Every time I sit here to write about anything that moves me to do it, I wonder if this odd submersion into the literary and theoretical world is nothing more than only a very sophisticated way of misanthropy. Then I comfort myself thinking that there must be a little bit of everything to make this fun, as said long time ago a popular song performed by Nidia Caro, the one with sorcerer eyes (who remember her in a good manner today, after all the things that those eyes refused to see?). It means that there must be persons of action and persons of passion, going through all the intermediate grades from one to another. And it can be said that in our time, at least in many places of the occidental world, this various typologies of persons have come to earn their own place, and they carry on their actions and passions in very emphatic ways, if not it is just a matter of seeing the anecdotic reports that, from time to time, are broadcasted by the news about strikes, declarations, mass suicides, etc., asserting the right of choosing the own fate, and not to mention about what is found in the Net. However, I always have been under the impression that this different ways of asserting oneself into the own right, without fears or questioning of moral type –like the traditional demand of feeling useful to society, at least in the conventional sense of the notion, that is to say, as social action–, they are given in the same sense that Diogenes, in ancient times, made an acute judgment on his own epoch, when coming back from the Olympic Games was asked about how many people he saw from the place he was, and he answered something like: “I certainly saw a huge crowd, but made of very tiny persons”.
Maybe the judgment that this ironic answer of Diogenes reveals, applies today more than ever, and not just referred to some massive games, but the essential massiveness in which our current life has fallen; this massiveness that is related, precisely, with joining to this kind of modern joyfulness where every election of life is socially valid, and to doubt about it or think otherwise would be almost fall in a reactionary obscurantism, or worse, being just a recalcitrant moralist (a word that is spitted today like an unbearable insult): spending your whole life sitting in front of a computer with the intention of making a world change from there, no, that is not even a valid option, or visiting the sick in holidays and devote your life to the social action as an hero from the old days. If there must be a little bit of everything to make this fun, then I have to suppose that writing about this and that, as I do now, must have some kind of very deep worth, but I do not know why sometimes I stop in the middle of a sentence, and I feel an urgent emptiness, something like an old hernia that remained open and refuses to heal entirely.