concepts, such as Plato’s Allegory of the Cave, which also involves a journey from ignorance to enlightenment (though with a different emphasis on the nature of perception and reality).
The Cave of Trophonius represents the search for hidden, often inaccessible knowledge. In Borges’ work, the cave is a mythic parallel to the Library of Babel, another space of infinite and hidden knowledge. The cave and the library promise enlightenment but deliver it at a cost—melancholy, madness, or the despair of never fully grasping the truth. Much like the bewildering labyrinth of the library, the cave was thought to hold vast, esoteric truths that could only be glimpsed through a perilous descent into darkness. This makes Borges’ reference especially fitting, as both the cave and the library evoke the idea of a universe filled with secrets that humans can only partially comprehend, and we are told that the light in the Library of Babel is ‘insufficient and unceasing’.
After that rabbit hole (or Turtle hole - 'it is Turtles all the way down'), to the book itself.
The Library - the universe - has existed for all eternity, yet is created. Man - the librarian - is either made by a random process (Darwinian?) or through the evil desires of a god (which, while not comforting, would undoubtedly deal with ‘the problem of evil’). In the past 300 years (since the time of Burton, Descartes and Galileo and the birth of Newton, perhaps?), the way to decipher the works in the library was uncovered. There are no two identical books in the library, and all the content comprises 25 symbols - three punctuation marks (the space, the comma and the full stop) and 22 letters of the alphabet. All the books, across time and space, are in the Library, including some seemingly random collection of the available letters. The books contain truths, falsehoods, commentaries and a collection of circular commentaries on commentaries - an actual metaverse. The writings are mystical. The Library is the Set of All Books (let Wittgenstein, Russell and Godel play with that for a while). There is also a Logos somewhere in the Library - a God-Man, the ‘Book-Man’, searched for by many and worshipped by a faithful cohort.
Overall, Borges's work defies the boundaries of literature, philosophy, and mathematics. It is a labyrinthine exploration of infinity, knowledge, and futility. Borges presents us with a universe that is at once finite and infinite: a library composed of hexagonal chambers filled with books, each one a fragment of an endless system of possibilities. The work is both maddening and beautiful in its precision, daring to contemplate the entirety of existence while simultaneously revealing its tragic incomprehensibility.
Reading The Library of Babel feels akin to wandering through the ruins of the Tower of Babel itself—an ancient symbol of humanity’s ambition to touch the divine, only to crumble under its hubris. I put the book on my wish list after reading a book of essays by Mario Vargas Llosa The Call of the Tribe purchased last Christmas. Vargas Llosa is a massive fan of Borges, and they both reflect on human frailty and civilisation. Borges dissects the nature of human striving: the pursuit of meaning in a universe that may ultimately be indifferent to our aspirations. Both authors explore the futility of human endeavours. Still, where Vargas Llosa locates his critique within the messianic delusions of revolution (after all, he turned from Marxist to Liberal), Borges situates it in the cold, austere, poorly lit geometry of infinity.
The library’s infinite-but-repeating structure evokes the idea of a periodic yet boundless universe. This concept resonates with the mathematical elegance found in Douglas Hofstadter’s Gödel, Escher, and Bach. Hofstadter, like Borges, revels in self-referential systems, recursive loops, and the paradoxes that arise when humanity attempts to grapple with the infinite. Borges’ library is, in many ways, a literary precursor to Hofstadter’s examination of strange loops and incompleteness. Both works remind us that a disorienting yet profound beauty lies within the heart of infinity.
Mathematical undertones pervade The Library of Babel. Borges’ meticulous description of the library—its geometric uniformity, its endless volumes of nonsensical yet patterned texts—suggests a structure that mirrors the periodicity and modular arithmetic of number theory. There is a haunting suggestion of a universe governed by an elegant yet impenetrable algorithm. We contemplate the nature of existence and the nature of knowledge itself: how much of what we know is truth and how much is merely the product of our yearning for order in a chaotic cosmos. Ultimately, we are told that ‘The Library is unlimited but periodic’ - akin to repeating sequences of numbers in Pi or other irrational numbers. It was even suggested the entire ‘library’ could be replaced by a single book with an 'infinite number of infinitely thin pages'.
Finally, there is the deep philosophical resonance of Babel as a motif in human history and culture. From the biblical tale of the tower (Genesis 11:9) to modern linguistic and cultural fragmentation, Babel has always symbolized the limits of human understanding and, therein, attempts to bridge the human to the divine. In Borges’ hands, this symbol becomes even more poignant: a universe that contains all possible books, yet whose inhabitants are condemned never to find the one they seek: there is also a book that foretells the life of each person, but the probability of finding your own is calculated as zero. The library is a microcosm of humanity’s search for the ultimate truth—a quest that may end not in revelation but in silence, despair, and melancholy.
The Library of Babel transcends genres, a profound meditation on infinity and the human condition. Borges invites us to embrace the incompleteness of our understanding, even as we continue to seek meaning amidst the chaos. It is a book to be read, reread, and pondered. Its mysteries are as unfathomable and inexhaustible as the universe itself.
I was mesmerised by the book and gave it five stars.
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