The Lottery of Babylon

Among the short stories in Jorge Luis Borges' anthology Ficciones is "La lotería en Babilonia", which, in my edition, contains the following passage:

[....] No se publica un libro sin alguna divergencia entre cada uno de los ejemplares. Los escribas prestan juramento secreto de omitir, de interpolar, de variar. También se ejerce la mentira indirecta.

I am also in possession of a literal if inadequate translation ("The Babylon Lottery") by Anthony Kerrigan, who translates the passage as follows:

[....] No book is ever published without some variant in each copy. Scribes take a secret oath to omit, interpolate, vary.

The incommensurability of the lengths of these passages is not an error of mine; in both versions, these passages terminate their respective paragraphs, and the subsequent paragraph concerns a different topic. Evidently Kerrigan's omission is more demonstrative of the idea expressed in the original than a more faithful translation would be.

I am reluctant to ascribe to Anthony Kerrigan the imaginative decision of this significantly-placed infidelity, for the story had already been published in one or two other places before Ficciones was compiled, and the multiple manifestations of the story need not have been identical. Whether the credit is due to Kerrigan, or to Borges, or to the inscrutable labyrinth of chance, is immaterial; the fact is that the infinite game of chance described in this story is no longer confined to an imaginary Babylon.

Wanting something makes it real

xkcd's latest comic strip is another serious one. The faceless protagonist dreams of a girl who whispers a set of coordinates in his ear. But when he goes to the specified place at the specified time, he only discovers that "wanting something doesn't make it real".

The delicious irony, the truth within the truth, is that the character in the strip is wrong. For it is inevitable that on that September afternoon a handful of xkcd devotees will converge on that spot in the neighborhood playground. They will arrive one by one, young men and women, strangers to each other, wearing sweatshirts and jackets against the autumn wind. And when their watches and cellphones and GPS handhelds simultaneously read 2:38pm, they'll look up at each other and share a shy, intimate smile. They will smile at the silly foolishness of going to some point on the globe chosen by a poorly-drawn webcomic; but at the same time, without needing to speak, they will understand that the promise had, in a way, come true. Each of them will have come, hoping but not expecting to find others looking for them; and that's what they will find.

They'll start chatting, maybe about schoolwork, webcomics, science and technology, philosophy. Some will be content with enjoying a meaningful conversation with a stranger, and then go home; others will introduce themselves by name, and friendships will be born.

And perhaps the author of this event will show up; and perhaps his dream girl will be waiting there for him. Or perhaps he will simply let his readers discover each other. In any case, it is certain that he is aware of the very real consequences his fantasy will have. Why would he explicitly write out the coordinates of a location in close proximity to a school full of his readership, and a time in the future during which students will be in town? Use Google Maps if you don't believe me; it's fun.

The sad last panel of the comic says "wanting something doesn't make it real". But the silent message of the comic, which will be felt but not read in that playground six months from now, is that wanting something can indeed make it real.