Jorge Luis Borges is probably one of the most influential figures in world literature: his books lurk in the strangest places—including the shell-like appendages (the actual backpacks) of backpackers making their way through the dips, folds, and shadowy convolutions of Eastern and Central Europe. More than a few editions of his Ficciones add something to the “for trade” bookshelves in countless hostels in the Czech Republic; and in other places, I suspect. I didn’t actually discover Borges until I lived in Prague. At the time, I worked and lived at a particular, infamous hostel, and the moment of discovery sticks with me, as if it happened only yesterday. During a particular night shift in the reception office, (actually in the kitchen, with the cleaning lady’s tea-substance fermenting [and gurgling contentedly] in its vat) I started to stitch together the first few threads of what has now become the fictional country of Agara; I was familiar with other fictional countries, most notably Annexia, Interzone and the rest of the literary netherworld that occupied the writing career of William S. Burroughs. I was vaguely aware of Ursula K. LeGuin’s Orsinia, though I’d only read one story set in that country. (I’ve since read all of her Orsinian tales, collected into the volume, sensibly entitled, Orsinian Tales.) In feeding the embryo of Agara, I felt that it was necessary to avoid many of the common tropes of the fantasy genre, but I wasn’t really that interested in writing magical realism either. During a conversation with a hostel guest, I mentioned—in passing—my halting development of Agara, and the hostel-guest (on the day of his departure) presented me with a snazzy, revamped edition of Borges’ Ficciones. The first short story was marked with a card advertising one of Prague’s strip clubs. The story—distinguished from its companions by images of bare breasts and brass poles—opened the collection. Its title drew me immediately, as I’m drawn to any word rendered with diacritical marks. I read “Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius” in one amazed sitting. And that story has remained with me, since.. In compiling yet another pile of layers, I found myself thinking of a few different things. Borges didn’t pop into mind until I went in search of a title for this piece, and I immediately thought of the “the character of unreality” as Borges expresses it, and as other international writers (Tomín, Calvino, Klíma [Ladislav, not Ivan], Delany, Burroughs, Eco, and García-Márquez) do as well. I figured since many of my layered thingies create unreality by layering the real upon the real, I’d be justified in stealing—um, I mean, appropriating—Borges’ words for the name of this image: and so we have here, the character of unreality, though the presence of a clock seems to have some sideways, flaccid relation to Umberto Eco’s novel, The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana. Maybe, then, this isn’t so much an image of the character of unreality, as it’s simply a declaration that some major artistic, spiritual, psychological epiphany will occur at 7:00. Or not. Or maybe it’s an image of the stuff that gives birth to places like Agara, Orsinia, Tlön, Flatland, and all of the improbable cities that occupy bookshelves. As with the companion pieces to this image: there’s something more to explore, but I have no idea of what it is. Yet. It’s also likely that in some way, Borges has already written it, and it’ll be time for another writer to say something back just to see what Borges might have to say in response to that. Author-discourse is—as Borges might understand it—a labyrinth of mirrors contained within a library, after all…and who knows, maybe it’s a labyrinth of mirrors contained in a library at 7:00. Who knows…? As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting, and I hope you’re all having a great week.