A woman is holding on to the iron bars unwittingly . I sit under the neem tree ,with a dog bark heckling my right face. A bald young man is waltzing near the iron bars .
Morning after midnight I heard Funes , the Memorious. He was a gorgeous pre-blind Borges on a Latin visit to Uruguay. Funes would later fall from his horseback and discover a new phenomenal memory.
He would name each of the numbers up to 21,000 or so and remember to call them by the names.
Was it a bit of needless extrapolation?
I do not believe it is real. But Borges story is itself unreal, partly blind. His books stacked up to the roof and he could read all of them with the minds eye.
Funes cannot generalize. He cannot capitulate. He has details that do not add up. Funes is not Borges.
If Funes has every detail of every day of his life, what is the problem? If only he can junk them and keep only postulates till postulates are themselves junk-worthy.
Funes is concrete. He is stuck with the stone pleats of a lake’s Standing Buddha . The abstract Buddha meditating under the Bodhi tree escapes him.