Jorge Francisco Isidoro Luis Borges was born in Argentina, but as a teenager moved, along with his family, to Switzerland. While in Europe, the young Borges took advantage of the ease of travel and spent some time in Spain before returning to his homeland around the age of twenty one.

Upon his arrival in Argentina, Borges sought the work of a writer, publishing sporadically and eventually taking a post as a librarian only to become a university lecturer. His name spread due to his original and well crafted tales based in a seemingly realistic realms only to be completely constructed and dependent upon his own inner signs and meanings.

Having come to Borges after seeing mention of him in all too many places to recall, my exposure began with the collection represented in Labyrinths. Of course, examining a work that was culled from various sources and didn’t consult the author, then forming an opinion based on that one experience might be spurious at best – but here goes.

The work represented herein is at best scattered and lacks any sort of unifying characteristic. Of course this should be attributed to the folks who compiled this work as opposed to the author, but a reader’s understanding of a work is a personal one.

Beginning with “Tlon, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius,” it’s plainly obvious that Borges traffics in an all too lively imagination. The story requires the author to construct assorted and disparate fictional histories for utilization in the narrative. But even this narrative is constructed in a manner to lead readers to believe that what transpires is wholly real. That concept is entirely inventive and without question impressive, but unfortunately, the narrative ark is lacking. Reading through any academic account of one’s research can be at best tedious. But here, Borges intends to entertain readers through a fictitious academic account. This tale’s obviously conceptually rich, but boring to read if not even a little troubling.

There are of course high points represented in this collection. And in “The Circular Ruins” as well as “The Garden of Forking Paths,” Borges’ extended and fictitious back stories easily pay off. The latter finds the author putting together a multi tiered mystery of sorts. The antagonist, based upon a constructed lineage ingratiates himself to the keeper of Ts’ui Pen’s labyrinth. Once inside, a familial story is related, but in the closing lines, a spy portion of the tale comes to fruition.

In these few lines, the most exciting and least academic of Borges writing comes to light – from this collection at least. The work of this South American writer isn’t to be examined in such a small cross section. So perhaps there’s more writing out there that won’t be too confounding. But in this one collection are so many varied low points, that reading became something of a chore. And when that ends up occurring, it’s probably time to pick something else up. Not to say that I won’t ever approach Borges again, but I will certainly do so in a much discriminating manner.