The sandal of Empédocles, Gabriel Albiac

The Empédocles sandal 

 

Who we devote ourselves, of a way or other one, professionally or of form amateur, to this of joining a few letters and wanting to express with our true prayers ideas or feelings we know how difficult it is to create a simple, effective and communicative text. In the end only it is a question of announcing that thing about something (opinion, essay, fiction) to the others so that they know it. A little so simple but, since I have said earlier, so complex.

 

Today there is celebrated the delivery of the Award González-Ruano of Journalism in its XXXV call. Call that in this occasion has relapsed into writer Gabriel Albiac, for its articleThe Sandal of Empédocles’, published in the newspaper ABC, on Monday, the 24th of August 2009.

So that you do not walk it looking for the network I leave it to you right here.

The Empédocles sandal

Gabriel Albiac

ABC, On Monday, the 27th August, 2009

 

There are things that have been accumulating. Too much. But the life is that: useless things in our winch; objects, like memories; with the years, objects and memories are the same. One day we will not be and someone will throw the accumulated to the garbage. It comes down to that quite.

You return. Nothing ties you to this place. But you return. Perhaps because, past certain age, the only one can be what it repeats. Anybody, without whose efficacy the routine you would be more laborious enough, has put in your things a neat order that makes them marvelously foreign. And it is almost an affront to alter this diaphanous geometry of the empty house of you yourself. The days happen without opening the suitcase. You throw, occasionally, a glimpse to the white brilliancy of the empty icebox. You treat that your steps do not leave trace. It is vain but beautiful to stroll around, tenuously, for the rooms, as if you had not come. Not to do noise. Perhaps this way the life does not find out that everything returns. And that one everything is a disgust.

The holidays were a fiction. There does not stay, at this point, anybody who does not know it. Necessary. Since there it are always, for the fragile men, the lies. A staging of the flight, under the peculiar images that for each one the wish of fleeing has covered. That always gives of bruces in the comeback. Under a lethal light, moreover that beautiful, you were a stone between the Agrigento stones. Few privileges exist like of, in the solid bonfire of the sun amber, to have understood, finally, that son of Acragas who leaves at the edge of the crater of the Etna its sandal and two bequeaths thousand five hundred very trivial years of puzzler to us on its life or death. It did not return. Not neither to the foreseeable life, nor to the least monotonous death. And that completes the impossible thing: to change the man Empédocles into myth. Hölderlin will draw it, in 1798, with the subtle delicacy of the one who already schemes its proper, terminal, legend with window and perhaps feigned madness on the Neckar:« Those who do not return always tell the truth». The liars - all - we return; because living is to go surfeando the lip of the lie. And we beg, like Hölderlin, the Frugal ones a summer more, another fatal occasion, to lose it, that is the only thing that really we can do the men: "Grant a summer to me: oh, powerful! / And an autumn for the mature singing». It is an excuse. Poor person. To make us excuse that we return. Renuentes to the order of the poet, who demands the regreso from there where, finally, one gave us the calm, because «, when they have been too happy, a special curse is destined to them to the children of the sky».

But you have broken the delight. In the moment itself in which you withdrew from its shelf the volume of The death of Empédocles. And the library is again inhabited. And the pitfall closes: you have returned. Of nothing it already costs this prolix effort to happen on your things without touching them. You are. The rebound amber of the sun on unthinkable Dorian temples happens in another place. And there is no consolation even in the well-read letters that invoke it. Hölderlin, who invents the Empédocles that never returned to house, deteriorates himself the ensoñarlo: "There are always the impatient words who precipitate the mortal ones and prevent them from enjoying the mature moment of the perfection». The least lyric will have to be content with the calm driven to despair of the oldest Bertolt Brecht: "I am at the edge of the carretera. / The chauffeur changes the rueda. / I do not like the place from which vengo. / I do not like the place where voy./: Why do I look at the change of wheel / impatiently?»

There are things that have been accumulating. Too much. It will be necessary to go, little by little, putting the house in disorder. Also, this sandal that did not stay in the Etna.

 

 

http://www .abc.es/20090824/opinion-firmas/sandalia-empedocles-20090824.html

 

To complement the entry I leave a small critique to you on the figure of Empédocles.

Source: http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emp%C3%A9docles

 

Empédocles of Agrigento (in Greek Εμπεδοκλής) (Agrigento, h.495/490 – h.435/430 B.C.) he was a philosopher and Greek democratic politician. When it lost the elections it was exiled and he devoted himself to the knowledge. It postulated the theory of four roots, to which Aristotle later called elements, joining the water of Such of Mileto, the fire of Heráclito, the air of Anaxímenes and the ground of Jenófanes which are mixed in the different entities on the ground. These roots are submitted to two forces, which try to explain the movement (generation and corruption) in the world: the Love, which joins them, and the Hate, which separates them. We are, therefore, at present, in a balance. This theory explains the change and simultaneously the permanence of the beings of the world. The man is also a compound of four elements. The health consists of certain balance between them. The knowledge is possible because the similar thing knows the similar thing: for the fire we know the fire, for the hate, the hate, for the love, the love. Later Demócrito would postulate that these elements are done of atoms.

It supports a curious theory on the organic evolution for its theory of the roots. He supposed that in the beginning there would be numerous parts of men and animals distributed by hazard: legs, eyes, etc. random combinations would form for attraction or Love, giving place to aberrant and unviable creatures that they would not have survived:

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The sandal of Empédocles, Gabriel Albiac | Magazine Atticus

The sandal of Empédocles, Gabriel Albiac

The Empédocles sandal 

 

Who we devote ourselves, of a way or other one, professionally or of form amateur, to this of joining a few letters and wanting to express with our true prayers ideas or feelings we know how difficult it is to create a simple, effective and communicative text. In the end only it is a question of announcing that thing about something (opinion, essay, fiction) to the others so that they know it. A little so simple but, since I have said earlier, so complex.

 

Today there is celebrated the delivery of the Award González-Ruano of Journalism in its XXXV call. Call that in this occasion has relapsed into writer Gabriel Albiac, for its articleThe Sandal of Empédocles’, published in the newspaper ABC, on Monday, the 24th of August 2009.

So that you do not walk it looking for the network I leave it to you right here.

The Empédocles sandal

Gabriel Albiac

ABC, On Monday, the 27th August, 2009

 

There are things that have been accumulating. Too much. But the life is that: useless things in our winch; objects, like memories; with the years, objects and memories are the same. One day we will not be and someone will throw the accumulated to the garbage. It comes down to that quite.

You return. Nothing ties you to this place. But you return. Perhaps because, past certain age, the only one can be what it repeats. Anybody, without whose efficacy the routine you would be more laborious enough, has put in your things a neat order that makes them marvelously foreign. And it is almost an affront to alter this diaphanous geometry of the empty house of you yourself. The days happen without opening the suitcase. You throw, occasionally, a glimpse to the white brilliancy of the empty icebox. You treat that your steps do not leave trace. It is vain but beautiful to stroll around, tenuously, for the rooms, as if you had not come. Not to do noise. Perhaps this way the life does not find out that everything returns. And that one everything is a disgust.

The holidays were a fiction. There does not stay, at this point, anybody who does not know it. Necessary. Since there it are always, for the fragile men, the lies. A staging of the flight, under the peculiar images that for each one the wish of fleeing has covered. That always gives of bruces in the comeback. Under a lethal light, moreover that beautiful, you were a stone between the Agrigento stones. Few privileges exist like of, in the solid bonfire of the sun amber, to have understood, finally, that son of Acragas who leaves at the edge of the crater of the Etna its sandal and two bequeaths thousand five hundred very trivial years of puzzler to us on its life or death. It did not return. Not neither to the foreseeable life, nor to the least monotonous death. And that completes the impossible thing: to change the man Empédocles into myth. Hölderlin will draw it, in 1798, with the subtle delicacy of the one who already schemes its proper, terminal, legend with window and perhaps feigned madness on the Neckar:« Those who do not return always tell the truth». The liars - all - we return; because living is to go surfeando the lip of the lie. And we beg, like Hölderlin, the Frugal ones a summer more, another fatal occasion, to lose it, that is the only thing that really we can do the men: "Grant a summer to me: oh, powerful! / And an autumn for the mature singing». It is an excuse. Poor person. To make us excuse that we return. Renuentes to the order of the poet, who demands the regreso from there where, finally, one gave us the calm, because «, when they have been too happy, a special curse is destined to them to the children of the sky».

But you have broken the delight. In the moment itself in which you withdrew from its shelf the volume of The death of Empédocles. And the library is again inhabited. And the pitfall closes: you have returned. Of nothing it already costs this prolix effort to happen on your things without touching them. You are. The rebound amber of the sun on unthinkable Dorian temples happens in another place. And there is no consolation even in the well-read letters that invoke it. Hölderlin, who invents the Empédocles that never returned to house, deteriorates himself the ensoñarlo: "There are always the impatient words who precipitate the mortal ones and prevent them from enjoying the mature moment of the perfection». The least lyric will have to be content with the calm driven to despair of the oldest Bertolt Brecht: "I am at the edge of the carretera. / The chauffeur changes the rueda. / I do not like the place from which vengo. / I do not like the place where voy./: Why do I look at the change of wheel / impatiently?»

There are things that have been accumulating. Too much. It will be necessary to go, little by little, putting the house in disorder. Also, this sandal that did not stay in the Etna.

 

 

http://www .abc.es/20090824/opinion-firmas/sandalia-empedocles-20090824.html

 

To complement the entry I leave a small critique to you on the figure of Empédocles.

Source: http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emp%C3%A9docles

 

Empédocles of Agrigento (in Greek Εμπεδοκλής) (Agrigento, h.495/490 – h.435/430 B.C.) he was a philosopher and Greek democratic politician. When it lost the elections it was exiled and he devoted himself to the knowledge. It postulated the theory of four roots, to which Aristotle later called elements, joining the water of Such of Mileto, the fire of Heráclito, the air of Anaxímenes and the ground of Jenófanes which are mixed in the different entities on the ground. These roots are submitted to two forces, which try to explain the movement (generation and corruption) in the world: the Love, which joins them, and the Hate, which separates them. We are, therefore, at present, in a balance. This theory explains the change and simultaneously the permanence of the beings of the world. The man is also a compound of four elements. The health consists of certain balance between them. The knowledge is possible because the similar thing knows the similar thing: for the fire we know the fire, for the hate, the hate, for the love, the love. Later Demócrito would postulate that these elements are done of atoms.

It supports a curious theory on the organic evolution for its theory of the roots. He supposed that in the beginning there would be numerous parts of men and animals distributed by hazard: legs, eyes, etc. random combinations would form for attraction or Love, giving place to aberrant and unviable creatures that they would not have survived:

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Filed file: General

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