Borges isn't simply saying that books bring him joy—he's suggesting something stranger: that paradise itself would be fundamentally *intellectual* rather than sensual or restful, a place of infinite inquiry rather than eternal comfort. The library becomes a metaphor for a consciousness that never stops encountering new ideas, new contradictions, new ways of seeing, which is rather a demanding vision of bliss. What's radical here is that he rejects the notion of paradise as a destination where one finally *arrives* and settles; instead, it's a space designed for perpetual becoming. Consider how this actually plays out in our lives: we tend to treat reading as a means to an end—gaining knowledge, passing time—when Borges suggests the act of moving through accumulated human thought *is itself* the purpose, the reward, the point.