La Repubblica Gruppo Editoriale L'Espresso SpA
Letter: The girls with the donkey.
" I am a traveler, said Zarathustra to his heart. Finally, if you do not live with themselves " (Nietzsche)
out of the station of Mestre to start toward the garage where I keep the machine , I faced with something unusual to say the least. Two girls in the company of a donkey, walked quietly, completely oblivious to what surrounded them. It was about twenty years old and just went off around Italy in the company of their trusted friend, walk to get to know the city, places, people and things.
Guard was for me a new breath. There was something biblical in them, in their eyes caught my surprise, in their clothing canvas pants, boots suitable for those who must walk a lot, jackets with reflective strips to be visible in the dark. They placed two bags on the back of their donkey, they were provided with sticks useful for their journey, and were simply go.
I was totally taken by the beauty of the situation. What, I wondered, in the heart of two teens who go in search of crumbs of truth in their own way, regardless of the dense stupidity that surrounds us, the sgangheratezza of this world that bombards us with "values" idiotic ?
I felt deeply moved and filled with joy.
Fabio Lombardo
answers: Umberto Galimberti
All we travel, but unlike those two girls are not "wanderers," but mere "passenger" in a direct, who know nothing landscapes that separate them from the goal, pure interluoghi between a departure and an arrival. Walking aimlessly on the horizon do not miss the pictures of the landscape, the two girls push forward their steps, but not with the intention of finding something: Home, home, love, truth, salvation, but only the gifts of the landscape, only that the traveler is able to perceive, because he knows that the landscape itself is the goal, just watch it, hear it, accept it in the absence of his disorienting without-borders. And then by bringing it out from the usual habits, dear Fabio, the two girls with their donkeys have exposure to the 'unusual', where you can discover, but only for one night or one day, as the sky lays on the ground, as the night unfolds constellations in the sky unknown, such as religion summons hopes, as the tradition is the people, loneliness is the desert, the inscription makes history, the river bend ago, the earth is the groove, the machine makes a technical, in that rapid sequence in which the successive world experiences that defy any attempt to try to fix them and put them in an orderly, because, beyond a project-oriented, the nomad knows that all is fleeting, that the non-sense contaminates the sense that the possible exceeds the real and that any project that attempts to understand and embrace total madness. But for us, unlike that of the wanderer, "Journey," which is the interval between the start and end? What is the path to Who wants to arrive? For those who want to reach for those who respond to the last things, but also for those who respond to the next destination, the journey they have nothing. The lands through which he does not exist. Counts is the goal. He travels to "reach", not "know". So the journey died during the journey, who dies in every step brings him closer to the goal. And with the journey I myself die fixed on the goal and blind to the experience that unfolds the way a traveler knows that inhabit the landscape, and together, the landscape can say goodbye. The eschatology of religion and secular projects that usher in a traveler who meets these places as places of transit stops him near the goal. For him, the places become "interluoghi" waiting for this place which is the goal, the home found the successful life, the stability achieved. Unnecessarily introduced via travelers, our ears are deaf to their voices and those places, the sirens of "meta" and "return" are deleted every wonder, every wonder, every pain. The expectation of the Kingdom has reduced the road to "interregnum," no man's land of the last things first, though in no man's land and then spend our lives, which is not a race to the goal, but a space granted to ' human as his land that is not home, but simple way, which moves in the rubble of the collapsed temples and in the silence of the oracles and prophecies.
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