[ES]

Prof. Román Reyes
Non è la felicità che conta?. Non è per la felicità che si fa la revoluzione? [Pier Paolo Pasolini]

The page where you opened this book is not a thing. Not even a picture of a thing. Because it is a virtual page. However it is text, contextuado in its particular means: use, interpretation and speech (jargon) that generates. Scripta manent. And these writings also remain, though 'otherwise'. Real-time, historical. The time of 'what happens', what happens. On 'real' geometric and emotive spaces. This moment, what happens as I write. This place where today I wake up, guarantor of the places of memory. My memory. And the memory of our ancestors. A cultural text, in the broadest sense of the term. A text that tells of a life in development, in (original) dialogue with nature, And that is what we mean by 'progress'.

Virtual page, which simulates the world of things and organization within that (assumed) world, which is yours. And mine. Take one, therefore, a risk if you open a door. Because the temptation of the unknown attracts more than retains the fear of what is (still) hidden. Now (when opening this page) about to be unveiled. For you. It may start (now) a (possible) transit, unknown, or discover a way of escape, escape, flight. Now. Simulating announced jumping, when looking inwards. From a (protector) outside. Believing to see what there is at the beginning of a path to go. That is mystery. And passion. For knowing and knowing. A way to go, at the end of which each reader has located his particular Ithaca.

A door or window is opened, a gap is discovered in the thing, because it feels the need to broaden the field of vision or to 'move on'. A gap in things that are not things, nor game of things (between things).

You open something because you feel the need to see or pass. Look 'to another site'. Move to another place. It is also assumed risk to the open page. And if the page is virtual you feel especially insecure.

You were born, like me, in the world. And you adapted to that world. There was no other way to be born. In the 'natural environment' where you lived your first years, first sensations. And first contradictions, doubts. But also, first affections. Then you were not virtual, nor did you need to be virtual. You had to play dreaming. You were something that 'stepped ashore'. One thing among things, that discovers the 'naturalness' of nature.

I am happy to be able to write the welcome text to this official site of EMUI_ EuroMed University. It supposes for me to see how they have been consolidating consecutive projects, not always in chains. Critical dreams, supposedly responsible, originating in 1975.

By talking with things I learned the language of things. Language that did not always give meaning to academic-institutional discourse. The 'official culture'. Those my everyday things, trapped in my dreams, which I was gradually proclaiming autonomous. Once 'proven innocence'. Once we were taking on the process of 'pollution', we call 'educate' and 'learn'.

My welcome greeting must necessarily be literary. Speaking of what I think I know, I'm talking about what I do not know. Confessing publicly my ignorance. In apparent silence. Because, at this point in my intellectual and professional life, I rely more on texts for narration and writing, without recognizable support. I distrust those others who circulate as excluding discursive legitimacy. I rely more on the discourse of everyday life. But also in the sub-speeches of the different options within our reach. Texts for narrating and writing. And in the adventures to have, in the experiences to enjoy.

It would be a mistake to pretend to tell my academic and intellectual life history of the last forty years, regardless of the traces that, throughout all this time, have left in me (rectifying my original project of history) the accomplices stories I have shared. By action or omission. The lived history, as recorded, of each one in particular. Rather, believing that the new was already in me, when what made me strong was always part of my environment, turning around me. That which is considered 'university life'. Public or private.

I know that now I am what I am, because my students were 'gone'. I know I have not been without my students, nor my readers. And how many know me and I know. Without my struggle to defend what I consider a priority: that at any age, at any time, it is necessary to take risks and think for oneself, unleashing, when appropriate, what is imposed. Without asking permission from anyone. And if we are to speak of 'development' to give the name that corresponds to the culture of our time, it will have to be done without forgetting that progress is 'human progress'. In nature and in its history, which is its renewed culture. Never a 'force of the past' to fight and eliminate. Always to reconvert, in a dialogue of equality with her.

The 'culture of our time' founds its own religion over the alleged ashes of the religion of our fathers. Culture of uncontrolled consumption. Because 'only that gives us happiness'. The fearsome god of our time. Culture of saturation and waste, at the cost of a 'progressive' destruction of nature and the environment, under the pretext of 'modernizing' the field and its productive force, to be a reflection of 'the city'. The rural and peasant world, in the small medium that is its mark of identity. Witness and guardian of their traditions, book-story of their relationship with nature and with the sacred, noble heritage that until then received the children. Guilt is now a sin of the bourgeoisie: always doing 'what is permitted' and not doing what is forbidden, regardless of whether someone does what is not forbidden. My 'fault' is to be 'obedient, disobeying'.

However I know that another present is possible. I've always been clear. Because I went aimlessly in the Borgata. Looking for the traces of the past in their desperate settlers. Something that 'is not prohibited' as long as it does not question the bourgeois order of things.

And so the doubt settled in me. Before my flesh became a word. It was the seventies / eighties when I began to learn the language of things. A system of signs for me hidden, unknown, and that, suddenly, I received in watered. They were times of revolt. And there was a rush to conquer the universe demanded of history (which poets and mystics dreamed), that a new language, 'postmodern', facilitated me. So that the rhythm of life was 'new'. Soon I was aware that it was not an easy task to standardize speech and customs, to do better, to produce more, and to consume. Without having time to saturate and say, to feel like saying, 'enough'. I could not even choose between accelerated abundance and plurality: what products could satisfy my hunger for knowledge. And end up accepting that one is 'what you can eat', which consumes. Be or not superfluous. To better seduce (thought) other adjoining bodies, as much or more consumers than I. To those who, however, denied the difference, denying in turn, unknowingly, that I myself was different, difference.

Others decided for me (and continue). It is true. Even the best forms of desire, the aesthetic and literary passion. My pathos is reborn strongly, 'otherwise'. The new 'religion of my time'. But refusing to subordinate it to rules of the game that, precisely, were those that plunged me into doubt. Because I could not play the game that I liked. And I began to realize that for me there could be no alternative but to resist. To doubt, to admit the one and that which excludes it at the same time. The fragment will. And of the critical spirit. He had already prepared the way to be part of a 'new generation of frankfurtians'.

If we already knew so many things and everything pretended to be in the books, I wondered how it could already have been said all that (me) is happening. Different, in principle, because we live in progress. We are progress to be past history (force of the past) that generates actuality. How to talk about the things I now discover with the language of things that are no longer 'my (our) things'. Even if they have left their mark. And that it will be preserved, respecting that past. That culture of everything that has happened to us, including what we could never speak using a single system of codes and an exclusive use of it.

So I started designing a strategy. To criticize the academic language to be able to criticize the daily language, docile and ignored copy of the institutional one. Not otherwise understood my role of teacher. I discovered then that Leibniz was right when he stated that theory without action is a non-theory. There is only 'theoria cum praxis'. And I discovered Kant. And to a kind of development of that innovative corpus theoretical understanding the truth as a result of a controversy: moral right to always tell the truth, but right to lie, 'to keep the coherence.' Controversy, in short, between theory and reality. Between word and thing. Between 'idea of the world' and concrete, historical real world. At first it was certainly the truth. But it was a truth that things hid. And they keep hiding so that things are our 'things of now', by respecting the sacredness of things. Included myself in as much as thing.

It was thus possible to design a program of Philosophy of Social Sciences, being my reference the work of Habermas, with whom I had enjoyed a Max Plank scholarship in Frankfurt.

Thinking modernity that would not think without having thought Baudelaire (or Foucault) before. Impossible thinking outside of that revolution that supposed that Vienna-fin-de-Siécle. At all levels, both the forms of creativity, and the new 'customs' that the fact supposed. And so I have ended up making mine, converted into a 'sacred reference', that phrase of Klimt, which can still be read on the frontispiece of the Museum of Secession: Der Zeit ihre Kunst, der Kunst ihre Freiheit. In other words, each period corresponds to a particular form of artistic expression, as each form of artistic expression corresponds to a particular type of freedom.

t is not a pre-text. It's a confession. I know that my book-journal Discours de Combat will be for me an unfinished project. Because I started my late journey when the trip was over. And I have now finished that I have reached the project-term, from fragments of previous projects. Create an international platform for research and teaching and interuniversity. And there it is, in the Monastero degli Olivetani in Salento (Lecce-Italy) the seat of a dream that I have been daydreaming since 1975: The EMUI_ EuroMed University.

Before concluding this text of welcome I must make one last confession, too human, no doubt. (Paraphrasing Albert Einstein): If I were not a philosopher (poet's apprentice), I would probably be a musician. I often think of music. I live my dreams in music. I see my life in musical terms. I can not say if I could have done some creative piece of importance in music, but I do know that what gives me joy in life is my harmonica.

And the philosopher caused all his books to be placed on the side of a mirror, and only one of them-whom Ben Yahya called miraculous-, subjected to the reflection of water, knew how to say the same thing as a faithful object: the clear truth of the intimate content . But when he wanted to communicate his science, the image of a suspended cloud, the inexplicable, plunged him into silence. [Rafael Pérez Estrada, Treaty of the clouds].

(2017) Leer poesía, hablar imagen. Lingua scritta della realtà, Plaza y Valdés, Madrid 
(2017) Diario de un provocador. Dov'è andato ora Pier Paolo Pasolini?, Huerga y Fierro, Madrid

Maspalomas (Sur de Gran Canaria), 13 de Agosto del 2015. A las 7:35 (hora local)