I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volum — Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volum — Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volum — Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volum — Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volum — Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volum — Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volum — Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volum — Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volum — Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volum — Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volum — Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volum — Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volum — Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volum — Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volum — Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volum — Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volum — Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volum — Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volum — Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volum — Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volum — Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volum — Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volum — Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volum — Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volum — Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volum — Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volum — Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volum — Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volum — Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volum — Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
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I kept asking myself how a book could be infinite. I could not imagine any other than a cyclic volume, circular. A volume whose last page would be the same as the first and so have the possibility of continuing indefinitely.

— Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
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