Jorge Luis Borges - Labyrinths

toward sundown. Everything (as usually happens in dreams) was
somewhat different; a slight magnification altered things. We were
electing officials: I was talking with Pedro Henríquez Ureña, who in
the world of waking reality died many years ago. Suddenly we were
stunned by the clamor of a demonstration or disturbance. Human and
animal cries came from the Bajo. A voice shouted "Here they come!"
and then "The Gods! The Gods!" Four or five individuals emerged
from the mob and occupied the platform of the main lecture hall. We
all applauded, tearfully; these were the Gods returning after a
centuries-long exile. Made larger by the platform, their heads thrown
back and their chests thrust forward, they arrogantly received our
homage. One held a branch which no doubt conformed to the simple
botany of dreams; another, in a broad gesture, extended his hand
which was a claw; one of the faces of Janus looked with distrust at the
curved beak of Thoth. Perhaps aroused by our applause, one of them --
I no longer know which -- erupted in a victorious clatter, unbelievably
harsh, with something of a gargle and of a whistle. From that moment,
things changed.
It all began with the suspicion (perhaps exaggerated) that the
Gods did not know how to talk. Centuries of fell and fugitive life had
atrophied the human element in them; the moon of Islam and the cross
of Rome had been implacable with these outlaws. Very low foreheads,
yellow teeth, stringy mulatto or Chinese mustaches and thick bestial
lips showed the degeneracy of the Olympian lineage. Their clothing
corresponded not to a decorous poverty but rather to the sinister luxury
of the gambling houses and brothels of the Bajo. A carnation bled
crimson in a lapel and the bulge of a knife was outlined beneath a
close-fitting jacket. Suddenly we sensed that they were playing their
last card, that they were cunning, ignorant and cruel like old beasts of
prey and that, if we let ourselves be overcome by fear or pity, they
would finally destroy us.
We took out our heavy revolvers (all of a sudden there were
revolvers in the dream) and joyfully killed the Gods.
Translated by J. E. I.
Parable of Cervantes and the Quixote
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