Otras Inquisiciones: Ensayo Book

I have had the dream several times now, I don't remember exactly how many. However, after dreaming it a third time, two weeks ago on a moonless night, I began writing down notes about it, and adding details with each successive dreaming. It usually begins with Borges and I playing a video game'sometimes the Wii Chess and sometimes Guitar Hero (the Bob Marley version). After Borges rakes up an obscene number of wins, we sit next to a window, drinking a hot beverage and studying the colorful street scene outside. Then Borges takes out his laptop and tells me he has read my review of his book of essays, Other Inquisitions. I am interested to hear what he thinks of it, because of all of his books, it is my favorite. I am crestfallen, however, when he tells me that it is clear to him that I have reviewed his book without reading it. He turns the laptop so that its screen is facing me. I look, and see my review there, with its mentions of the subjects of the essays'books, dreams, allegory, literature, philosophy, time. I see the references to the writers and thinkers Borges discusses'Kafka, Hawthorne, Coleridge, Cervantes, John Wilkins. I look from the screen to Borges, whose expression is that of one who is waiting to hear the sound of a tree falling in the forest. I gather my wits about me, stammering, "But, but, this is a recommendation! I think this is a great book! What is wrong with my review?" Borges reaches into a black leather satchel at his feet and removes something from it. He hands it to me. It is a book. On the front cover, above a photograph of a shelf full of books, there are the words "Other Inquisitions by Jorge Luis Borges." I begin to thumb through the book, noting the fine quality paper and the faintly Germanic font. Then, as I scan some of the pages, I begin to see that many of the passages seem unfamiliar. In fact, I am not sure I have ever read any of them before. I flip back to the table of contents, where I see a list of titles that do not reflect the contents of the book with which I had believed myself familiar. Titles like "Pierre Menard and his Precursors," and "Avatars of Quixote" and "The Analytic Language of Bustos-Domecq." I set the book down on the table between Borges and myself, taking care to find a spot that has not become damp from the condensation left by our warm drinking mugs. He, sensing my perplexity, begins to smile, and says, "You see, you have not reviewed my Other Inquisitions. This book contains them. Please read it before you review it." Then, putting his hand inside his jacket, he removes a pen from an inner pocket. The pen is a dull gold color, and while I am admiring it, he opens the front cover of the book and begins to sign it. At this time, I look back toward the review, my review, on the screen of the laptop, resolving to delete it at the earliest opportunity. Then, turning back to Borges, I see that he is holding the book out, waiting for me to take it. It is at this point that I wake up.