You can't measure time by days, the way you measure money by dollars and cents, because dollars are all the same while every day is different and maybe every hour as well.
Any time something is written against me, I not only share the sentiment but feel I could do the job far better myself. Perhaps I should advise would-be enemies to send me their grievances beforehand, with full assurance that they will receive my every aid and support. I have even secretly longed to write, under a pen name, a merciless tirade against myself.
Interpretation
What this quote means
The quote reflects on self-criticism and the desire for self-improvement through understanding one's flaws.
In this quote, Jorge Luis Borges expresses a deep, introspective thought about the nature of criticism. He acknowledges that when others criticize him, he not only agrees with the sentiments but feels competent enough to critique himself better than others can. This suggests an acceptance of his faults and a yearning for growth, prompting a humorous notion where he wishes for critics to share their grievances ahead of time, indicating a self-reflective nature that strives for continuous improvement, even considering a fictional exercise of critiquing himself viciously under a pseudonym.
Themes
In practice
Example use cases
During a workshop on self-improvement, I quoted Borges to underline the importance of self-critique.
More from Jorge Luis Borges
All quotes →To say good-bye is to deny separation; it is to say Today we play at going our own ways, but we'll see each other tomorrow. Men invented farewells because they somehow knew themselves to be immortal, even while seeing themselves as contingent and ephemeral.
The execution was set for the 29th of March, at nine in the morning. This delay was due to a desire on the part of the authorities to act slowly and impersonally, in the manner of planets or vegetables.
This felicitous supposition declared that there is only one Individual, and that this indivisible Individual is every one of the separate beings in the universe, and that these beings are the instruments and masks of divinity itself.
A man sets out to draw the world. As the years go by, he peoples a space with images of provinces, kingdoms, mountains, bays, ships, islands, fishes, rooms, instruments, stars, horses, and individuals. A short time before he dies, he discovers that the patient labyrinth of lines traces the lineaments of his own face.
Let neither tear nor reproach besmirch this declaration of the mastery of God who, with magnificent irony, granted me both the gift of books and the night.
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Isn’t it wonderful the way the world holds both the deeply serious, and the unexpectedly mirthful?