Ragnarök

En los sueños (escribe Coleridge) las imágenes figuran las impresiones que pensamos que causan; no sentimos horror porque nos oprime una esfinge, soñamos una esfinge para explicar el horror que sentimos. Si esto es así ¿como podría una mera crónica de sus formas transmitir el estupor, la exaltación, las alarmas, la amenaza y el júbilo que tejieron el sueño de esa noche? Ensayaré esa crónica, sin embargo; acaso el hecho de que una sola escena integró aquel sueño borre o mitigue la dificultad esencial.

El lugar era la Facultad de Filosofia y Letras; la hora, el atardecer. Todo (como suele ocurrir en los sueños) era un poco distinto; una ligera magnificación alteraba las cosas. Elegíamos autoridades; yo hablaba con Pedro Henríquez Ureña, que en la vigilia ha muerto hace muchos años. Bruscamente nos aturdió un clamor de manifestación o de murga. Alaridos humanos y animales llegaban desde el Bajo. Una voz gritó: ¡Ahí vienen! y después ¡Los Dioses! ¡Los Dioses! Cuatro a cinco sujetos salieron de la turba y ocuparon la tarima del Aula Magna. Todos aplaudimos, llorando; eran los Dioses que volvían al cabo de un destierro de siglos. Agrandados por la tarima, la cabeza echada hacia atrás y el pecho hacia adelante, recibieron con soberbia nuestro homenaje. Uno sostenía una rama, que se conformaba, sin duda, a la sencilla botánica de los sueños; otro, en amplio ademán, extendía una mano que era una garra; una de las caras de Jano miraba con recelo el encorvado pico de Thoth. Tal vez excitado por nuestros aplausos, uno, ya no sé cuál, prorrumpió en un cloqueo victorioso, increíblemente agrio, con algo de gárgara y de silbido. Las cosas, desde aquel momento, cambiaron.

Todo empezó por la sospecha (tal vez exagerada) de que los Dioses no sabían hablar. Siglos de vida fugitiva y feral habían atrofiado en ellos lo humano; la luna del Islam y la cruz de Roma habían sido implacables con esos prófugos. Frentes muy bajas, dentaduras amarillas, bigotes ralos de mulato o de chino y belfos bestiales publicaban la degeneraci6n de la estirpe olímpica. Sus prendas no correspondían a una pobreza decorosa y decente sino al lujo malevo de los garitos y de los lupanares del Bajo. En un ojal sangraba un clavel; en un saco ajustado se adivinaba el bulto de una daga. Bruscamente sentimos que jugaban su ultima carta, que eran taimados, ignorantes y crueles como viejos animales de presa y que, si nos dejábamos ganar por el miedo o la lástima, acabarían por destruirnos.

Sacamos los pesados revólveres (de pronto hubo revólveres en el sueño) y alegremente dimos muerte a los Dioses.

*

In dreams, writes Coleridge, images form the impressions that we believe them to trigger; we are not afraid because we're clutched by a sphinx, but rather a sphinx embodies the fear that we feel. If this is so, can a mere account of one's dream--shapes transmit the stupor, the elation, the false alarms, the menace, and the jubilation that is woven into last night's sleep? I will experiment with this account, without restraint; perhaps the fact that the dream was a single stream of consciousness expunges or mitigates this essential difficulty.

The place was the School of Arts; it was dark. Everything was a little different (as the surface of things is in dreams); a slight magnification altered everything. We were picking the department heads. I was talking with Pedro Henriquez Urena, who by this night has been dead for many years. Suddenly--it comes to mind-we were startled by a massive demonstration or the disharmony of rank amateur street musicians. The shrieks of men and animals rose up from the lower floors. One voice called out: "Here they come!" and then "The Gods! The Gods!" Four or five beings emerged from the mob and took over the platform of the great hall. We all applauded, weeping; it was the Gods finally returning from centuries of exile. The platform exaggerated their prowess, they flung their heads backwards, and shoved their chests forward, arrogantly accepting our humble tribute. One held laurels, made--without a doubt-from the untouchable botany of dreams; another made a wide gesture, extending his hand which was a claw; one of the faces of Janus looked fearfully on the crooked beak of Thoth. Perhaps incited by our applause, one--I don't remember which--burst forth in a victorious, unbelievably disagreeable clucking, with something akin to gurgling and hissing. Things, after that moment, began to change.

Everyone began to suspect (perhaps excessively) that the Gods did not know how to speak. Centuries of life in exile, living like wild animals, had atrophied their once humanoid appearance; the Muslim moon and the Roman cross had been ruthless with these escapees. Low down Cro-Magnon brows, yellow teeth, meager Oriental mustachios, and beast-like lips obviously broadcasted the collapse of the lineage of Olympus. Their clothing didn't allude to decent decorous poverty, but of the garish luxury of gambling dens and brothels. In a buttonhole, a red carnation bled; we detected a dagger's outline beneath a tight-fitting coat. All of a sudden, we sensed that they were bluffing on their last card, that they were underhanded, dangerously ignorant, and cruel as aging predators, and that if we relented in fear or pity, they would destroy us.

We drew our heavy revolvers (the guns appeared immediately in the dream) and we happily slaughtered the Gods.

Jorge Luis Borges, El Hacedor / The Maker (1960)