In the stable that stands almost within the shadow of the new stone church, a gray-eyed, gray-bearded man, stretched out amid the odors of the animals, humbly seeks death as one seeks for sleep. The day, faithful to vast secret laws, little by little shifts and mingles the shadows in the humble nook. Outside are the plowed fields and a deep ditch clogged with dead leaves and an occasional wolf track in the black earth at the edge of the forest. The man sleeps and dreams, forgotten. The angelus awakens him.  By now the sound of bells is one of the habits of evening in the kingdoms of England. But this man, as a child, saw the face of Woden, the holy dread an exhultation, the rude wooden idol weighed down with Roman coins and heavy vestments, the sacrifice of horses, dogs, and prisoners. Before dawn he will die, and in him will die, never to return, the last eye-witness of those pagan rites; the world will be a little poorer when the Saxon dies.

Events far-reaching enough to people of all space, whose end is nonethless tolled when one man dies, may cause us wonder. But something, or an infinite number of things, dies in every death, unless the universe is possessed of a memory, as the theosophists have supposed.

In the course of time there was a day that closed the last eyes to see Christ. The battle of Junin and the and the love of Helen each died with the death of some one man. What will die with me when I die, what pitiful or perishable form will the world lose? The voice of Macio Fernandez? The image of a roan horse on the vacant lot at Serrano or Charcas? A bar of sulpher in the drawer of a mahogany desk?

The Witness from El Hacedor, Jorge Luis Borges

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