Wishes for Sunday: let it rain freely on the world and see my mother. Mother’s Sunday.
The first two lines of the column have already been written, of 2,500 characters with spaces, which today takes off in a “gliding flight”; that is, the article without a subject, one of those reckless texts that one begins to type without really knowing where they are leading. Paragliding is a risky sport if you are not César Ruano’s great-niece. The TV, muted, raises to the ceiling the songs and hallelujahs that flood Westminster Abbey at the coronation of Carlos III. A stack of newspapers sleeps on a chair. Leafing through them with an H, for a moment I am tempted to sharpen the ‘three-mileuristas’ of mayor Trias, who do not make it to the end of the month. But not. The dowsers who are looking for underground veins of water in the thirsty fields are more suggestive. Like someone who traces the hidden stream of words, but without a hazel wand.
There are days when the quagmire of politics, of the most tangible reality, repels you. He recounted it very well last week, in his Sunday column in ‘El País’, Manuel Vincent, who has been on the anvil of columnism for more than 50 years. He said: “The writer can shoot the dart [del artículo] against the ignominy that surrounds him or aim high so that he achieves only a certain degree of beauty crossing the uncontaminated space. How difficult. Fight or dream, the eternal question.
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Another appetizing headline: the WHO puts official end to the global emergency by covid. I keep reviewing newspapers, late and crisp of the day, and on at least five occasions, in disparate articles, nothing to do with each other, the word “melancholy” appears intertwined in the text. Or, his first cousin, “nostalgia.” It seems like an indication.
The Greek school of Hippocrates believed that melancholy was a cold sticky substance, a black bile that could lead to madness if not well balanced with the other humors in the body. Renaissance doctors tried to cure it with leeches and infusions of hellebore, a purgative herb. Is about an emotion that carries a bad reputation and that thrives in times like this, of crisis, accelerated changes and various uncertainties. Although, well looked at, melancholy can constitute a refuge, a last bastion, as art historian Anna Adell suggests: “The melancholic, in a way, are deserters from the fast-paced life that neoliberalism drives.” This is how the end of the article is thrown over, waiting for the rain.