"Around 1916, I decided to devote myself to the study of the Oriental literatures," writes Jorge Luis Borges in a fat collection of Selected Non-fictions edited by Eliot Weinberger. "Working with enthusiasm and credulity through the English version of a certain Chinese philosopher, I came across this memorable passage:
"'A man condemned to death doesn't care that he is standing at the edge of a precipice, for he has already renounced life.'
"Here the translator attached an asterisk, and his note informed me that this interpretation was preferable to that of a rival Sinologist, who had translated the passage thus:
"'The servants destroy the works of art, so that they will not have to judge their beauties and defects.'
"Then, like Paolo and Francesca, I read no more. A mysterious skepticism had slipped into my mind."
Mysterious? Skepticism? How about outright disbelief?
