Borgesian horror

One of the habits of the mind is the invention of horrible imaginings. The mind has invented hell, it has invented predestination to hell, it has imagined the Platonic ideas, the chimera, the sphinx, abnormal transfinite numbers (whose parts are no smaller than the whole), masks, mirrors, operas, the tetralogical trinity: the father, the son, and the unresolvable ghost, articulated into a single organism…I have tried to rescue from oblivion a subaltern horror: the vast, contradictory Library, whose vertical wilderness of books run the incessant risk of changing into others that affirm, deny, and confuse everything like a delirious god.

Jorge Luis Borges, 1939

adj: Borgesian

I felt, on the last page, that my story was a symbol of the man I had been as I was writing it, and in order to write that story I had to be that man, and in order to be that man I had to write that story, and so on, ad infinitum. (And just when I stop believing in him, “Averroës” disappears.)

Borges, from The Aleph