Antigone & Savitri

 

O svetih genealogijah pri Antigoni in Savitri

https://www.academia.edu/31108917/

Viendo el mundo con la mente

 Viendo el mundo con la mente (Un retropost de 2011 —o de 1711): https://www.academia.edu/52555514/

Cómo mostrar cosas con palabras

Cómo mostrar cosas con palabras: https://personal.unizar.es/garciala/publicaciones/comomostrar.pdf

Teatro romano de Aspendos

El frágil teatro del mundo

 

A Bibliography of Literary Theory, Criticism and Philology

A Bibliography of Literary Theory, Criticism, and Philology 

http://dx.doi.org/10.13140/RG.2.2.16902.18243

Playing the Cartesian Theater

 From Daniel Dennett's From Bacteria to Bach and Back, p. 185:

The problem with introspection is that it acquiesces in the illusion that there is an inner eye that sees and an inner ear that hears—and an inner mind that just thinks—these intimately familiar items, the objects of consciousness that parade across the stage in the Cartesian Theater (Dennett 1991). There is no Cartesian Theater; there just seems to be a Cartesian Theater. There fo indeed seem to be these items, audible and visible and thinkable, and—setting magic aside—it couldn't seem so unless there really were physical tokens in the brain playing these roles, but how, physically, anything in the brain manages to play any of these roles is a topic for future scientific investigation, not introspection.

Double Talk

 Double Talk: Goffman sobre los múltiples canales interaccionales: https://personal.unizar.es/garciala/publicaciones/doubletalk.pdf

Renaldo & Clara. Film by Bob Dylan

Marina Teatro Zarzuela 2013 Opera completa.

Will the Player

 Habla aquí Shakespeare el actor, en el teatro del mundo, también hombre de teatro cuando se bajaba de las tablas. Este párrafo sobre la teatralidad de nuestro yo y de la vida cotidiana viene de la magnífica novela Will, de Christopher Rush (2007). Es este libro una especie de testamento vital de Shakespeare—escrito un poco a modo de concordance novel, redistribuyendo las palabras de las obras de Shakespeare para recontar su vida. Aquí habla desde el trasmundo, después de contar su muerte en primera persona. Pero lo que dice sobre su drama personal ni siquiera Shakespeare lo dijo tan bien, aunque todo ya lo dijo Shakespeare antes.

Those who knew me often called me gentle — affable, amusing, urbane, a perfectly charming man. And such was my London self. It was a costume, which on this occasion I have chosen not to wear, though many have dressed me up in their own ignorance. You, my masters, are among the chosen few. You have seen something of Will, without the daily beauty wear. You've seen something of my feet of clay. I could tell you more. I was fastidious, over sensitive for my age — and Age — to many things. I loathed smoky lamps, greasy dishes, sickly foods, untidiness, sweaty armpits, bad breath, unwiped arses, dribbling dicks, lickspittles, lackeys, hypocrites, Hooray-Henrys, King Henrys, beadles and bullies, dogs obeyed in office, Puritans. I abhorred the abuser of power, the perverter of justice, the mob, instability. What else? A hatred of hunting, of violence, especially committed against all those who are weak and vulnerable — animals, children, the poor. Also a suspicion of change, a respect for the social order. Love may be an illusion, sex a cesspit, politis a bear-pit, religion a fairy-tale and chivalry a shadow and a dream. I had little time for such abstractions. But I never lost faith in the social nuts and bolts, in the lives of ordinary people, just living, just living.

As for the extraordinary ones, the movers and shakers, history for me was a rogues' gallery. The angel of history is the angel of death. Idealists sooon become tyrants and cheats, as power corrupts. Listen to them whine and bark. Their convictions divide the world and only an honest doubt can unite it again. But their minds are closed and moulded, they have none — no honest doubt — and that's what makes them dangerous. Certainty is lethal. Conviction kills. That's my credo. All I know is that I know nothing, and that truth is like January, Janus-faced, looking to a lost year and one to come. My father wore a Protestat face and my mother kept on her own face at home while her husband made his a vizor to his heart, so they were split, as man and wife often are, and he was fractured too, public and private, outward and real. And that split is the best keys to the plays his son came to write. I saw that it was possible to be two people at once, to lead a double life, and out of this came Hamlet, Iago, Hal, and many others, good and bad, including me, who mocked authority, aristocrats, land-grabbers, players, but strove for substance, standing, armorial bearings and theatrical assets, while regretting every inch that staged me to the public view and turned my art to profit.

And so the exterior me — discretion, moderation, and reserve. How careful was I when I took my way, each trifle under truest bars to trust. I hid my beliefs in history, buried my voice in time and place, like the Bay of Portugal had an unknown bottom. I was ever unquarrelsome — even abject, some would say, still begging each treacherous friend to spare me some crumb of love. Not one whose help you could clearly count on, because much of the time the man you thought you saw was never there. A playmaker who avoided the first person and in so doing became no person. A man who in writing about other men reprieved himself from the man he was. A man wanting a litle self-confidence perhaps, except in plays. And outside the making of plays, a man even wanting in imagination, a compulsive acquirer, a land man, an Osric, burying his personal flaws in property, the safe palpabilities of earth and income, bricks and mortar, stocks and stones. A reversion, if you like, and a regression, back to the sucking dung that had clung to me and from which I'd longed to escape. The simple life. Yes, I could always smell the countryside through the squalor and the stench of London and the suffocating falsities of the court.

Yet, I longed for play, like any actor, and I longed for land, like any peasant. I loved beauty, especially woman's, and I paid for the pleasure, loved children and birds and plants for their simplicity and innocence, and all who kept boredom at bay and conquered the empire of dullness. Life itself I found far more interesting than anyone's opinions about it. I loved the surface of the earth and the whole process of human existence, which never ceased to fascinate me. I was enchanted by the maltworms and by the tapsters who served them. The human story was meat and drink to me. Osmotic, omnivorous, endlessly curious, that was me, that was your Will.

(...)

Of what manner of man is he, then, your Will? Why, of mankind. If your really want an image of myself as I was, look in the mirror and there you'll seem me, rather sadder and wiser than I'd have elected to be at my age, or you at yours. One of yourselves, that's all, one of the race of human beings, good enough for neither animals in their innocence nor gods in their wisdom. I was marked out not in appearance but in fortune—which buckled a talent on my back, a talent for words. I died in words and rose again like the phoenix, transformed.

La mejor página sobre Shakespeare

 

 

 

—oOo—

Sarcasmos, Indignaciones, Invectivas y Acres Aforismos contra los Enmascarillad(ore)s

 

Sarcamos, Indignaciones, Invectivas y Acres Aforismos contra los Enmascarillado(re)s: https://www.academia.edu/50997091/

Amor, adulterio y sexo en el teatro

 Jesús G. Maestro (ed.) Amor, adulterio y sexo en el teatro.
Theatralia, núm. 16

49,00 €
Vigo, Editorial Academia del Hispanismo, 2014, 358 pp.
ISBN 978-84-15175-89-6

Información de la
Editorial Academia del Hispanismo:

AMOR, ADULTERIO Y SEXO EN EL TEATRO

El sexo solo engaña, y solo se convierte efectivamente en una experiencia engañosa, cuando va acompañado del amor o del dinero. Cuando no es así, es decir, cuando vive emancipado de esta causa (la ilusión) y de aquella consecuencia (la prostitución), el sexo es lo que realmente es: pura razón práctica. La lógica del amor se disuelve en metáforas. La lógica del sexo se resuelve en la unión corporal y humana.

El XVI Congreso Internacional de Theatralia, celebrado en la Sociedad Cervantina de Madrid durante los días 22-25 de abril de este año, se ha dedicado al tema Amor, adulterio y sexo en el teatro. Apenas unas semanas después de su celebración nos complace presentar en este volumen de Theatralia, número 16, una selección de las ponencias presentadas.

Del mismo modo, resulta de gran satisfacción anunciar la inminente aparición de un nuevo volumen, compañero del presente, titulado El sexo del teatro: arte y posmodernidad en la escena europea e iberoamericana, y que constituye un libro complementario de este Amor, adulterio y sexo en el teatro, al recopilar temáticamente una serie de ponencias también presentadas en el mismo Congreso Internacional de Theatralia.

Se constata que la revista Theatralia sigue de este modo su andadura anual, al publicarse tanto en el formato tradicional de libro impreso como en el formato posmoderno de edición digital, gracias al apoyo de Editorial Academia del Hispanismo.

Actualmente trabajamos en la organización de XVII Congreso Internacional de Theatralia, que tendrá lugar en la sede de la Sociedad Cervantina, en Madrid, los días 22, 23 y 24 de abril de 2015. El tema será, en esta convocatoria, el siguiente: Los siete "pecados" capitales en el teatro (Avaricia, Envidia, Gula, Ira, Lujuria, Pereza y Soberbia). Esperamos sus aportaciones.

Quede patente, una vez más, nuestro agradecimiento a los autores, colaboradores y congresistas que han hecho posible la elaboración y publicación de este volumen, así como a los buenos amigos y colegas de la Sociedad Cervantina de Madrid.

 —oOo—

Pascal: Un escena desaparecida

 Del libro de Michel Onfray El cocodrilo de Aristóteles, sobre un retrato anónimo de Pascal:

Pasamos pues del "signo solar" al "signo papel" que concentra el pensamient odel filósofo jansenista que añade por su parte un "signo arquitectónico", la perspectiva caballera que recoge Port-Royal, que el rey Luis XIV ordenará arrasar "con la pólvora" en 1711. Reconocemos en el cuadro, efectivamente, los edificios de la abadía cisterciense asociada al jansenismo.

Esta cortina abierta parece la de un teatro que muestra una escena ya desaparecida. El jansenismo existió, Pascal formó parte de él. ¿Qué mano invisible descorrió esa cortina negra? ¿Una mano jesuita que pretendía significar el cierre del paréntesis? ¿O una mano jansenista que tenía la voluntad de plasmar que el espíritu de Port-Royal, arrasado, duraría mientras estuviera asegurada la presencia de Pascal. Me inclino por esta segunda hipótesis.

En el siglo XVIII, el jansenismo se asoció a los parlamentos regionales en contra del poder absoluto del rey apoyado por los jesuitas. Luis XIV arrasó todos esos lugares. Puede parecer sorprendente que un pensamiento tan moderno por su negación del libre albedrío alimentara la Revolución Francesa tan deseosa de nuevas libertades. Una de las paradojas de la filosofía es que un pensamiento que afirmaba la inexistencia del libre albedrío fuera capaz de generar la Ilustración para abrir el camino a unas libertades inéditas. Es un buen ejemplo de la astucia de la razón...

Interaction as Reality-Maintenance

Interaction as Reality-Maintenance: https://www.academia.edu/33975195/

No mentirás al asesino

 No mentirás al asesino: https://www.academia.edu/33216704/

Otelo siempre en Alepo

 Otelo siempre en Alepo (& A Malignant and a Turband Turke) https://www.academia.edu/33154473/

Una CÁSCARA VACÍA

Hoy lo tenemos por Zaragoza, después de la deposición de su firma de la Ley de Amnistía.

 

Todo lo pervierte y lo vacía de sentido. Las formas y ceremonias quedan como cáscara vacía y CORRUPTA.

— JoséAngelGarcíaLanda (@JoseAngelGLanda) June 11, 2024

Leer los comentarios, para ver un sondeo de opinión sobre la Monarquía, vista su irresponsable y traidora dejación de funciones al firmar la ley de amnistía. https://t.co/yrwPsVeK45

— JoséAngelGarcíaLanda (@JoseAngelGLanda) June 11, 2024

Lo que hace en su vida privada es una vergüenza, pero menos grave que el incumplimiento público y fragante (fragante a mierda, digo) de sus funciones —al avalar el engaño, la estafa y la TRAICIÓN. 

Lean como lean la Constitución, ésa nunca puede ser ni la función ni la obligación del Rey.  Pero todo en este hombre es falso, fachada, formalismo vacío, irresponsabilidad, corrupción y dejación.

Y esa corrupción de la jefatura del Estado corrompe al país entero.

 

—oOo—

Los silencios de Felipe.La HOMOSEXUALIDAD del rey y la caída de Letizia Ortiz

KHACHATURIAN Masquerade Suite - UNC Symphony Orchestra - November 2015

Giselle Ballet - Full Performance - Live Ballet

Shakespeare y las Supernovas

 'Like a Comet I Was Wonder'd At': Shakespeare y las Supernovas https://www.academia.edu/33070969/

La Voz de España ed. 813

Infiltrados (The Departed): La paradoja del espía

 

Goffman: El teatro de la interioridad

Goffman: El teatro de la interioridad: https://www.academia.edu/32941977/

Being Bullied

From Stephen Crane's "The Bride Comes to Yellow Sky"— a newly-wed couple travel for once, above their means, in a first-class Pullman railway car:

To the minds of the pair, their surroundings reflected the glory of their marriage that morning in San Antonio. This was the environment of their new estate, and the man's face, in particular, beamed with an elation that made him appear ridiculous to the Negro porter. This individual at times surveyed them from afar with an amused and superior grin. On other occasions he bullied them with skill in ways that did not make it exactly plain to them that they were being bullied. He subtly used all the manners of the most unconquerable kind of snobbery. He oppressed them, but of this oppression they had small knowledge, and they speedily forgot that unfrequently a number of travellers covered them with stares of derisive enjoyment. Historically there was supposed to be something infinitely humourous in their situation.

     'We are due in Yellow Sky at 3.42,' he said, looking tenderly into her eyes. 

     'Oh, are we?' she said, as if she had not been aware of it. 

     To evince surprise at her husband's statement was part of her wifely amiability She took from a pocket a little silver watch, and as she held it before her, and stared at it with a frown of attnetion, the new husband's face shone.

     'I bought it in San Anton' from a friend of mine,' he told her gleefully.

     'It's seventeen minutes past twelve, she said, looking up at him with a kind of shy and clumsy coquetry.

     A passenter, noting this play, grew excessively sardonic, and winked at himself in one of the numerous mirrors.

     At last they went into the dining-car. Two rows of Negro waiters in dazzling white suits surveyed their entrance with the interest, and also the equanimity, of men who had been fore-warned. The pair fell to the lot of a waiter who happened to feel pleasure in steering them through their meal. He viewed them with the manner of a fatherly pilot, his countenance radiant with benevolence. The patronage entwined with the ordinary deference was not palpable to them. And yet as they returned to their coach they showed in their faces a sense of escape. 

 

El Mercader de Venecia (y el judío)

 El mercader de Venecia (y el judío): https://www.academia.edu/32890063/

What Ceremony Else

Retropost, 2014:

A passage from Christopher Rush's biographical fiction on Shakespeare, Will (2007). It is a novel much possessed by death, as it is structured around a conversation with his lawyer concerning Will's final will and testament, and his life now all past and no future. But there are many other deaths to go through before the final one. Here (ch. 47) Shakespeare reminisces on the death of his son Hamnet—and on the traces it left in his work. Such traces are not in the least explicit: there is no elegy  "On the Death of My Only Son", something which has bothered a number of scholars.  Here, Rush's Shakespeare resumes work after the child's burial.

When I finally came back to my lodgings in St Helen's, I clumped heavily upstairs to find the script of King John scattered on the table just as I'd left it. I leafed through the pages till I came back to Act Three Scene Four, where Constance, bereft of her boy, takes comfort from the Cardinal that we shall see and know our friends in heaven. 'If that be true,' she says, 'then I shall see my boy again.'

The ink in the pot had dried up in the sweltering August heat. The room smelt foul and was like an oven. I opened the shutters to let London in again, re-filled the inkpot, and with three strokes of the pen scored out the scene. Then I sat down and re-wrote it on the spot. This time the distraught mother found no confort in the golden words of the church. As I wrote, I recalled those four empty walls in Henley Street that used to echo with his laughter and prattle.

Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form.

Stuffs out his garments. I was remembering that little pile of clothes. And how I'd sat for hours in Stratford, turning them over and over, holding them up, crushing them to my lips. My own garments were stuffed out now with a stranger. I caught a sudden sight of myself in the glass.

A ghost had come back to Bishopsgate to carry on the life of work and worry. There was nothing left for him to do. I knew he would throw himself into it, reap the rewards, bask in the glory, the honour, the fame. All of which he did. But he carried a long sorrow for his son and these were not the last lines he wrote for him. He spoke to him in his verses many a time to come. That's what the death of your nearest and dearest does to you, Francis — estranges you from yourself, from life. After the funeral you look at the world like the moon, with that vacant stare, and no one sees or knows what's on the other side.

 Ben Jonson's son died too, of the plague, seven years later (the child was seven at the time). I poured drink into Ben that night.

'His life may have been cut short, Ben — but in short measure life may perfect be.'

He looked at me with red eyes. And later stole the line when he lost a daughter and penned her an elegy. Never missed a trick, old Ben. But for his son he wrote a touching little lament of his own: Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy — my sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy.

My own sin had been the opposite. I hadn't thought of him enough. Not after that day I'd left him on Clopton Bridge. At least Ben Jonson didn't have that guilt to live with. But I buried my guilt between many lines. Ben's grieving love deserves to stand out clear.

Rest in soft peace, and asked, say here doth lie
Ben Jonson his best piece of poetrie,
For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such,
As what he loves may never like too much.

It was nicely turned, don't you think, that verse of Ben's? But I don't believe Ben turned back to it after that. He moved on. Maybe I moved on too, or seemed to. But it didn't stop me, couldn't stop me turning back. Grief in its fullness doesn't always erupt at the time of death. It may take years to blossom, to burst into those blackest blooms of the heart. The black bile was always threatening me anyway, but Hamnet always kept it at bay, even when I only thought of him. And when I saw him, all too seldom, he cured in me thoughts that would thick my blood, with his child's matter made a summer's day short as a winter solstice. After he died came bleak December everywhere, every day; and every day after that, somewhere in every single day that followed, I felt the chill of that one awful day that would never go away. Every chill was that same chill, every day was that same day, the day we buried him.

What ceremony else? That's what I really wanted to shout at them that day, remembering my sister all over again, and those maimed rites. What ceremony else? The old rites were gone that could have comforted. We therefore commit his body to the ground. Therefore. It follows. Because we can no longer sing him to the saints with sage requiem and ministers of grace. Because we have taken away your old rituals, and therefore something of your beliefs too — for even beliefs are made of words.

Which leaves you with what? With a private knot of pain. Goodnight, sweet prince, I wanted to whisper — and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. But no more of that, if you please. Forasmuch as it hath pleased almighty God to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed, we therefore commit his body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life thorugh Jesus Christ our Lord.  Sure and certain? Nothing was sure and certain any more. They didn't even call him by his name, didn't even use a personal pronoun. Not a 'thou' was spoken. Dear brother? What brother? What impersonal being was that? Dear God, he was my son, my only son. They were throwing on the earth, closing up the grave, shutting off communion, sundering me from my dead child with their Puritan words, hammered like cold nails into his coffin. Must there no more be done? Can't we help them on, our lost lovely dead? Can't they be allowed to call out to us, to help us too, the ones that mourn? Can't we communicate? Must the bond be broke so entirely by death, and the starkness of that cold ground, those inflexible words? No, the dead boy is not in heaven, he is in the earth, he's dead, dead and rotten.

That's what you're left with on that terrible day, worse than the wrath of God. Dies irae? God's anger would be acceptable, divine ire heaped on your head, better than that emptiness, that coldness in the soul, and that rebellious anguish that makes you cry out in the bitterness of your heart. No, no, no life! Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, and thou not breath at all? Thou'lt come no more. That's the closest words can come to expressing the pain of child loss. And ten years later, in Lear, the pain was still going on.

It went on in play after play. Sebastian was plucked from the waves and restored to his twin sister, Viola, the sea of troubles turning to salt waves fresh in love, in my troubled mind. And Leontes sees the dead brought back to life, a miracle before his eyes, and all pain subdued. But not the son, not Mamillius. The son never comes home again. Good night, sweet prince. It's the father's fault, always the father's fault. John Shakespere's time was unjointed and I'd to set it right, an absent father, and I must be from thence, and Hamnet's life the price, aye, Will, lay thee down and roar.

So he died over and over as I lived on and wrote on and on, died in every play that filled up the space he'd left. He couldn't stop dying, even in the days of my best success. He had to keep on dying because I had to keep on burying him, laying him to rest — not in shattered Catholic rites but in the only rituals left to me, the theatre, the ones that plays provided. They could never take that away from me. What ceremony else? The play, of course, the play's the thing, once more, over and over again. It was a public burial, never ending, pulling in mourners from the globe, from the ends of the earth, but it was also deeply private too, it was that paradox of the self that only the player knows.

Hamlet se ahoga y renace

—oOo—

Retroprospección del Dasein

 

Hay en el marco del pensamiento de Heidegger sobre la existencia específicamente humana (o Dasein) una interesante reflexión sobre la retroprospección, más en concreto sobre la experiencia retroprospectiva de la muerte y del transcurrir de la vida. En su ensayo sobre "El concepto del tiempo" (1924), que esboza muchos de los temas de Ser y Tiempo, apunta Heidegger cómo la experiencia de la limitación temporal, la consciencia de la muerte, es inherente a la existencia humana. La retroprospección es por tanto una experiencia constitutivamente humana, aunque normalmente se halle atenuada:

En este contexto, el ser de la posibilidad es siempre la posibilidad [constituida] de manera tal que sabe de la muerte, las más de las veces, en este sentido: ya lo sé, pero no pienso en ello. Sé de la muerte las más de las veces en el modo del saber que retrocede. Como interpretación del Dasein, este saber tiene inmediatamente a la mano el disimular esta posibilidad de su ser. El Dasein mismo tiene la posibilidad de evadir su muerte.

Este haber-pasado, como aquél hacia el cual precurso, hace, en este mi precursar hacia él, un descubrimiento: es el haber-pasado de mí. A título de este haber-pasado, descubre mi Dasein en cuanto súbitamente no más ahí; súbitamente no soy más ahí junto a éstas y aquellas cosas, junto a éstos y aquellos hombres, junto a estas vanidades, estos subterfugios y esta parlotería. El haber-pasado desbanda todas las familiaridades (Heimlichkeiten) y ocupaciones, el haber-pasado se lleva consigo todo a la nada. El haber-pasado no es un suceso, un incidente en mi Dasein. Pues es su haber-pasado, no un algo (ein Was) en él, que acontezca, que lo asalte y lo altere. Este haber-pasado no es un Qué, sino un Cómo (Wie), y, ciertamente el Cómo propio de mi Dasein. Este haber-pasado, hacia el cual puedo precursar en cuanto que mío, no es un qué, sino el Cómo de mi Dasein sin más. (13)

La reflexión, y la filosofía, sacan a la luz esta retroprospectividad inherente o voluntariamente olvidada de la experiencia humana. O, puesto de otro modo, la reflexión y la filosofía ahondan en lo específicamente humano mediante la reflexión de estas dimensiones retroprospectivas de la existencia.  Puede decirse que la tradición de filosofar sobre la complejidad de la experiencia temporal debe mucho a Heidegger. Nos enseñó mucho a ver cómo la prospección no pertenece únicamente al futuro o al presente, sino también al pasado, y cómo la comprensión retrospectiva de los acontecimientos (ese "saber que retrocede" en torpe traducción aquí) no es sólo cosa del pasado, sino que también se aplica, en algunas de sus modalidades, a la experiencia futura, o al presente. Hoy encontramos ese saber sobre el presente en las páginas de la prensa, esas páginas inauténticas—en este artículo de Oliver Burkeman que nos promete cambiar la perspectiva (temporal) sobre nuestra vida:

This Column Will Change Your Life: Hindsight—it's not just for past events.

Se verá aquí un énfasis en la vida, y no en la muerte. Y ciertamente el énfasis en la muerte, y en la eternidad, pesa desmedidamente en un ensayo sobre la especificidad de la experiencia humana. Las razones por las cuales olvidamos la muerte, razones que también son parte de la experiencia del Dasein, merecen atenderse más. Heidegger encuentra una Verfremdung brechtiana en la perspectiva sobre la vida que nos ofrece la retroprospección, el imaginarla ya transcurrida. Y es cierto—pero hay muchas perspectivas desde las cuales se puede desfamiliarizar la experiencia presente; y en nuestra experiencia vital no es "su más extrema posibilidad" siempre la más relevante, ni la que ofrece un punto de vista más auténtico o deseable.

El ser-ahí se dice de muchas maneras. No hay un punto de vista privilegiado sobre el tiempo, ni sobre la eternidad—todo punto de vista está situado y cada cual tiene sus condicionantes. Heidegger comienza citando a Einstein, pero en realidad es poco relativista. Todavía menos absolutismo perspectivístico puede encontrar lugar en un universo evolucionista, y no estático como el que (de modo ahora harto incomprensible) describía el propio Einstein. La eternidad es mala consejera, y mal rasero, sobre todo para los que vivimos un tiempo, y en el tiempo.

Ahondando en el papel que juega la retroprospección no sólo encontraremos más consciencia de la muerte, sino también más consciencia de la vida y sus complejidades. Y una experiencia del hereafter menos ambiciosa y más ajustada a la experiencia humana real, en sus prioridades y en su multiplicidad compleja. No vivimos sólo para la muerte y para la eternidad, sino también, y ante todo, para el presente, y para el futuro que será presente, y para el pasado que lo ha sido—para más allás más provisionales e inestables, para una vida que aún está por venir, aunque ya haya pasado, o quizá nunca vaya a existir.

Margarethe von Trotta, Hannah Arendt

—oOo—