Infâncias da linguagem, infâncias da infância, memórias de infâncias: depois é tarde demais

Abstract

El presente ensayo se dedica a pensar poéticamente la infancia, la filosofía y la soledad. Por medio de algunas imágenes literarias, nos hace pensar la infancia más allá de la cronología, del tiempo lineal, de las fases de la vida, invirtiendo en la potencialidad del mínimo, del ínfimo, de la minucia como una fuerza que puede desplazarnos de los lugares comunes del pensamiento, que puede espichar o inquietar nuestros modos de ver, comprender, pensar. Infancia, literatura, filosofía y soledad mantiene encendida la llama del inacabamiento, de la incompletud, haciendo girar la rueda de la vida: la poesía se hace de todo aquello que se rompe por nada, el inservible, lo que dura poco menos que un instante, lo que, a su vez, es mínimo, lo que deshace la civilización del oro, la mercancía de la blasfemia, incluso lo que demasiado no se puede recordar, lo mínimo, lo impar, lo insuficiente. Así, el ensayo es una invitación a que podamos mirar con atención, con calma, hacia las cosas inservibles, para las palabras casi silentes, para los gestos mínimos y allí poder escuchar y ver, quizá, una poética otra de la infancia y de la filosofía, una relación otra entre infancia, literatura, filosofía y soledad, de tal manera que podamos decir: sí, la infancia tiene voz; sí, la infancia sin voz es una desgracia.This essay dedicates itself to poetically think about childhood, philosophy and solitude. By using some literary images, it provokes us to think of childhood beyond chronology, linear time, life phases, investing in the potentiality of the minimum, of the tiniest, of the minutiae as a force that can move us from the common places of thought, to expose or disturb our ways of seeing, of understanding, of thinking. Childhood, literature, philosophy and solitude keep alive the flame of unfinishing, of incompleteness, making the wheel of life spin: poetry is made of everything that easily breaks, of the unusable, which lasts just a little less than an instant wich is, in it?s turn, minimal, is what undoes the civilization of gold, the merchandise of blasphemy, including what can not be remembered, the least, the odd, the insufficient. Thus, this essay is an invitation so that we can look attentively, calmly, at the unseemly things, at the almost silent words, at the minimal gestures and then to be able to listen and to see, perhaps, another poetic of the childhood and the philosophy, a distinct relationship with the childhood, the literature, the philosophy and the solitude in such a way that we can say: yes, childhood has a voice; yes, childhood without a voice is a disgrace.This essay dedicates itself to poetically think about childhood, philosophy and solitude. By using some literary images, it provokes us to think of childhood beyond chronology, linear time, life phases, investing in the potentiality of the minimum, of the tiniest, of the minutiae as a force that can move us from the common places of thought, to expose or disturb our ways of seeing, of understanding, of thinking. Childhood, literature, philosophy and solitude keep alive the flame of unfinishing, of incompleteness, making the wheel of life spin: poetry is made of everything that easily breaks, of the unusable, which lasts just a little less than an instant wich is, in it’s turn, minimal, is what undoes the civilization of gold, the merchandise of blasphemy, including what can not be remembered, the least, the odd, the insufficient. Thus, this essay is an invitation so that we can look attentively, calmly, at the unseemly things, at the almost silent words, at the minimal gestures and then to be able to listen and to see, perhaps, another poetic of the childhood and the philosophy, a distinct relationship with the childhood, the literature, the philosophy and the solitude in such a way that we can say: yes, childhood has a voice; yes, childhood without a voice is a disgrace.