Felicidad, infelicidad

Ya es tarde. El aparcamiento de abajo está casi vacío. Las luces son raras, y la Torre Eiffel en miniatura al fondo, equivalente en sentido opuesto a la serie japonesa del siglo XIX en Europa, ahora solo tiene un alfiler rojo en su parte superior.

En esta habitación banal, sin vínculo con el pasado y el futuro (y por eso uno es más uno mismo), en medio de un día o una noche ordinaria, el milagro que se produce de repente, la gracia que a veces desciende: no un instante de felicidad, ya que la felicidad no se mide en momentos, sino en la repentina conciencia de que la felicidad nos invade.

Los objetos que componen la vida, repentinamente dispuestos en otro orden, vuelven su lado alegre hacia nosotros. Transporte del espíritu y los sentidos (Baudelaire no se equivocó), levitación durante la cual el alma vaga como en una nube dorada. De la misma manera, en avión, las extraordinarias nubes, bajo las cuales se asfixia la tierra, se convierten en brillantes glaciares blancos y azules debajo de nosotros. Pura felicidad que, en otras ocasiones, podría ser igualmente pura infelicidad. Bastaría con que los mismos elementos volvieran su lado oscuro hacia nosotros. En ambos casos hay plenitud, pero la de la felicidad es solar.

La auténtica Torre Eiffel y su copia en Tokio no son más que un escenario en el que persiste el caos. Pero la felicidad, si ocurre, da brevemente un sentido a las cosas: al menos un ápice se siente liberado, salvado. En la infelicidad, en la medida de lo posible, el coraje reemplaza al sol.

tomado de Marguerite Yourcenar, El recorrido por la prisión, trad. eso. Fabrizio Ascari, Milán 1999.

Título original Le tour de la prison, París 1991.

Felicità, Infelicità

È tardi. Il parcheggio in basso è quasi vuoto. Le luci sono rare, e la Torre Eiffel in miniatura sullo sfondo, equivalente in senso opposto alle giapponeserie del XIX secolo in Europa, non ha ormai che una puntina rossa alla sua sommità.

In questa camera banale, senza legame con il passato e il futuro (e per questa ragione si è più se stessi), nel bel mezzo di una giornata o di una notte qualunque, il miracolo che a un tratto si compie, la grazia che talvolta discende: non un istante di felicità, poiché la felicità non si misura a istanti, ma l’improvvisa consapevolezza che la felicità ci pervade.

Gli oggetti che compongono la vita, disposta improvvisamente in un altro ordine, volgono verso di noi il loro lato gioioso. Trasporto dello spirito e dei sensi (Baudelaire non si è sbagliato), levitazione durante la quale l’anima vaga come su una nube d’oro. Allo stesso modo, in aereo, le straordinarie nubi, sotto cui soffoca la terra, diventano sotto di noi scintillanti ghiacciai bianchi e azzurri. Felicità pura che, in altri momenti, potrebbe essere parimenti pura infelicità. Basterebbe che gli stessi elementi volgessero verso di noi il loro lato cupo. In entrambi i casi, c’è plenitudine, ma quella della felicità è solare.

La Torre Eiffel autentica e la sua copia a Tokyo non sono che uno scenario sotto cui permane il caos. Ma la felicità, se sopraggiunge, dà brevemente un senso alle cose: un briciolo almeno si sente liberato, salvato. Nell’infelicità, per quanto possibile, il coraggio sostituisce il sole.

 

Tratto da Marguerite Yourcenar, Il giro della prigione, trad. it. Fabrizio Ascari, Milano 1999.

 

Titolo originale Le tour de la prison, Parigi 1991.

I don’t understand the world anymore, soon we will be nine billion. This exploding planet confuses me

Claude Lévi-Strauss did not want to grant an interview that summarized his career and his thoughts, but, on the occasion of the Year of Brazil in France, which will begin in March, he wanted to return to his relationship with the «Country of ember-colored wood “. With extreme courtesy, he receives us in his library, in a dark suit and tie with a metallic knot adorned with indigenous motifs – “a trivial craft,” he says. Among the bound volumes, a totem from Oceania, many Asian objects, a scroll of Tibetan prayers.

Since 1935, he has taught sociology at the University of Sao Paulo. What does Brazil mean to you today?

“She represents the most important experience of my life: for the distance and the contrast, but also because she determined my career. I feel deeply indebted to this country. I left it in early 1939 and only saw it again in 1985, when I accompanied President Mitterrand on an official five-day visit. Although very short, that trip aroused a real mental revolution within me: Brazil had become entirely, totally, another country. The city of São Paulo, which I had known when it barely reached one million inhabitants, already had more than ten million. The traces and footprints of the colonial era had disappeared. It had become a frightening city, with miles of towers. I had decided to review, not so much the house where I had lived – which probably no longer existed – but at least the road I had traveled for years. Instead, I spent the morning stuck in traffic without being able to get there ».

Did you go back to your friends, the Caduveos, Bororó or Nambicuara Indians whom you had studied in Brazil?

«In 1985 Brasilia was one of the stops on the presidential trip. The newspaper O Estrado de Sao Paulo suggested that I take me back to the Bororó family, a journey that in 1935 had cost me a lot of effort but which, by plane, could be done in a few hours. So one morning we boarded a small plane that could only carry three passengers: my wife, a Brazilian colleague and myself. The plane flew over the Bororó territories, and we could even see some villages still with their circular structures, but each one now equipped with a landing ground. After flying over them, the pilot told us: I could land, but the runways are so short that maybe I won’t be able to leave! We therefore gave up and returned to Brasilia, going through a terrifying storm. I thought our life had never been so exposed to risk, not even at the time of my expeditions. All of this showed how much the country had changed. Therefore, I did not see the Bororó in flesh and blood again, but their territory; I flew over that Rio Vermelho, a tributary of the Paraguay River, which I had taken several days to get back in a pirogue and which, now, was bordered by an asphalted road ».

Can one be physically and forever marked by a country?

“Surely. As I said, what struck me the most when arriving in Brazil was nature, as it could still be contemplated on the slopes of the Serra do Mar; then, when I was able to go inside, again, it was a nature so totally different from the one I had known … But there is also a dimension to which we do not always pay attention and which for me has been capital: that of the urban phenomenon . When I arrived in São Paulo it was said that a house was built per hour. And there was a British company that, for only four or five years, had been opening the territories west of the state of Sao Paulo. He built a railway line and planned a city every 15 kilometers. In the first, the oldest, there were 15,000 inhabitants, in the second five thousand, in the third a thousand, then 90, then 40 and, in the most recent, only one, a Frenchman. At that time, one of the great privileges of Brazil was to be able to witness, in an almost experimental way, the formation of that fantastic human phenomenon that is a city. Here, the city is sometimes the result of a decision by the state, but above all of millions of small individual initiatives taken over the centuries. In Brazil in the 1930s, this process was shorter, taking place in a few years. Of course, since I practiced ethnography, Indians were essential for me, but this urban experience counted for a lot; one Brazil and the other lived together, but at a safe distance. When I went to Mato Grosso for the first time, Brasilia did not yet exist, but there had already been a first attempt to create a city from nothing, Gioiania, which did not go through. The central plateau, the Planalto, is magnificent: there the sky attracts more than anything “.

Mario de Andrade had imagined with a lot of humor Macunaïma, a liar and lazy Tapanhuma Indian from the Amazon: became emperor of the virgin forest with his marriage, he landed in the city of São Paulo to retrieve an amulet before being transformed into a constellation, the Great Bear . Does this indigenous spirit, this link between city, forest and myth still persist? Did it follow its evolution?

“I follow the evolution of the indigenous people, whom I had studied regularly at the time, with my thoughts, and thanks to colleagues much younger than me, such as those from the University of Cuiaba, in Mato Grosso, who among other things work for the Nambicuara. They write to me and send me their works. These peoples have suffered terrible suffering. They were more or less exterminated, to the point that only 5 or 10 percent of the original population had survived. But what happens today is of immense interest. These peoples got in touch with each other. By now they know what they have ignored for a long time: they are no longer alone on the universe stage. They know that in New Zealand, Australia or Melanesia there are individuals who, at different times, have gone through the same difficulties as themselves. They are aware of their common position in the world. Of course, ethnography will never again be what I was still able to practice in my time, when it was a question of finding evidence of beliefs, social formations, institutions born in complete isolation from ours, which therefore constituted an irreplaceable contribution to World Heritage Site. We are now, so to speak, in a regime of “mutual interpenetration”. We are moving towards a civilization on a world scale, where certain differences will probably appear. At least, we hope so. Differences that will no longer be the same, they will be internal and no longer external ”

The speed of movement, the speed of propagation of cultures, communication are determining factors …

«Once, my colleagues and I took mixed cargo which, after many stopovers, took nineteen days to arrive in South America, stopping along the Spanish, Algerian and African coasts. After all, of Africa I only know the places where we stopped on the way to and from Brazil “.

Can photography, which you have practiced as evidenced by the numerous clichés you have published about her, fix these lost worlds?

«I have never given great importance to photography. I photographed because it was necessary, but always with the feeling that it was a waste of time, a loss of attention. Yet, as a teenager, I loved photography. My father was a painter and did a lot of photography. For me, it is a separate profession. Mine was a zero-level photographer’s job. In 1994, I published a photo book, Saudades do Brasil, which can be translated as “Nostalgia for Brazil”, because it was requested. The publisher has chosen, among many others, a little less than two hundred clichés. During the first expedition to the Bororó, I had brought a very small movie camera. It happened to me every now and then to press the button and take some pictures, but soon I was disgusted because, with the eye behind the lens, you don’t see what happens and even less understand. There are clips left that in total correspond to an hour of film. They were found in Brazil, where I had abandoned them, and were once shown in the Beaubourg. I must confess that ethnological films bore me enormously ».

She is a music addict. Mythological, she begins with an overture and ends with a finale. Il Crudo e il cotto, the first of the four volumes of Mythological, begins with the story of a Bororó song, the motif of the bird discoverer. Has he analyzed their music?

«No, I am not an ethnomusicologist; I have not studied their songs. Sometimes they hit me, others moved me. One of my first emotions dates back to the ceremonies on the occasion of my arrival at the Bororó. They accompanied their songs by waving certain trinkets with a virtuosity similar to that of a great conductor with his baton. Months ago I received a visit from two Bororó Indians in the company of two researchers from the University of Campo Grande del Mato Grosso, where they teach. On their own initiative, they wanted to sing and dance in my office at the Collège de France. And here, in fact, is one of the paradoxes in which we live: those Bororó colleagues preserved in all their freshness and authenticity songs and music that I had heard seventy years earlier. It was truly moving. That said, music is the greatest mystery we face. In my day, Brazilian popular music was very enjoyable ».

What can you tell me about the future?

“Don’t ask me. We are in a world I already feel I don’t belong to. The one I knew, whom I loved, had one and a half billion inhabitants. The world today has six. It’s not mine anymore. And that of tomorrow, with nine billion men and women – even if they assure us, to console us, that it will be the highest point of the parable – forbids me to make any predictions ».

 

Taken from: VERONIQUE MORTAIGNE, Le Monde – The New York Times Syndicate – Agenzia Volpe, Translated by Daniela Maggioni.

Non capisco più il mondo, presto saremo nove miliardi. Questo pianeta che esplode mi disorienta

Claude Lévi-Strauss non voleva accordare un’intervista che riassumesse la sua carriera e il suo pensiero, ma, in occasione dell’Anno del Brasile in Francia, che comincerà in marzo, voleva tornare sul suo rapporto con il «Paese dal legno color brace». Con estrema cortesia, ci riceve nella sua biblioteca, in abito scuro e cravatta con nodo metallico ornato di motivi indigeni – «un banale artigianato», dice. Fra i volumi rilegati, un totem dell’Oceania, molti oggetti asiatici, un rotolo di preghiere tibetane.

Dal 1935, ha insegnato sociologia proprio all’Università di San Paolo. Cosa significa per lei oggi il Brasile? 

«Rappresenta l’esperienza più importante della mia vita: per la lontananza e il contrasto, ma anche perché ha determinato la mia carriera. Mi sento profondamente in debito verso questo Paese. L’ho lasciato all’inizio del 1939 e l’ho rivisto solo nel 1985, quando ho accompagnato il presidente Mitterrand in una visita ufficiale di cinque giorni. Sebbene brevissimo, quel viaggio ha suscitato dentro di me una vera e propria rivoluzione mentale: il Brasile era diventato interamente, totalmente, un altro Paese. La città di San Paolo, che avevo conosciuto quando raggiungeva a stento un milione di abitanti, ne contava già più di dieci milioni. Le tracce e le orme dell’epoca coloniale erano scomparse. Era diventata una città spaventosa, con chilometri di torri. Avevo deciso di rivedere, non tanto la casa dove avevo abitato – che probabilmente non esisteva più -, ma almeno la strada che avevo percorso per anni. Invece, ho passato la mattinata bloccato nel traffico senza potervi arrivare».

È tornato dai suoi amici, gli indiani Caduveos, Bororó o Nambicuara che aveva studiato in Brasile? 

«Nel 1985 Brasilia era una delle tappe del viaggio presidenziale. Il quotidiano O Estrado de Sao Paulo mi ha proposto di riportarmi presso i Bororó, un viaggio che nel 1935 m’era costato molta fatica ma che, in aereo, si poteva fare in qualche ora. Un mattino siamo quindi saliti su un piccolo aereo che poteva portare solo tre passeggeri: mia moglie, una collega brasiliana ed io. L’aereo ha sorvolato i territori Bororó, e abbiamo addirittura potuto scorgere alcuni villaggi con ancora le loro strutture circolari, ma ciascuno dotato, adesso, di un terreno d’atterraggio. Dopo averli sorvolati, il pilota ci ha detto: potrei atterrare, ma le piste sono così corte che forse non potrei ripartire! Abbiamo quindi rinunciato e siamo rientrati a Brasilia, attraversando un temporale spaventoso. Ho pensato che mai la nostra vita era stata così esposta al rischio, neanche all’epoca delle mie spedizioni. Tutto questo mostrava quanto il Paese fosse cambiato. Quindi, non ho rivisto i Bororó in carne ed ossa, ma il loro territorio; ho sorvolato quel Rio Vermelho, un affluente del fiume Paraguay, che avevo impiegato parecchi giorni a risalire in piroga e che, adesso, era costeggiato da una strada asfaltata».

Si può essere segnati fisicamente e per sempre da un Paese? 

«Sicuramente. Come le dicevo, quello che mi ha colpito di più arrivando in Brasile è stata la natura, come la si poteva ancora contemplare sulle pendici della Serra do Mar; poi, quando ho potuto addentrarmi nell’interno, di nuovo, fu una natura così totalmente diversa da quella che avevo conosciuto… Ma esiste anche una dimensione alla quale non sempre prestiamo attenzione e che per me è stata capitale: quella del fenomeno urbano. Quando sono arrivato a San Paolo si diceva che veniva costruita una casa all’ora. E c’era una compagnia britannica che, da quattro o cinque anni soltanto, apriva i territori ad ovest dello Stato di San Paolo. Costruiva una linea ferroviaria e pianificava una città ogni 15 chilometri. Nella prima, la più antica, c’erano 15 mila abitanti, nella seconda cinquemila, nella terza mille, poi 90, poi 40 e, nella più recente, uno soltanto, un francese. In quel periodo, uno dei grandi privilegi del Brasile era di poter assistere, in modo quasi sperimentale, alla formazione di quel fantastico fenomeno umano che è una città. Da noi, la città è il risultato talvolta di una decisione dello Stato, ma soprattutto di milioni di piccole iniziative individuali prese nel corso dei secoli. Nel Brasile degli anni Trenta, tale processo era più breve, si verificava in qualche anno. Certo, poiché praticavo l’etnografia, gli indiani sono stati per me essenziali, ma questa esperienza urbana ha contato molto; un Brasile e l’altro coabitavano, però a debita distanza. Quando sono andato verso il Mato Grosso per la prima volta, Brasilia non esisteva ancora, ma c’era già stato un primo tentativo di creare una città dal nulla, Gioiania, che non è andato in porto. L’altopiano centrale, il Planalto, è magnifico: lì il cielo attrae più d’ogni cosa».

Mario de Andrade aveva immaginato con molto umorismo Macunaïma, un indiano Tapanhuma d’Amazzonia bugiardo e pigro: diventato con il matrimonio imperatore della foresta vergine, sbarcò nella città di San Paolo per recuperare un amuleto prima d’essere trasformato in costellazione, la Grande Orsa. Questo spirito indigeno, questo legame fra città, foresta e mito perdura ancora? Ha seguito la sua evoluzione? 

«Seguo l’evoluzione degli indigeni, che allora avevo studiato regolarmente, con il pensiero, e grazie a colleghi molto più giovani di me, come quelli dell’università di Cuiaba, nel Mato Grosso, che fra l’altro lavorano presso i Nambicuara. Mi scrivono e mi mandano i loro lavori. Questi popoli hanno subito sofferenze terribili. Sono stati più o meno sterminati, al punto che solo il 5 o il 10 per cento della popolazione originale era sopravvissuta. Ma quel che accade oggi è d’immenso interesse. Questi popoli si sono messi in contatto fra loro. Ormai sanno quello che per lungo tempo hanno ignorato: non sono più soli sulla scena dell’universo. Sanno che in Nuova Zelanda, in Australia o in Melanesia esistono individui che, in epoche diverse, hanno attraversato le loro stesse difficoltà. Sono consapevoli della loro comune posizione nel mondo. Beninteso, l’etnografia non sarà mai più quella che ho ancora potuto praticare ai miei tempi, quando si trattava di ritrovare testimonianze di credenze, di formazioni sociali, d’istituzioni nate in completo isolamento rispetto alle nostre, che dunque costituivano un apporto insostituibile al patrimonio dell’umanità. Adesso siamo, per così dire, in un regime di “mutua compenetrazione”. Andiamo verso una civiltà su scala mondiale, dove probabilmente appariranno certe differenze. Perlomeno, lo speriamo. Differenze che non saranno più le stesse, saranno interne e non più esterne».

La rapidità di spostamento, la velocità di propagazione delle culture, la comunicazione sono fattori determinanti… 

«Una volta, con i miei colleghi prendevamo cargo misti che, dopo molti scali, impiegavano diciannove giorni per arrivare in Sud America, fermandosi lungo le coste spagnole, algerine, africane. Del resto, dell’Africa conosco soltanto i luoghi dove abbiamo sostato all’andata e al ritorno dal Brasile».

La fotografia, che lei ha praticato come testimoniano i suoi numerosi cliché pubblicati, può fissare questi mondi perduti? 

«Non ho mai dato grande importanza alla fotografia. Fotografavo perché era necessario, ma sempre con la sensazione che fosse una perdita di tempo, una perdita d’attenzione. Eppure, da adolescente, ho amato la fotografia. Mio padre faceva il pittore e si occupava molto di fotografia. Per me, è un mestiere a parte. Il mio, è stato un lavoro da fotografo di livello zero. Nel 1994, ho pubblicato un libro di foto, Saudades do Brasil , che si può tradurre “Nostalgia del Brasile”, perché sollecitato. L’editore ha scelto, fra tanti altri, un po’ meno di duecento cliché. Durante la prima spedizione presso i Bororó, mi ero portato una piccolissima cinepresa. Mi è capitato ogni tanto di premere il bottone e di riprendere qualche immagine, ma ben presto ne sono rimasto disgustato perché, con l’occhio dietro all’obbiettivo, non si vede cosa accade e ancor meno si capisce. Ne sono rimasti spezzoni che in totale corrispondono a un’ora di film. Sono stati ritrovati in Brasile, dove li avevo abbandonati, e una volta sono stati mostrati al Beaubourg. Devo confessarle che i film etnologici mi annoiano enormemente».

Lei è un melomane. Mitologiche comincia con un’ouverture e si conclude su un finale. Il Crudo e il cotto , il primo dei quattro volumi di Mitologiche , comincia con il racconto di un canto Bororó, il motivo dello scopritore d’uccelli. Ha analizzato la loro musica? 

«No, non sono un etnomusicologo; non ho studiato i loro canti. A volte mi hanno colpito, altre commosso. Una delle mie prime emozioni risale alle cerimonie in occasione del mio arrivo presso i Bororó. Accompagnavano i loro canti agitando certi gingilli con un virtuosismo simile a quello di un grande direttore d’orchestra con la sua bacchetta. Mesi fa ho ricevuto la visita di due indiani Bororó in compagnia di due ricercatori dell’università di Campo Grande del Mato Grosso, dove insegnano. Di loro iniziativa, hanno voluto, nel mio ufficio al Collège de France, cantare e danzare. Ed ecco, appunto, uno dei paradossi in cui viviamo: quei colleghi Bororó conservavano in tutta la loro freschezza e autenticità canti e musiche che avevo udito settant’anni prima. Era veramente commovente. Detto questo, la musica è il più grande mistero con il quale ci confrontiamo. Ai miei tempi, la musica popolare brasiliana era molto gradevole».

Cosa può dirmi sul futuro? 

«Non me lo chieda. Siamo in un mondo al quale già sento di non appartenere. Quello che ho conosciuto, che ho amato, aveva un miliardo e mezzo d’abitanti. Il mondo attuale ne conta sei. Non è più il mio. E quello di domani, con nove miliardi di uomini e donne – anche se ci assicurano, per consolarci, che si tratterà del punto più alto della parabola – mi proibisce di fare qualsiasi predizione».

Tratto da: VERONIQUE MORTAIGNE, Le Monde – The New York Times Syndicate – Agenzia Volpe, Traduzione di Daniela Maggioni.

ジーノ・ストラーダ

「私が大臣になるとしたら、私は公衆衛生省という言葉を再導入します。私とは個人との合意はありません。ユーロではありません。私は公衆衛生のためであり、質が高く、完全に無料です。それを再建するために、他の投資も必要ありません。盗むのをやめるべきです。少なくとも年間300億ドルが利益になります。苦しんでいる人をもてなすはずの医療施設が、償還と給付金の支払いが行われる会社になると、社会犯罪が行われている。」

ジーノ・ストラーダ

Bosques

Ya en la época de Tácito, los bárbaros de Alemania miraban los bosques del pasado como la cuna de su raza, al igual que el mito de Arcadia, en la Eneida de Virgilio, vuelve a una época remota en la que los hombres nacían de los robles. Tácito nos recuerda que ciertos bosques eran los lugares donde “reina el dios rey de todas las cosas, todos sujetos y obedientes a él”, estos bosques, según Tácito, eran también lugares de teofanías.

Actualmente, la “gran posesión” alemana está literalmente muriendo. Esos “árboles sanos y troncos bien enraizados, ricos en savia, que asimilan orgánicamente aire, agua, luz y tierra para mantener su forma y vida individual” se están convirtiendo en “ramas secas y caídas” de la pobreza, en un lento proceso de biología decaer. A pesar de todos los esfuerzos de los Verdes alemanes por pasar los bosques como herencia de la patria y guardianes de su espíritu, no hay mucho que Alemania pueda hacer sobre lo que ellos llaman Waldsterben, la muerte del bosque, porque la muerte del árbol es causado por la lluvia ácida. La lluvia ácida no sabe nada de fronteras nacionales, unidad cultural o posesiones comunes.

Mientras tanto, la nación alemana se ha vuelto a unir, como hermanos cuyas cabezas cortadas se vuelven a unir al maletero. Es dudoso que la reunificación política pueda reunificar los antiguos bosques alemanes; de lo contrario, habría que concluir que tal reanimación depende de algo más que una raíz milagrosa o una varita de bruja.

No eran solo los bosques prehistóricos del norte de Alemania los que albergaban a los dioses. Incluso en tiempos históricos, la mayoría de los templos estaban rodeados por un bosque que se extendía en las inmediaciones. A veces, el bosque era un templo. De la iconografía tomamos que un solo árbol, o un grupo de árboles, a veces estaba rodeado por un muro que delimitaba el espacio del templo. Los devotos vinieron en procesión e invitaron a su diosa a aparecer bailando extasiada alrededor del árbol sagrado. En el apogeo de su éxtasis, la diosa revelaría su presencia. Rituales como estos dan testimonio de la existencia de un culto a los árboles muy extendido en varias religiones paganas. Gracias a la investigación realizada por Sir Arthur Evans sabemos que en Creta, por ejemplo, el espíritu de los árboles sagrados estaba custodiado por pilares de madera o piedra. En el Sáfico titulado Culto del árbol y el pilar micénico, Evans reconstruye los rituales mediante los cuales el espíritu de un árbol se transfirió o se hizo habitar en una columna.

Walden recuerda esta pérdida. De hecho, experimentar la pérdida significa vivir poéticamente, sabiendo que no somos dueños del mundo que habitamos precisamente porque aún no hemos encontrado al perro de caza. ¿Dónde, si no en la naturaleza, podemos aprender a someter a la naturaleza y así alcanzar nuestra humanidad – nuestra trascendencia finita pero abierta en su resultado? Thoreau habla de “vivir sabiamente”, de vivir la vida por lo que es y no por lo que no es. Esto requiere que uno “se detenga en la realidad” y luego termine su “carrera mortal”. La conclusión de una carrera mortal no llega al final, pero ya está implícita en ella desde el principio. Tal conclusión no pertenece al tipo de “conclusiones rápidas” de aquellos que imaginan que Walden Pond no tiene fondo, o quienes en su incertidumbre asumen que nuestro principal propósito en la tierra es dar gloria a algún otro mundo. Consiste en la conciencia de que todo lo que había que perder ya se perdió y que, por tanto, la vida se da, o se perdona, de forma gratuita.

Cuando termina una carrera mortal, un hecho de la vida nos hace conscientes de que hay algo en lugar de nada, que la naturaleza no tiene una razón humana para existir y que vivimos en la identidad de la pérdida. Este autoconocimiento, y solo esto, es libertad.

Pero, ¿no fue precisamente esta libertad poética la que Estados Unidos prometió a quienes se abandonan voluntariamente a los mares de la partida? ¿No se descubrió América precisamente con la esperanza de una amnistía? Por alguna razón, no era el destino de Estados Unidos convertirse en ella misma, construir su hogar sobre la base de una pérdida que podría haberse encontrado. Su destino era más bien sacrificar su libertad a la idea de nación, reproducir y exasperar la furia de la posesión y caer en el caos de la no-vida. En lugar de una nación de poetas, se ha convertido en una nación de deudores, propietarios, comerciantes, espectadores, chismosos, charlatanes, prejuicios y capitalistas de la información que en su extraña incertidumbre sobre la vida persiguen las ilusiones de un hallazgo apropiándose de todo.

En su continua huida de las conclusiones de una carrera mortal, Estados Unidos se ha convertido no en el caput mundi de la libertad poética, sino en el caput mortuum de la modernidad: el capitalismo se ha convertido en una calavera. Estados Unidos será para siempre lo que no se ha convertido y Walden seguirá siendo su hogar deshabitado.

De Robert Harrison, Bosques: la sombra de las civilizaciones e It. Garzanti 1992

Este libro es uno que endereza, ilumina, purifica, convierte la Mente en verdad. Es un texto filosófico que te distingue del innoble destructor, en cualquier lugar, como en un gran bosque milagrosamente virgen. Mi siglo triste no perdonó a nadie, y donde estaba la Ciudad sembró bosques de rascacielos y junglas de asfalto, y la historia de la pérdida de bosques es paralela e indistinguible de la historia de la pérdida del hombre conquistador. A los destructores de los bosques les debemos la evocación de Némisis y la espantosa multiplicación de multitudes ciegas (hoy somos siete mil millones de ávidos geofagos alrededor de esta Tierra despojada de huesos que llamamos crecimiento su privación de la vida real) que entre los siglos XIX y XX creó un mundo inhabitable, y los bosques con sus dioses y hechizos no son más que materia para la monoindustria de la decadencia.

Lee Bosques de Robert Harrison: te avergonzará y te hará, quizás, menos pasivo, menos depredador de las fuerzas del mal.

Tomado de: Guido Ceronetti, te saludo mi siglo cruel y Einaudi 2011

Les forêts

Déjà au temps de Tacite, les barbares d’Allemagne considéraient les forêts du passé comme le berceau de leur race, tout comme le mythe de l’Arcadie, dans l’Énéide de Virgile, se tourne vers une époque lointaine où les hommes sont nés des chênes. Tacite nous rappelle que certains bois étaient les lieux où « régnait le dieu roi de toutes choses, tous soumis et obéissant à lui ».Ces bois, selon Tacite, étaient aussi les lieux des théophanies.

Actuellement, la « grande possession » allemande est littéralement en train de mourir. Ces “arbres sains et troncs bien enracinés, riches en sève, qui assimilent organiquement l’air, l’eau, la lumière et la terre pour maintenir leur forme et leur vie individuelle” se transforment en “branches sèches et tombées” de la pauvreté, dans un lent processus de pourriture. Malgré tous les efforts des Verts allemands pour faire des forêts l’héritage de la patrie et les gardiennes de son esprit, l’Allemagne ne peut pas faire grand-chose contre ce qu’ils appellent le Waldsterben, la mort de la forêt, car la mort de l’arbre est causée par les pluies acides. Les pluies acides ignorent les frontières nationales, l’unité culturelle ou les possessions communes.

Pendant ce temps, la nation allemande s’est reconstituée, comme des frères dont les têtes coupées sont rattachées au tronc. Que la réunification politique puisse réunifier les anciennes forêts allemandes est douteux ; sinon, il faudrait conclure qu’une telle réanimation dépend de quelque chose de plus qu’une racine miraculeuse ou une baguette de sorcière.

Il n’y avait pas que les forêts préhistoriques du nord de l’Allemagne qui abritaient les dieux. Même à l’époque historique, la plupart des temples étaient entourés d’une forêt qui s’étendait à proximité immédiate. Parfois, le bois était un temple. De l’iconographie on déduit qu’un seul arbre, ou un groupe d’arbres, était parfois entouré d’un mur qui délimitait l’espace du temple. Les dévots sont venus en procession et ont invité leur déesse à apparaître dansant extatique autour de l’arbre sacré. Au plus fort de leur extase, la déesse révélerait sa présence. De tels rituels témoignent de l’existence d’un culte de l’arbre très répandu dans diverses religions païennes. Grâce aux recherches menées par Sir Arthur Evans, nous savons qu’en Crète, par exemple, l’esprit des arbres sacrés était gardé par des piliers en bois ou en pierre. Dans le Sapphic intitulé Mycenaean Tree and Pillar Cult, Evans reconstitue les rituels par lesquels l’esprit d’un arbre a été transféré ou fait habiter dans une colonne.

Walden évoque cette perte. En fait, vivre la perte, c’est vivre poétiquement, sachant que nous ne possédons pas le monde dans lequel nous habitons précisément parce que nous n’avons pas encore trouvé le chien de chasse. Où, si ce n’est dans la nature, pouvons-nous apprendre à soumettre la nature et ainsi atteindre notre humanité – notre transcendance finie mais ouverte dans son résultat ? Thoreau parle de « vivre sagement », de vivre la vie pour ce qu’elle est et non pour ce qu’elle n’est pas. Cela exige que l’on « s’arrête à la réalité » et qu’on mette ensuite un terme à sa « carrière mortelle ». La conclusion d’une carrière mortelle n’en vient pas à son terme, mais y est déjà implicite dès le début. Une telle conclusion n’appartient pas au genre de « conclusions rapides » de ceux qui s’imaginent que l’étang Walden est sans fond, ou qui, dans leur incertitude, supposent que notre objectif principal sur terre est de rendre gloire à un autre monde. Elle consiste dans la prise de conscience du fait que tout ce qu’il y avait à perdre a déjà été perdu et que donc la vie est donnée, ou pardonnée, gratuitement.

Lorsqu’une carrière mortelle se termine, un fait de la vie nous fait prendre conscience qu’il y a quelque chose au lieu de rien, que la nature n’a aucune raison humaine d’exister et que nous vivons dans l’identité de la perte. Cette connaissance de soi, et cela seul, c’est la liberté.

Mais n’était-ce pas précisément cette liberté poétique que l’Amérique promettait à ceux qui s’abandonnent volontairement aux mers du départ ? L’Amérique n’a-t-elle pas été découverte précisément dans l’espoir d’une amnistie ? Pour une raison quelconque, ce n’était pas le destin de l’Amérique de devenir elle-même, de construire sa maison sur la base d’une perte qui aurait pu être trouvée. Son destin était plutôt de sacrifier sa liberté à l’idée de nation, de reproduire et d’exaspérer la fureur de la possession et de tomber dans le chaos de la non-vie. Au lieu d’une nation de poètes, elle est devenue une nation de débiteurs, de propriétaires, de commerçants, de spectateurs, de commérages, de bavards, de préjugés et de capitalistes de l’information qui, dans leur étrange incertitude sur la vie, poursuivent les illusions d’une trouvaille en s’appropriant tout.

Dans sa fuite incessante des conclusions d’une carrière mortelle, l’Amérique n’est pas devenue le caput mundi de la liberté poétique, mais le caput mortuum de la modernité : le capitalisme s’est transformé en crâne. L’Amérique sera à jamais ce qu’elle n’est pas devenue, et Walden restera sa maison inhabitée.

De Robert Harrison, Forêts – L’ombre des civilisations, et ça. Garzanti 1992

Ce livre est celui qui redresse, éclaire, purifie, convertit l’Esprit à la vérité. C’est un texte philosophique qui vous distingue de l’ignoble destructeur, en tout lieu, comme dans une grande forêt miraculeusement préservée. Mon triste siècle n’a épargné personne, et là où était la Cité, elle a semé des forêts de gratte-ciel et de jungles d’asphalte, et l’histoire de la perte des forêts est parallèle et indiscernable de l’histoire de la perte de l’homme conquérant. Aux destructeurs de forêts nous devons l’évocation de Némisis et la multiplication effrayante de multitudes aveuglées (nous sommes aujourd’hui sept milliards de géophages avides autour de cette Terre dénudée d’os que nous appelons croissance leur privation de vie réelle) qui entre le 19e et le 20e siècle créa un monde invivable, et les forêts avec leurs dieux et leurs sortilèges ne sont plus que matière à la mono-industrie de la décomposition.

Lisez les Forêts de Robert Harrison : cela vous fera honte et vous rendra peut-être moins passif, moins prédable par les forces du Mal.

Extrait de : Guido Ceronetti, je te salue mon siècle cruel, et Einaudi 2011

Forest

Already in the time of Tacitus, the barbarians of Germany looked to the forests of the past as the cradle of their race, just like the myth of Arcadia, in Virgil’s Aeneid, turns to a remote era in which men were born from oaks. Tacitus reminds us that certain woods were the places where “the god king of all things reigns, all subject to and obedient to him”. These woods, according to Tacitus, were also the places of theophanies.

Currently, the German “great possession” is literally dying. Those healthy “well rooted trees and trunks, rich in sap, which organically assimilate air, water, light and earth to maintain their shape and individual life” are turning into “dry and fallen branches” of poverty, in a slow process of biological decay. Despite all the efforts of the German Greens to pass the forests as the heritage of the homeland and the guardians of its spirit, there is not much that Germany can do about what they call the Waldsterben, the death of the forest, because the tree death is caused by acid rain. Acid rain knows nothing of national borders, cultural unity or common possessions.

Meanwhile, the German nation has been put back together, like brothers whose severed heads are reattached to the trunk. That political reunification can reunify the ancient German forests is doubtful; otherwise it would have to be concluded that such resuscitation depends on something more than a miraculous root or a witch’s wand.

It was not only the prehistoric forests of northern Germany that harbored the gods. Even in historical times most of the temples were surrounded by a forest that extended in the immediate vicinity. Sometimes the wood was a temple. From the iconography we take that a single tree, or a group of trees, was sometimes surrounded by a wall that delimited the space of the temple. The devotees came in procession and invited their goddess to appear ecstatic dancing around the sacred tree. At the height of their ecstasy, the goddess would reveal her presence. Rituals like these testify to the existence of a very widespread tree cult in the various pagan religions. Thanks to the research carried out by Sir Arthur Evans we know that in Crete, for example, the spirit of the sacred trees was guarded by wooden or stone pillars. In the Sapphic entitled Mycenaean Tree and Pillar Cult, Evans reconstructs the rituals by which the spirit of a tree was transferred to, or made to dwell in, a column.

Walden brings this loss to mind. In fact, experiencing loss means living poetically, knowing that we do not own the world we inhabit precisely because we have not yet found the hunting dog. Where, if not in nature, can we learn to subdue nature and thereby attain our humanity – our finite yet open transcendence in its outcome? Thoreau speaks of “living wisely”, of living life for what it is and not for what it is not. This requires that one “stop at reality” and then end one’s “mortal career”. The conclusion of a mortal career does not come to the end of it, but is already implicit in it from the very beginning. Such a conclusion does not belong to the kind of “quick conclusions” of those who imagine that the Walden Pond is bottomless, or who in their uncertainty assume that our main purpose on earth is to give glory to some other world. It consists in the awareness of the fact that all there was to lose has already been lost and that therefore life is given, or condoned, free of charge.

When a mortal career ends, a fact of life makes us aware that there is something instead of nothing, that nature has no human reason to exist, and that we live in the identity of loss. This self-knowledge, and this alone, is freedom.

But wasn’t it precisely this poetic freedom that America promised to those who voluntarily abandon themselves to the seas of departure? Wasn’t America discovered precisely in the hope of amnesty? For some reason, it was not America’s destiny to become herself, to build her home on the foundation of a loss that could have been found. Rather, her destiny was to sacrifice her freedom to the idea of ​​nation, to reproduce and exasperate the fury of possession and to fall into the chaos of no-life. Instead of a nation of poets, it has become a nation of debtors, owners, shopkeepers, spectators, gossips, chatterers, prejudices and information-capitalists who in their strange uncertainty about life pursue the illusions of a find by appropriating everything.

In its continuous flight from the conclusions of a mortal career, America has become not the caput mundi of poetic freedom, but the caput mortuum of modernity: capitalism has turned into a skull. America will forever be what it has not become, and Walden will remain its uninhabited home.

From Robert Harrison, Forests – The shadow of civilizations, and It. Garzanti 1992

This book is one of those that straighten, illuminate, purify, convert the Mind to truth. It is a philosophical text that sets you apart from the ignoble destroyer, in any place, just like in a large, miraculously unspoiled forest. My sad century spared none, and where the city was it sowed forests of skyscrapers and asphalt jungles, and the story of the loss of forests is parallel and indistinguishable from the story of the loss of the conquering man. To the destroyers of forests we owe the evocation of Némisis and the frightening multiplication of blinded multitudes (today we are seven billion avid geophages around this stripped bone Earth that we call growth their deprivation of real life) which between the nineteenth and the twentieth created a unlivable world, and the forests with their gods and spells are no more than matter for the monoindustry of decay.

Read Robert Harrison’s Forests: it will shame you and make you, perhaps, less passive, less predatable by the forces of Evil.

Taken from: Guido Ceronetti, I salute you my cruel century, and Einaudi 2011

Foreste

Già ai tempi di Tacito i barbari di Germania guardavano alle foreste del passato come alla culla della loro razza, proprio come il mito dell’Arcadia, nell’Eneide di Virgilio, si volge a un’epoca remota in cui gli uomini nascevano dai roveri. Tacito ci rammenta che certi boschi erano i luoghi in cui “regna il dio re di tutte le cose, tutti a lui soggette e obbedienti” Questi boschi, sempre secondo Tacito, erano anche i luoghi delle teofanie.

Attualmente, il “ grande possedimento” tedesco sta letteralmente morendo. Quei sani “alberi e tronchi ben radicati, ricchi di linfa, che assimilano organicamente aria, acque, luce e terra per mantenere la propria forma e la vita individuale” si stanno trasformando in “rami secchi e caduti” della povertà, in un lento processo di decadenza biologica. Nonostante tutti gli sforzi dei Verdi tedeschi per far passare le foreste come l’eredità della patria e le custodi del suo spirito, non c’è molto che la Germania possa fare per ciò che essi chiamano il Waldsterben, la morte della foresta, perché la morte degli alberi é provocata dalla pioggia acida. La pioggia acida non sa nulla di confini nazionali , di unità culturale o di possedimenti comuni.

Nel frattempo, la nazione tedesca è stata rimessa insieme, come i fratelli le cui teste recise vengono riattaccate al tronco. Che la riunificazione politica possa riunificare le antiche foreste tedesche è dubbio; altrimenti bisognerebbe concludere che tale rianimazione dipende da qualche  cosa di più di una radice miracolosa o della bacchetta di una strega.

Non furono soltanto i boschi preistorici della Germania settentrionale a ospitare gli dèi. Anche in epoche storiche la maggior parte dei templi era circondata da un bosco che si estendeva nelle immediate vicinanze. Talvolta il bosco era un tempio. Dall’iconografia prendiamo che un singolo albero, o un gruppo d’alberi, era  talvolta circondato da un muro che delimitava lo spazio del tempio. I devoti vi giungevano in processione e invitavano la loro dea ad apparire danzano estatici intorno all’albero sacro. Al culmine della loro estasi la dea avrebbe rivelato la sua presenza. Rituali come questi testimoniano l’esistenza di un culto degli alberi molto diffuso nelle varia religioni pagane. Grazie alle ricerche svolte da Sir Arthur Evans sappiamo che a Creta, per esempio, lo spirito degli alberi sacri era custodito d a pilastri di legno o di pietra. Nel saffico intitolato Mycenaean Tree and Pillar Cult, Evans ricostruisce i rituali con cui lo spirito di un albero veniva trasferito a una colonna, o fatto dimorare in essa.

Walden richiama alla nostra mente questa perdita. Di fatto, vivere la perdita significa vivere poeticamente, sapendo che non possediamo il mondo che abitiamo proprio perché non abbiamo ancora trovato il cane da caccia. Dove, se non nella natura, possiamo imparare a sottomettere la natura e a conseguire quindi la nostra umanità – la nostra trascendenza finita, eppure aperta nel suo esito? Thoreau parla di “ vivere con saggezza”, di vivere la vita per quello che è e non per quello che non è. Questo richiede che ci si “pianti davanti alla realtà” e poi si concluda la propria “carriera mortale”. La conclusione di una carriera mortale non giunge alla fine di essa, ma è già implicita in essa fin dall’inizio. Tale conclusione non appartiene al genere delle “rapidi conclusioni” di coloro che immaginano che il Walden Pond sia senza fondo, o che nella loro incertezza assumono che il nostro principale fine sulla terra sia quello di rendere gloria a qualche altro mondo. Essa consiste nella consapevolezza del fatto che si è già perso tutto quello che c’era da perdere e che perciò la vita è data, o condonata, a titolo gratuito.

Quando pone termine a una carriera mortale, un fatto della vita ci rende consapevoli che c’è qualcosa invece di niente, che la natura è senza una ragione umanaper essere, e che abitiamo nella dadità delle perdita. Questa conoscenza di sé, e solo questa, è la libertà.

Ma non era proprio questa libertà poetica che l’America prometteva a coloro che volontariamente si abbandonano ai mari della partenza? L’America non fu scoperta proprio nella speranza del condono?  Per qualche motivo, non era destino dell’America diventare se stessa, costruire la propria casa sulle fondamenta di un perdita rispetto alla quale sarebbe stato possibile un ritrovamento. Il suo destino era piuttosto quello di sacrificare la propria libertà all’idea di nazione, di riprodurre ed esasperare la furia del possesso e di precipitare nel marasma della no-vita. Invece di una nazione di poeti, è diventata una nazione di debitori, proprietari, negozianti, spettatori, pettegoli, trafficanti in chiacchiere, pregiudizi e informazioni- capitalisti che nella loro strana incertezza sulla vita inseguono le illusioni di un ritrovamento appropriandosi di ogni cosa.

Nella sua continua fuga dalle conclusioni di una carriera mortale, l’America è diventata non il caput mundi della libertà poetica, bensì il caput mortuum della modernità: il capitalismo si è trasformato in un teschio. L’America sarà per sempre ciò che non è diventata, e Walden rimarrà la sua casa disabitata.

Da Robert Harrison, Foreste – L’ombra delle civiltà, ed It. Garzanti 1992

Questo libro è di quelli che raddrizzano, illuminano, purificano, convertono alla verità la Mente. È un testo filosofico che ti fa appartare dal volgo ignobile distruttore, in qualunque luogo, proprio come in una grande, incontaminata per miracolo, foresta. Il mio triste secolo non ne ha risparmiata nessuna, e dov’era la Città ha seminato selve di grattacieli e giungle d’asfalto, e la storia della perdita delle foreste è parallela e indistinguibile dalla storia della perdita dell’uomo conquistatore. Ai distruttori di foreste dobbiamo l’evocazione di Némisis e la moltiplicazione spaventosa di moltitudini accecate ( oggi siamo sette miliardi di geofagi accaniti attorno a quest’osso spolpato Terra che chiamiamo crescita la loro privazione di vita vera ) che tra XIX e XX hanno creato un mondo invivibile, e le foreste con le loro divinità e i loro incantesimi non sono più che materia per la monoindustria del disfacimento.

Leggete Foreste di Robert Harrison: vi farà vergognare e vi renderà, forse, meno passivi, meno predabili dalle forze del Male.

Tratto da:  Guido Ceronetti, Ti saluto mio secolo crudele, ed Einaudi 2011

Leo Hickman

The Library · Humboldt State University – Humboldt Room Photograph Collections

Today marks the 160th anniversary of a seminal, but largely forgotten moment in the history of the conservation movement.

160 years ago a giant sequoia in California was cut down, becoming the inspiration for the national park system

 

 

On Monday, 27 June, 1853, a giant sequoia – one of the natural world’s most awe-inspiring sights – was brought to the ground by a band of gold-rush speculators in Calaveras county, California. It had taken the men three weeks to cut through the base of the 300ft-tall, 1,244-year-old tree, but finally it fell to the forest floor.

A section of the bark from the “Mammoth Tree”, as newspapers soon described it, had already been removed and was sent to San Francisco to be put on display. The species had only been “discovered” (local Native American tribes such as the Miwok had known of the trees for centuries) that spring by a hunter who stumbled upon the pristine grove in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada whilst chasing an injured bear. Word of the discovery quickly spread.

In the age of PT Barnum’s freak shows, the speculators, mostly gold miners, had sensed a commercial opportunity. The section of bark – re-erected using scaffold, with a piano inside to entertain paying visitors – would later be sent to Broadway in New York, as would the bark from a second tree felled a year later. The bark of the “Mother of the Forest” – as the second tree was named – would even go on to be displayed at London’s Crystal Palace causing great excitement and wonder in Victorian England before it was destroyed by fire on 30 December 1866. (The bark of the original mammoth tree was also lost to fire as it lay in storage in New York in 1855. A fitting end, perhaps, as fire plays such a crucial role in the life cycle of giant sequoias.)

The fame of the trees was such that a hotel was quickly built at the site to host the influx of tourists. To entertain the guests, tea dances were regularly held on the stump of the mammoth tree and a bowling alley was built on the now prone trunk. (This page has a wonderful range of images of the Mammoth Tree and the Mother of the Forest.)

The remarkable, engaging story of these two doomed trees is too detailed to be told here, but what is worth recalling on this anniversary is the reaction their destruction caused in the media at the time – and its subsequent effect on some progressive politicians a decade later when they cited their felling and exploitation as an inspiration to establish what later came to be known as the US national park system.

Was the outrage expressed by some in the popular media of the day evidence of the first stirrings of an environmental consciousness in the US? It would be wrong to assess such statements without noting the historical context of that age – a time of the “manifest destiny” when nature was viewed as a God-given resource for Mankind to exploit – but it is also hard to ignore the clear outrage and bemusement among some commentators that such magnificent natural specimens had been brutalised in this way.

According to Gary D Lowe, a local historian, author and “Big Tree” aficionado, the first-known negative commentary came a month before the tree was felled. An article in the Sonora Herald, a local newspaper, reported that Captain Hanford, the man leading the enterprise, “is about stripping off the bark”. The report went on: “This will of course kill the tree, which is much to be deprecated.”

On 27 June, 1853 – the same day the tree finally fell – a report in San Francisco’s Placer Times and Transcript also noted an article, again in the Sonora Herald, expressing regret that Captain Hanford was preparing for a “portion of the mammoth tree” to be sent to New York.

“Amator” [Latin for “friend”] is dreadfully shocked at the vandalism and barbarity of flaying that giant of the woods, and depriving California of its greatest “growing” exponent.

However, the same report also goes on to say that the stripping of the tree’s bark is “characteristic of California enterprise” and that Hanford’s efforts to exhibit the bark in New York will allow “millions of the inhabitants of the earth to see it, has rendered his adopted state a lasting benefit, given to science a page, and the world a natural curiosity”. So any sadness at the tree’s demise was counteracted by the boost to local pride.

But these were reports in local newspapers with little influence outside the communities they served. A far more significant report came that autumn when Maturin M Ballou, the Boston-based editor of Gleason’s Pictorial Drawing Room Companion, one of the most widely read magazines of the day, printed an illustration of the “largest tree yet discovered in the world” on 1 October, 1853. The accompanying text said:

To our mind it seems a cruel idea, a perfect desecration, to cut down such a splendid tree…In Europe, such a natural production would have been cherished and protected, if necessary, by law; but in this money-making, go-ahead community, thirty or forty thousand dollars are paid for it, and the purchaser chops it down, and ships it off for a shilling show! We hope that no one will conceive the idea of purchasing the Niagara Falls with the same purpose!…But, seriously, what in the world could have possessed any mortal to embark in such speculation with this mountain of wood? In its natural condition, rearing its majestic head towards heaven, and waving in all its native vigour, strength and verdure, it was a sight worth a pilgrimage to see; but now, alas, It is only a monument of the cupidity of those who have destroyed all there was of interest connected with it.

Five months later, on 11 March, 1854, Ballou printed a further remark in his magazine:

A tree of such gigantic proportions as well might excite the wonder and curiosity of the world. Although the destruction of such a magnificent object was an act of vandalism not to be forgiven, yet the desecration has been committed, and it is useless now to reiterate our vain regrets.

However, the ripples of outrage took a further year – and the stripping of the Mother of the Forest – to really gain traction. Then came this editorial in the New York Herald, dated 17 December, 1855:

The finest, the most beautiful and symmetrical of these trees, (though not the largest) has been cut down…From this beginning, unless the Goths and Vandals are arrested in their work, the destruction of the incomparable forest will probably go on till the last vestige of it is destroyed. In this view, the point that we make is, that the State of California and the Congress of the Union should interpose to preserve these trees, as the living proofs that the boasted monarchs of the wood of the Old World are but stunted shrubbery compared with the forest giants of our own country. We say that Congress should interpose, upon the presumption that these trees are public property, are on the public lands of California, and because Congress has already interposed to protect the public live oak forests of Florida from the rapacity of unscrupulous speculators…We repeat, that it is the duty of the State of California, of Congress, and of all good citizens, to protect and to preserve these California monuments of the capabilities of our American soil. Let it be the law that this…Mammoth Grove shall stand.

The next notable article was printed in the March 1859 issue (pdf) of Hutchings’ California Magazine. It was also later reprinted the following year in the popular tourist guide, Scenes of Wonder and Curiosity in California:

In our estimation, it was a sacrilegious act; although it is possible, that the exhibition of the bark, among the unbelievers of the eastern part of our continent, and of Europe, may have convinced all the “Thomases” living, that we have great facts in California, that must be believed, sooner or later. This is the only palliating consideration with us for this act of desecration.

And then, in 1864, came the culminating moment when John Conness, the senator from California, rose in Congress to make a speech urging his colleagues to pass a bill that would see the now nationally famous Yosemite Valley and its neighbouring grove of sequoias in the mountains above Mariposa secured and protected “inalienable forever”. In making his case, he directly referenced the fate of the felled trees at Calaveras just over a decade earlier:

From the Calaveras grove some sections of a fallen tree were cut during and pending the great World’s Fair that was held in London some years since…The English who saw it declared it to be a Yankee invention, made from beginning to end; that it was an utter untruth that such trees grew in the country; that it could not be; and, although the section of the tree was transported there at an expense of several thousand dollars, we were not able to convince them that it was a specimen of American growth. They would not believe us. The purpose of this bill is to preserve one of these groves from devastation and injury. The necessity of taking early possession and care of these great wonders can easily be seen and understood.

The bill passed and the “Yosemite grant” paved the way for the first official national park being established at Yellowstone in 1872. Celebrated conservationists such as John Muir would all later visit the stump of the original “mammoth tree” to reflect on both its fate and influence. However, the grove of sequoias at Calaveras – where the story of the US conservation movement arguably began – did not become a state park until 1931 following a decades-long fight to see off the desires of lumber companies.

Today, the trees are now safe from the “Goths and Vandals”, but not, alas, some of the side-effects of modern civilization: urban ozone, climate change, uncontrolled frequent fires, to name but a few.

Footnote: I first fell under the spell of the story of the Mammoth Tree five years ago – I feel it has many lessons for us today – and have been researching the tale, on and off, ever since, with the expert guidance of Gary D Lowe. Gary has written a number of booklets on the topic, including one about the Cornish plant hunter William Lobb who was in California at the time and, upon hearing of the tree’s discovery, rushed to the site to collect seeds and then took the first ship back to London to deliver them to his employer, Vietch Nurseries of Exeter and Chelsea. But that’s a whole other story… Please email me if you want one of Gary’s books, or know more about this wider subject.

 

 

Tratto da: , The Guardian

 

El camino de los enfermos

Antes de caminar, ahora llamamos o deambulamos por la red. En la civilización campesina, había que caminar muchas horas al día para vivir. En mi pueblo, la parcela de tierra, que entonces era una parcela de piedras, podía estar a diez kilómetros de distancia. Y en un día fueron veinte, junto con la mula y la azada.

Italia se ha detenido literalmente en los últimos años. Quien no está parado frente al televisor, está parado frente a la computadora o está dentro de un automóvil. Solo se ven extranjeros en el borde de la carretera. Hace unos días conocí a una cuidadora que camina cinco kilómetros todos los días para pasar de la cama donde duerme a la cama donde cuida a una anciana.

También camino un poco últimamente. Podría poner la excusa de una lesión de menisco, pero la verdadera razón es que en mi país ya no hay razón para caminar. No tengo un pedazo de tierra que alcanzar, ya no hay nadie con quien caminar. Cuando salgo a la plaza me encuentro con los milicianos del rencor. Algunos espíritus más apacibles hace tiempo que han dejado de salir. A los niños no les gustan las piscinas, se estacionan frente al bar y solo se mueven para aterrizar frente a la sala de juegos. Los chicos nunca caminarían con una persona de 50 años.

Para caminar solo tengo que coger mi cámara y dar un paseo fuera de la plaza, en el museo a puertas cerradas que se ha convertido en mi pueblo. No son paseos que sean buenos para ti. Cuando llego a casa me siento peor que antes. Y me pongo frente a la computadora para escribir. Escribo sentada en el sofá, con la computadora en mi regazo. Es una postura que me permite permanecer frente a la pantalla incluso durante seis horas, pero es una postura mortal. Girar el cuello o doblar la espalda pronto serán operaciones complicadas.

En mis letras sigo elogiando las salidas, pero incluso en mis recorridos por el paisaje, en realidad paso mucho tiempo en el coche. Doy paseos cortos, a menudo me desanimo y vuelvo a la carretera en busca de otro país.

En definitiva, cuando hablamos de la falta de experiencia, debemos recordar que la fundamental, la de caminar, se está volviendo imposible.

Últimamente vemos caminantes infelices, personas que han tenido un infarto o tienen miedo de padecerlo. Y así sucesivamente, con el cuidado obligatorio del cuerpo, con el descuido de lo que pasa a nuestro alrededor. Lo importante es mantenerse en forma, incluso si realmente no sabe qué hacer con esta forma. A lo sumo, puede llamar por teléfono o escribir en la computadora.

Creo que el primer gesto para dar espacio a la marcha es pedir la dimisión del capitalismo burocrático. Hay demasiadas oficinas, demasiados escritorios. La gente tiene la cabeza inundada de palabras. Y cuando tu cabeza está inundada de palabras, caminar más que saludable es doloroso. Debes mirar al mundo y todavía estás en el pantano de tus ansiedades, tus miedos, tus recriminaciones. Le gustaría caminar con ligereza, quitarse todos los pesos y, en cambio, está decorado como un árbol de Navidad y las pesas siguen llegando de todas partes.

Ahora llevamos la computadora en nuestros bolsillos. No es necesario volver a casa para abrir el correo electrónico. Simplemente siéntese y vea lo que otras personas enfermas como nosotros dicen de nosotros.

Mucho tiempo ha pasado del nomadismo al sofá, el mismo tiempo que divide la Edad de Piedra de la del azulejo. Ha llegado el momento de volver a la carretera, pero sin halos místicos. Caminar para mirar, caminar porque percibir es más importante que juzgar, mirar lo que hay en lugar de pensar en el mundo como otros nos lo han descrito. Es hora de salir, de enjambrar al exterior, de ver cómo cada día algo se deshace y se forma algo.

No tienes que caminar para alargar un poco tu vida, sino para hacerla más intensa. Sal a ver, da vueltas y vueltas a las cosas, revísalas, recoge detalles, mide la realidad con las plantas de los pies. El mundo es colosal, no se puede encerrar en la choza de nuestro yo. Tenga cuidado de moverse. No te quedes quieto como un trapo debajo de la plancha.

Tomado de: Franco Arminio

Il cammino degli infermi

Prima si camminava, adesso si telefona o si vaga nella rete. Nella civiltà contadina per vivere bisognava camminare molte ore al giorno. Al mio paese il fazzoletto di terra, che poi era un fazzoletto di pietre, poteva distare anche dieci chilometri. E in un giorno se ne facevano venti, insieme al mulo e alla zappa.

L’Italia negli ultimi anni si è letteralmente fermata. Chi non è fermo davanti alla televisione, è fermo davanti al computer o è dentro un’automobile. Si vedono sul ciglio delle strade solo gli stranieri. Qualche giorno fa ho incontrato una badante che ogni giorno fa cinque chilometri a piedi per spostarsi dal letto dove dorme al letto dove accudisce un’anziana.

Pure io cammino poco ultimamente. Potrei accampare la scusa di una lesione al menisco, ma il motivo vero è che al mio paese non c’è più nessun motivo per camminare. Non ho un fazzoletto di terra da raggiungere, non c’è più nessuno con cui passeggiare. Quando esco in piazza trovo i miliziani del rancore. Qualche spirito più lieve ha ormai da tempo rinunciato a uscire. I ragazzi non amano le vasche, stazionano davanti al bar e si spostano solo per approdare davanti alla sala giochi. I ragazzi non passeggerebbero mai con un cinquantenne.

Per camminare non mi resta che prendere la macchina fotografica e farmi un giro lontano dalla piazza, nel museo delle porte chiuse che è diventato il mio paese. Non sono camminate che fanno bene. Quando torno a casa mi sento peggio di prima. E mi metto davanti al computer a scrivere. Scrivo seduto sul divano, col computer sulle gambe. È una postura che mi consente di rimanere davanti allo schermo anche per sei ore, ma è una postura micidiale. Fra poco girare il collo o piegare la schiena saranno operazioni complicate.

Nei miei testi continuo a fare l’elogio dell’andare fuori, però anche nei miei giri paesologici di fatto passo molto tempo in macchina. Faccio camminate brevi, spesso mi prende lo sconforto e mi rimetto in moto in cerca di un altro paese.

Insomma, quando si parla della penuria di esperienza, bisogna ricordare che sta diventando impossibile proprio quella fondamentale, quella del camminare.

Ultimamente si vedono dei camminatori infelici, gente che ha avuto un infarto o teme di averlo. E allora avanti, avanti con la cura coatta del corpo, avanti col fregarsene di quello che accade intorno a noi. L’importante è stare in forma, anche se poi non si sa bene che farsene di questa forma. Al massimo si può telefonare o scrivere al computer.

Io credo che il primo gesto per ridare spazio al camminare sia quello di chiedere le dimissioni del capitalismo burocratico. Ci sono troppi uffici, troppe scrivanie. Le persone hanno la testa allagata di parole. E quando stai con la testa allagata di parole camminare più che salutare è doloroso. Dovresti guardare il mondo e sei fermo nella palude delle tue ansie, delle tue paure, delle tue recriminazioni. Vorresti camminare in leggerezza, soffiare via ogni peso e invece sei addobbato come un albero di natale e continuano ad arrivarti pesi da ogni parte.

Adesso il computer ce lo portiamo in tasca. Per aprire la posta elettronica non c’è bisogno di tornare a casa. Basta sedersi e vedere che dicono di noi gli altri infermi come noi.

Dal nomadismo al divano è passato molto tempo, lo stesso che divide l’età della pietra da quella della piastrella. È arrivato il momento di rimettersi in cammino, ma senza aloni misticheggianti. Camminare per guardare, camminare perché percepire è più importante che giudicare, guardare quello che c’è piuttosto che pensare il mondo per come ce lo hanno descritto altri. È tempo di uscire, di sciamare nell’esterno, per vedere come ogni giorno qualcosa si disfa e qualcosa si forma.

Non bisogna camminare per allungarsi un poco la vita, ma per renderla più intensa. Uscire a vedere, girare dietro e intorno alle cose, attraversarle, collezionare dettagli, misurare la realtà con la pianta dei piedi. Il mondo è colossale, non può essere richiuso nella baracca del nostro io. Abbiate cura di andare in giro. Non rimanete fermi come uno straccio sotto il ferro da stiro.

Tratto da: Franco Arminio

Dacia Maraini

«“La senia o noria oggi in disuso, era costituita da un sitema di secchielli inseriti in un nastro a catena che ruotavano con un congegno meccanico, a trazione animale (di solito asino o mulo) a mezzo di una manovella girata a mano per tirare dai pozzi l’acqua per l’irrigazione dei campi”, leggo nel libro di Oreste Girgenti su Bagheria, il solo libro organico che racconti la storia della cittadina.

Un uomo onesto questo Girgenti, meticoloso e molto amante della sua terra. Anche se si indovina, dietro le sue ricerche accurate, il terrore di offendere i notabili del paese, che siano sindaci, o prelati o nobili o “emeriti professori”. Un libro accurato e rassicurante, di assoluto ossequio alle “autorità”.

Nel libro compare la data del 1985 ma immagino che si tratti di una ristampa perché sembra uscito dai cassetti di uno studio dell’Ottocento. Anche le fotografie sembrano a cavallo del secolo, con il loro sobrio bianco e nero, e mostrano una Bagheria ormai inesistente, commovente nelle sue sfilate di scolaresche del Convitto Manzoni, o negli scorci di ville viste da lontano, sprofondate in mezzo agli ulivi che sono stati tagliati per lo meno da mezzo secolo.

Niente ci viene detto, da parte dell’onesto Girgenti, sullo scempio delle ville di Bagheria che pure lui ama e ammira.

“Tutto è cominciato con un esproprio voluto dal Comune di Bagheria verso la metà degli anni ‘50”, scrive Francesco Alliata, uno dei pochi fra i miei parenti che ha dimostrato una coscienza civica, assieme alla giovane nipote Vittoria. “Non fu possibile da parte di mia zia Caterina e di mio fratello Giuseppe di convincere il Comune a usare un’altra area vicina.”

Il pretesto era la costruzione di una scuola elementare. Ma chiaramente si trattava di una scusa perché la scuola si sarebbe benissimo potuta costruire un poco più in là, mentre le terre vincolate che contornavano villa Valguarnera facevano gola a chi voleva costruire in pieno centro di Bagheria. Uno dei preziosi “polmoni verdi”, uno degli spazi più deliziosamente arredati dai giardinieri di tre secoli fa è stato così brutalmente “ripulito” dei suoi alberi secolari, delle sue fontane, dei suoi vialetti, delle sue statue, delle sue balaustre in arenaria, per fare spazio a una orribile scuola che non ha nessuna vera necessità di stare dove sta.

Ma si trattava di una prima mossa, apparentemente nata da una considerazione di bene comune – chi si sarebbe opposto alla costruzione di una scuola pubblica? – per poi fare seguire le villette e i palazzi.

Che la zona fosse vincolata da precise leggi per la difesa del paesaggio, dei monumenti e del verde pubblico non preoccupa nessuno. All’esproprio segue la costruzione di una strada e poi di un’altra strada, più larga e infine ecco le lottizzazioni selvagge.

Solo nel ’65, a scempio avvenuto, per volontà del Partito comunista di Bagheria viene costruita una Commissione d’inchiesta presieduta dall’onorevole Giuseppe Speciale. Essa, dopo avere indagato con scrupolo per mesi, compila una serie di relazioni davvero angosciate e allarmanti in cui si denunciano, con nomi e cognomi, coloro che hanno contribuito allo sfacelo del primo e del secondo polmone verde di Bagheria per favorire quelli che a Roma si chiamano “palazzinari”, con la complicità a volte sfacciata, a volte sorniona e nascosta degli uomini del governo locale: sindaci, consiglieri comunali, assessori, tecnici eccetera.

“L’Amministrazione comunale”, scrive Rosario La Duca, uno dei più attenti osservatori delle cose siciliane, “ha volutamente ignorato gli strumenti di legge che erano predisposti nel tempo, ha favorito la speculazione privata, ha dato un eclatante esempio di malcostume politico e di corruzione […] Dopo villa Butera, il massacro urbanistico di Bagheria prosegue senza pietà…l’Amministrazione oggi, con questa inchiesta, viene chiamata a rispondere di fronte alla magistratura di gravi imputazioni che emergono dai risultati di una commissione d’inchiesta scrupolosa e vigile”.

Qualcuno ha accusato Francesco Alliata di esser coinvolto anche lui e di avere partecipato, attraverso sua zia e cugina Marianna Alliata, alla svendita del “polmone verde”. “Ma se anche i miei congiunti furono colpevoli”, risponde saviamente lui, “era comunque dovere di una Amministrazione comunale seria e responsabile impedirlo in quanto custode ed esecutore per legge dei vincoli imposti dallo Stato.”

Ho avuto fra le mani, grazie all’amicizia di una delle persone più oneste, amabili e intelligenti di Bagheria, il professor Antonio Morreale, appassionato studioso della storia di Sicilia, le relazioni della Commissione di inchiesta sull’attività dell’Assessorato ai Lavori Pubblici del Comune di Bagheria fatte nel 1965.

A leggere queste carte si rimane stupefatti dalla sfacciata arroganza, dalla sicurezza dell’impunità che accompagna le azioni di questi amministratori comunali senza scrupoli e senza vergogna.

“La manipolazione più grande dei terreni vincolati di Bagheria”, raccontano i commissari, “avviene nel luglio ’63.” Il personaggio che sbuca appena qualche pagina più avanti e che continuerà ad apparire dietro ogni contratto ambiguo, dietro ogni progetto, ogni lottizzazione è un altro, un certo ingegner Nicolò Giammanco. Un protagonista oscuro, minaccioso, tenace, che riesce, con le buone e con le cattive, a costringere tutti al suo volere. Ha qualcosa del demone, ma di un demone “meschino”, molto simile al personaggio segreto e infelice di Sologub.

Vengono interrogati i consiglieri comunali, i sindaci, ma nessuno sa niente, né ricorda niente. Altri si rifiutano perfino di andare a rispondere. Si barricano in casa, si danno malati, o sono “partiti”.

Uno dei segretari del Comune dichiara candidamente “di non ricordare di avere mai partecipato a una riunione della Giunta nel corso della quale si sarebbe discusso del prezzo concordato per l’area su cui sorge la scuola, nonché sull’ampliamento della zona da edificare al di là del limite segnato dal piano di fabbricazione. E soggiunge che probabilmente di questi argomenti si parlava dopo che gli argomenti regolarmente iscritti all’ordine del giorno erano stati esauriti ed egli di conseguenza si allontanava.”

Ma dove andava? nel corridoio “ a fumare una sigaretta? o si chiudeva nel cesso aspettando

che finissero di manomettere il piano approvato dai consiglieri, oppure se ne andava a casa? Questo non è detto nelle carte dei commissari.

“Il fatto”, dichiara il segretario comunale, “avveniva spesso e ricordo che tutte le volte che in Giunta venivano discussi argomenti relativi ai Lavori Pubblici la Giunta chiamava ad assistervi un funzionario dell’Ufficio Tecnico e che questo funzionario era quasi sempre l’ingegner Giammanco.”

Il sindaco, a sua volta interrogato, dice di non saperne niente. Tutti cascano dalle nuvole quasi che la Giunta fosse fatta di soli corpi vuoti, i cui cervelli e le cui memorie rimanevano fuori della porta.

Ci sono dei fatti, fra quelli raccontati dalla Commissione, che sfiorano il grottesco e farebbero ridere se non ci fosse da piangere per i risultati che ne sono seguiti, di impoverimento ai danni dei cittadini di Bagheria, di rovina delle bellezze e quindi delle ricchezze del paese, di distruzioni architettoniche e ambientali.

Il Comune, tanto per dirne una, concede a un dato momento il permesso di costruire un liceo, in piena zona vincolata, a una certa ditta Barone. La ditta comincia a buttare giù alberi antichi. Scava e butta cemento. Dopo qualche mese il Comune “si accorge” che i lavori non possono più andare avanti perché la zona è vincolata e per legge non vi si possono costruire edifici né pubblici né privati.

La ditta Barone giustamente chiede i danni. I magistrati danno ragione alla ditta e il Comune è chiamato a pagare poiché, “pur conoscendo e dovendo conoscere il vincolo di cui sopra, contrattò con il Barone in condizioni tali da rendere quanto meno prevedibile l’intervento delle competenti autorità per il rispetto del vincolo con la conseguente necessità di sospendere i lavori già iniziati e di rimaneggiare il progetto.”

Ma tutti sanno che è un incidente di percorso, non grave, che si troverà un rimedio alla pretesa di giustizia. Qualche intimidazione, qualche erogazione di denaro nero e i lavori ricominciano ben presto. In piena zona vincolata, senza il permesso della Soprintendenza vengono piantate le fondamenta di mostruose costruzioni a dieci piani. E i progetti sono regolarmente approvati da Assessori, Commissioni edili, Uffici tecnici del Comune.

In ognuno di questi progetti si trova però lo zampino dell’ingegner Giammanco. La Commissione addirittura ha scoperto che “da un sopralluogo effettuato nella zona risulta che una parte della strada è recintata con la proprietà dell’ingegner Giammanco.”

Il quale Giammanco è intanto diventato amico della principessa Alliata e con lei progetta un’altra sede di lotti “a monte della via Seconda malgrado il vincolo esistente dalla stessa Alliata portato a conoscenza del Comune in una lettera del 24.8.57”.

La Commissione scopre che spesso i permessi dell’Ufficio Tecnico, che è diretto dall’ingegner Giammanco, vengono scritti di pugno dell’ingegner Giammanco e poi firmati dal suo

capo. Inoltre “tutte le pratiche risultano incomplete: il rilascio delle licenze è irregolare, mancano i visti della Soprintendenza, manca il il deposito in Prefettura dei calcoli in C.A. [Cemento Armato], mancano tracce delle riunioni regolari della C.E. [Commissione Edilizia], manca il pagamento dei contributi dovuti per la Cassa di Provvidenza Ingengeri e Architetti”.

Tutti i contratti con privati risultano essere stati scritti alla presenza del notaio Di Liberto Di Chiara di Bagheria, “assistito dal professionista Nicolò Giammanco che è indicato dagli stessi come consulente tecnico”.

Quindi un controllo totale della situazione speculativa delle aree vincolate.

“Alcuni di questi lotti risultano inoltre acquistati dallo stesso ingegner Giammanco.”

La Soprintendenza, messa all’erta dalle relazioni della Commissione (ma possibile che non se

ne fosse accorta prima?), dichiara che non darà mai il permesso di costruire nelle zone vincolate. Ma nessuno evidentemente tiene conto delle dichiarazioni della Soprintendenza, poiché le “Amministrazioni comunali proprio in quel periodo autorizzavano la nuova lottizzazione sulla strada Seconda e lasciavano che si costruissero nuovi palazzi in zona verde”.

Insomma le relazioni della Commissione, come le parole della Soprintendenza sono rimaste lettera morta. I lavori hanno continuato a imperversare, e i due polmoni verdi di Bagheria sono stati “mangiati in due bocconi”. Al loro posto abbiamo una scuola elementare tirata su in un deserto di terra e fango, un liceo che non è mai stato finito e, per di più, un mare di case nuove, affastellate in dispregio di ogni regola architettonica e urbanistica.

Alla fine, quando le carte della Commissione sono state rese pubbliche e se ne è parlato anche sui giornali, anziché punire i colpevoli e riparare (nei limiti del possibile) ai danni fatti, si è risolto tutto con una sanatoria, un condono che mandava assolti gli speculatori con una piccola multa. Per la precisione: il signor Nicolò Giammanco è stato prosciolto nel ’73 dalle accuse di interessi privati in atti di ufficio e falsità ideologica per amnistia e per insufficienza di prove e, nel ’75, avendo lui ricorso in Appello, il suo caso è stato giudicato “inammissibile” e il signor Giammanco è stato condannato a pagare le spese di giudizio.

In questo modo le straordinarie ville settecentesche di Bagheria, che sono fra le più preziose ricchezze della Sicilia, sono state private dei loro contorni, rimanendo lì, in mezzo alle case, come testimoni intirizziti e malmenati di un passato che si ha fretta di distruggere.

Basti pensare ai famosi mostri in pietra arenaria della villa Palagonia, tanto originali e stravaganti da avere richiamato, ad ammirarli, a fotografarli, a scriverne, gente da tutto il mondo. Ma mentre una volta questi capolavori del grottesco barocco si stagliavano elegantemente contro il cielo, oggi sono come inghiottiti da una cortina di case, di appartamenti arrampicati gli uni sugli altri disordinatamente.

Ho chiesto al professor Nino Morreale se oggi l’atmosfera a Bagheria è cambiata. E lui mi ha risposto: “Finché un magistrato non si deciderà a studiare a fondo gli atti dell’amministrazione di Bagheria, e finché tutto rimane affidato alla buona volontà dei pochi cittadini che si prendono questa briga, non ci sono molte possibilità di cambiamento”.

tratto da Dacia Maraini, Bagheria, Milano 1993.

Nemonte Nenquimo

 

 

 

Nemonte Nenquimo es un activista indígena y miembro de la nación Waorani de la región amazónica de Ecuador. Es la primera mujer presidenta de Pastaza Waorani (CONCONAWEP) y cofundadora de la organización sin fines de lucro dirigida por indígenas Ceibo Alliance. En 2020, fue nombrada en la lista Time 100 de las 100 personas más influyentes del mundo, la única mujer indígena en la lista y la segunda ecuatoriana en ser nombrada en su historia. Nenquimo fue el demandante en una demanda contra el gobierno ecuatoriano, que culminó con un fallo de 2019 que protegió medio millón de acres de tierra ancestral Waorani en la selva amazónica de la extracción de petróleo.
Nenquimo nació en la comunidad de Nemompare en 1985 en la región Pastaza de la Amazonía ecuatoriana. Es miembro de la nación cazadora-recolectora waorani.

En 2015, Nenquimo cofundó Ceibo Alliance, una organización sin fines de lucro liderada por indígenas para proteger las tierras indígenas de la extracción de recursos. La primera mujer presidenta de la organización Waorani de la provincia de Pastaza (CONCONAWEP) fue elegida en 2018.

Como parte de CONCONAWEP (Consejo de Coordinación de Nacionalidad Ecuador-Pastaza Waorani), Nenquimo presentó una demanda ante la Defensoría del Pueblo de Ecuador contra el gobierno ecuatoriano. Nenquimo fue el demandante en la demanda, cuyo fallo de 2019 de un panel de tres jueces de la Corte Provincial de Pastaza protege medio millón de acres de la selva amazónica de Ecuador de la extracción de petróleo. El veredicto de que el gobierno ecuatoriano debe involucrarse en el proceso de consentimiento libre, previo e informado de acuerdo con los estándares del derecho internacional y la Corte Constitucional del Ecuador antes de subastar la tierra, establece un precedente legal para que otras naciones indígenas contrarresten la ‘extracción de recursos dentro de el territorio indígena.

Un desfile de cientos de waorani celebró la sentencia en abril de 2019 en Puyo, la capital regional de la oriental provincia de Pastaza. Muchos han viajado grandes distancias para participar.

En 2020, fue incluida en la lista Time 100, la única mujer indígena de ese año y entre las primeras amazónicas nombradas. También estaba en la lista de 100 mujeres de la BBC anunciada el 23 de noviembre de 2020. En 2020, Nenquimo recibió el Premio Ambiental Goldman.

enlace: https://www.alianzaceibo.org

 

Nemonte Nenquimo

 

 

 

Nemonte Nenquimo est une militante indigène et membre de la nation Waorani de la région amazonienne de l’Équateur. Elle est la première femme présidente des Waorani de Pastaza (CONCONAWEP) et co-fondatrice de l’organisation à but non lucratif dirigée par l’Alliance indigène Ceibo. En 2020, elle a été nommée sur la liste Time 100 des 100 personnes les plus influentes au monde, la seule femme autochtone sur la liste et la deuxième Équatorienne à avoir été nommée dans son histoire. Nenquimo était le plaignant dans un procès contre le gouvernement équatorien, aboutissant à une décision de 2019 protégeant un demi-million d’acres de terres ancestrales Waorani dans la forêt amazonienne contre le forage pétrolier.
Nenquimo est né dans la communauté de Nemompare en 1985 dans la région de Pastaza en Amazonie équatorienne. Il est membre de la nation de chasseurs-cueilleurs Waorani.

En 2015, Nenquimo a cofondé Ceibo Alliance, une organisation à but non lucratif dirigée par des autochtones pour protéger les terres autochtones de l’extraction des ressources. La première femme présidente de l’organisation Waorani de la province Pastaza (CONCONAWEP) a été élue en 2018.

Dans le cadre du CONCONAWEP (Conseil de coordination de la nationalité Équateur-Pastaza Waorani), Nenquimo a déposé une plainte auprès des médiateurs des droits humains de l’Équateur contre le gouvernement équatorien. Nenquimo était le plaignant dans le procès, dont la décision de 2019 d’un panel de trois juges du tribunal provincial de Pastaza protège un demi-million d’acres de forêt amazonienne de l’Équateur contre le forage pétrolier. Le verdict selon lequel le gouvernement équatorien doit s’engager dans le processus de consentement libre, préalable et éclairé conformément aux normes du droit international et de la Cour constitutionnelle de l’Équateur avant de vendre la terre aux enchères fournit un précédent juridique aux autres nations autochtones pour contrer « l’extraction de ressources au sein de le territoire indigène.

Un défilé de centaines de Waorani a célébré la condamnation en avril 2019 à Puyo, la capitale régionale de la province orientale de Pastaza. Beaucoup ont parcouru de grandes distances pour participer.

En 2020, elle a été incluse dans la liste Time 100, la seule femme autochtone de cette année et parmi les premières Amazoniennes jamais nommées. Elle figurait également sur la liste des 100 femmes de la BBC annoncée le 23 novembre 2020. En 2020, Nenquimo a reçu le prix Goldman de l’environnement.

relier: https://www.alianzaceibo.org

An emergency exit for humanity

The latest data makes it clear that, even after the vaccine has spread, we cannot afford to relax. The pandemic is not over (the number of infections is rising and perhaps new ones await us lockdown ) and other catastrophes are on the horizon. In late June in the northwestern United States and southwestern Canada, a heat bubble – a meteorological phenomenon in which high pressure traps and compresses hot air, causing temperatures to rise – caused the thermometer to rise to nearly fifty degrees. centigrade, making Vancouver warmer than the Middle East.

This phenomenon is the culmination of a much broader process: Northern Scandinavia and Siberia have regularly passed the big thirty in recent years. The World Meteorological Organization is trying to verify a new record of maximum temperatures north of the Arctic Circle, after the weather station in Verchojansk, Siberia, recorded 38 degrees on June 20. In the Russian city of Oymyakon, considered the coldest inhabited place on Earth, it was the hottest June ever (31.6 degrees). Put simply, climate change is frying the northern hemisphere.

The heat bubble is a local phenomenon, but it is the result of a global climate trend that depends on human intervention on natural cycles. While it is true that the climate is overheating, this process culminates in extreme local manifestations, which sooner or later will form a chain of global critical moments. To put it bluntly: we will have to get used to living with various simultaneous crises. If we look at the data clearly, there is a conclusion that we can draw: every living being has death as its latest output (for this reason Derek Humphry entitled his book on assisted suicide Euthanasia: emergency exit , Eleuthera 1993). Ecological crises open the realistic prospect of a last exit (collective suicide) for humanity. But is there a last exit from our path towards perdition? Or is it already too late and there is nothing left to do but find a painless suicide?

We should learn to accept our environment in all its complex mixture

What should we do? First of all, reject the cliché that we are a part of nature and not its center. According to this idea, to combat climate crises we should change our way of life: limit individualism, develop new solidarity and accept our modest role on this planet. As Judith Butler wrote, “A habitable world for humans depends on an Earth that flourishes and does not have humans at its center.”

But isn’t it true that global warming requires collective interventions that will have consequences on the delicate balance between forms of life? When we say that the temperature rise must be kept below two degrees, we speak as if we are the supervisors of life on Earth, not one species among others. The regeneration of the planet depends on this titanic task. If we also have to worry about the life of water and air, it means that we are what Marx defines as “universal beings”, that is, capable of going out of ourselves and perceiving ourselves as a secondary moment of the totality of nature.


Seeking refuge in the modesty of our mortality is an illusory exit and will lead us to catastrophe. As universal beings, we should learn to accept our environment in all its complex mixture, which includes what we perceive as pollution, as well as what we cannot directly perceive because it is too big or too small, what the British philosopher Timothy Morton calls the “hyperobjects”. For Morton, being ecologists does not mean “spending time in an unspoiled nature reserve, but appreciating the grass that makes its way through the cracks in the asphalt, and then appreciating the asphalt. It is part of the world and it is also part of us. Reality is populated with strange strangers, things that are knowable but mysterious ”.

“This strange oddity,” Morton writes, “is an irreducible element of any rock, tree, terrarium, plastic Statue of Liberty or black hole that a person might stumble upon. Admitting it, we move away from the idea of trying to manage objects and we move towards that of learning to respect them in their ineffability ”. Morton includes in the category of nature all that is frightening, ugly, artificial. An example of this mixture of things is the fate of the Manhattan rats during the pandemic. Manhattan is a living system of humans, cockroaches and millions of rats. During the lockdown, the restaurants were closed and the rats who lived on garbage were deprived of their source of livelihood. This resulted in a mass famine and it turned out that many rats ate their pups. The closure of the restaurants turned out to be a catastrophe for mice.

A similar incident had already occurred in the past. In 1958, at the beginning of the great leap forward, the Chinese government declared birds “the public animals of capitalism” and launched a broad campaign to exterminate sparrows suspected of eating grain. Sparrow nests and eggs were destroyed, and chicks were killed. These attacks decimated the sparrows population, pushing them almost to extinction. However, in April 1960 the Chinese leaders were forced to realize that the sparrows also ate large quantities of insects in the fields and after the campaign to eliminate them the rice crops, instead of increasing, decreased: the extermination of the sparrows upset the biological balance, and insects destroyed the plantations. With no sparrows eating them, the number of locusts exploded, devastating the countryside and amplifying the ecological problems already caused by the great leap forward, including widespread deforestation and the misuse of poisons and pesticides. The ecological imbalance is believed to have exacerbated the great Chinese famine, during which an estimated 15 to 55 million people died of starvation.

The response to the heat bubble in the US and Canada should not only involve affected areas, but target global causes

So we have to accept that we are one of many species on the planet, but at the same time we have to act as supervisors of life on Earth. Since we haven’t been able to take any other exits (global temperatures are rising, oceans are increasingly polluted and so on), it seems increasingly likely that the last exit before the final one (the collective suicide of humanity) will be some version of war communism. I am not talking about a rehabilitation or continuation of the “really existing socialism” of the twentieth century nor about the global adoption of the Chinese model, but about measures imposed by the situation in which we live.

When we come to terms with a threat to our existence, we enter a state of emergency such as in wartime, which can last for years. To ensure the minimum conditions of our survival it is inevitable to mobilize all our resources, if we want to deal with things like the displacement of tens, perhaps hundreds of millions of people due to global warming. The response to the heat bubble in the US and Canada should not just involve affected areas, but target global causes. And, as the catastrophe underway in southern Iraq clarifies – where temperatures exceeded 50 degrees in July and at the same time the electricity grid collapsed, stopping refrigerators, air conditioners and lighting – a state apparatus capable of guaranteeing a minimum of well-being people in difficult conditions will need to avoid society’s outbursts of anger.

All of these things can be – and will be – achieved only through international cooperation, social control, regulation of agriculture and industry, the transformation of our basic eating habits – less beef consumption -, global health coverage. and so on. It is clear that representative democracy alone will not be sufficient to carry out this task. A much stronger executive power, capable of maintaining long-term commitments, must be accompanied by the self-organization of the people and a strong international body capable of prevailing over the will of the nation states.

I am not talking about a new world government: such an entity would generate immense corruption. And I am not talking about the abolition of markets: market competition should play a role, even if it is regulated and controlled. So why use the term “communism”? Because what we are going to do contains four aspects of a radical regime. In the first place there is a voluntaristic dimension: the necessary changes are not rooted in any historical necessity, but will be obtained against the spontaneous trend of history. As Walter Benjamin said, we have to pull the emergency brake on the train of history. Then there is the egalitarianism: global solidarity, health coverage and a decent life for all. Then there are elements of what can only appear to the most passionate liberals as a “terror”, the taste of which we have become familiar with with the pandemic: limitation of many personal freedoms and new models of control. Finally, there is trust in people: everything would be lost without the participation of ordinary people.

It is not a dystopian vision, but the result of a simple evaluation of the condition in which we find ourselves. If we do not take this path, what we already observe in Russia and the United States will happen: the ruling elite is preparing for its survival in gigantic underground bunkers in which thousands of people can continue to live for months, with the excuse that the government activity must continue even in these conditions. Our elites are already organizing themselves for this scenario. And that means they know full well that the alarm bell is ringing.

By Slavoj Žižek, International, Translation by Federico Ferrone

Solve suffering by blowing up the universe? The dubious philosophy of human extinction

At a time when humans are threatening the extinction of so many other species, it may not seem so surprising that some people think that the extinction of our own species would be a good thing. Take, for example, the Movement for Voluntary Human Extinction, whose founder believes that our extinction would put an end to the damage we inflict on each other and to ecosystems more generally.

Or there’s the South African philosopher David Benatar, who argues that bringing people into existence always hurts them. He recommends ceasing to procreate and gradually leaving the Earth. But humans aren’t the only beings who feel pain. Non-human animals would continue to suffer without us. Hence, driven by the desire to completely eliminate suffering, some people have scandalously claimed to take the rest of nature with us. They recommend actively abolishing the world, rather than simply abandoning it.

This disturbing and extremist position surprisingly goes back a long way in history.

About 1600 years ago, Saint Augustine suggested that humans stop procreating. He approved of this, however, because he wanted to hasten the final judgment and eternity of joy thereafter.

If you don’t believe in the afterlife, this becomes a less attractive option. You should be motivated solely by removing suffering from nature, with no promise of supernatural rewards. Probably the first person to advocate human extinction in this way was Arthur Schopenhauer. He did it 200 years ago, in 1819, urging them to “spare” the “burden of existence” for “future generations”. Schopenhauer saw existence as pain, so he believed that we should stop bringing human beings into existence. And it was clear about the result if everyone obeyed: “The human race would die.”

But what about the pain of non-human animals? Schopenhauer had an answer, but it was not convincing. He was a philosophical idealist, believing that the existence of external nature depends on our self-awareness of it. Thus, with the abolition of the human brain, even the sufferings of the less self-aware animals would “vanish” as they ceased to exist without our perceiving them.

Even under the same conditions as Schopenhauer, there is a problem. What if there were other intelligent, self-conscious beings? Maybe on other planets? Surely, therefore, our sacrifice would mean nothing; the existence and painful perception of it would continue. It fell to Schopenhauer’s disciple, Eduard von Hartmann, to propose a more complete solution.

Hartmann, born in Berlin in 1842, wrote a pessimistic system of philosophy almost as long as his massive beard. Notorious in his day, but completely forgotten in ours, Hartmann proposed an incredibly radical vision.

Writing in 1869, Hartmann reproached Schopenhauer for thinking of the problem of suffering only in a local and temporary sense. His predecessor’s view of human extinction “by sexual continence” would not suffice. Hartmann was convinced that, after a few eons, another self-conscious species would re-evolve on Earth. This would simply “perpetuate the misery of existence”.

Hartmann also believed that life existed on other planets. Given his belief that most were probably unintelligent, the suffering of such beings would be powerless. They wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.

So rather than just destroying our own species, Hartmann thought that, as intelligent beings, we are obligated to find a way to eliminate suffering, permanently and universally. He believed that it is up to humanity to “annihilate” the universe: it is our duty, he wrote, to “make the entire kosmos disappear”.

Hartmann hoped that if humanity did not prove up to this task, some planets could evolve beings that would, long after our sun froze. But he didn’t think this meant we could be complacent. He noted the strictness of the conditions necessary for a planet to be habitable (not to mention the evolution of creatures with complex brains) and concluded that the task could fall exclusively on humans, here and now.

Hartmann was convinced that this was the purpose of creation: that our universe exists to evolve beings that are compassionate and intelligent enough to decide to abolish existence itself. He envisioned this final moment as a shockwave of deadly euthanasia rippling outward from the Earth, obliterating the “existence of this cosmos” until “all of its world lenses and nebulae are been abolished “.

It was not clear how exactly this goal would be achieved. Speaking vaguely of humanity’s growing global unification and spiritual disillusionment, he hinted at future scientific and technological breakthroughs. Fortunately he was a metaphysician, not a physicist.

Hartmann’s philosophy is fascinating. It is also unimaginably wrong. This is because he confuses the eradication of suffering with the eradication of the sick. Confusing this distinction leads to insane visions of omnicide. To get rid of suffering, it is not necessary to get rid of the sufferer – you may instead try to remove the causes of the pain. We should eliminate the suffering, not the sick.

Indeed, as long as there are intelligent beings around, there is at least the opportunity for a radical removal of suffering. Philosophers like David Pearce even argue that, in the future, technologies such as genetic engineering will be able to eliminate it completely, abolishing pain from the Earth. With the right interventions, Pearce argues, humans and non-humans could conceivably be driven by “gradients of bliss,” not deprivation and pain.

This doesn’t necessarily have to be a Brave New World, populated by ecstatic and amazed beings – conceivably, people could still be highly motivated, simply pursuing a range of sublime joys, rather than avoiding negative feelings. Pearce also argues that, in the distant future, our descendants may be able to effect the same change on other biospheres, throughout the observable universe.

So even if you think removing suffering is our top priority, there is an astronomical value in us that remains. Perhaps we owe it to the sick in general.

Taken from: Thomas Moynihan, Researcher, Future of Humanity Institute, University of Oxford

 

マヤ16世紀の本

痛い！ 残酷はキリスト教に伴う奴隷制です！ ここに彼が来ています！ 彼が来ると言葉は奴隷になり、男性は奴隷になり、女性は奴隷になります！ それはあなたに来ています、残念ながらあなたはそれを見るでしょう！ 威嚇するのは彼らの神の顔です！ それが教えるすべて、それが言うすべてはあなたが死ぬだろうということです！ 彼らの戦士はすべての人に耳を貸さず、彼らの船長は惨めです！ 不幸の時であるこの11のahàukatùnに来る苦味の重みを運ぶ準備をしてください。

マヤ16世紀の本

Libro dei Maya sec XVI

Ahi! Crudele è la schiavitù che arriva con il cristianesimo! Ecco che sta venendo! Schiavi diventeranno le parole, e schiavi gli uomini, schiave le donne quando sarà venuto! Sta venendo a voi, sventurati lo vedrete! Minaccioso è il volto del loro Dio! Tutto quel che insegna, tutto quel che dice è morrete! Sordi a tutti saranno i loro guerrieri, miserabili i loro capitani! Preparatevi a portare il peso dell’amarezza che arriva in questo katùn undici ahàu, che è il tempo della sventura.

Libro dei Maya sec XVI

Pietro Porcinai

“Out of cowardice or for money, most architects have abandoned the world of things built in harmony with Nature, allowing ugly cities and horrible suburbs to arise. It is up to the landscape architect to find a remedy for this situation, but it must be someone who knows. think before acting. […] So that ugliness and destruction do not spread in this world and the taste for beauty can assert itself, the future needs architects who are courageous proponents of arche and armed with all aspects of techné who work as authentic teachers in the wake of the teachings of St. Francis of Assisi “.

Nasrin Sotoudeh, your sentence is an insult to mankind

I have to be honest: this time it took me a while to accept this news from Iran. Although I have been addicted to hangings, public executions, death sentences, restrictions and so on for years, the sentence against Nasrin Sotoudeh really left me speechless. The most famous Iranian human rights lawyer was sentenced to 38 years in prison and 148 lashes. Her husband Reza Khandan broke the news on Facebook after receiving a phone call from his wife from prison.

Several times over the years I have followed the story of Nasrin and several times I have also interacted with her husband, who tells me that he cannot make statements. He too had been arrested last September, then released on bail and previously beaten outside Evin Prison for trying to ask about his wife. I find the Iranian sentence against Nasrin a real insult to mankind, especially to women. There is talk of 148 lashes, which would lead to the certain death of the condemned person and that just to name them make any human being with a healthy conscience shiver.

Instead, the conscience that Nasrin has shown she has by never leaving her country or her family, but by remaining close to the people she thought she could help with her work as a lawyer. Nasrin had always taken to heart the cry of freedom – which has not been heard for 40 years – of Iranian women, still subjected to a piece of cloth held on their heads, the veil, which they did not choose to wear. arrested several times: the last last July, precisely for defending the women who took off their veils between December 2017 and January 2018, also called “The girls of Enghelab Street”. Simple women who had peacefully protested against the law of the Islamic Republic which obliges women to wear the veil (hijab) in public. Unfortunately, the news coming from Iran and those revolving around causes of this kind are never clear and often even the information is not transparent.

We have not yet read the proceedings, but someone talks about an unfair trial, a custom in Iran. The Iranian newspapers on this news, which by now has been around the world and for which an international mobilization is being created, are cautious and try to write about a sentence other than that mentioned by her husband, decreasing the number of years of detention . But the problem does not change, here a woman is accused of “collusion against national security”, “propaganda against the state”, “incitement to corruption and prostitution” and “appearing in public without a hijab”: the usual trite accusations and used by Iran when it wants to condemn someone without a valid reason.

In Iran, any gesture of rebellion against the regime is considered an “attack on national security”. Nasrin had been in prison in the past, where she held two hunger strikes in protest on the terms of Evin, the infamous Tehran prison, and was forbidden to see her children. Sotoudeh was released in September 2013 shortly before the election of President Hassan Rouhani, who had declared in the election campaign to improve the civil rights of the population. A campaign that many have supported and believed in, but whose results are slow to arrive.

It is not easy to be a woman in Iran and despite the emancipation of recent years, women are still not able to decide on their life, on their clothing. And this is exactly what young Iranian women are doing: claiming their right to “choice”, a word little known in Iran. It is known that in the Islamic Republic of Iran a woman does not “choose”, but it is men – dictated by the Islamic religion or who knows, perhaps by an archaic and misogynistic mentality, who still decide what is right or wrong for a woman.

Men in Iran have decided that for a woman to sing is wrong, to leave the country without the consent of an adult man is wrong, to participate in sporting events in the presence of men is wrong. Instead, the courage of the Iranians who challenge this system even at the cost of arrest is welcome. The precious observations of the writer Dacia Maraini in the preface of my book I tell you about Iran appear more appropriate than ever. My years in the land of Persia – published by Armando Editore – hopes for Iranian women the cancellation of all those discriminatory notions against them in force since the Islamic Revolution of 1979. As long as we accept that there are countries in the world where women’s freedom is still denied, we can still say that we have failed.

Text by: Tiziana Ciavardini, Journalist and anthropologist

Animula vagula blandula

La dernière fois que j’ai vu mon frère Piero vivant, c’était il y a un an, ces jours-ci.
Pour ses 70 ans j’avais organisé une mini fête avec notre sœur. Trois esprits se rencontrant de trois endroits différents, comme toujours.
Lorsque des amis et des parents sont partis et que nous nous sommes retrouvés seuls, dans sa petite maison sur les collines des Langhe, qu’il a aménagée avec un soin magistral, nous avons préparé un dîner tranquille et avant d’aller nous coucher nous nous sommes assis dehors la nuit, sur le banc qu’il avait placé à côté de la porte.
Nuit paisible, de bavardages chuchotés, pour ne pas troubler le silence et profiter des bruits de la nuit. En plus des chats qui vivent en abondance dans le micro village composé de trois maisons, nous sommes ravis par quelques lucioles venues danser sous nos yeux.
Puis nous nous sommes souvenus qu’enfants, je 5 à 10 ans, soit en 1960, nous vivions dans une ferme située à environ 10km plus loin. C’était un modeste appartement au rez-de-chaussée, avec une salle de bain dans la cour, que notre mère avait loué pour être proche de son lieu de travail. La ferme était maintenant proche de la zone habitée et de la vie précédente, elle ne gardait qu’une cave, où pendant les vendanges ils pressaient les raisins, tandis que l’étage supérieur était occupé par les «vacanciers» en été.
Mon frère a toujours été en relation étroite avec le monde naturel : animaux, plantes, herbes, pierres, eau et, sans surprise, il deviendra plus tard chimiste, biologiste, pharmacien, botaniste.
Ainsi, ces soirs d’été, il attrapait trois ou quatre lucioles, les enfermait dans un verre, avec un verre plus grand à l’envers et les cachait sous le lit.
Notre sœur, qui avait 16 ans, dormait sur le canapé du couloir, lui dans le lit avec sa mère et moi à ses côtés, par terre, sur un magnifique lit obtenu avec une méga couette pliée en quatre. Quand ma mère, épuisée de travailler avec une famille de pharmaciens qui s’occupait de la maison et du magasin, s’est effondrée dans les bras de Morphée, il a sorti les deux verres de sous le lit et les a posés sur la petite table de chevet entre moi et lui. Nous sommes restés muets pour voir les vies danser dans le verre, puis quand nos yeux étaient sur le point de se fermer, il les a relâchés et les créatures ont flotté en clignotant magiquement dans la pièce.
Hier soir, j’ai remonté le sentier semi-abandonné qui monte de Finale Ligure Borgo à Monticello.
C’est un chemin que je peux faire les yeux fermés car je l’ai parcouru au moins mille fois, dont la moitié la nuit. En effet, lorsque j’étais sauveteur à Varigotti, 1980-1986, pendant les trois premières années j’ai dormi dans une tente canadienne placée dans une bande, entre le mimosa et l’olivier. Puis pour trois autres dans une pièce que nous m’avions aménagée au-dessus du pressoir et de la chaufferie à bois.
La maison, avec son oliveraie, son petit vignoble, son verger et ses jardins potagers, avait été prise en métayage par un couple de jeunes, avec deux enfants, qui entre l’une et l’autre y sont restés une vingtaine d’années, à qui j’avais présenté mon frère. La pièce avait un plancher avec des planches de bois, d’où l’on pouvait voir en dessous et une magnifique fenêtre qui encadrait les Apennins lointains, qui à mon retour en hiver scintillaient de neige. La tente était un vert canadien à trois places, avec un toit à double pente, une moustiquaire à l’entrée et à elle seule elle ressemblait à un palais. C’était super pour deux.
Début juin quand je l’ai monté et bien planté les piquets, j’ai creusé des petits drains le long du périmètre et je me souviens avoir profité des orages nerveux dans la joie la plus profonde d’être au sec alors que le flot tombe à 20 cm de ton nez !
En cette saison, le long du chemin, dans le ruisseau d’eau qui alimente la source au pied de la maison, dans les terrasses plantées d’oliviers et de vignes, les lucioles n’ont jamais manqué, ainsi que les crapauds, grenouilles, rainettes et le semblable. Mais je n’avais jamais vu autant de lucioles comme hier soir.
Ma tête tournait.
Animula vagula blandula.
Virginie Briatore

The smell of hay

Other news about Bruno Lattes

1

Bordered all around by an old perimeter wall about three meters high, the Israelite cemetery of Ferrara is a vast grassy surface, so vast that the tombstones, collected in separate and distinct groups, appear much less numerous than they are. On the east side, the boundary wall runs close to the city ramparts, still dense today with large trees, lime trees, elms, chestnuts, even oaks, lined up in double rows along the top of the embankment. At least on this side the war has spared them, the beautiful, ancient plants. The red sixteenth-century tower that about thirty years ago served as a military powder keg, half hidden as it is behind their large green domes is barely visible.

During the summer months, the grass in our cemetery has always grown with wild strength. I don’t know at the moment. What is certain is that around 1938, at the time of the racial laws, the Community used to entrust the mowing to a farm in the province: a company from Quartesana, Gambulaga, Ambrogio, or thereabouts. The reapers advanced slowly, arranged in a semicircle and moving their arms with an unanimous rhythm. Every now and then they would come out in guttural cries. And the sentries guarding the nearby powder magazine, listening to those distant voices, lost in the heat wave (the sentry box in front of which they stopped stood out white, up there, at the foot of a centuries-old black trunk), had to feel the weight of their constriction stronger, more acute. the nostalgia for freedom.

Around five in the afternoon the peasants stopped mowing. Overflowing with swinging hay and pulled by yoked couples of oxen, their wagons went out one after the other in via delle Vigne, where, at that hour, the inhabitants of the district, pensioners in shirt sleeves with a pipe or Tuscan between their teeth , old arzdóre bespectacled mending laundry or cleaning vegetables, most of them sat outside, in a row in front of the low, single-story huts. The road was narrow, a little wider even in those days than a country road. So much so that if, coming in the opposite direction, a funeral had happened at that point, never mind: the funeral had to resign himself to waiting there, at the lively intersection of Corso Porta Mare, five minutes, ten, and sometimes even a quarter of an hour.

*

As soon as the hearse had crossed the threshold of the great entrance gate, and as it crossed it made a slow jolt, a sharp smell of cut hay came to revive the heat-ridden procession. What a relief. And what a peace. There was a sudden, almost cheerful, simultaneous stirring. Some scattered among the tombs near the entrance. Others, most of them, left behind the now stationary wagon from which the gravediggers began to detach the crowns, and together with it the compact group of family members and relatives left waiting for the coffin, were already walking briskly towards the distant place of burial.

Only the insistence of his father (“Cancer does not forgive!” He said with the usual, pathetic admonition and blackmail air) had been able to induce Bruno Lattes to attend the funeral of his uncle Celio. In order not to be there to fight he had adapted. And indeed, for quite some time, having surprised him first of himself, he had been very good. Not only during the journey from via Voltapaletto to the cemetery, but also afterwards, confused in the small crowd of relatives and close friends, by whom, high on their heads, the coffin had crossed the whole cemetery from west to east, even after he had behaved more than well, always keeping himself good, quiet, very calm.

At a given moment, however, he had awakened. Ever since the gravediggers had begun to work to get the coffin into the grave, and his gazes had returned to cross with the lost ones of his father, from that moment he had felt resumed by the dull anger that was his habitual.

What was there in common – he wondered again – between him, on the one hand, and his father and his relatives and relatives on the other? He was tall, dry, dark in skin and hair, while his father, and behind his father, the interminable parade of the Camaioli, Bonfiglioli, Hanau, Josz, Ottolenghi, Bassani, etc. “Lattes tribe”, were largely short, stocky, equipped with blue eyes, a washed-out blue (or black, but a dull black, without splendor), and certain special soft and round minds, unmistakable. And morally? Well, even from the high character no resemblance between him and they , thank God, not even the smallest. Nothing unstable, excitable, morbid about him, nothing so typically Jewish. His character was much closer, at least so it seemed to him, to the strong and straightforward one of many of his Catholic friends, and not for nothing was his mother, born Catholic, very Catholic, called Marchi. And as for cancer, finally, that since grandfather Benedetto, in 1924, at the end of almost two years of unspeakable suffering, had been killed by a stomach tumor, his father had decided that he should be by force the family illness (but uncle Celio no, in any case, they weren’t counting lies: uncle Celio had died following an attack of nephritis, an old nephritis, and therefore the cancer for once had not entered neither for long nor for a little …), whether he would come, one day or another, if he wanted to come! After you. Sit down. As far as he was concerned, he had long ago proposed to behave even in such a circumstance exactly as his mother would certainly have behaved, always so cheerful, she, poor thing, always so simple and natural. That cancer could become a daily nuisance, a dominant thought to be nurtured and pampered inside, between fear and delight, for years and years? Disgust! This to cancer he would not have loved to let him. Ever and never.

The coffin now lay on the bottom. The gravediggers had withdrawn their ropes, and Rabbi Doctor Castelfranco, with his nasal and chanting voice, was already reciting the prayers of the dead.

When there is an accordion sound, very close.

Bruno looked up.

Because of the wall that separated the cemetery from the ramparts, the player could not see it. He could only see a soldier up there in front of a sentry box (a sentry standing guard at the powder keg, it was clear), who, leaning his sweaty face forward, nodded in time to the music.

A female voice sang:

Love love

bring me many roses …

Someone ordered: “Silence!”. More shouts of protest followed, punching insults, swearing. Behind the great trees of the walls, beyond the lustrous and compact mass of their foliage, one could make out an open air, an almost sea breeze.

*

The shovelfuls of earth followed one another faster and faster.

Bruno turned his eyes away.

And after dinner – he thought -, when he would pass by bicycle along that stretch of the ramparts, inevitably torn between the desire to discover the couples embraced in the grass with the headlight and the fear of looking towards the black expanse of the cemetery below (since he was a child he had always had a horror of the flames of the will-o’-the-wisps), would he ever find him, after dinner, the young soldier standing in front of his sentry box? Who knows. Bitterness and disgust: this, in any case, was what he felt at that moment.

However, he knew, and how he knew! The impatience, the almost frenzied agitation from which now, thinking of the sentry guarding the powder keg, he felt tormented casino, maybe …), were not born in him at all, as an immediate reaction, from the stupid corvee that had been inflicted on him today, but from much farther away, from very far away: from a point of the lost past at the bottom of an almost infinite distance.

At the funeral of his grandfather Benedetto, in August ’24, the gravediggers had unscrewed the lid before lowering the box into the hole. So on the body wrapped in an embroidered linen sheet, quicklime was sprinkled, in accordance with the most ancient Jewish rite. It was the grandfather who had wanted it so. He had just stopped breathing when someone immediately ran to open the will. The will was clear. Quicklime should have been introduced into the crate after , at the cemetery, in front of the wide open pit. Before, that is, at home, no. Trouble.

He was nine at the time. On the lawn of the cemetery, where he had never been taken once before, together with the first shadows of the evening, dense swarms of mosquitoes had descended. And these mosquitoes had seemed to him curiously similar, especially if he covered one eye with his hand, to the military fighter airplanes that one August evening several years ago he had seen silently pass through, as they landed, the immense sky opening. in front of the dining room window where grandfather Benedetto, widowed for the second time, dined alone. The war was still going on. Dad was at the front. And mum? Where was Mom? Someone, perhaps Aunt Edvige, who after the death of her grandmother Esterina had become the housekeeper, had told him that her mother had left for Feltre, where she would spend a short leave with her father. But Feltre? Where was he, Feltre? And indeed, what era? And the rear, of which Aunt Edvige had also spoken, what were the rear? The fighter planes descended slowly, slowly, one after the other, into the milk-colored sky of the evening, without making the slightest sound. Touching them seemed easy. It would have been enough, to touch them, to protrude an arm from one of the two windows of the dining room. Unfortunately, there was the grandfather behind there, dining alone, and in the meantime, with his glasses raised to his forehead, he read in the newspaper, leaning it as usual against the jug of water. If his grandfather, capable as he was of guessing everything, even the most hidden thoughts, had understood what he wanted to do, he would not have scolded him, not at all. He would have confined himself to staring at him with his hard, stinging eyes of blue enamel. And it would have been much worse.

That other August afternoon in which grandfather Benedetto had been buried, that of ’24, the lawn of the cemetery appeared freshly mowed: exactly like now. Invited to run. And he, in fact, at a certain point withdrew his hand from that of his mother, who stood together with the others in front of his grandfather’s grave still far from being filled, he had started to play on his own, chasing clouds of mosquitoes and getting further and further away.

Suddenly, however, he had fallen: long stretched out, and with his face forward. While he was still falling, he immediately realized that he had skinned a knee. Yet he hadn’t paid any attention to the knee at the time. He had looked around. What solitude all at once! Although his leg hurt, very bad, no one cared for him, not even his mother. The tears on his cheeks had dried very slowly.

“What have you done to yourself?” his mother shouted when, out of breath, she reached him. “If you were a still minut! Don’t you know that grandfather Benedetto is dead? “

He had been late in answering. Finally, remembering a phrase he had heard from his father that same morning, at the table, he had repeated it almost without realizing it: the same identical.

“Only the dead are okay,” he said, sighing just like Dad. And meanwhile he raised his eyelids to look at her, his mother peered at her from below up.

After staring at him long enough with her beautiful deep-rimmed brown eyes from the many nights spent at his father-in-law’s bedside during the last months of his illness, and yet more alive and brighter than ever, Mom had placed a hand on his. mouth. Then, bending down, she bandaged his knee with a handkerchief.

taken from: Giorgio Bassani, The smell of hay , Milan 2013. | 1 to and. Milan 1972.

La politique de l’expérience

Si l’espèce humaine survit, les hommes du futur considéreront notre époque éclairée, j’imagine comme un véritable siècle d’obscurantisme. Ils sauront sans doute apprécier l’ironie de cette situation de manière plus amusante que nous. C’est de nous qu’ils riront. Ils sauront que ce que nous appelons la schizophrénie était l’une des formes sous lesquelles – souvent à travers des gens très ordinaires – la lumière a commencé à filtrer à travers les crevasses de nos esprits fermés. La folie n’est pas nécessairement une panne ; cela peut aussi être une percée… L’individu qui fait l’expérience transcendantale de la perte de l’ego peut et ne peut pas perdre l’équilibre, de plusieurs manières. Il peut alors être considéré comme fou. Mais être fou n’est pas forcément être malade, même si dans notre monde les deux termes sont devenus complémentaires… A partir du point de départ de notre pseudo-santé mentale, tout est équivoque. Cette santé n’est pas la vraie santé. La folie de nos patients est un produit de la destruction que nous leur imposons et qu’ils s’imposent à eux-mêmes. Personne ne peut imaginer que nous rencontrons une vraie folie, tout comme nous ne sommes pas vraiment sains d’esprit. La folie à laquelle nous avons affaire est un grossier déguisement, une fausse apparence, une caricature grotesque de ce que pourrait être la guérison naturelle de cette étrange intégration. La vraie santé mentale implique la dissolution de l’ego normal d’une manière ou d’une autre.

Extrait de : Ronald Laing, La politique de l’expérience

Peter Wohlleben

Según el diccionario, el lenguaje es la capacidad del ser humano para comunicarse. Desde este punto de vista, solo los humanos somos capaces de hablar, porque el concepto se limita a nuestra especie. Aún así, ¿no sería interesante saber si los árboles también son capaces de expresarse? ¿Pero cómo? Ciertamente no puedes escucharlos, porque sus tonos son decididamente tenues. El crujido de las ramas que el viento frota entre sí y el susurro de las hojas son ruidos pasivos en los que los árboles no influyen. Sin embargo, se notan de otra manera: a través de sustancias olorosas. ¿Hueles a vehículo de comunicación? Un fenómeno que no es desconocido ni siquiera entre los humanos, de lo contrario ¿por qué usar desodorantes y perfumes? E incluso sin su uso, nuestro olor corporal todavía llega a las mentes conscientes y subconscientes de las personas cercanas a nosotros. Algunas personas tienen un olor insoportable, mientras que otras nos atraen fuertemente a nivel olfativo. La ciencia afirma que las feromonas contenidas en el sudor son incluso decisivas para la elección de la pareja, es decir, del individuo con el que pretendemos generar descendencia. Todos, por lo tanto, tenemos un lenguaje olfativo secreto, y al menos eso es con lo que los árboles pueden contar. Una observación realizada en la sabana africana se remonta a cuarenta años. Aquí las jirafas pastan el follaje de las acacias paraguas, que no aprecian en absoluto este trato. Para deshacerse de los grandes herbívoros, las acacias depositan sustancias tóxicas en sus hojas en cuestión de minutos. Las jirafas lo saben y recurren a los árboles cercanos. ¿Pero qué tan cerca? No mucho, en realidad: los grandes cuadrúpedos pasan frente a varios ejemplares ignorándolos y reanudan su comida no antes de haber recorrido unos 100 m. El motivo es desconcertante: la acacia que pastan desprende un gas a modo de advertencia (en este caso etileno) que señala el peligro inminente para los árboles de la misma especie cercanos. En respuesta, todos estos individuos pre-alertados también envían sustancias tóxicas a las hojas para prepararse para el ataque. Las jirafas conocen el truco, por eso se adentran más en la sabana, donde encuentran árboles que aún desconocen su presencia. O van contra el viento. Los mensajes olfativos, de hecho, son llevados por el aire a los árboles cercanos, y si los animales caminan en contra de la dirección del viento, pronto se encuentran con acacias que no sospechan su presencia. Fenómenos similares también ocurren en nuestros bosques: hayas, abetos y robles, todos notan con indiferencia con dolor si hay quienes roen sus hojas. Cuando una oruga lo muerde vorazmente, el tejido alrededor de la parte dañada se transforma. Además, la hoja envía señales eléctricas exactamente como lo hace en el cuerpo humano cuando se le inflige una herida. Sin embargo, este impulso no se propaga en milisegundos como en nuestro organismo, sino a una velocidad de tan solo un centímetro por minuto. Luego, los anticuerpos tardan otra hora en asentarse en las hojas para arruinar la comida de los parásitos1: los árboles son lentos, e incluso en caso de peligro, la velocidad máxima parece ser esta. No obstante, las partes individuales de un árbol no funcionan aisladas unas de otras. Por ejemplo, si las raíces encuentran un problema, esta información se esparce por todo el árbol y puede hacer que las hojas liberen sustancias olorosas cuya composición no es aleatoria, sino que se crean ad hoc para ese propósito específico. Es otra característica que en los días siguientes les ayuda a repeler el ataque porque reconocen a algunas especies de insectos como huéspedes de mala reputación. La saliva de cada especie es única y se puede identificar. Esto sucede con tanta precisión como para poder atraer a los depredadores con sustancias “cebo” que acuden en ayuda de los árboles y devastan a los huéspedes no deseados. Los olmos o pinos, por ejemplo, atraen a las avispas diminutas2. Estos insectos ponen sus huevos dentro del cuerpo de las orugas que se alimentan de las hojas. Las larvas de avispa se desarrollan allí alimentándose de la oruga que las hospeda y devorándola pieza a pieza: una muerte que no es precisamente deseable. De esta forma, sin embargo, los árboles se deshacen de las molestas plagas y pueden seguir creciendo sin sufrir daños.
El reconocimiento de la saliva es también una prueba de otra habilidad de los árboles: necesariamente también deben estar dotados del sentido del gusto.
Sin embargo, las sustancias olorosas tienen el inconveniente de que el viento las diluye rápidamente: a veces ni siquiera pueden recorrer una distancia de 100 m. Sin embargo, se prestan a un propósito paralelo: si bien la difusión de la señal en el interior del árbol es muy lenta, por vía aérea se produce más rápidamente y recorre mayores distancias, pudiendo llegar así y advertir partes del propio árbol a varios metros de distancia.
A menudo, sin embargo, el árbol ni siquiera necesita pronunciar el grito especial de alarma necesario para repeler un insecto en particular. En general, el mundo animal registra los mensajes químicos de los árboles y, por lo tanto, sabe que la agresión se está produciendo en un lugar determinado y que ciertas especies depredadoras deben actuar. Aquellos que tienen apetito por organismos tan pequeños se sienten irresistiblemente atraídos. Pero los árboles saben cómo defenderse incluso por sí mismos. Los robles, por ejemplo, envían taninos amargos y venenosos a la corteza y las hojas que matan a los insectos parásitos o cambian el sabor de las hojas nada menos que una sabrosa ensalada que se convierte en agalla amarga. Los sauces, para defenderse, sintetizan salicina que tiene efectos similares. Sin embargo, no para nosotros los humanos: un té de hierbas de corteza de sauce incluso alivia los dolores de cabeza y la fiebre y se considera un precursor de la aspirina.
Por supuesto, tal defensa lleva tiempo, por lo que la cooperación en el envío de señales de advertencia oportunas es tan importante. Con este fin, los árboles no dependen solo del aire, porque de lo contrario ni siquiera todos los especímenes vecinos podrían tener alguna sensación de peligro. También prefieren enviar sus mensajes a través de las raíces, que conectan a todos los ejemplares en una red y funcionan independientemente del clima. Sorprendentemente, no solo se transmiten mensajes químicos, sino también eléctricos, ya una velocidad de 1 cm por segundo. Comparado con lo que ocurre en el cuerpo humano, obviamente es un proceso extremadamente lento, pero en el reino animal hay especies como medusas o gusanos que tienen valores similares en cuanto a velocidad de transmisión3. Una vez que se ha difundido la noticia, los otros robles de los alrededores también envían rápidamente taninos a la red de sus vasijas. Las raíces de un árbol son muy extensas, más del doble de la copa. Esto puede resultar en intersecciones con las ramas subterráneas de árboles cercanos y contactos por concrescencia. Sin embargo, esto no ocurre de forma indiferenciada, pues incluso en el bosque hay individuos solitarios y asociales que no quieren tener nada que ver con sus semejantes. Uno puede preguntarse si estos tipos gruñones son capaces de bloquear las señales de advertencia simplemente negando su contribución. Afortunadamente, este no es el caso, porque los hongos se utilizan en la mayoría de los casos para asegurar una rápida propagación de mensajes. Estos actúan como los cables de fibra óptica de Internet. Los finos filamentos penetran en el suelo y tejen redes de una densidad inimaginable. Una cucharadita de tierra forestal contiene varios kilómetros de estas “hifas” 4. A lo largo de los siglos, un solo hongo puede extenderse por varios kilómetros cuadrados y unir bosques enteros en su red. Con sus cables transmite señales de árbol en árbol y les ayuda a intercambiar mensajes sobre insectos, períodos de sequía y otros peligros. Mientras tanto, la ciencia también habla de una red de madera que atraviesa nuestro bosque. Qué y cuánta información se intercambia sigue siendo tema de tímida exploración. No se excluye que también existan contactos entre árboles de diferentes especies, incluidos los considerados competidores. De hecho, los hongos persiguen su propia estrategia personal, que a menudo está fuertemente dirigida a la mediación y al reequilibrio entre las partes. Si el árbol se debilita, no son solo sus defensas inmunológicas las que sufren un declive, sino también su comunicabilidad. De lo contrario, no se explicaría el hecho de que los insectos parásitos seleccionan de forma selectiva los especímenes enfermizos. Es concebible que para ello escuchen a los árboles, registren sus excitados gritos químicos de alarma y prueben a los individuos mudos atacando sus hojas o corteza. Quizás la confidencialidad sea realmente atribuible a la aparición de una enfermedad grave, a veces incluso a una pérdida de micelio que aísla al árbol de cualquier noticia: cuando ya no es capaz de registrar las amenazas inminentes, para las orugas y escarabajos el buffet. Igual de frágiles son los individuos solitarios de los que ya hemos hablado que, a pesar de tener un aspecto saludable, no se dan cuenta de lo que ocurre. En la biocenosis del bosque, no son solo los árboles, sino también los arbustos y las plantas herbáceas, y probablemente todas las especies de plantas, para intercambiar mensajes de manera similar. Sin embargo, si nos adentramos en los campos, las plantas cultivadas se vuelven muy silenciosas. Como resultado de las prácticas agrícolas, nuestros cultivos han perdido en gran medida la capacidad de comunicarse por encima y por debajo del suelo. Son casi sordos y mudos y, por lo tanto, se convierten en presa fácil de insectos5: esta es una de las razones por las que la agricultura moderna tiene que recurrir a tantas sustancias en aerosol. Quizás en el futuro los cultivadores podrán tomar el bosque como modelo y volver a cruzar en sus cereales y patatas una naturaleza más salvaje, y con ella más capacidad de comunicación.
La comunicación entre árboles e insectos no se trata solo de autodefensa y enfermedad. Que haya signos decididamente positivos entre criaturas tan diferentes es un fenómeno que el lector probablemente habrá notado, también por vía olfativa. De hecho, hay agradables mensajes perfumados que provienen de las flores. Estos últimos ciertamente no difunden su perfume por casualidad o para complacernos. Frutales, sauces o castaños llaman la atención con su mensaje aromático e invitan a las abejas a repostar deteniéndose en sus flores. El néctar dulce, un jugo azucarado concentrado, es la recompensa por la polinización que realizan al paso los insectos. La forma y el color de las flores también son una señal, casi como una valla publicitaria que se destaca entre la masa verde de follaje y señala el camino para asegurar un apetitoso refrigerio. Por lo tanto, los árboles se comunican a nivel olfativo, óptico y eléctrico (a través de una especie de células nerviosas ubicadas en las puntas de las raíces). ¿Y qué papel juegan los ruidos, es decir, escuchar y hablar?
Dije al comienzo del capítulo que los tonos de los árboles son decididamente tenues, pero los descubrimientos científicos más recientes también pueden poner en duda esta creencia. La investigadora Monica Gagliano de la Universidad de Australia Occidental escuchó los sonidos del suelo con algunos colegas de Bristol y Florence6. Los árboles no son prácticos para estudiar en el laboratorio, por lo que se analizaron algunas plántulas de cereales más manejables para ellos. Y pronto los dispositivos de medición registraron el suave crujido de las raíces a una frecuencia de 220 Hz. ¿Raíces capaces de producir crujidos? No significa mucho: incluso la madera muerta cruje, aunque solo sea cuando se quema en la estufa. Pero el ruido encontrado en el laboratorio hizo que las orejas se erizaran incluso en un sentido figurado, porque las raíces de los otros brotes reaccionaron a esos estallidos. Si estuvieran expuestos a una contracción de 220 Hz, sus extremos apuntarían en esa dirección. Esto significa que la hierba es capaz de percibir, o digamos tranquilamente “escuchar”, estas frecuencias. ¿Intercambio de información entre plantas mediante ondas sonoras? Una noticia que invita a descubrir más, ya que, dado que los humanos también estamos capacitados en la comunicación sana, esta podría ser clave para poder comprender mejor los árboles. Es difícil imaginar las consecuencias si pudiéramos distinguir por sus sonidos si las hayas, los robles y los abetos son buenos o malos. Desafortunadamente, todavía no hemos llegado tan lejos: en este campo, la ciencia está solo en su infancia. Pero si durante tu próxima caminata por el bosque escuchas un pop suave, tal vez no fue solo el viento …

Tomado de: Peter Wohlleben, La vida secreta de los árboles