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Without anyone worrying about verifying their reliability, the links, related emails, comments on blogs and social network appointments multiply exponentially and in a relatively short time these contents become viral. And almost everyone thinks they are true or real. With the world of pseudo-medicine also happens. The credulity and the tendency to hold on to a nail burning when the situation gets complicated makes the miraculous promises have a hook and a large audience. Today I'm going to talk about one of those videos, because since I met him I've been doing a little follow-up and very often someone links it in the comments of one of my posts, especially if cancer is mentioned. Because this video is about that, about the possibility of curing cancer. It has already exceeded one million visits and although it may be a little exaggerated to consider it viral, its popularity is indisputable. It does not make much sense to read this article without having seen it, so, I confess that without any enthusiasm, I include it below. And with the same reluctance I ask you to see it before continuing reading. The lack of enthusiasm is not because it is not entertaining, that it is, but because of its cheating content. Prepare a lime or chamomile, sit comfortably and watch and listen. If you are a cancer patient, the feeling that you may have generated could be something very deep and acute. And that can become very painful. Schematically, these are their hypotheses and approaches: 1. This accumulation makes it difficult for the cell to feed properly and prevents it from having the oxygen it needs. In addition, the environment of the cell is acidified and as a consequence of all this, important health problems and diseases of all kinds are generated. Your treatment proposal is based on eliminating that toxic and acidic environment and killing the tumor cell, especially with medicinal plants, diet and other alternative therapies. I am not going to enter into evaluations yet, I have limited myself to enumerate the basic ideas that it exposes. But there is something that can only be seen when watching the video, the experience of seeing the complete presentation is very different from a summary with the main ideas. Because Martí Bosch is well equipped for persuasion and transmits credibility and confidence. It is convincing for someone without a scientific education but also for people who are trained and of a certain intellectual level. I tell you that we have a long time, because there is a lot to say. The truth is that it is on YouTube multiplied many times, so it is difficult to trace what could be its origin or who hung it for the first time. The last one is the one that concerns us and in which Martí Bosch spoke. On the other hand, before the protagonist appears, we see a presenter who briefly introduces him with all kinds of praise. According to the national registry of associations, this entity was registered in 2007 in Madrid. What is more strange is that it is impossible to find more information about this entity. At least I have been unable to know something about some pretty important details that would allow us to know its rigor or seriousness. Following what your own name suggests, what concrete investigations have you carried out and where are they? It does not even have a website, at a time when even breeders of canaries or chess players use this medium as a mechanism to make themselves known. The only information of a certain extent that can be found on the internet comes from DSalud again, in this article. They do not seem to be bad credentials, although in regards to their oncology specialty we have to trust their word. In the search engine of the College of Physicians your name does not appear associated with any specialty. In fact, every year licenses are withdrawn to practice and there are doctors judged for scams or other human baseness. The title does not assure us 100% honesty. In fact, if we continue to deepen in your history, we can find some shadow. In his defense, he argued before the media that he "never recommended to his patients to abandon traditional chemotherapy treatments" and the truth is that he was acquitted or excluded from the cause. In addition, the operation seemed to focus on the manufacturer of the product whose pro-cancer properties had never been demonstrated, with which Marti seemed unrelated. But let's leave aside this unpleasant case and get to the point in assessing the professionalism of Martí Bosch. A way to know the prestige of a doctor, especially if it is successful and innovative, is knowing your research work, the scope of such research and the results of the same. Nowadays it is something simple to look for since the main databases are accessible on the internet. I do not know any case of experts with relevant innovative treatments and more or less effective that are not in these huge databases. But Mr. Martí Bosch, does not appear anywhere, at least I have not found him. That is, he has never published any study or research that proves his therapies. I do not know if you have tried, but if it is not, it will not be because of lack of opportunity, because there are hundreds of medical journals in the world willing to attend research of very varied nature. And especially if they refer to cancer, a subject that sells a lot. Apart from this anecdotal information, have you participated in specific investigations? At least I could not find anything like it. So his prestige as a scientist can be considered a mystery. For my part, after many years of reading and writing about all kinds of vendors of miracle products, I have been able to identify common patterns that are repeated in these cases. I already wrote about them in this post about miracle diets, and I remind them again for this specific case: Explain a complex problem in a falsely simplified way. Propose the solution, unique and miraculous, with much better results than normal, without providing independent and rigorous tests. Use terms and pseudoscientific mechanisms without demonstrating or invented to explain the solution or problem and give rigor. Make comparisons with the competition, through lies and false accusations. Use false testimonies, not representative or exaggerated. To analyze all his talk, his proposals and ideas, we will see how Martí Bosch uses each one of them again and again, with examples and explanations relevant to each case. First habitual style in pseudomedicine: Explain a complex problem in a falsely simplified way. The main approach of Martí Bosch is born in the intense filtering activity of the lungs, liver and kidney, which as a consequence of the current way of life, become obstructed. This supposed clogging results in an accumulation of cholesterol, uric acid and CO2. And he gives as an example Alzheimer's and Parkinson's, which according to these approaches, would develop because of the death of cells due to acids and residues that prevent them from nourishing themselves. And the sclerosis, created by acid attack to the myelin that covers the nerves. Dermatitis, which would be generated when acids are expelled from the matrix through the skin. Or osteoporosis, which would occur by decalcifying the bone to neutralize the acid in the matrix. That is, according to these theories, the aforementioned waste load in the extracellular matrix would be the source of a large number of diseases. So much of the foundations of modern medicine would be wrong and the millions of doctors and researchers around the world would be wasting their time. In this way it would cause a huge liquid retention. Use minerals from other parts of the body to create salts and neutralize acids. As many of you know, cancer occurs when cells multiply uncontrollably as consequence of a mutation. That is, transform into a tumor cell that likes acid and crap and lives with a lot of sodium and without oxygen. Come on, that the mutation really would be a kind of evolution, a survival mechanism of adaptation to the environment. Recent research shows that considering cancer as a metabolic adaptation of the cell to an acidic environment full of waste is simply false. It is rather the opposite, that environment is a consequence of the activity of cancer cells, metabolically different from normal, as explained in this review. The truth is that, as the oncologist Barbacid sums up, in this article, cancer is a generic term that encompasses a large number of different diseases. In the links that I have included, you can find basic information that is quite complete and as anyone can see, the mechanisms for each situation are known in great detail. In fact, the experts work with relative normality with mutagenic agents of this type in their investigations, to cause controlled mutations and to be able to study them later. Regarding the theories of the extracellular matrix with which Martí Bosch explains everything, current experts and scientists who work on it do not think that the subject is so simple, far from it. Very interesting and, of course, much less simplistic and recognizing how little is known about the subject. The Americans, if they have had something good, are to teach us science through childish mechanisms. "The doctor refers to the series of the image on the right, in which the cells were represented by different caricatures characters. Obviously, it goes beyond its didactic virtues, it is wrong to document and cite its authors, who were not Americans, but French, and to verify that the thing is much more complex and difficult than Martí-Bosch told us. Let's move on to the second of the features of miracle treatments, that of proposing the simple super-solution that fixes everything, and again and again he explains that his therapies eliminate all the toxins from the body, restore the supposed imbalances of pH and kill the cancer cell The reality is that everyone who sees the video is left with the same message: This gentleman claims to have the solution for cancer. The details of this solution. His proposal is based on the following therapies: medicinal plants, salt baths, drinking lots of water and a diet with little meat based on the ideas of the pH or alkaline diet. Vitamin supplements and homeopathy. Sodium reduction, to hinder the creation of the basic interior in the tumor cell. Specific enzymes to deactivate specific proteins of tumor cells. Oxygenation to "feed" the cells, through ozone and peroxidases. These treatments would recover the functionality of lung, liver and kidney, cleanse the body of waste, reduce acidity and kill the tumor cell. But some have been done, which are what have served to publish some research and general reviews. I have found the following researches and scientific reviews on the subject: Unconventional therapy for prostate cancer: good, bad or questionable? At most they may have some utility to reduce some symptoms and anxiety or other psychosomatic symptoms, but little else. The third characteristic that sellers of miracle products use is the use of language and vocabulary that sounds like science or technology to be more convincing, but that really is inadequate, incorrect or directly invented. In this case, I hoped that being Martí Bosch doctor, someone with scientific training, would avoid using this resource. But as we have seen in the previous paragraphs, it does so systematically and continuously. All of your theory on diseases based on the extracellular matrix - which I will not repeat again - has that scientific background and is full of statements and descriptions of processes that nobody has tried, but which he takes for granted and obvious. Within this strategy of giving everything a "scientific" varnish, one could also include exaggerations about the prestige of the authors who developed the original hypotheses. But if we look for more data about this scientist on the internet, the information is surprisingly scarce. Regarding Pischinger's work, the same thing happens to us. If we read the entry on Wikipedia's extracellular matrix, Pischinger does not appear. And about thirty pages can be read in this link from Google Books. Regarding Pischinger's publications as a researcher, it is easy to find his work in Pubmed, but among the researches that appear, none is especially focused on cancer. To end this disaster, we must make it clear that the Austrian scientist never came to make trials on these therapies with cancer patients. Nor to demonstrate that these hypotheses had clinical utility. Thanks to it we were able to know that during a period of his life he was part of the Nazi movement and of societies related to eugenics and "racial hygiene", with suspicions of following ethically very debatable practices. And that in his more mature research stage, the one related to alternative medicine, was at least rigor and transparency contributed in his research works). Anyone who knows a little chemistry will know that the mechanism of osmosis is precisely the opposite. In any case it would cause the water to leave the body, not the toxic or dissolved compounds. In addition, as several studies have shown, expelling some waste from the pores does not seem to be so positive. This study and this other, for example, show that those who sweat much later expel less through the urine and have more concentration of uric acid in their blood. The second part of the sentence is false, the pH of the body does not change with feeding. And another homeopathy, I add. Fourth habitual style in pseudomedicine: Making comparisons with the competition, through lies and false accusations. The fourth strategy used to convince is a marketing classic. When you do not have too many arguments to sell the merits of your product, it is best to criticize and devalue the product of the competition. In doing so, he is also ridiculing and belittling all his fellow oncologists, who are the ones who use them. It is curious and contradictory to use this tactic, because if something sounds ancient they are precisely their treatments based on hydrotherapy, medicinal plants and the like, more typical of a couple of centuries ago and without evidence of efficacy. Or much more, his references to Galen and "his medicine" 2000 years ago are not exactly modern. Survival has doubled as an average and in some types of cancer the results are even better. Fifth habitual style in pseudomedicine: Use false testimonies, not representative or exaggerated. Martí Bosch ends his talk with the story of a testimony. Yes, spectacular, a patient who arrived in very poor condition but after his treatment achieved an almost complete remission of cancer. But only one thing fails: that it does not provide a single proof of its existence, documents, impartial witnesses or evidence. And again take this opportunity to underestimate the real medicine and comments ironically that doctors classified his testimony as a spontaneous remission, generating laughter among a public delivered. Therefore, it should not surprise us to hear someone who has had the good fortune of living a remission that "alternative medicine has cured cancer." I remind you again: Only one case and also without a single test. I have done the test and I get all these: Due to the continued operation of lung, liver and kidney for 24 hours a day, they end up clogging. This jam generates toxins and acidity in the environment of the cell. These toxins make cellular nutrition difficult. Many cells in this environment die. And surely you can identify a few more. Each one of them would need a good amount of solid and rigorous studies and trials to be demonstrated, because most of them are very revolutionary and contradict current knowledge. And we do not have an acceptable study; in fact, there are quite a few studies that conclude results in the opposite direction. So this whole theory can only be considered a huge hypothesis. And if that were true, following their advice would cure most of them and all the millions of experts and researchers in the world would be wrong. All this is so radically revolutionary and the solution would be so spectacular that it would be enormously easy to test through clinical trials and studies. So I ask him again: Why do not you do essays and present objective proofs of your affirmations? Considering that after 12 or 13 dilutions there is no longer a single molecule of active ingredient, I remember that it aims to help cancer patients with water and sugar. If someone wants to tell about his supposed cure, he must come with reliable evidence under his arm and identify himself in detail. When it was seen that the cancer did not subside with his diet, he underwent surgery to remove the tumor and thus could endure some time, but after a couple of years the cancer returned with greater virulence and died. But from there to cancer is cured with a diet... I'm sorry but I doubt it. If it were not for the sad thing that it is that there are vultures like that that are taken advantage of, it could be said almost that the video is even sympathetic or funny. In addition, a large number of meta-analyzes have been published in recent years that have shown how well-adapted chemotherapy in each case significantly increases life expectancy in several types of cancer. You can find them with relative ease in Pubmed. And in this case, more about health. Thank you. There are several who have heard or read about homemade salt baths to clean detoxify the body. It was already missing a new entry in the blog, but the wait has been worth it, because the article is very worked and is a most meticulous analysis. I think I should sing the "mea culpa", because I am one of the readers who sent you the video of yore. Coincidentally, not long ago, a friend sent it to me by mail, and she was enthusiastic about it. I answered in a cautious tone so as not to offend her, but now I think maybe I should have used a greater forcefulness. Finally, I congratulate you once again for your work. I have here some material that I have kept thinking about you, related to topics of this type. I'll send them to you, if you do not think it's wrong. Also the statistics, although there are not many comments tell me that more than 3000 people have already read this article. Which is not bad. A greeting and thanks again. Fortunately, each one can follow their own initiatives in the case of the search for information, where the only accepted thing is that only one can discriminate the reliability of the same. I will continue to follow your post to the extent that its content interests me or believes that I may be useful, for or against my own current conclusions. It is wise to change your mind and for that you must stock up on all kinds of information without prejudging it in advance. We are complicated, right? One and the other can save a patient. Let's not waste any. This guy who talks is not a fool to despise him. It's just like with the green laser to remove a prostate cancer. That goes well, even against the opinion of some. I have not said at any time that I am a fool. And alternative medicine does not save patients. further So my question is: why not scientifically investigate a less harmful alternative that replaces the desired health? You only have to say, but also, there are too many cases that official medicine does not work either. And if you do not ask any doctor why you have cancer. I have asked many doctors and none of them knows anything, they only apply the protocol, and keep on pulling. They do not investigate anything about the patient. Where are the opinions and statistics of the people treated with this doctor. I did not know him because I'm not Spanish and I've never heard of him. First of all, I congratulate you for the detailed and careful study of Bosch's elegant lies. I did not know him because I'm not Spanish and I've never heard of him. First of all, I congratulate you for the detailed and careful study of Bosch's elegant lies. I take note of your blog, it looks very good. Just start seeing the video a falsehood: if the heart pumped 5 l min. I'm a Vascular Surgeon and that's why I love your analysis, very correct. I have a question for you: if the base of medicines and drugs are the active principles of plants, why do you deny phytotherapy the credibility you give to drugs? The correct thing would be to say that the active principles of some drugs originate from some plants. Hence, the phytotherapy is effective there is a chasm. It's a good thing that some of you put a little sanity in this jungle of ignorant people. I have seen the video and do not ask for anything bad or money. Following the indications of the oncologist that each one has, I do not see anything bad in following the ones that this gentleman gives of complementary form, that does not speak from the jail. you accuse that he does not present evidence and you? They seem very interesting to me and the second, to say that we have to seriously ask ourselves why the boom of this type of therapies and "solutions for everything". My girlfriend's uncle is one of them, and thanks to what? Clarity of judgment can sometimes lose something important when there is a lot of vehemence. Waves of light or subatomic particles perfectly organized? And this is pure science at the highest level... which paradoxically is deeply linked to the results obtained by Buddhist monks, through prolonged meditation. The latter have used the human mind as an instrument of precision to get rid of all conditioning: true clarity is obtained through serenity and mental calm. What monks have learned and tried to convey not through concepts but through individual experience through decades of tireless practice is that matter is light. And basically nature is the reflection of the divinity transmuted into matter. Entoooonces: If we want to see cancer as a disease, let's see it as such. Or at least allow others to discover for themselves?? I do not think anyone is playing with other people thinking that cancer can be a mistake. According to this theory cancer becomes a problem when we go to the oncologist and they detect it and tell us that we have one year left to live. Panic lowers our defenses and our psychological balance goes into chaos. Cancer is chaos of matter. The mind in chaos is reflected in the material... I think that on the other hand conventional medicine lacks an individual search job by each doctor, many things he takes for granted. For example, cancer is incurable and diseases are generally unknown causes. And also that there are immeasurable markets behind the pharmaceutical... It is a lot of money and this possibly conditions the direction of research in general. For me there is a lot of business in the alternative, but there is also in traditional medicine, supposedly accurate and effective. They never sat down to establish together a diagnosis, and what for one was. One important symptom the other dismissed and so on. They should take note the future doctors. Health should not be understood only as the absence of disease and the patient should be addressed as a whole. Or people will take refuge in any alternative that seems more respectful of their human condition. Your analysis of Martí Bosch and everything he says is very good. However, to the margin to throw dirt on the theses of doctor Martí Bosch, that on the other hand contains explanations easily understandable even for the profane ones in the matter, you do not say nothing convincing that it demolishes said thesis. So I invite you to argue with strong arguments the explanations of the doctor, so you can understand the reason of his excepticism. Thousands and thousands of doctors from all over the world already do it with their daily practice, who understand, study and treat cancer in a radically different way to theirs. Let's see what you can say against the theories of this Doctor, Nobel Prize in medicine. A question that I think you'll know how to answer. Why do you sell your books? Without acrimony. Greetings and congratulations for your work. I have nothing against honest business, but I do have scams. Everyone has the right to earn an honest living. And I do not think anyone seems wrong. Another thing is to make a living swindling desperate people, I think. Something very different, at least according to my values. You'll have to dig a little deeper, but everything I write about those topics is online, free and totally accessible. It would be like the two great evolutionary currents Darwinism Lamarckismi. Nor do I believe that the video says that you just have to follow his advice, he says that together with the cleaning of the extracellular matrix facilitates the arrival of serum. I think that in the video we can observe very curious data to see cancer from another point of view. I do not think traditional medicine is 100% accurate and this type of illuminated either. A half term would be fair. Neither for you nor for me. Do not disqualify for free. And strong sentences for charlatans in forced labor camps, you would see how they came out less. Greetings. Knowing that chemotherapy is a million dollar industry and that it has very poor results. Why deny the possibility of alternative therapies?. If you do a little research you will discover that not only can you trust what the scientists say. He is a recognized oncologist and you are only a detractor, who believes he is the owner of the truth. How unfortunate that his vision is obtuse. There is no worse blind than the one who does not want to see. If I had cancer and they tell me to eat shit with pleasure I do it and I prefer to die in peace knowing that I tried everything. In the sky circulates a coin called faith and the miracle happens to those who have it. It takes faith to see a miracle. There are also people who have been healed by their faith or belief and that does not invalidate that you can not explain it by the scientific method. Humans transcend science by our faith, by what we believe. A positive attitude, an open mind and a trusting heart in God are the conditions of an inner healing and by default of a body without ailments. If you do not believe in miracles, think that life itself is a miracle. and more when you are bombing on television or Radio that pharmacies do that very well. and here we could dawn what they do to profit from the patients. And even, the scientifically proven and published in the right places, with the passage of time and new knowledge are dismantled and contradicted. that if you are not going to burn at the stake. The worst of all this is that there are people who believe blindly in this marabunta of charlatans and corrupters of ethics. If by my outside I sent everyone to bite a stone at a quarry. I was just diagnosed with colon cancer. Fortunately, he has a good prognosis and I hope to heal. And I will thank you for our fantastic public health system. I have read the notebook about Dr. Martin Search, after listening to some of their videos, frankly I did not deserve any credibility, and whose exposure was vulgar and lacking in rigor. I do not have medical training, but I have been a journalist and I think I have developed the instinct to detect what "smells" badly. And for that reason, I value the time dedicated by the author of the blog to dismantle the fallacious simplifications of Dr. Martin Busca. But I also want to express my surprise at a fact that produced a certain stupor and now almost a scandal. It turns out that the decent man name came to my ears through a doctor who was on duty at a health center in Madrid. He did not suggest to me at any time that it was an alternative to the surgical intervention that I am going to undergo if not rather as something to consider if I had to receive chemotherapy. Today I found the paper where he had signed his name and that's why I'm here. The truth is that, given what I've seen, and as a supporter of what I call conventional medicine, it still seems dangerous to me that this kind of unproven information is given from the public health centers themselves. I am almost by professional deformation a skeptic. And I also apply the rationality to assess even my illness. But I understand that in more desperate situations there are people who do it. What I do not understand is that those who have medical training, act with such a degree of immorality, prevailing on the prestige that their titles confer and on the ignorance or despair of the sick. It is punishable by law, sure, but the competent bodies should act. Look, I'm 71 years old and I have not been sick in all my life. I have almost always led a healthy life. Today I do not mail, but I also walk two hours at least daily. To my total amazement and even disbelief, I have cancer. Detected by chance, because I feel great. Small, without metastasis and I hope I will be eliminated without further consequences the day after tomorrow. But it is wise to be cautious and not so maximalists. They have not received either chemo or radio. And that is perhaps the most reasonable conclusion. That the best prognosis is "maybe" due to healthy habits. That the pharmaceutical industry is a business? That some make their August at the cost of suffering, gullibility or ignorance of many?. Let's be consequent: Let's analyze value, and criticize those aspects that deserve criticism and even contempt. But what we are and how we live is everyone's responsibility. And still, dear friends, life is pure chance. So let's enjoy the luck of living. And let's contribute to make it more balanced and fair. No one is going to give his arm to twist, it's a human condition. The human being is the stupidest creature in the Universe. Yes, I knew the existence of that chair. A pity that they create chairs for interests different from the scientists. One of his biggest criticisms is the simplicity with which Marti Bosch deals with the subject, its unscientific terms, comparisons, etc. However, these are not hypotheses of Marti Bosch. His scientific articles are available on the internet, I think he should read a bit of these researchers on which he relies before making erroneous accusations. If it is true that you mention Pischinger, saying that it is a "supposition" scientific support. Because he calls it "budget" scientific contribution you do not clarify it. So it is not about "believing or not believing", but about informing yourself. Angiogenesis inhibited by drinking tea. Sulforaphane, a naturally occurring isothiocyanate, induces cell cycle arrest and apoptosis in HT29 human colon cancer cells. Dr. Bosch responded to my emails in a totally disinterested way, recommending treatments for my father. My father started these treatments before he started chemo, and almost all the symptoms that the tumors produced him only left him with the Bosch treatment in about 10 days. Some raise hypotheses that have not been proven, others are based on specific and very preliminary results, others have been carried out by fairly impartial entities. None have been confirmed repeatedly by other scientists despite having spent many years. This is called "choose a handful of anecdotal studies that interest me and obviate all those who do not." If all of Bosch's proposals are based on that ten jobs, we're wrong. Something that will never happen. Regarding the personal case of your father, if you really want to help others affected, I invite you to make it known to the scientific community and let them prove the results for themselves. It is that this type of testimonies always remain in anonymous or half-anonymous statements and without contrasted evidence. Few, the majority published in alternative journals and almost all theoretical or with essays on cells, not people. Not like some pseudo-doctors who think they're doctors just for having the race. Something that many @ s do not know even remotely what it is because it is more comfortable to hold on to what they were taught by other "doctors" as blind and blind as they are. I can only thank you because there are people really interested in non-invasive and real therapies. Not those multimillionaire therapies to fill the pockets of pharmaceuticals without scruples with the approval of mediquillos. And neither do you explain why this brilliant, traveled and professionally developed gentleman does not publish a study demonstrating his theories or organize a transparent and controlled trial by someone impartial. If everything he says is true, by not doing so he is letting thousands of people die uselessly. So I will immediately eliminate those that are offensive and all they want to do is insult me. We continue with anonymous testimonies that speak of brothers, cousins ​​or neighbors. Now that's a shame on such a serious issue. I assure you that many of us would study them with interest. In that when you already have cancer cure it, well no. But I have to say that the type of food if it seems to acidify the body or alkalize. Who likes to make a palliative diet based on vegetables, fruits and few carbohydrates and sugars? Here I put a scientific man who seems to be quite important, do not you think? In a healthy person the pH of the blood is between 7.40 and 7.45. Follow a healthy diet and play sports does not make sense? Where did I get the texts from? You find this in a library or wherever you want. The human being has not modified his genetics, but we are putting many artificial substances or incomplete foods to the body. But, I repeat from my previous response, people are not willing to sacrifice so much. I insist, are you going to tell me where these texts come from? Do not twist my words, nobody is against a healthy life. But of those who promise exaggerated and impossible things and earn money with it. They also sell them on the Internet, and they change every time you do them. Sometimes the ph is higher and others lower. Look, when I get cold I do not take acetaminophen or any shit like that. I drink bicarbonate twice a day. This will be psychological not? The bicarbonate alkalizes. The alkaline diet, healthy, alkalizes the body and keeps you from getting cancer. You can believe what you want, but it is not more than that, a belief of yours. And the test is done with fasting saliva. This is a proven thing, and not just once, not twice. I gave the cold as an example. You can cure the vaginal fungi too, ay! The pH of the saliva varies a lot and depends mostly on the last thing you have eaten or put in your mouth. To say that the body is alkalized or acidified, the pH of the most important internal fluids, such as blood, should be measured. And I assure you that pH does not change, and if it does is that you are very sick. Having improved your health by modifying your diet is normal, if it is now healthier. And of that there is not a single test. It seems very good that you check the sources, but I tell you that if you find them, you will only have passed the first phase. After that, it will be necessary to verify that there is evidence of his affirmations. I assure you that time and science have corrected a long list of mistakes made by great geniuses. If you want one day we go into details and examples. I assure you that I have no interest in turning anything over, nor do I gamble anything or gain anything with all that. On the contrary, I would love to find simple, cheap and effective remedies, do you think that I and my relatives do not get sick? That is the worst way to deduce the cause and effect of a treatment because there are enormous possibilities of committing an infinity of errors and failures and letting oneself be led by biases. It has been shown in medicine many times. A greeting. better work for the good of humanity without paying large bills. He realized this and nothing else. and also clarifies that the tumor must be removed logically. He had a glioblastoma and we went, a few months before, to Dr. Bosch's office. Said consultation took place without at any moment agreeing to view, the referred doctor, resonances made to the patient. I am a biologist and evidently a lot of things seem to me a great simplification, but let us not forget that great simplifications brought significant advances in the field of health. The average time he was granted life was six months and takes a year and a half and goes on. As I said before I am a biologist, and yes, the body is acidified. Tell people who have died of metabolic acidosis after a great effort. Tell people who undergo processes of bone calcium relocation to combat plasma acidosis. And I do not tell you ph variations due to mucosal infections or internal infections, where the waste metabolites of those bacteria or other microorganisms can be fundamentally acidic, varying the pH locally if the infection is local, or more importantly if it is generalized If you studied biology or medicine you would see that there are many examples. Another example the greater or lesser presence of magnesium in the diet varies the ph. Magnesium oxide is a great alkalinizing. This does not mean that these ph problems cause cancer. Do not do like him and mix churras with merinas. I am glad that your friend is saved, but from there to relate it to the diet there is a long way to prove. Is your friend also an oncologist? Does anyone know a doctor who has been treated with such therapies? The now deceased, invited him to visit Moriano and told him about Biobac. My sister-in-law told him that these people were considered healers and that he would not get in their hands. No, we lived better in the Neolithic, without the harmful gilipollez of science. Do not see how it screws up the scientists that agriculture feeds us. Correct a congenital deformation, cure a bacterial infection or place a pacemaker is to overcome nature? Synthesize elements or elaborate materials that do not exist in it is to go further? What is genetic engineering? Place your faith where you want. I speak from the point of view of two university careers in health sciences and science and technology; with more than 10 years of clinical experience, not a doctorate precisely because of the following arguments. When one deals with people and not with patients, he discovers that the systematic and protocolarized medicine treats signs pharmacologically, and no longer even symptoms and even less worries about the causes. This is understandable in such a limited health system of budget or badly used money. Let's save vocational professionals who are not limited to textbooks. To me as to all my colleagues when leaving the university we filled our heads with theories, data, statistics and other numbers that are useful and necessary to teach and disseminate knowledge. In fact about 12 years ago create a blog similar to yours where I tried to dismantle many of these things and it was not difficult for me all the information was already published, it's just a matter of writing and a little more... just like a student. And how dare you investigate without using the scientific method? Two science careers do you have? Something like that can not be difficult to prove if there is or not. Reread the article, my tone does not pretend to be jocular, it's ironic. Because of the shame it gives me that there are chairs like that or like homeopathy. If I want to treat myself with synthetic products whose scientific basis shows the side effects they produce, I will go to the pharmacies. If on the contrary I want to do it with natural products that do not harm, I will go to a herbalist. Or try a few herbs that you find in the field, almost certainly you will end up intoxicated or with indigestion. Muscles and tendons, traumatologist, and with the ultrasound and report to the physio. They will see how it is cheaper and more effective than pseudo-medicine. Always the critique with foundation is good. We must go beyond the video of the character in question. All the theory he raises is not his. Simply perform a project on scientifically proven foundations. It is a "screaming secret" the truth of the acidification of the organism as a cause of different pathologies. If we see the different ancestral cultures from all over the world we will understand that it is nothing new. In my country Bolivia, for example there are diverse indigenous cultures that teach us to live in and of nature, that way the disease can not develop, even cancer. Now when dealing with this terrible disease, there are various controversies. But every time the demonstrations that the best way is the alkalization and purification of the organism, of that there is no doubt. Of this there are better presentations and explanations than of Mr. Marti, and everywhere in the world, so let's not close ourselves to this character. I repeat that all this theory is not the gentleman in question, if we investigate more certainly we will find many scientists who tell us about this. Now to your questioner, why is cancer still on the rise if we have the solution in our noses? As you can see, the information we see in the video is not crazy, it probably is not as accurate either, but it is very true. Let's not question so many things that are naturally obvious. Greetings from Bolivia, heart of South America. imagine the surprise that human beings can not believe that these remedies cost almost nothing. It is 100% normal for a large percentage of the population not to believe that the body can be prevented without delivering the savings of a lifetime to hospitals and pharmacies. and the Dr feels that he tries to explain them from the point of view of reason. Centinel expresses that with that he is implying that so many health professionals are wrong. No. I can only end by saying that health is a reward. Sorry if you felt offended, it was not the intention and you do not need sarcasm. I ask you to investigate, as I suggest to anyone and also to myself. And I do not mean just reading books and lots of articles that we find every click. In conclusion, the idea is to agree that the most important thing to heal or not get sick is to have a strong immune system, and that can be achieved in the way that I mentioned, according to my knowledge and experience, do you think it's silly? I hope you take this as a small and humble contribution to the conscience of society and thus fight against ignorance to end the suffering of so many people who live "blind" and are doomed to a cancer or other misfortune that we are largely we ourselves who created them. It's about giving them "some little" to help them avoid suffering. Do you agree? Go ahead. Greetings from the heart of South America, Bolivia. You attack their assumptions, but without realizing the one that falls in that game are you. It is clear that medicine is a big business, and that thousands of people die of cancer, and that the treatments are very expensive and leave the patient and their families in poverty. And of course, all the millions of doctors in the world are very bad and they only want money, but Martí Bosch is generous and does everything for free. If the argument to recommend medicine? Come on, fellows, to relax a bit!. This is not a "win wins" who is right, we all hit and we are wrong to some extent. Indeed, the boring recommendation of "healthy eating and exercise" says any health professional, but will make the necessary emphasis on these issues or will they take it as an accessory measure, nothing else and what will be the most important of their medications? You evaluate your professionals in your environment. You arrive at an office with a backache and before asking yourself what you eat, what are your habits, etc. They dispatch you with a prescription of antibiotics or analgesics. We should not denigrate clinical medicine but it is certainly an incomplete means of treatment, we must see the problem in an integral way, that is simple logic. The salt bath certainly has benefits and if it is a welcome detox help. I repeat that I do not share everything the gentleman says, but let's rescue what might be useful to us. Then, there each one with his health. I do not disqualify anyone. I have not found an email to write to you, that's why I do it this way. And I have always followed conventional therapy. I try to read a lot about nutrition and I see that many specialists agree on "nutrition be your medicine". Honestly, after watching the video, I had doubts about many things that said but I do not get the impression that he cured cancer. Even if it seems impossible, some of us do things without expecting money in return, thinking that we help other people. If you do not do it, I recommend it, it's quite rewarding. The treatments have nothing wrong, what is wrong is making exaggerated promises using false arguments and promises and making money with it.3. Our grandparents did not live for 90 years, those were a few, most died much earlier than now. It is not necessary to go to a private consultation to meet them or complement them with practices of healers without demonstrated effectiveness. You live more by the antibiotics and the refrigerator. Science is not to be repeating all the holy time that increases life expectancy. But someone has asked to repeat it so much? And what is the intention to increase it? This is a joke very well organized by power. All doctors are millionaires.2. As a doctor was wrong with you, all are incompetent.3. As your grandparents were long-lived, everyone in the world was too.4. Explain your theories and arguments and do not come with tricks or games, because I will not tolerate them. By the way, it seems to me that you have not been to the Gorliz hospital for a long time and that you do not talk to their doctors. Let's see if we update a little. For me that every morning Martí Bosch or one of his acolytes go through here with different names to write a stupid comment. It does not matter, if they go over the line, I'll erase it. But usually they are pretty ridiculous comments, so I do not care too much, that's how they are portrayed. If you read these comments, I warn you: I will not allow a single alleged testimony without proof. And when I say tests, I mean real tests. Create your website and write whatever you want. If it does not seem right, then do not come. You will explain, and it will be the judge who will sentence. You have looked for him, my friend. I have noticed a passion so visceral of the subject, that for this same it takes legitimacy from the parties and is losing interest. I have seen the video and I loved it. There are thousands of things that scientists can not explain. A cold is much simpler than a cancer and has not yet been invented nothing to eradicate it in less than a week. Because the human dimension far exceeds empiricism and scientific rationalism. Because we are not robots, but organisms whose physical, emotional or psychological reactions are often unpredictable. Sometimes the simplest is the best: a balanced diet, a healthy lifestyle, a doctor who shows empathy and good humor. Because osmosis is a chemical process that occurs between two aqueous environments separated by a membrane. For example, when sweating, urea is expelled, but it is the same urea that we excreted through the urine, which is the proper channel for its expulsion. I think that rationing yours "as everything is very complicated, the solutions must be simple" is totally contradictory. Unfortunately, solutions are often not simple, because nature, biology and the universe are not either. I do not see any crime in this! Do not spend anything.. it's like the advice 5 pieces of vegetables and fruits a day! I do not know if this cures cancer and God forbid, no one would tell you to stop your traditional treatment, but it really costs nothing to prevent, and if that works? For the umpteenth time, all doctors recommend eating healthy, no one is against that. But Martí Bosch suggests that he treats cancer with his treatments of a century ago. And this talk is a misleading advertisement for people to come to your consultation.3. I see a lot more anger in some comments, especially in the tens of them that I had to erase, insulting myself and accusing me of falsehoods and idiocies. Several of them treated by this doctor and many more by traditional medicine only. Similarly, at the psychological level, it is scientifically proven that a patient with anxiety, depression and other disorders responds in a worse way to traditional medical treatments against cancer. Martí Bosch ridicules on several occasions surgery, radiotherapy and chemotherapy. it is quite clear what he intends with it. In addition, there is not a single proof that their proposals improve the effectiveness of conventional treatments.2. That review that links is very weak and to top it does not provide a single test or decent study showing that the food changes the pH, except the stomach and urine, as you know. Nor that "alkalinity" is beneficial. It raises some hypotheses, it makes reference to very generic and preliminary studies, but everything stays half. Compared with other reviews is very mediocre and does not serve to conclude anything. It is not true that there are many studies that demonstrate the pH, if you know them, I pray that the links. I am a fan of science and especially of medicine, my knowledge is not very complete, since I only have 3 years of higher education. As any person science, is not to distort by mere caprice and envy a hypothesis, there are a series of steps that must be repeated again and again in a reasoned manner and taking care of every detail. Well, those who have worked in a laboratory carrying out an investigation know that one day you do something with certain factors, the next day you repeat everything and something goes differently. An investigation needs financing, a laboratory with complete equipment, a good project and a lot of work. In addition to this you must present your work to the scientific community where you must explain everything again and again, and answer all the questions. If your answers or methods are not good or do not meet the requirements it assumes that your research will be erased from all records for not meeting the requirements. So I call not to follow this doctor, not because I do not like him, but because his work is not scientific. It is not about closing the door to the cure of cancer, it is about closing the door to the magical answer, for the scientific question. There was a time when I decided to eliminate that barrier and open myself to at least knowing other options and documenting myself well. By Consequently, in my family we have changed many habits, obviously without expecting anything because we had nothing. Those who have other concerns or responsibilities thanks to people like Dr. Albert have other options. By the way, if you want we talk about the mistake of Pauling's obsession with vitamin C, which several decades later is considered one of his biggest mistakes. I am not at all in agreement with that "neither some are better, nor others worse". for a desire to earn money at the expense of the diseases of others? So low have we fallen as to take advantage of the death of people? Where is the ethics and morality? Your analysis is very interesting, but I do not agree with all your conclusions. But... what do you do when that which you believe in fails? Well, almost 2 years ago, I began to feel terrible pains in an ovary and nothing took it away from me. The doctor could only tell me to take ibuprofen and ignored my despair about what I already did and still the pain did not let me sleep. After that, after many consultations with several doctors, I discovered that I have a chronic disease called endometriosis. You can inform yourself on the internet about it to compare. As a summary, I will tell you that it is very painful, although not all suffer the same; It causes many health problems and can be related to many other diseases and we do not know very well why it appears. It is speculated on with several possibilities, but it is not known for sure. Well, in my desperate pain, my partner insisted that I should change my diet and take certain infusions. So placebo effect nothing. I do not know what it is or why, or why some work and others do not. What I know is that now I sleep well, it hurts only sometimes and much less and I feel much better. Of course not, the medicine either, that this disease is known has no cure. And what interests pharmacies? As with any company, obtain benefits. In this case, selling medicines. Therefore, will they promote a study that says it is healthier to change the diet to prevent having to take medication? Well, it may not be enough for many, but if that helps them take 1 less pill a day, it's worth it. Do not they know about We Are What We Eat? I'm not saying do not over-medicate the sick, it's true that happens. And much less that the diet can not help alleviate the pain of endometriosis, there are scientific reviews that suggest that it could be a useful strategy, although it is not known for sure. In the post I say that what Martí Bosch affirms directly or indirectly in all his talk, that his advice cure cancer, they are not credible nor are they supported by evidence. Dozens and even hundreds are published every day, without the sponsorship of pharmaceutical companies. I read many of them and there are of all kinds. For example, try searching for "diet" in pubmed and you will have tens of thousands of links to food studies. Why else, is not the first thing they ask you when you enter a query? Maybe it's not a problem of lack of studies, maybe it's a lack of medical visitors, or I do not know. To begin with, I think it should be compulsory to study food in schools or in courses for the family or something like that. I do not know what they are, but perhaps other things should be taken into account. For example, the audience you were addressing. If it was a room full of doctors, scientists, etc or even people with a cultural level of a certain height, it clearly should have given data to be credible. If not... you will have to express yourself in a simple and entertaining way so that everyone can understand you. Sometimes we all simplify the explanations but behind there are much more complex things. For me, it is very clear what the speaker wants to convey to the attendees. I have not the slightest doubt. I'm interested in health, the cosmos and technology.

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Made from fragments, links and images taken from my ramblings through the network, the blog received visits from users from the most unexpected places in the world. He spent an enormous amount of time feeding and arguing with them; It seemed he was wasting time. But the opposite happened. Most disturbing was the presence of the reader as another collaborator of the blog, a type of relationship that the structure of the conventional book prevented. For some time, I managed to keep my identity hidden behind a collective voice; I was interested in dispensing with the author's tyranny. But above all, make the call from a non-codifiable invisibility. In other words: I had put myself to work in the space where I had deserted from work. The texts were crossed out by amazonians by the usual readers of the blog, but I did not want to sacrifice those essays that demanded more time and space. I gave myself then to the writing and rewriting of this book, with the permanent feeling of wanting to return it some day to the network, turned into something else: an augmented book. Because it is true that the book as a medium has irreplaceable qualities. But the digital space too. I thought that the publication on paper was not irreconcilable with the opening of a new web page, where I could compensate the loss that there was in the passage from one format to another. I have thus imagined an after hours of the book, its prolongation by other means. The renunciation of the conception of the book as something finished, in the first place. That's the Internet: the night bar that never closes, the place we're going to put ourselves in at times of danger. I must say it now: the augmented book would be unthinkable without the complicity of the editors of sur +. Nor would it have been possible to release it in its pdf and copyleft version on the network. I spent several years vainly looking for an editorial that would understand that I was not interested in the royalties of this book and that, instead, it was imperative that I circulate as freely as possible. Until one night, while I was drinking mezcales with them, I realized that I had them all the time in front of my face. The web page is already under construction and will be permanently. In this space, you will also find the place where Writings for unemployed people is downloaded for free. If they think it's worth it, circulate it. Synthesis and black humor and a sharp aesthetic effect, the neuronal tremor of a change of lights. wake up, said another street oracle under the alarm of a huge rope clock, to warn about the state of dullness that the post-industrial society had reached. The year 2000 had been the year of the stencile explosion in BsAs, as if the aerosol droplets - a few angry droplets and almost always lucid - announced the tremendous shock that would come. I was fleeing, in short, from the prevailing frivolity of Mexican literature, in whose tentacles I began to entangle myself stupidly. I had fallen into a trap and I knew it: after several years of writing in the shadow and functional misery, it was time for me to look for a job and a fixed salary and I did it even with enthusiasm. But the reality principle is always terrible. Without any kind of intellectual gratification, all that sacrifice seemed to me a simple form of exploitation. Not only that, I worked reluctantly about ten hours a day amid a suffocating environment full of false pretensions, responding to interests that were not only mine, but violently contradicted my idea -an idea too romantic- of literature. In the midst of discouragement, I stopped writing and began to feel sick. On Sundays I just wanted to watch the group matches and eat roasted chicken in front of the TV. I had become the living portrait of what Adorno called "the monstrous apparatus of distraction": hordes of men accumulating days of work, to obtain their share of emptiness in "the tiny paradise of the weekends, where people commune in fatigue and brutishness. " The day I had to interview Juanes I knew I was bottoming out. Maybe that's why, as soon as I arrived in Buenos Aires, the trash that accumulated in the streets seemed attractive to me. There, culture did not seem like an object of luxury in dispute, nor a bureaucratic race nor a mediated desert. Literature jumped on you like flies, that is, as something natural and slightly uncomfortable and disturbing. I read in the parks and in the cafes and bookstores, I bought books a lot, I dedicated myself to vagrancy. I was frozen, as if abruptly all my hidden feelings had found in him a clear expression: to resign, that should do when returning to Mexico. I took a picture of Mr. Burns and left. As with all the books that have left a turbulent impression on our mind, I have not stopped wondering since then where the power of that phrase lay. Perhaps, I think now, that proclaimed not only the revolution against the card checkers, but the uprising against self-imposed frustration and conformism. But the best of all was that, in the midst of one of the worst unemployment crises in Argentina, she had the nerve to promote mass resignation. Perhaps that is why the Argentine debacle embodied so plastically and tragically the corrosion of contemporary well-being and the fragility of its false aspirations. Let the sick work. Never before has the old Chinese proverb become so necessary: ​​"If work makes you sick, leave work." For what else does productivity represent but a degeneration of employment, an unhealthy and self-destructive compulsion? It is enough to look at that daily mirror multiplied infinitely: thousands of lonely workaholics, exhausted women who no longer make love, young people consumed by disenchantment and whose only hope is reduced to the day of the fortnight. The notion of the future is an impoverished notion, its validity is one week and even then people sacrifice daily for it, for retirement or mortgage credit or the expired installment of the dunghill where their remains will go when they die. So many people sweating the fat drop to pay in installments a department and a coffin of the same dimensions is not it a terrifying image? A chilling documentary about labor expectations and the purposeless reality of contemporary Chinese. Working and dying were the divine punishments for trying the forbidden fruit and men have always lived trying to escape from them. We have seen in the last hundred years one of the most deceitful conversions in history, the transformation of the biblical curse into the voluntary search for self-flagellation. Maybe that's why, the day I sent my boss to the slaughterhouse, all the yoke faithful looked at me with contempt, almost even with horror. And since the nineteenth century a new morality, the morality of money, proclaimed the sin of "wasting time." The contemplative era is over, only television is left. But I say to all those who look at me with alarm that it is they who worry me. Or as a sentence that said that I heard a Chilean: "If work is health, let the sick work." And they are not wrong: nobody like him feels such an intense love for life. Carefree and contemplative, fortuitous walker of valleys and cities, the idler looks like a survivor of paradise. Unpretentious and contemplative, the Great Lebowski represents the triumphant moment of the charismatic idler in the cinema. I feel a great admiration and a secret envy towards the idler. I wonder where he got his ticket for free entry to the corners where the world is staged, what miraculous source continues to take time to look at the city that no one looks. Every day they throw a gloomy and bored look every day that they will charge their employees later. Not the idler, by the way, who gave up his job so he would not look at the brick wall that faced his window. Charlot, another famous film tramp, teaches the bourgeois a bit of grime from the street There are always men like that in cities. Vagabonds with the appearance of being elsewhere, sitting for hours in cheap cafés where they accumulate philosophical conversations. Thanks to the idler, the city can contemplate itself, collect its atrocities. Without it, its existence would not be justified. There are lucky cities that conserve their currents of water, great rivers that cross them and help the inhabitants to rest from them. The idle makes a city habitable, returns it to its human dimension, because its spirit predates the city itself. In him a nomadic soul lives in the open air and the wild life, oblivious to the yoke of sedentary structures. His is a full world that has not been fooled by the old chronicle of Original Sin, that source of more or less grotesque justifications that has kept some kneading the bread with the sweat of his forehead while others are throwing themselves loose enjoy. The idlers also make a city livable: they return it to its human dimension. Although the punishment of Providence for proving the forbidden fruit condemned all mankind, in fact the work became the majority expiation of those who had been born, for impenetrable reasons, on a "lower scale". This discrimination was made without any criteria; sometimes by divine decree, sometimes by caprice disguised as fatality. In any case the world was divided: on the one hand those who commanded, on the other those who obeyed. So, why would a few of them remain seated while others receive the orders? One thing is certain: the treacherous interpretation of divine punishment - whether it is the expulsion from the Judeo-Christian paradise or the end of the Golden Age among the Greeks - has robbed the majority of humanity of a right that should be inalienable and universal: the right to idleness. Meanwhile, a minority has simply dedicated itself to guaranteeing the fulfillment of the earthly penalty, in exchange for the promise of a future salvation, converting the life of the sweaty and anonymous crowds into a long weekend wait for eternity. That is the mass of employment to which all are going to receive communion, even in this age without gods and full of work in which putting data into a computer lacks any spiritual merit. One would cultivate; the other, to shepherd. It is probable that the brothers had little free time to make jokes and play together on the slopes of the wide field, something that in the long run would have helped to create a bond between them, thus avoiding the fratricidal outcome. Furious, Cain killed, as everyone knows, his brother. The interpretations of the bloody episode did not wait. Among all of them, there is one that points towards the birth of an ancestral antagonism: the one that exists between workers and idlers. This is indicated by the roots of the names: Cain could be identified with the homo faber, the man who makes tools, the one who exerts his transforming will on matter. Rarely does that hand begin to drum. Thanks to the tool, that full extension of the body, Cain and his descendants manage to dominate the wild expanses and create a new artificial world. They are the builders of the first cities, later associated to corruption and loss of spiritual sense. The soul of Cain is sedentary; It takes root in the land that it cultivates, it forms some customs, it has rights over the soil. In it converge the contradictory forces of civilization: the tool and the weapon, creative invention and violence. Instead of settling as the farmer, he moves to where his flock leads him. Abel does not depend on any specific place, because his food goes with him everywhere. In the first labor distribution of humanity, the pastor had the less harsh side, less tied to the rigors of climate and the physical effort of agrarian life. Maybe that's why, unlike Cain, Abel does not get tired. It is more free, lighter and has a lot of time to loiter. Look at him there, absorbed in the shade of the trees, watching the hours go by as if the hours did not exist. Quite the opposite of the programmed time of Cain, a time associated with production, cultivation and work, a useful time around which life is ordered. Abel is a natural inhabitant of leisure, a quiet and wandering being, jealous of his autonomy, oblivious to the hierarchies of the village. In it has not germinated the will to dominate or the ambition of power. Since he is not interested in leaving a mark - he is just a breath, transient as life itself - his existence has been de-graded and his only occupation is to look. While listening to the flutter of the wind or watching the birds being courted, Abel watches over his flock. You need to open your eyes well, and understand that this is also contemplation: to inhabit the world with your eyes. That ocular skill, trained without effort in the afternoons of his free time, becomes a different form of observation, the birth of intellectual speculation and artistic temperament. Abel has sat down to think for himself; his leisure is a form of reflection and perhaps, also, of melancholy. Perhaps because in his transhumance Abel is kept away from the burden of civilization and his artifices multiplied. In the city of Cain, each building is accompanied by new tasks, the daily hustle is doubled, the weight of the sacks is tripled and the sentences of the slaves have no end. The great calamity of cities is that they never stop working. If leisure is the ultimate purpose of work, why not simply surrender to it without remorse? That's what Abel does, once he has satisfied his primary needs. Everyone works; the idle looks Abel could be the emblem of a whole lineage lover of simplicity, refractory to fame or wealth, those burdens of official life. Lost among books and ramblings, the lüftmensch is literally a "man of the air", "a floating man". Like Abel, this idler has no plans or projects, he is an erratic son who always anguishes his mother. Cain is pragmatic; Abel, loquacious. One loves the puppy; the other believes in diligence as an article of faith. In everything they seem contrary spirits. That was really enough to kill him. And so during a rapture of destructive furor the homo faber liquidated hit the homo ludens. The way in which work finally represses the propensity to the playful, a propensity that can only awaken restlessness and suspicion in a world that has driven madness to the point of seeing existence itself as punishment. In such a world, penance ends with play, obligation with pleasure. And the elusive possibility of making work a happy thing, or at least a temporary one, after which the man could dedicate himself to whatever he wanted, has been canceled for the great mass of people on whom they have downloaded the more servile and routine tasks. How right Vaneigem was when he wrote: "The needs of the economy are difficult to accommodate with the playful. In financial transactions, everything is serious; you do not play with money. " The Romans also understood that the word business meant that, nec otium: the denial of leisure. That is why Cicero, who belonged to a culture that despised work and found in leisure the highest form of freedom, warned: "What honorable thing can come out of a business? Everything that is called business is unworthy of an honest man, because traders can not win without lying... Whoever gives his work for money sells himself and places himself in the rank of slaves. " Perhaps the simple happiness of the idler, a free being who abandons himself to the flow of life, without trying to please or subdue the neighbor. And although the Bible says nothing about the offspring of Abel, his nomadic spirit and his passion for the spontaneous richness of the game have resurfaced throughout history in many places. Not that it was his intention, but everything was arranged so that, lying on the lounger before the majestic landscape of the port, he ended up having the impression that he had gone there to feel miserable. I imagine this scene as I read an article on the "depression of the lounger," a rare psychological threat that haunts the vacationers of the new millennium, the ironic syndrome of a world that has lost its ability to refoclile. There's the head of financial resources in bikini, away from the last minute memorandum and released from the urgency and phone calls. But she feels faint. Try to read and can not, would like to contemplate the sunset but has no mood, a vodka just lessens their incomprehensible desire to cry. I missed those vacations, so often postponed, but now that they have arrived, they can not enjoy them. Leisure causes an incomprehensible pain. Then he feels his nothingness, his insufficiency, his dependence, his impotence. " The only thing the boss wants on vacation is to go back to work. The dissatisfaction takes over her while she applies the bronzer and she can not stop thinking about what she would have become if she had been faithful to her youthful impulses. Then he feels his nothingness, his insufficiency, his dependence, his impotence. " The Austrian psychologists who coined the term "depression of the lounger" attribute it to the inability of workers to get rid of the stress accumulated during the year, fatigue as a cause of anguish. Retired people could become the artists who organize this void, at last carve out their own existence, but they do not have the courage to do so. But he does not know what his authentic parliament is, for he has lived under a pitiful continuity of clichés. In addition, it has little time, just what is left between the exit of the public and the start of the new function. Little time and the worn out body and the gnawed memory to furnish the empty room again, to start from scratch. Work has been granted everywhere the place of identity, we work to be someone in the sight of others. And if work is the only form of personal fulfillment, then retirement becomes a sudden suppression of the face, the entry into existence without merit. That is why, for many retirees, who were never educated in the fruitful use of their time, retirement is like an anticipated arrival to the common grave. The matter gets worse when they are stripped of their retirement funds, now exposed to Wall Street's whims, also called "financial fluctuations." He has stopped being an employee and consumer, now he is an idler, and from him the only thing that interests the bank is to speculate with his savings. What's the matter, the old man was one step away from the grave. Afterwards, already married, we return to those vacation spots, this time as clients. Young people, other young people, try to have fun. On our part, we try to have sex with some members of the vacation place. Sometimes we get it; Most of the time we fail. Our life no longer makes sense. " In this way, tedium deposits the remains of destroyed leisure on the beach. And nobody is surprised when someone finds the corpse of a ex animator "between two waters in the pool that looked at the sea". Maybe it's because he has never given me any relief. In fact, it has only brought me gastrointestinal problems and suffering. Over time, the mysterious deprivation of their gifts has poisoned me to the core and has thrown me into the most obvious of disconsolations: knowing myself immune to happiness. I, however, confess from now on that I write these pages from the haze of my headache, and I do it only for revenge. To gather all the things in one is an old human aspiration as excessive as the idea of ​​progress. The impersonal, mystery-free architecture of the malls, where merchandise from all over the world is concentrated, is one of its most horrendous effects. The Panópticon, a building with a panoramic view from which you could hear and see everything at the same time, an architecture with police functions. I wonder how far our vanity and clumsiness will go after having given the key to our house to strangers to be scrutinized at any time of the day. Something similar has happened with our body that we have left completely in the hands of science, to cure us of everything, even of life itself. Health has become one of the supreme values ​​of this repressive era that promotes a physical well-being based on restriction, displeasure, the torture apparatus of the gymnasium, and proscribes the enjoyment of the drives or the senses. Be healthy and lead a rough life. Our sanitary obsession is not new, it already germinated in that obsessive search of the Universal Panacea that the alchemists undertook, an elixir to which the efficacy of curing all diseases was attributed. For some time now we have been trying to accumulate an endless amount of knowledge and information that we are incapable of assimilating. Know everything, know everything, keep an Aleph in our pocket. As soon as I put a foot outside the library, the idea I had of it became relativized, distorted, suffered irreversible cracks. I realized that not even the sum of all those books could explain the complexity of existence, and it was good that it was so. Since then the efforts that try to concentrate the knowledge, the privacy of the people or anything in one place awaken a huge mistrust. It's about inhuman companies. I feel that in each of them is the seed of a dogma. There is, for example, the damn aspirin, a virtuous cure-all. There is no evidence that Felix Hoffman acted following the totalizing anxieties of his countrymen or as a tardy reward to the efforts of his predecessors, the alchemists. In fact, he synthesized the acetylsalicylic urged by his father's rheumatic pains and probably never suspected the privileged place his prodigious milligram would occupy among global consumers. For years I have sought, with morbid intellectual zeal, elements that detract from this odious tablet. In the medical manuals parade their many kindness, alongside pale contraindications. In addition, his generosity is wide: it does not require medical prescriptions, it is within reach of all pockets and in this era of haste and pushing it provides a quick and safe relief. That is why, in times when nobody believes in universal panaceas, aspirin provides easy compensatory mythologies. We would be what we already are: stunned beings, always busy with nothing, unable to think. This immoderate cult seems to me, at least, suspect. Something else: it is known that man likes to invent fragile enchantments that end up duplicating his slavery. In short, the Total Pill is nothing more than a hypocritical and arrogant substance. One of its paradoxes and dangers lies in the fact that behind the momentary reliefs that it lavishes, serious evils can be hidden. There are diseases that nest in the dark, slow and progressively; others, that send clear and immediate signals. Headaches are halfway between these two forms, elusion and allusion, through which an inner disorder expresses itself. Aspirin only serves to extinguish the red centers of the body and, sometimes of the spirit, which find their indirect channel in the headache. This keeps the world at bay, tyrannically, aware of their schedules and routines, but at the expense of other storms that tend to grow in the silent night of migraine. The least expected day the body revolts and vindicates for itself that only place where it is now possible to retire alone, close the doors to the outside world and meditate on anything: the bed of the sick. We would be what we already are: stunned beings, always busy with nothing, unable to think. He has excluded me and, therefore, I hate her. I have never been beneficiary neither of its real virtues nor of the imaginary ones. And I swear I have put everything on my part: I have been constant, I have had faith, I have invoked. But my hyperbolic headaches resist, perhaps rightly, so many irrational actions. Perhaps the repressive vocation of the German factory, I thought, has filtered through the aspirin and my Jewish origin rebels against its global conspiracy... I discarded this theory after deciding to see a doctor. The persistence of my neuralgia deserved a scientific explanation and I found it, unfortunately, in the ineptitude of the aspirin: its formula of exclusion put me suddenly and without mercy in front of the horrors of the Migraña. I must say now, the migraine is a pain onanista, incurable and foreign to the domains of this charlatan dragee. But my relationship with her has not been, after all, so bad. I suffer from a kind of benign migraine that allows me, once or twice a month, to reconnect with myself. It is of a singular nature: hyperesthetic, raw, extraordinarily sensitive. The moments that precede it are of a rare happiness. I have cried many times in the middle of an intense attack, but I do not cry in pain. Something happens, which finally resolves the contradictions and tensions accumulated by weeks in my body. It would begin with the French revolutionaries firing at all the clocks in the public squares. A way to parcel existence into defined fragments and regulated activities. An ornament with police functions. Sundials around which the shadows moved, useless on a cloudy day. Watches where water droplets dripped or sand slid. Approximate and inaccurate artifacts, previous to the mechanical clock, unrelated to productivity. These precision clocks were disseminated during the Ranacimiento in the royal courts, where fortunes were invested to perfect them. The farmer worked according to the cyclic processes of nature; the craftsman did it according to the time necessary to perfect his objects. The worker, on the other hand, worked according to the needs of the industry, based on the principle of "more production in less time". As people moved from the countryside to the city and began to work in markets and factories, at the dawn of capitalism, their days were being reduced to increasingly finely divided segments. All of them are in possession of their time and as they play or walk to no side there is no second hand that reminds them of the time. Among them are also the lazy, those who abandon the task, those who desert. Laziness is that, "a subjective strategy to make fun of the coercion of the clock". The lazy one is, according to the Latin etymology, a slow man. Change the phrase: "Work against the clock" for "work against the clock". As Lewis Mumford pointed out, the clock is the key machine of the machine age, both because of its influence on technology and on human customs. In his mechanical heart the motor of progress obsessed with speed was already beating, First climax is the automobile. Sudden death lurked at the bottom of the speed. The English mail car is one of the first stories about the loss of control of our technical prostheses. De Quincey loved the breadth of perspectives acquired by the reality seen from the roof of the vehicle and also the speed with which the victories of Waterloo were transmitted. But nothing surpassed the pleasure of watching the seconds gliding like bursts from the window. The movement of the one who remains immobile, that should have greatly excited him: the way in which the stillness inside the vehicle was surrounded by a frantic scenario, exactly as it happened to the opium dining room with its dreams. Here's how speed was already altered perception of the world, instant hallucination that had come to expand the dimensions of the illusion. Before the cinema did, De Quincey invented the artifice of slow motion. Although he praised the speed, De Quincey was above all an inhabitant of slowness, the natural environment of the opium-user and the absorbed writer, oblivious to the dictates of the clock. Man of another time, De Quincey lived the radical mutation of human rhythms introduced by the machine, but never adapted to the rush of the big industrial cities; opium and writing were the bastions where he entrenched himself alone. His narration in slow motion, crossed by the vegetable rhythm of opium, is already a criticism of speeding. Tedium, restlessness, spleen: the first discomforts of speed. De Quincey understood that speed was a way of seeing that exceeded the human gaze. She always arrived too late, as if the reality on wheels was unattainable and could never be thrown the probe of thought. There was no way to harmonize the speed of the accident and the assimilation of experience, the reading of events. When he noticed the difficulty of seeing things through the barriers of speed, he decided to return to the observatory of writing, the only force capable of manipulating the moment and studying it closely, like a bird dissected in mid-flight. Writing: this way the soul is relieved from the shock of speed. In his narrative, the catastrophe progresses with a slow rhythm, opposite to that of its sudden violence, as if De Quincey wanted to get into the characters of the gig until they let go of their agony. I know a few more beautiful and chilling phrases about the nature of the accident than that minute and a half amplified in De Quincey's narrative before death suddenly appeared incontestable. The ability to stop the action indefinitely, is not that still one of the qualities of art? It is not just about stylizing the atrocity of the accident, but about entering it to try to understand it. When reading the speed, we act as taxidermists of the second. Paul Morand said that speed-the drug of the twentieth century-was not only a stimulant, but also a depressing one, an explosive whose handling was dangerous, capable of blowing up not only ourselves but the entire universe. A toxic, murderous and vibrant substance that connected all cities. As the first inhabitant of the global village, the best part of his work is found in his travel books. But among all his explorations, the most lucid was the one that he undertook towards the very center of speed, a drug that he courted during the thirties until he began to love her a little less to try to understand her better. People cry out for help to forget, "he wrote in Le voyage, a fragmentary inquiry about the figure of the modern traveler. It is likely that condemning speed will not help anyone tame their implicit ferocity, but dismantling it through the resources of writing may help us not to wind up like dogs for it. Trim a piece of movement before turning on the vertigo machine one more time. Take an instant photograph of the end of the world. Maybe that meditated album of our ephemeral condition can return us to the highways of speed with "a more lucid disorientation". There, the protagonists, fascinated by a new idolatry, dedicate themselves to obsessively watch videos of slow-motion car accidents, with the same excitement of the trembling spectator in front of a striptease. At the center: the automobile, the rising god of urban culture. When the world begins to see the accident as a work of art and speed as a source of pleasure, opiophages change their substance. They no longer resist speed; they try to reach it, to spell out their dictation, and the twentieth century displaces the empire of morphine for that of cocaine. It is more than a substitute for the banality of existence; Cocaine provides an extraordinary mental stimulation, vigor and a capacity for redoubled work. It is not strange that she became the immediate empress of a society that glorifies IQ, productivity and revolts against inaction. I can not live without making the brain work. The philosopher and urban planner Paul Virilio has written that the process of acceleration of the world is irreversible, but that is not why we should give up questioning it. The rhythm of the global city, with its 24 7 schedule, is never interrupted. The speed that futurists celebrated seems less attractive than then, perhaps because it has ceased to be a means to our service to become its servants. But was not that the politics of speed that Marinetti celebrated? That we have become: the exhausted office workers of an authoritarian and omnipresent speed. As the supreme value of the turbo economy, the abstract and crazy celerity has lost its human dimension and man is out of rhythm. The avenues are populated by nervous shadows, a mass of dazed faces that have lost their way and no longer want to continue. The era of the microchip revolution has also become the era of exhausted men. Now the pandemic extends not only in the West, but in Eastern countries that had historically lived under the wise philosophy of idleness, such as China. Because what is happening now, here and everywhere, is ultra capitalism and there is no factory or office in Taipei or Bangalore that has not been finally infected by the anguish of ticking. There is an anguish of speed that consists in the radical renunciation of life, the oblivion of being. The anguish of speed is sacrifice of one's own time, for time gained. And since our time has obeyed as never before the exhortation to make money, it is considered legitimate and even admirable to disappear the after-dinner and turn the restaurant into an extension of the office. Surrender to the top, that's the speed. It is the hour of great impatience, of premature derangements. No eagerness anymore, hands no longer take anything. The phone rings, nobody answers. Burnout is the prostration of an exhausted nervous system, a hangover by overdose of efficiency. Professional Exhaustion Syndrome. Burnout is the prelude to the death of the spirit, the high price paid by soldiers of duty, flogged by a tyrannical clock. The tired body is a body that rebels, a body that has struck and defends its right to rest. Through exhaustion, biological time tries to impose a different compass to the man of frantic time; he says: "Stop..." But the burnout is an alarm clocked at the wrong time, when the runner has already broken down and has become a stranger to himself. What follows seems rather a useless brake, a brake after the catastrophe. Anxiolytics to slow down an inert body. As they have ceased to be men, the soldiers of efficiency require others to remind them that they are. Something similar Seneca noticed about the busy man, a anomalous character in the Latin culture: "To think that there are people who have to trust another to know if they are sitting! The one who has the feeling of his own leisure is idle. And I am halfway living who needs a clue to realize the habits of his own body. In 1969, in Japan, the Asian monster of quality control, a twenty-nine-year-old employee who worked overtime in a newspaper company, died of a heart attack. It was the first known case of karoshi after which they have not stopped occurring at all hours. I read on a website, dedicated to the defense of the victims of karoshi, the story of Mr. Yagi, a man who worked fourteen hours a day and spent three and a half hours on the train to and from the office. He died at forty-three; In his personal diary he wrote: "At least the slaves had time to eat with their families." With all that rigor to forced marches has only been achieved that life no longer deserves to be lived. In Japan, the number of deaths caused by overwork adds to the number of suicides caused by their lack. During their annual tour of the Aokigahara forests, late last year, Japanese police found seventy-three bodies, most of them young people who took their lives because they could not find work or had been fired. The pressures exerted by the current financial system have led corporations to make constant staff cuts and overload Mr. Yagi with tasks, in order to adjust to international costs. In this way, those who work do so under conditions of unacceptable pressure that support-even willing to faint-only for fear of losing the fortnight, and the unemployed prefer suicide to a shameful life. Perhaps Aokigahara is like an ominous photograph, the emblem of a future where the afflictions associated with our obsession with speed will become habitual, if not chronic. It would be a machine of human dimensions that would free us from the yoke of machines and give us back the possibility of meditating a little on ourselves. It would have to be a slow, clumsy artifact, like a bicycle or a heavy mill, where speed would finally be domesticated. By turning it around, the city would adopt a new rhythm, never letting itself be run over by haste and fatigue. Under its liberating influence, the cup of tea would last half an hour and people would learn to savor the wine in slow sips, interrupted by witty phrases in the talk. The fast food restaurants would remain empty, and people would lie down and let themselves fall in deep hammocks. Attentive to the minutiae of the road in which they had never repaired, philosophical cyclists would engage in an extravagant feat: to crown themselves on the podium of immobility. No one would want to be fatigued, nor exceed his rivals; for these athletes of slowness, the real victory would be to not cross the finish line. That deceleration machine is writing, capable of slowing the course of time. I think of the day of Leopold Bloom, the longest day of literature, where a couple of hours or fifteen minutes can be amplified for two hundred pages. Or in the digressions of Tristram Shandy that make the plot go back every time he advances. Shandy flees watches because he does not want to die. And find in the digression the best weapon to hide from the horrible speed. In the essay, Larbaud talks about a certain anomalous character he discovered in a foreign city. It was the king, who else, the deserter aristocrat of the general rhythm. Literature may not cure us of speed, but writing and reading may be able to bring us closer to the knowledge of its inherent tragedy or help us to decipher what we are transforming ourselves into and what is the unpredictable direction to which the nanosecond drags us. Diogenes, the cynic, celebrated the noble art of leaving things not done For some time I have been looking for the trace of those men of slow and indecisive pace, those fugitives from action. I like to imagine them suddenly detained in the middle of the oppressive activity of the city, as if they were the actors of an inconclusive film, a film that has been paused forever. Some time ago I wanted to write a story about them. A conspiracy of beings stopped in the corners, contemplating the sky, while the bustle of the avenues and cars passes them by. Someday I'll write that story, but I'm not in a hurry: I threw my watch to the dumpster some time ago. On the side I have to say: I also know the ecstasy of speed. One night, to travel against the flow of the Mexico-Cuernavaca highway, I left the city on the eve of the new year. The rest of the world, on the other hand, seemed to return to it. On his side, the traffic moved like a mollusk. From mine, the highway was deserted. That was when I put the accelerator fully, attentive to the appearance of a car. When I do it with my husband and my son I do not go beyond 110 km / h, as a precaution. I have become a slow driver and long road trips, when I go behind the wheel, are usually eternal. I fear speed because I know my weaknesses. I am an anxious woman and easy prey of addictions. After ten years without smoking, my lungs still do not recover from my nights of smoking. And to write again after that was so difficult and painful that I tried not to associate my "intellectual work" with any other toxic substance. I fear the pain of loss, the unbearable next day. That night, however, conditions had abolished the speed limit for me. The highway was submerged in darkness and over it, through it, the phosphorescent lines of the asphalt acquired a cosmic density. I remember listening to the electronic music of Air at full volume: interstellar sounds and underwater atmospheres extended for long minutes. It was descending at full speed through a tunnel of carefully marked dangerous curves. That seemed like the pavilion of the ear of the world. In my body, an ambiguous emotion throbbed: half fear, half excitement. That's the speed: lose weight. Suddenly I was a fish in the aquarium, a cosmonaut floating between clouds of gas and dark matter. I was going through an aesthetic experience that had little or nothing to ask of altered states of consciousness. I felt the drunkenness of the liquid, the vertigo of that starry night that only showed me the movement, the flight, the transfer. And he had not eaten anything; the whole effect depended on speed. At some point I had the desire to go even faster, perhaps feel the closeness of death. As I had done so many other times with the cigar, I was before the doors of a sublime pleasure from which emerged a kind of metaphysical premonition that some cheesy people still call eternity. A famous photo shows him posing for the police file with a teenage and candid smile. It happened to him frequently, he relapsed without remorse. Two years earlier he had founded Microsoft, a software company where he worked and programmed every day until dawn. His only distraction: cars. It changed brand with the tremors of an addict. I loved speed almost as much as programming. But deep down, was not it the same vocation? Go farther, faster and faster. The spirit of turbo capitalism embodied in a single person. It is no coincidence that one of his books on the importance of internet in the market is entitled: Business at the speed of thought. I think of all those people who sign their accident insurance policies as if they were the minutes of their death sentence. But in reality the opposite happens. We spend a good part of our life in the car, even though we address our complaints daily. Leo Crash, the novel where Ballard takes his meditation on the keys of a new sexuality associated with the automobile to its ultimate consequences. Disturbing and repetitive, full of viscera and grotesque shocks, in Crash the characters not only do not fear the accident, but they want it and obsessively try it. The perverse eroticism of the car crash, the radiators sunk between the legs as a sexual fetish. That kingdom where violence and intercourse reigned was the admonitory metaphor with which Ballard announced the colonization of the body by technique. Like its adaptation to the cinema by David Cronenberg, the novel provoked harsh discussions about the limits of censorship. The same thing had happened before with a series of serigraphs of shocked cars that Andy Warhol made in the sixties, with images taken from the red note. No gallery wanted to show them. Because society does not support the display of its own obscenity. After all, do not we live glued to the spectacle of the atrocious that is transmitted every night on the news? I have read that one out of four times that someone writes a word on an Internet search engine, that word is related to sex or pornography. That's the internet: the definitive drug. Ballard's characters still believed in the pleasure of wounds. I know many friends who have gone crazy feeding all kinds of obsessions through the network, plotting ghostly relationships that keep them tied to the screen as the junkie to the syringe. But their bodies remain intact, away from the threat of AIDS or sexual disappointment. Weightlessness manufactures its intoxications. I have described at the other end of this essay the dark side of speed, which has seduced and conquered the world. I have raised the public ministry where deaths accumulate due to speeding. Because the essayist's only crime is to be superficial, to go through things too quickly. I am, even if I have a four-core iMac that is a burst. I am a slow time inhabitant. It's cold, we've run out. My sister and I eat a piece of toast with jam in the back seat of the Volkswagen. My mom drives; my dad stays home asleep. I remember the scene as a recurring image, almost like an early definition of my adult rhythms: although we lived six blocks from school, we were always late. We used the proximity as an alibi to wake up late and without haste, to delay our entry into the world a few more minutes, which always seemed too short. We, on the other hand, like our father, adored the bed. We still adore it, the enchantment of the horizontal position, the wisdom of stillness. It is simply that in there the world did not claim us. In fetal position or sprawled, almost obscene, there we were entirely ourselves; the pillowcase was the flag with which we demanded our solitude. Because there is no wider space or place in which an individual is more free than his own bed. From there you can observe your mental domains. The bed is seditious, especially when you make good use of it. No wonder that reality conspire so vehemently against him. But all the accusers of the bed lecture in vain: she goes in and out of bed, but she always turns around. I think my best ideas were conceived there, in bed, and as soon as I finished college I did everything possible to avoid having coercive schedules that would take me out of the sheets violently. Nothing stops her, at seventy-three she retains an overwhelming vital energy. She worries if she stays in bed and still despairs a little because her daughters are there longer than they should be. We would never have overcome that moment of indecision or panic that causes sensible individuals to get out of bed to enter the jungle of life. I must say it now: my mom It is also unpunctual. On the contrary, I think that being late has been the way she has defended herself from her propensity to be filled with tasks and commitments, her excessive taste for work. Because deep down all impunity is a defense mechanism, a critical response to the permanent coercion of the clock. The unpunctual is a deserter of the dead line, the line where the soldiers of the system die daily. If it is late, it is because it seeks to reconnect with the human tempo, counterattack the urgency with delay. The unpunctual says: the rhythms of transactions are no more important than the times of my breathing. Concentrate forty minutes more on yourself. Rather, an autonomous individual who has escaped, by omission, the vigilance of the seconds. Do not look at the time because it does not seem necessary. In a way, he understands that the clock is also a symbol. It is family, industry, society, duty. Obedience and discipline ritman, from the medieval monks, the order in the clock. And the unpunctual is then seen as an outcast, even as a traitor. He is punished, dismissed, the word is withdrawn. No one is allowed to remain absorbed. But is not unpunctuality another form of haste? A voice on the radio says it's seven fifty-five. That morning, which are all the mornings of the world, I see in me the unpunctual that I already am. Suddenly I feel anxiety in my legs, that nervous twitching, characteristic of urban animals threatened by haste. In the car, the three of us are silent, as if keeping our mouths closed will help us arrive on time. Outside: the noise of the horns; inside, the fog in the windows and the advertising sequences of the "Exact Hour" that remain almost intact in my memory. Turin chocolates, rich from start to finish. Advertising is like that, indelible. Mechanical master, Marcos Carrasco, guarantees rigorous quality control in engine rectification. For its regal taste and delicious softness, beer is Corona. What an unforgettable experience to hear in real time the precipitation of minutes in the direction of nothingness. In general, the passage of time is a deferred experience; suddenly we look at the clock and we are thirty years older. But with the speakers of the Xeqk, who ran runaway like the racecourse horses, there was no way to escape. In any case, that was the new concept of time that I entered every morning through the window of my ten years: the universal synchronization of system times. This is the Haste Haste hour of our mind. For months I turn on my computer with a tremor in my fingers, an imperious desire only comparable to that I felt in my time as a smoker. Every two hours I obsessively check my emails and the answers or interactions generated with my tweets. Abominated facebook, but suddenly I felt that I became old-fashioned and misanthropic and now I see myself feeding my status two or three times a day. Despite my skepticism, I run, like the rest of humanity, towards the future. I do not justify myself, but it is true that I immersed myself in the flow of information for political reasons, one afternoon in Paris, after an urban action that I made together with a group of Mexicans living in France. It was a protest in Trocadero against the stupid antinarco war waged by the Mexican government, which at that time had cost more than 30,000 deaths, an unjustifiable state of terror and violence that was determined to continue with an obviously failed strategy. Those who participated in the action invariably communicated by tuiter, facebook and, sometimes, by cell phone. It was then that my conservative stance towards social networks suffered a displacement that began as a political attitude, but that soon became a new addiction. As I write and work in my studio, I spend a good part of the day in front of the screen. There, immobile, I feel the vertigo of instantaneous communication daily, the connection of hundreds of thousands of neural circuits crossing each other without touching each other in the flows of the network. Short bursts, dissemination of sentences, non-linear thinking, ephemeral contacts with the words of others. And an implicit principle of seduction. In general, the perspective seems extraordinarily stimulating. Maybe because all this sudden sociability contrasts with my usual secrecy. Social networks have the effect of alcohol on tumultuous parties: we need a mask to act on ourselves. And also: we dress to be seen, like animals in heat. We fix our profile, we upload retouched photos, we try exceptional phrases. Connecting to the network is turning on the artifact of illusionary matings. But how vulnerable is the cyber-dictator to the awakening of his excesses, installed in the new pathologies of the digitized self, where he ruminates without help. What unbearable hangovers, one does not go over that it is repeated the day after the dullness, the back pains, the cramps in the elbow. But there are deeper wounds than those, a definitive closure, a forgetting of oneself. In the capitalism of flows the right to desire is also the right to be dissatisfied. On my multitasking screen, two tweets that I borrow, reverberate at the moment, like resonances of the same impatience: "My faithful netbook broke down and I went back to work on my desktop Dell. I need to give credit to my cell phone to answer a message '". I am also worried if I am far from the computer and as soon as I arrive at my apartment I am directed to the monitor, for my dose of the day. If the search engine does not appear instantly, I despair; my urgency does not tolerate the failures of broadband. I know that I am in a danger zone. I've known her since she was fifteen years old and I smoked my first cigar. One night, ten years later, I exhaled three packs in a row. In ultra-fast tuiter exchanges there is no time for analysis. The writing in real time is weightless, lacks depth. If I seek my detoxification in the essay, it is because his writing demands a delay, a delay. In it, all real time is deferred by doubt. It separates me from impatience and from any ephemeral contingency. An essayist in tuiter would pay anything to keep quiet. I know one, my friend, who systematically erases his tweets. The genius is slow, "Baricco writes in The Barbarians. Right now I search Google for Socrates' phrase and I find it at full speed. I have not had to stand up from my seat or look painfully in the Dialogues of Plato, wasting time. In speed there is an inescapable paradox where pleasure and catastrophe combine. On the other side of this page I talk about the catastrophe; Here I have tried to describe pleasure. Every altered state of consciousness begins like this, with a paradoxical perception of time. Someone will have to write someday about the chemistry of speed as has already been done about the nature of other drugs. What substances push the bloodstream towards the accelerator, what tachycardias are born in the contact with the steering wheel. It is our little jungle of animals in heat. The empire of speed is the advent of our wildest side. Encourage desire, insatiability, pleasure, are not those the functions of the empire of advertising? Billions of dollars invested each year to feed our animal, repressed by several centuries of rationalism. Suddenly the denomination of "wild capitalism" acquires a new meaning for me. So, the whole left side of this essay would be nothing more than a way to protect me from that wild bank that capitalism feeds like a desperate beast? An essay that believes in slowness, doubt, thought. A civilized essay, a humanistic genre. And in it I would like to claim a certain idea of ​​pleasure that the brain experiences when entering the rhizomes of the internet, but not that vulgar pleasure that forgets the body and itself, not a hedonism fueled by consumption. It is a questionable pleasure that makes the speed of networks and their possibilities, but also of urban drift, banquets and conversation, a space to encourage insolence and plan the diatribe. Speed ​​is often a form of violence, even in the most anodyne situations. I remember the afternoon when I prepared for the first time a mate, a harmless substance if we think of coffee or cocaine. Out of ignorance I drank it too quickly, ignoring the morose ritual of its preparation and its companionship. Very soon, mateine, an alkaloid that has the particularity of accelerating mental processes and increasing alertness, went to my head. The world seemed desperately slow to me. The waiters, obtuse; the people, imbeciles. I became a despotic and impatient being. I used the word "cretin", more than once. My husband noticed my nervousness and to make a joke began to act and respond with deliberate and exasperating slowness. He was distracted, he kept prolonged silences. Maybe that's what the test does: contrast the speeds. It stops short so we can see our speeding. Look at the magnified details of the accident in slow motion. Question, even if there is not time to do it. He prefers to understand not to understand. And in that it is contrary to the smoothness of the information highways; it moves between things like a mollusk, even when it flies. That is why he does not support impatient and clumsy adepts. He departs from them, condemns them to incomprehension and accident. Because that was the rhythm that trade imposed. The societies that wrote faster, earned time, that is, money. To write at a higher speed, the Sumerians moved from the pictogram to the cuneiform writing. Let's not raise it anymore: that is the origin of the handwriting. In the italics it is possible to see how the letters run. It is also true that there is a rivalry between graphic speed and mental speed. I have said that I am slow and yet I do not write more by hand: I like the experience of seeing how the text is produced on the screen at the speed of my thinking. I dream of the possibility of a stenographic writing that goes directly from my voice to the screen, or better, from my mind to the book. The speed of the computer is fascinating because it seems to emulate our mental speed. To discourse is like running, said Galileo to defend a method based on the economy of arguments and the agility of reasoning. Being, as it was, a visionary, Galileo would pale before our perspective of the thought transmitted in real time. Never before had the writer had such an immediate response from his readers as now in tuiter. Tuiter is the maximum speed in writing. No wonder, then, that so many intellectuals feel seduced by the 140 characters: this is a new sensuality of the head. Perhaps to write slowly digressive essays that postpone on each page its conclusion is a deliberate failure, an antagonistic ethic of the Taylorist ethics applied to the text. I have written this essay three times. I rewrite the same essay as if I did not want to finish it. A strategy to postpone arrival, a dismantling of success within the writing. That's the digression, another form of unpunctuality, and that's why I write essays. For a long time I had the feeling that I was late for everything. In the university, for example, I was the last to deliver and sometimes I took my jobs to the teachers' house, because the deadline had expired. They accepted me because I gave them "good texts". It was slow, I took too much care. Right now, my editors are waiting for this book, which takes in conclusion. I demand my extra forty minutes with myself, especially at the most important time of the day: when I sit down in a chair and start thinking. The trouble is that yesterday I woke up so late that I seriously feared that they would close the door in my face. It always is, at the University of Leisure. Upon entering their facilities, I smiled some boys who held a game of chess next to the gate. Everyone - pupils, teachers, novices and voyeurs - had the expression of having a fabulous time there. Some played mixed shells; others improvised a crosta band with drum, bagpipe and trombone; most read on benches or frolicked on the lawn. The gardens were modest, but sufficient for those who took courses outdoors. In the distance a group of old men talked under the shade of a leafy tree. A teacher explained to children and adults the difficulties of flying a kite on a windless day. Another teacher argued with his pupils about the art of lying in bed. And one more supported a heated diatribe against the accumulation of debts, while a few steps away from there strategies were planned to sabotage the bosses. More than an institution devoted to the systematic propagation of knowledge, it looked like a recreational park. The halls were swarming and animated rooms like a party. I soon found some extravagant spaces. Most of the training there is self-taught. But it also has areas of retreat, where it deprives contemplation. In that paradise of pure idleness I asked a woman, who seemed to be deep in thought, if she knew where to find the Disciples of Inaction, about whom a friend had spoken to me. He looked at me out of the corner of his eye, as if he insisted on moving as little as possible. Then, perhaps making an excessive effort, she pointed to herself and fell asleep. There were too many hammocks around me to squander. I woke up shortly after four in the afternoon. I was hungry and went to the dining room, where they served me a slow, gargantuan meal in exchange for me washing my dishes and donating some of my books to the library. I accepted happily and spent the rest of the afternoon walking among gardens, ponds, orchards of hydroponic lettuce, labyrinths built with shrubs. I do not know if I have lost myself in a forbidden place, but after a couple of hours of wandering I came across the shell of a ship half built, a Fitzcarraldo abandoned in the bushes, worthy of an institution that values ​​the least effort. The interior, invaded with ivies, kept some tables and enough barrels of rum to get out of piracy. On the other side of the ship, a small pot of marijuana grew. Voluptuous students of the first University of Leisure, now professors emeritus. At no time did I look for the office or the vice-rectory to ask for reports. Nobody seemed worried about that. The University of Leisure is the only place in the world where it is taught to do less and less. One of its premises is to gradually reduce the hours of work, once they have secured the basic needs and comforts of each one. It is not a school for consumerist hedonism, but an epicurean garden for individual or community enjoyment, for debate and reflection. There is never a shortage of people who are eager to give orders, one of the few reasons why an expulsion can be contracted. Bertrand Russell thought so: "When I propose that the working day be reduced by half, I do not mean that all the remaining time should be wasted in frivolities. Education should go a step further and aim, at least in part, to awaken hobbies that educate men to use their free time intelligently. " The University of Leisure is the only place in the world where it is taught to do less and less. That is what it teaches, if it is something that teaches, the University of Leisure. I just wanted to find myself at home, as I had done so many other times in my life, writing. But I had become the editor of a magazine, where I spent between nine and ten hours a day, and when I returned from the office I would come directly to the refrigerator door or sit in front of the television. I remember those moments of absence, in which I was just me and my exhausted mind, staring at the empty shelves or with my eyes lost between announcements of toothpaste. The sanitary destiny of a world transformed into an unstoppable flow of merchandise, pharmacy as a guarantee of productivity. All that human tragedy made me feel, there soft in the armchair or crawling between the sheets, like a survivor. And that was just me: what was left of me after the office, a woman petrified in the most intimate, turned into a statue of fatigue. One morning I woke up unable to move from the bed, my neck motionless, my back aching to the howl. Not even an extraodinary dose of valeriana officinalis could have stopped that erosion, an immense crack breaking through my nervous system. However, that attrition was paradoxically liberating. For the first time in ten months I was able to stay in bed until noon without feeling guilty. That the magazine did not arrive in time to the printing press, that the advertising was canceled, ceased to be real problems for me. At that moment I was confronted with the material reality of my body, a body that had risen in arms and bounded, at the point of saber, towards the signature of my resignation and the return to my habitual vagrancy. I suddenly understood that all that hectic activity, the coming and going of culture in search of its center, had taken me away from my original aspirations and from writing, making me an impotent slave of outer reality. Putting the best of us in these activities is foolish, because with it we condemn good ideas to oblivion as well as bad ones. " Maybe because it promised to be a creative space in addition to providing me with a secure income. But the income did not correspond to the effort and the place given to the imagination in a magazine of that type is always well below the level of profits. So my betrayal was doubly burdensome and I was bordering on silence. The first days of leisure, back home, I noticed that the work had spent my strength so extraordinarily that I had almost finished with my capacity to reflect. That lasted four or five exhausting days of so empty. Then I began to read, to fill the hours of my recovered freedom. They are occupied with excessive interest in being able to live better: they seek life at the cost of life ". I had found a brotherhood of scumbags and pigeons, a carefree and rebellious tribe whose ranks I wanted to join immediately. I wanted to wander about the page, change course, going back and forth on the tightrope of literature. In fact, ever since I vowed never to set foot in the office again, I completely lost the ability to work on anything other than the passionate critique of forced labor; In that I strive every day, during magnificent days of leisure and uncertainty. I thought: "I'd better go for a walk. I will read Veblen later. "Someone would say that it was procrastination, indolence, lack of commitment. If at that moment I felt too lazy to read Veblen, why torture me with their economic arguments? Doing one thing when you want to do another is the beginning of unhappiness. The regimented schedules, the competition as a stimulus, the structure of rigid hierarchies, everything in the building of the educational system is designed as a propaedeutic of survival to walk later in the working jungle. And then comes homework: the extra work that you take home and Cancel the time to play. A training in the endless day. The principle of servitude. You murdered your boss in the middle of the workday, an obese and vehement woman told me, dressed as a Sanborns waitress at rush hour, already wearing a dirty apron and an untidy chongo. As he spoke, I could not stop looking at his mouth that moved with grotesque and slow gestures denoting unmistakable signs of gravity; a crazy sermon. Something like a white mouse peeked through a hole in the wall at the back of the room. It was not a laboratory mouse; It was the size of a rabbit about to give birth. Impossible to pay attention to the charges against me, with that nervous mouse that entered and left the room, sniffing the rottenness of the court with its big wet nose. The obese told me that my punishment would be to write from now on and despite myself as assistant manager of human resources and that there would be no way to escape my new style of memorandum, which of course startled me so much that I woke up with tachycardia and sweating. I immediately began to write superstitiously, believing that this would save me from punishment, although I did not manage to write anything but notes for this diary. Without another particular I say goodbye now to my newspaper carefully until tomorrow at the time I want. Having a job is an honor, and working a sign of weakness. In summary, the perfect clinical picture of hysteria. He loves hating, he hates himself by loving. And we all know of the stupor and uneasiness that afflict the hysteric when he loses his victim, his master. Most of the time it does not recover. " Unfortunately these days no one talks about him or only some lovers of full laughter, because Jerome practiced a direct humor and without bitterness, a quality rather rare in the tradition of English humor where everyone laughs when you have to cry and vice versa. The killing of time then becomes an occupation, and certainly one of the most tiring. Idleness is like kisses in which the sweetest are stolen. " This is what happens to me at times: I find an inexplicable joy if I entertain myself in reading something else when I have to mail an urgent collaboration to some editor in closing. I hang for a while hanging from the lamp and I start snooping around in my bookshop and when I realize it's time to eat and I have not written a single sentence. If the editor dares to bother me on the phone, I slow down even more and I do not return to my writing until after my nap. But what is behind this malcriáis? I remember that, during a trip I made to Calcutta, I was surprised by the custom of some Bengalis of standing in the middle of the human whirlwind. The scene I saw repeated hundreds of times, especially in the most tumultuous areas of a city always crowded on itself, made of successive crowds that reproduced in a chilling way. It was as if he had suddenly understood the foolishness of the race and chose to withdraw from the struggle. Then the people would trip over the deserter, the line of the crowd would break down, someone would arrive a little later to their destination. It was like the chaos that enters a row of ants when one is distracted, another hurts and the rest goes out of bed. That way a small dissidence could have effects, if not disastrous, at least annoying, I found fascinating. All the activity of the machinery of work is delayed if a worker escapes an hour or a week; The same happens in the writing of a magazine if a lazy collaborator and delivery two weeks later. Small cracks in the established order would become San Andreas faults. In the end, no matter where we are on the scale, we all line up towards death, the great democratizer. Here is a possible definition of the idler: an ant lucid enough not to return to the anthill. The ant lazy, anti ant, the wayward, has come to understand that the transience of life does not deserve to evaporate among the anonymous sweats of survival. In his essay "Man, the only animal that works," he wrote: "The pigeons fly around the belfry without worrying about what they will have for lunch." I believe that humans could also dedicate ourselves to flutter with grace, if it were not for our civilized life has been complicated to the point of making our lunches an endless chain of fatigue. This is often the case with fast food, the menu of those who never have time and have lost the enjoyment of food, always working extra hours and eating all kinds of slop in the corridors, to reach to pay the advantages of their ultra life civilized But men prefer to always go forward, knock down trees and open roads. We are touched by the demon of progress and we tend to take our life to its highest tension in search of rewards that are almost always deceptive or disappointing. Perpetual occupation has become ideal and we move without ceasing, as if we managed to hide ourselves from death. But with all that impetus, instead of chasing away our decrepitude, have we not succeeded in precipitating it? People work today to exploit and take all their energy to secure a property - even if they do not have time to inhabit it - instead of freely developing the only thing that really belongs to them: their personality. And around us the world does not seem to be different. A century and a half of industrialization has been enough for us to reach the limit and exhaust the resources of the planet, and even then we can not see that the push diminishes or that the race ends. Look inside an industrial slaughterhouse, where workers are treated just like pigs. In these filthy and inhumane factories, animals live crammed and subjected to cruel fattening systems, immoderate doses of chemicals and antibiotics, total immobility. They do not stop or sneeze: they must sacrifice twenty-seven million animals a year. The demand for fast food does not have time to think about people, much less the production units, also called cows. These are the collateral effects of corporations and their untouchable power. Monsanto, for example, harasses farmers who refuse to plant their seed of patented corn. The censorship of the market has reached our stomachs. It is the insolvency, the fragment, the lack of control over the unstable web of life. So, the diary is the best I write. You can wander and keep seeing friends in your face and even invite them to a coffee. I asked him: "What do you work for?" That happens to me, who often uncork a bottle of wine every time a friend tells me that he has given up his work. But in these times when even children are too busy, it is difficult to find company. That's why I started to rummage through the books, where I never lacked conversation. Decent people are not wrong: literature and philosophy are populated with idlers. At least that's what the payroll of my Unemployed Library shows that these days does not stop growing. I have not found a better antidote against the arrogance of technocrats than that sum of essays, pamphlets and apologies generously written by the lazy. This reveals that no one has occupied leisure more than idleness itself, a magisterium for which it is paradoxically impetuous and active, a contagion whose objective is to extend always further. Rooftop philosopher, says Arlt; luxury bum, adds Onfray. I do not think idleness is indolent; neither a depressed being. It is someone who seeks to sate for life itself, without the substitutes of the technique or variety of commodities. He prefers the carelessness of the one who has nothing to lose, to the permanent anxiety of the investor. His way of Life is eccentric, a sovereign, marginal choice, different from the hegemonic values. Therefore, society does not tolerate idleness. Delivered to the everyday and simple enjoyment of existence, where the encounter with others and cooperation are possible again, the idle can not arouse more than uneasiness and suspicion. And there are reasons for this: in all voluntary unemployment prevails contempt for official life, full of procedures that destroy the mental health of citizens. This rogue puts everything in his head. He is a provocateur, because he has committed the sin of singularity, always outside the gregarious life of work, where the particular impulses barely throb under the mechanical repetition. A subject who plays all afternoon in dominoes or spends reading has an indomitable spirit in the background. A society in which one works rudely and without rest will enjoy the greatest security, which is what the present worships as if it were a supreme deity. " All this leads me to think that the idler is, above all, a rebel and that from the time of the divine curse leisure has distilled ferments of subversion. If the idler insists on turning his back on the currently admitted values, it is because deep down he seeks with his disdain a transfiguration. It is true that then the slaves carried out the work, while free citizens participated in politics, philosophy and the arts. But the contemporary idler would not accept a similar situation, in which a minority had free time because the majority was forced to work in an increasingly degrading way. For the idler it is urgent to change the material conditions and stop living under the tyranny of the economic; Only then can we begin to realize what is best in each one of us. His lack of concern, the way he remains in bed without attending to the hour of the labor rite, is a manifesto of atheology. He is a rascal, a rascal, the one who takes the contra. But also an emergency doctor, someone who could begin to cure us of our discomfort with a certain dose of serenity and many hours for speculative life, reading, community celebration or walks in solitude. It is true that in its contempt for work, the idler undermines one of the foundations of the so-called civilization. But also remember that without free time the culture would never have developed, nobody would have written books or cultivated the sciences, nor would the thought have been deepened. The absence of leisure brings us back to barbarism, which is more or less the state in which we find ourselves now, fighting fiercely for well-being. This is the cradle of contemporary industriousness that abhors, despises and persecutes the lazy, while praising productive efficiency regardless of whether it brings some kind of personal satisfaction. Johann Kasper Lavater, father of the physiognomy and ecclesiastical of the reformed church, wrote that even in heaven "we can not know bliss without having an occupation". In other words: paradise is no longer leisure; Paradise is work itself! In that consisted, among other things, the great reform of the church: in putting heaven and hell on its head. Because only the emergence of a new myth, the myth of salvation through work, could reverse the man's intimate rejection of the yoke, his propensity to laze. Every time I find more slaves among us, ultra democratic men, proud of our freedom. Having lived in this era, in which millions of citizens endanger their lives and destroy their nerves by filling themselves with occupations even on the beach, Lavater would probably feel in glory. Yes, but it is often forgotten that Marx also understood leisure as the real wealth that each individual has, the moment when he begins to be authentically free. A just society would be one in which men and women were capable to realize their distinctive capacities, instead of doing a job for which they are not suitable or do not like and to which only the necessity obliges them. Is not this self-realization the highest aspiration of the idler? Confused, I scratch my neck. In all my life I have not known a lasting sun. Lack is my destiny: to scratch my neck under the gaze of my boss. The moon is the wound of the night, drops of blood are the stars. Happiness is very far away, that's why my nature is modest. The moon is the wound of the night. No more pain to be in the world: the victim of overwork ended up finding temporary consolation in renouncing herself. That empty, waterproof, codified and always seductive version of entertainment, where a varnish hides and separates leisure from authentic intimacy. Even the rancid pride of the work ethic is tainted when it enters the supermarket of desire: people do not honor work more, but the things that can be bought with it. Consumers: by-products obsessed with a lifestyle. " All that effort of scientists to get away from death so that finally the office, the factory and the television are the ones who administer it to us in daily and homeopathic doses. You have to go against the current all the time, do not let yourself be infected by the haste, the longing, the spirit of mobility. For the unemployed, the big cities and their economic obligations make life unpayable. I manage as I can and sometimes I do not make ends meet. But between one thing and another I get what I need to have a satisfied stomach without sacrificing an ounce of my oath not to set foot in the office again. Definitely, I should one day burn the ships and flee to a country house in a remote village like Wilcock, since I will probably never dare to live in the middle of the forest like Thoreau. Or maybe I should leave for less dense cities, with less time, where it is not necessary to be a juggler of everyday life and act on several tracks at the same time. As I do here, even as I wander around the margins and try to escape the violence of work. With the pleasure of the explorer who discovers something, I'm excited to put a pause on the world's ribbon and watch carefully the gestures of the people who stumble with me, until I discern some human grimace among the crowd. Then I follow it indefinitely, letting me go from one place to another. Suddenly I feel in full adventure, walking through dangerous terrain, in my capacity as a spy, waiting for the event. One very radical in his isolation was Robert Graves, who from studying so much classical culture, a culture that tended to leisure as a maximum ideal and had more than a hundred days of celebration a year, surely ended up hating the idea of ​​servitude in the job. They will ask who I am to warn them that she demands a full-time service or absolutely none. No, my lack of tail prevents me from making any practical suggestions. I only dare to make a historical exposition of the problem; I do not care how they deal with the Goddess. I do not even know if they are serious in their poetic profession. " put to fight all those people who only read and write, and above he likes the drink. He wrote in his distant house in Trouville, but also in his apartment in Paris; In the hotel rooms I did not write, I drank whiskey. Against the privatization of time. Here is a language that dies to make way for another, and with it a whole idea of ​​writing and the book as I had known them until now. It is about the arrival of a free market literature, the literature of survival, whose imperative is to compete or perish. I have turned it into my domestic dissidence, a microresistance that begins in the closest circle and is spread until a brotherhood of slowness and confusion is created. But seeing him celebrate and smile in front of a carom, he would change seem. No: this happy man can not be an employee. I am telling you that a year ago I quit my job, in the midst of work promotion and before the incredulous look of my colleagues: you will not know you more lasting bonus or more immediate reward than to stop being strangers of yourselves. Only then, will they immediately dispose of their own life with the same vigor with which they deposit it daily in their bank account. Sir, madam: work can only be profitable if it has been chosen by vocation, if it multiplies the expression of our true personality. Think about it: becoming a stranger is not a pending account that can wait until retirement. By then, he will have crossed the shadow line of sixty years and will only have to review his small withdrawal slip every morning. We know that the invitation to leisure will be judged by employers as an invitation to eviction. But life itself is a leap into the void on which we always try to build false networks of containment. " In fact it has been the overwork that has made me like that. At one time I was a worker, too hard-working. Let's say that in my youth I was disappointed. I went so far in my love for study and work that I only had to rest. That must come from my parents, who have worked hard, like all parents in the middle class. My mother has been an editor, copyright specialist, and there was a time when she worked more than ten hours a day. When I was sixteen, to talk with her, I had to visit her in her office, where there was always an extraordinary activity. There, looking, I learned many things. At that time I wanted to be an editor. I wanted to do everything, to know everything, to read all possible books, to know the world. He suffered a violent voracity. She was very thin and spent hours reading, studying and talking about nonsense. Well, with my father he talked about books. But he lived in a cage in an office that he always detested to this day. My father is an employee of the largest state company in the country, where everyone checks early, but almost nobody works. My father told me the story of Mr. Carrot, a red-headed man whose only job was to pass files from one desk to another, every day of his life. Carrot! ", And he jumped and ran to move some papers to the desk opposite. It was a character that showed something comical and, at the same time, terrible. The bureaucrats know how to manage to not-do. There is always someone who does the work of others. So much suffering must have warned me in time about the threat of captivity. But during the summer vacations, while my friends were traveling to Los Angeles, I asked for work in an editing workshop; I wanted to learn the trade. They were the porters and reviewers of galleys, so diligent and poorly paid, that they have passed away to a better life. When they read, they moved back and forth as if they were drunk or reading the Torah. That oratory had something of a prayer, a secret hymn that came from far away, from the cells of the medieval monks or from the small printing workshops of mobile types, where the relationship with the book was still artisanal. There was a dense atmosphere, temple and dungeon at the same time. That world-or underworld-that gave itself over to the production of books in a homemade way was about to disappear. The gallery of the anonymous readers already announced certain massification, the proximity of the depersonalized editorial work. However, this was still a workshop of human dimensions and some editors could follow the process of a book from the arrival of the manuscript to its printing, without getting lost in the infinite recesses of the publishing chain. Others, less fortunate, read fragments of works they did not know or understand almost nothing. Then they checked the card and returned home, empty. As I knew English, I quickly left the choir of the attendants and I went to the check-in room. My job was to check that the paragraphs of the translations coincided with the original, as it was common to find some jumps or gaps that, if necessary, should be translated by me. It was an inclement job, that could dull anyone, but for some reason I liked it. Deep down, I felt like an invisible guardian, called to save the library not only from the errata, but from the anacolutos and the betrayal of the translators. I was sixteen years old, I was in full sexual awakening, I worked five hours a day and I studied many others. Maybe this way it could help the family economy, always threatened by the country's crises. I felt happy, although in the background that happiness was a little gloomy. However, that was the first reading I gave my teenage students when I later taught in a high school. He did not want them to become what they were designed for: efficient labor, executives with no time to read. I also did not want them to be students who were too worried about the hollow numbers of grades, like I was, a student of tens. I had such outstanding grades at school that my father always thought I would get my doctorate at Harvard. The truth is that I did not even finish my degree. One day in the middle of a sentence I decided to abandon my thesis. It was a long excursion through the recent Mexican narrative written about the city, an overflowing territory that postmodern theory had rendered impassable. I thought: "How to write about a city of which I only know the bibliography?". I started walking, I needed a street. At that time I had a boyfriend who studied philosophy, prepared a thesis on Leibniz and smoked marijuana from eight in the morning. With him I learned to waste my time. I mean: to do, as Stevenson says, everything that decent people find threatening and scandalous. We spent whole days talking about books, wandering through the most recondite neighborhoods or making love. I could spend three or four hours in the dark room, where reality seemed to be brighter than outside. I sought solitude and away from the most recalcitrant prejudices of my petty bourgeois education. One day my parents began to worry, despite being sensitive people, close to the book and not authoritarian. But what was I going to do with my life? Suddenly I decided to take a drastic detour in my way: I would leave the academy, I would become a writer. The betrayal of expectations as my first uprising. But I had some difficulty finding something to grab onto. They were nomadic writers who had decided to walk aimlessly, wandering far from home in search of a thought of their own. That imaginary meeting of dropouts, which sometimes ran out of food or slept in filthy garrets and public parks, had embarked on a different path to carve out its existence. They did not try to please anyone, they had renounced fame and social conventions, they were the embodiment of singularity or discontent. If they wanted anything, it was only to go against the general law of conformism and live according to their principles, behind the back of an increasingly destitute world, a world progressively emptied of meaning. At that time he taught literature at a private school founded by Republican Spaniards in exile. I had academic freedom and I devoted myself to disobey the official program of the unam systematically. My students read books by contemporary authors with unusual passion. Some of these students are now engaged in philosophy, publishing, film or literature. Something more similar to the Epicurean garden than to the Platonic academy. And we already know that this is not an easy trigger. That was also a time when I had a lot of time to write. Money almost did not have, but that was not important. I was leaving The essentially devastating force of literature and eating interested me little. Like the protagonist, I also suffered because I did not have money to eat. And he wandered around the city on an empty stomach. I thought that living like this was part of my learning process. The frugal meals with which I was content, the tiny apartment in which I lived, did not make me long for the most comfortable aspects of my previous life. In moments of misery, I would go to my mother's house, who would lend me money to buy more books or feed me. Until the situation became untenable. The search for employment plunged me into intolerable anxiety. That they rejected me was not the real problem. What I really feared was to be accepted in those monotonous places where culture was consumed to the ashes. The irremediable thing happened and I signed my first contract and in a short time I became a monstrous being. Something similar to a baboon behind bars. However, one afternoon a couple of years later, I lost my cell phone and stopped answering the phone. That's where my first conversion began. With that I had gained a little time, two hours a day, at least. Then I stopped attending book presentations or art openings; At least six hours recovered from my fortnights. Finally I gave up the food, forced and useless jobs, and reconquered eight hours a day of my mental life that is like having won paradise. End point of my vagabond autobiography. After a long introspection I have gone from one winter to another. I've been busy like never before, months and months without sleep. The best thing is now that he starts playing. So nobody gets bored, we have fun together. Johnson: That's because, as the others are busy, we lack company. But if they did not do anything either, we would not get bored, we'd have fun with each other. That's the work, the cancellation of the game. But even if it is momentarily outside the existence controlled by the clock, even if it is outside normality, the game can absorb the features of that reality and recreate them and make them even more vivid. In that game and writing are similar. Both are representations of the world and at the same time create a separate world, where ordinary life is temporarily suspended, where you play to "be another" and the hours go by in a different way. The charm of the game, says Huizinga, lies in that escape from the usual reality, in its extraordinary character. The same happens with the hours given to reading or writing, moments of exception, immovable parentheses in the background noise. The passion for an activity freely chosen and not exclusively for food reasons or associated with social prestige. A disinterested activity, electrifying and absorbed, where there was no awareness of time, as often happens in the game. In an activity like this, work is not a captivity, but time freely lived. The game is over, it's time to go home. The clock, of course, the weather policeman. That kind of pain I have felt many times, when I was a girl and now, in my adult life, when some external task forces me to interrupt the writing. That's why I do not answer the phone nor the intercom nor the door: when I write I do not do business with the world. Children also close the door to intruders. I make extraordinary efforts to not let myself tyrannize like that. Roland Barthes has written that language is the writer's pattern, language is fascist. That is why I have decided not to accept any of these proposals, even if it seems odious to other writers, unless I find in them some personal interest, to make the experience a truly lived time. A whole world, which we thought was gone, becomes full of a slightly nostalgic vitality that we would never want to lose. To the idler, always attentive to the tricks of language, it seems strange to him that someone has to earn a living, because life has already been given at birth. The students and workers protested throughout France; they did not wish to be exploited with the effrontery of magnanimity. Two years later, the European Union agreed to extend the limits of the working day so that an employee could work "up to a maximum of sixty-five hours a week", if he agreed with the employer. This is the longest working day since 1870 and returns the world to the early days of the Industrial Revolution when the day extended between sixty-five and seventy hours a week. Only then can we return to it reasonably, no more than four hours a day. Satire of an ignorant clergy, submitted to the authority of science disguised, crushed under the weight of an unquestionable superiority. Haec est festa dies festarum festa dierum! During that year -which was celebrated every half century- no one sowed or harvested, slaves and prisoners recovered their freedom, debts were canceled and all the properties that had been sold until then returned to their former owners. The question is: if we better distribute the abundance that is concentrated in an obscenely small percentage of the world's population, could not we rescue that public festival and give all the citizens of the world a year of leisure every five or six, as academics do? his sabbatical? I feel better this way, far from the heavy preparations of the holiday season and the trips of terror towards the sweaty beaches. Always too short and accompanied by the shadow of work, they almost never serve as genuine repose, especially when returning to the office, the earrings have accumulated twice. Recently I was horrified by the spectacle of a group of ladies who performed collective choreography in the pool to the rhythm of an entertainer. Your activities will not give truce. For their part, dogs will invariably bother. They will suffer, they will invade other people's land, they will abhor the water, they will move in excess and they will establish continuous conflicts. We go to the spas enthusiastically and upon arriving we suffer a kind of disappointment. We have hardly left the suitcases in the hotel room and we are already exhausted, draining sweat. Someday I'll have to go back to work. But I will not do it with schedules or bosses or grids or offices. I build this untimely as a rejection of immediacy, as a betrayal of the time. Living always between bundles of muddy or dusty, his face is a reminder of our own mortality. If we come from the dust and return to the dust, why not shake the dust between the cradle and the coffin for a moment? The idler prefers the absent dignity of the vagabond, oblivious to the documents and the signings, to be reduced to the condition of a living corpse ". Of the glory or the fame of this world of dust better not to mention the nocturnal rain of my straw hut I stretch my legs, at ease. Do not think that this is an ironic proposal like Swift's provocative idea of ​​eating roasted children to end poverty. Do not work more than four hours a day. The Trilogy of Laziness points out a fundamental contradiction in the capitalist and industrial model: its intention to maintain full employment in the era of machines that displace employment. As this is not possible, the machinery of the system tries to combat unemployment with more production! And then the catastrophic landscape described above reappears as the refrain of the crisis: more is produced and more people are working to buy more things that are increasingly perishable. The machinery never stops, the economy is temporarily reactivated, life becomes impossible. And it does not take long to reappear the bankruptcy that pummels half the world. That is, discover consumers, excite their appetites, create fictitious needs. Because, after all, what are the extra hours but the result of having been indebted beyond the account, the way capitalism keeps its consumers at bay? Some daring people have called him that: well-being. He has had a child and all of it is complaint. And his eyes under his eyes fill his entire face. I give you some advice that some kind soul had given to my husband and me, when our son was ten months old and still woke up three or four times a night. The central aspect of the method was that it was the father who slept him, so that the child would not be disturbed by the smell of breast milk. My friend looked at me with disenchantment: "My husband will not do it, and I understand. He works every day and has to get up very early. On the other hand, I said this with a resignation that was more a form of rancor, I have assumed that my job is to take care of my son. I remained silent and said to myself: "There is no servitude that is not voluntary". Under such a labor scheme, I would never have had a child. Fortunately, in my idle family we are all unemployed volunteers and, although not without difficulties, we take turns in periods of writing and care of the child, who has already become a small homo ludens and the time one spends at his side is often revealing and funny. A dungeon that is best not to return until late at night, after work. If nobody escaped the hegemony of capitalism, how should we do it? From this side of the Rio Grande that closeness has been experienced as a painful "competitive advantage" and in the nineties we surrender to the opening of the markets as one who surrenders to a tragic destiny. Meanwhile I have followed the deviated path of this newspaper and then I spent three weeks splashing without major expense and I have even given myself the luxury of getting bored, like cats or children who do not fear the closeness of themselves. The hours became extraordinarily plastic, it was not necessary to rush to get anywhere. Between one thing and another, he wrote under the palapa. Upon my return, everyone told me: "What envy!", And some have even thrown me a disapproving look. Someone has dared to reproach me for the fact, apparently unacceptable, that I could not be located anywhere. All those messages waiting for me at the entrance of my house made me think of a threatened herd. Contemporary workaholics have come to be convinced that "leisure is an enemy of the soul", or at least the enemy of a fragile social equilibrium, and all invited me to return to the path of realization through work as good shepherds. But the holidays began to narrow. Because those unconscionable vacations attacked the pillars of the neoliberal cause: enrich the bosses. The holidays were cut, the alarm clock went ahead with its hallucinating scream, the hours in the classroom lengthened, the holidays were halved. The same happened in offices, companies, services. The slogan was aimed at combating the national vice of laziness that had historically engulfed us in underdevelopment. But it was soon discovered that in Mexico they simply worked more and more to produce less and less. There are deep customs, like laziness, that make their way in the dark. The central thing is, as I read in an analysis of the Picnic magazine. Survival and Wellbeing, the so-called "dispersion index". We work more and more, to be worse and worse. One way to enrich them would be, for example, to transcribe novel fragments and then have them signed by the bosses. Perhaps the only meaning is the sense of humor, the way we notice the lack of meaning. Humor is a vital form of skepticism, it is destined to relativize. The idler asks without giving a chair, lives in systematic doubt, tends to a lucid and playful ethic. He prefers subversion even in syntax, where routines and conventions, as in work, have ended up taking away his life and spontaneity to words. That's the clichés: the fossilized bureaucrats of language. They do not express any singularity, they are subject to the ideas received. On the other hand, the idler uses humor not only to multiply the possibilities of the language, but also to invent other forms of existence. I think of Diogenes, perhaps the wisest of the Greeks, since he was idle among idlers. Diogenes had no possessions other than a cloak, a staff, a wallet, a bowl, and a jar in which he slept. But he had a scathing tongue and a devastating verbal wit. It is the forerunner of the outsiders, the dropouts, the artists of provocation, the squatters. When he saw the great figures conceited for their fame or wealth, he thought that nothing was more insipid than man. So did the greedy: reproaching money while they worshiped it. Most of the time she is seen as a traitor. It puts the very subsistence of the tribe at risk. With the Labor Reform, it will be like the Ebola epidemic. All this produces terrible cramps. But at the same time I have been seduced by the impetus of the books. As I had time to spare, I founded, together with other unemployed people, a small publishing house. The problem is that the office of editor is not one in which one can worship easily laziness. You work hard, you earn little or nothing, for what? So that others are who throw themselves then to read. I had a reward: I read there all the books I had wanted to read. It is in those days when I like to be stopped in a half sentence. A phrase from this newspaper that does not progress or go anywhere. Something that for my generation, which was born in the middle of the crisis and has not known anything else, is no longer new. I remember the Argentine crisis of 2001 and a stencil that occupied all the walls of Buenos Aires: the system fell. I remember the financial crisis in Asia in 1997 and the crisis caused by the arrival of former socialist countries in 1991. I remember the 1994 Mexican crisis almost a year after entering into the fantasy of the global market. I remember the financial crises of the eighties and the Mexican oil crisis and the fall of the peso and the external debt of the underdeveloped countries. I do not remember the 1976 crisis, the year my sister was born. I remember them because they are repeated in the news at the rhythm of commercials. I have always perceived an aggressive mood in those denominations, at least if I think about the real effects of the crisis in those who lost everything and were expelled from their homes, those who seriously thought about throwing themselves off the fifth floor and were thrown away. These names, as cold as statistics, only tend to hide the true human and tragic dimension of the cyclical defeats of capitalism. I also remember hearing some stories. Like the unemployed of the depression of the 29 who started living in the caves of Central Park. Or the history of all those mortgaged homes in the United States, which suddenly were left without an owner and passed into the hands of the banks. Now these properties are temporarily inhabited by evicted families to show them to potential buyers. But the gentleman and the lady are only employees of the house and they live there provisionally. They watch a TV that does not belong to them, wash dishes that they can not break, sneeze in a borrowed environment. Now mortgaging everyday life. Or maybe that's what they've always done. Because everything in that well-being is still as fictitious, simulated and precarious, as it was before the crisis, but after the crack of the stock market, living in a borrowed house is better than living on the street. Maybe the crisis is just a way of governing. It is difficult to write in the same way. More than a recession, what I sense is a crack. Something that goes through and breaks down any possibility of moving forward. An interruption of the narrative line or discursive. in medicine, the crisis is the moment in which a disease changes abruptly to cure the patient or aggravate it. What will be the course of this crisis? Yes, you heard well, the multiplied return of that strip of workers whose starvation wages bring us back to the nineteenth century now we like to say: ah! Yes, in those days they were all abusive eyes, what a horrible day those days too! but take your life, that's immoral! They will say that I simplify, but it is the old story of always then, why speak of it again? If life is so short, why waste it by questioning the state of affairs every day? They are the uncomfortable characters, the unsatisfied, the indomitable, those who seek to expand the horizon of their existence beyond control. They lead irregular, excessive lives, full of freedom. The space that society has given them seems too narrow and one day they decide to abandon everything, take the drift through forests and cities, take to the sea. They are men and women of nomadic soul who do not follow any course other than that of their own star. Wherever they go, society shudders. Among them the pirate is at home. It is he who presides over the round table of the times, the ascending spirit, the most radical and fearsome ghost. Blasphemous, they do not pay taxes, they violate the States, they defend all kinds of lost causes. They are the antisociety, the transgressors of the laws of the sea. Some fear them, others admire them. His figure is ambiguous, that is, disturbing. They are heroes and at the same time rogues without mercy. They invent coexistence rules, establish a particular code. Among them, one thing is clear: they love independence and therefore they avoid the concentration of power and the appearance of leaders at all costs. In their liberated zones everyone reigns and the booty is always divided into equal parts. The shadow of the pirate was thus detached from the bloodthirsty pillage to become something else, perhaps a metaphor, the inspiration of renewed operations of rupture. The pirate is a criminal, a figure of evil. In any case, the moral ambiguity of the pirate will prevail and his flag will wave here and there to mean many things. When the pirates said to hell with their values! What follows is a rapid inventory of certain attitudes repeated over time, the fragments still in force of the unredeemed spirit of piracy transferred to the increasingly fragile territory of culture. It is a marginal story that sails from the Greek island of Samos and disembarks in the internet hacker enclaves. Achilles was that, a bandit of the sea, before fighting in Troy, the same as Ulysses. Daredevils and great sailors, located in the center of the Mediterranean trade, the Greeks found in the coasts of the Hellas unbeatable hiding places. As if the search for autonomy were part of the very nature of the pirate spirit, its exercise appeared very soon, directly in the burrows where the booty was distributed. This happened in Samos, the lair of Polycrates, the pirate with the most powerful fleet of antiquity. That small island of Asia Minor was first his hiding place, then his kingdom. As an autonomous space, the island underwent a drastic transfiguration: from the nest of ruffians it became a city of the arts. Among them was Anacreon, his close friend. A sovereign patron, Polycrates is also credited with one of the first public collections of books. Maybe that's why he became so popular among his people, because he transformed the booty into a library. Something similar, an interzone of free and community software. One of the most rewarding inventions that social control has released to the market in recent years is the cybernetic pirate. Or of some relatives with names not yet defamed who wanted to communicate with each other through modems and then share that communication with others. Technological curiosity, the spirit of exploration. A hacker defines himself as a child who disarms a watch to see its mechanism; but sometimes, when putting it together again, you discover that you have created something different. Or that in his exploration he has penetrated a forbidden site, violating the security systems. Then the terror spreads as if the pirate threat renewed its burden on the virtual walls of the State. The alarm will sound: A boy has entered our network without notifying! The terminal State, supplanted long ago by the de facto powers of the media and the corporations, decides to recover its place and reinforce security. One day what was born free and decentralized became a commodity that could not be taken home without paying. Not only that: the area that had emerged without prejudice of nationality or class, without the presence of the State or money, inevitably entered the domains of the punitive. Then the teenagers who started downloading free music from p2p spaces like Napster, became persecuted criminals with the same impetus as terrorists and drug traffickers. It's time for the witch hunt. And also: of cultural insubordination. And so, the pirate flag returns to wave in the rock concerts, with the legend: "We download your music". After all, the cybernetic pirate is just someone who wants to navigate happily by the sea that he has created. But what an act of symbolic juggling! Suddenly, far from the adventure books and the treasure-hunting stores, the pirates were once again on the scene without losing an iota of their moral ambiguity. The claim of the communique seemed, in effect, the expression of a common anger embodied not by a leftist party, but by the figure of an insubstantial saboteur. But who the hell was Luther Blissett? The police could not provide any trace, no mark, no clue. And yet, Blissett appeared everywhere. However, that new incarnation of discontent denied them. Very soon other artists who were equally angry and in arc'99 twelve people, who arrived at the inauguration without having been invited, abruptly interrupted the television reception to the Infanta Cristina, to make a call to strike. Odd thing: the twelve infiltrators called themselves Luther Blissett. For all the Luthers who spread throughout Spain, saying "I" was not important. But that was just the tip of the iceberg. It was everywhere, and yet Luther Blissett did not exist. It was a plagiarized name, a pirate name, a name taken by assault. Master in the art of anonymity and impersonation, behind Luther Blissett grew a wide network of protests and cultural transformations that fiercely criticized some Western institutions, such as copyright and intellectual property. For millennia human civilization "has dispensed with copyright, just as it has dispensed with other similar false axioms, such as the centrality of the market or unlimited growth. Blissett also became a writer who rioted many writers and created a choral and uprising literature, where the authors were unrecognizable. It was so that all his novels, starting with Q, began to climb the network from where they could descend again freely. That was the way in which copyleft began to raise the dust in the publishing industry and to revolutionize the forms of cultural circulation thanks to the internet. Under the figure of the multitudinous author, the Luther Blissett project opposed a cultural and economic sense different from the capitalist system. Once the culture was confiscated for pure profit, all Luthers thought it was time to awaken the pirate spirit and loot the wineries and learn the art of kleptography and return the loot to its place originally. The dispossession of the public library. That is, the conversion of culture into a closed, always lucrative, privatized place. Something more serious: the legislation of intellectual property now puts us all under suspicion. According to her, in a short time the teacher who lends him slow man to his students will become a pirate. The same as the father of a family who copies a disc to give away. Or the secretary who uses for snobbery the word loft, now patented. Finally the day will come when we will have to pay to speak. Every word we have to ask for permission or pay royalties or go to jail. The language will be privatized, as has already happened with a large part of popular culture. It will have to be ori-gi-nal or it will disappear. The paladins of good taste can then rest. It is not an exaggeration: today the collage is punishable by copyright law. Its principles are based on the conception of culture as a common good to which all citizens have a right. We think that there is no reason for anyone to be remunerated until one hundred years after his own death... We want to liberate our cultural heritage before time withers to the celluloid of the old film reels ". The idea that culture can be property - intellectual property - is used to justify everything, from the fines that restaurants pay for putting music in their premises to the attempt to patent yoga postures or the image of the Virgin of Guadalupe. It was the perfect image of a new empire: that of things and their vassals, consumers. No obstacle seemed to hinder that rising movement of industrial capitalism, no portrait of misery, not even the images of famines that appeared in the same magazine, could eclipse that splendor. However, a strange mood disorder appeared in the middle of the party. Along with the twilight melancholy of Sunday - the hour of the tired workers - grew a more serious and insidious malaise, more incurable: the dissatisfaction. That same feeling, that growing anxiety, seized them as they passed the shop windows of the big stores, full of exquisite clothes and irresistible gadgets. So much prosperity made them feel miserable. His pleasures would have been intense. They would have liked to walk, wander, choose, appreciate. His life would have been an art of living. " But that was only the beginning. Four decades later, daily life has not stopped narrowing. Consumers have finally been consumed. They are just survivors, some invisible, some workers without a contract, some unemployed. For them, the idea that prosperity is about to spill from top to bottom and in all directions only daily multiplies the hidden figures of disenchantment. Almost nobody sees them but there are thousands of new poor people who wander empty-handed through the catacombs of the first world, where the merchandise accumulates in tons. The parents of this pauperized generation belonged to the middle class, they were readers of Life, they worked in factories of electrical appliances that later they bought frenetically in the offers. The economy of production without measure has hermetically sealed its vital space and in the last ten years have experienced an accelerated approach to poverty: they have less and less, in a world where the industry offers more and more. The consumer society never calculated the enormous chasm that would progressively open up between the intoxication promised by its publicists and this simply unseen reality. Much less suspected that under the layer of passivity and resignation that enveloped the average consumer, could be released someday the will to reject: dissatisfaction. This is what finally happened in Italy, at the time when Berlusconi went from thirty-four to being the fourth richest man in the world. It was clear that something was not quite right in the era of the "king of entertainment", because one in five families and did not come to the end of the month. If anything, the Berlusconi government did more equitably distribute the vexations, allowing a greater number of people from the petty bourgeoisie to join the beggars. Thus, while he enjoyed the art of living, his subjects had to learn the increasingly difficult art of survival. But not all the vassals of consumption were still attached to the television. In fact, on the first Saturday of November 2004, shopping centers began to tremble. The disobedient entered with their empty pockets, but they did not skimp on sausages or dairy coolers. They reviewed the prices, they pondered the quality of the polenta, they were demanding in their choice. After an hour of walking, with the carts full of food and household goods, they went into the boxes like a menacing troop. There were three hundred and they knew that together they constituted a single invincible body. Someone gave the signal and then began to demand in unison a discount of seventy percent. The store manager could not believe it; the policemen either. And they did not dare to do anything because the outcasts were legion. Even so, the director, who was a stubborn guy, did not give his arm to twist. But the disobedient shouted again: "Oggi non if you pay. Like the antelopes that advance in a herd to protect themselves when they are in danger, they had discovered the solidarity of the jungle. Later the troop went to a bookstore to repeat the action and negotiate a reduction in books and CDs, "because the family basket must go from taste to taste," said Francesco Carruso, Neapolitan spokesman for the organization. On another occasion, they disguised as a party and attended a restaurant to celebrate the christening of a fake toy baby. They drank red wine, they served plentiful portions of Caesar salad, they cut with cutlery whose glare made the meat of the roasted duck tremble. They are objects halfway between posthumous use and oblivion, useless junk that one day receives the attention of collectors, a look capable of giving life to everything that seemed until then dead. An image that seems as old as agriculture itself, as if bending down to dig in the rubble was a memory of certain nomadic gestures, the first men tracing their food in full sun. From the medieval fields to the most sophisticated farmland, the fate of thousands of beans and rye grains has always been the same: to stay adrift, far from the hand of the peasant or the machine that can not mow down. There the mute, invisible food remains, drying in the sun without anyone looking at it, until the hungry gleaner arrives to rescue them to take them to the table. History repeats itself in one way or another. These days, for example, the number of discriminated vegetables, made alongside the mainstream, grows. A potato with a heart shape does not happen; a bent carrot, either. They are vegetables without panache, merchandise without commercial value. As it happens in so many other things, what prevails in the world of horticulture is appearance. And so, in the era of famine and food crisis, agricultural controls pull tons of vegetables whose only sin has been scoliosis. I do not appeal here to an activism against eggplant discrimination, but why do not we start making deformed salads, salads that celebrate nature's most bizarre exits? This is an old army with doubled backs, a contingent joined by the rebellious company of the freegan: the garbage conscious spreader, the deserter of abundance. To which the freegan adds: "We will eat your scrap but we will not buy your crap". We'll eat your leftovers, but we'll never buy your dross. We are not facing a simple act of pillage, but against "alternative tactics of supply", strategies to stop the squandering that these days spreads like a fire. For the Freegan, the collection of waste is not an act of survival, but a radical criticism towards a society that has embraced the massive seduction of consumerism. In Spanish it could be called: anarco pepena or anarco recolección. The anarcho collection is that: a nomadic insurrection that spreads through small groups around the edges of the hedonistic city. Tired of being apathetic creatures, abolished by their sad passions, they do not want to be passive spectators of their disintegration, but none would want to lead a revolt with armed commandos. The ultimate aspiration of the freegan, zero consumption, seems a form of renunciation activism. That is, the abdication without ambiguity to a production system "where the benefit has eclipsed the ethical considerations". But boycotting those brands, the freegans argue, is not enough to eradicate the disease. It is necessary to separate completely, to leave the metropolis of all excesses, never to consume again. There is nothing that in the hands of a freegan does not find a second existence. Basically, the only thing the freegan is looking for is to restore a certain lost balance. After all, what we call recycling is nothing but the late recovery of a natural process, the way in which life is reintegrated into life. The earth itself, is it not nourished by excrement and rotten fruit? Our waste has become, after two centuries of industrial activity, at the heights of civilization: only they are today capable of challenging eternity. Especially in the food we have become subjects of waste and foolishness. I have learned of a common practice among Italian farmers who destroy the overproduction of tomatoes every year to preserve their value. The question is obvious, why do not they better donate or top off their surpluses to the unemployed or immigrants? Because in the inflexible equation of supply and demand giving away is tantamount to devaluating, that is, losing money. The same happens in fast food outlets, bakeries, supermarkets. Every night in the garbage cans of the first world accumulate enormous amounts of donuts, breads or croissants to which no censor of the pastry would put any objection. Or maybe just one: that tomorrow will be the bread of the previous day. If the existence of the donuts only makes sense just out of the oven, why then do so many occur? Because in the logic of abundance nothing is too much and, in addition, it is necessary to keep the showcase overflowing, the showcase that is the first hook thrown on the libido of the consumer. Their communities flourish precisely in the cities of the great consensus, where even a few months ago the endless marriage of democracy and economic liberalism was celebrated, as if it were a seamless relationship. They stop outside the restaurants and supermarkets, where it is possible to find safe food and in perfect conditions to prepare their own meals or to share them at public parties. In a time when the norm is the opposite, where what deprives us is indifference, isolation and fear, the freegan spirit leaves us perplexed. It is as if they had transformed their voluntary indigence into a mirror that returned their deformed image to this destitute age. As a social phenomenon, the anarcho recollection seems to have become something more than a sui generis subculture, a touching small group or a romantic mania. They know that the less money they need to survive, the weaker will be the temptation to sacrifice their lives to obtain it. The zero consumption is a purge of the system. And also: a form of commercial disobedience. The freegan is often someone who has regained being, having lived exhausted by having. Steve could have been persuaded for comfort, but something in him realized that his water bed offered him an increasingly funereal well-being, and he took off to pedal his second bicycle around the city. Protest against the war without cutting the branches of your own comfort, was not it a false start? After all, his profession consisted in feeding the insatiability of the buyers and injecting energy into the entertainment society against which he shouted when he took to the streets. Porcaro began to get sick of herself, to intoxicate herself by force of contradiction, to become depressed. Then he quit his job, changed his high-class loft in Manhattan for a small apartment furnished with objects found on the sidewalk and left the obsolescent style for recycling. A profound unhappiness must be germinating at the very center of opulence so that it is precisely its privileged inhabitants who begin to migrate to the opposite side, towards the denial of consumption and the abolition of card chechers. The freegans not only collect pots from the ground, they also dedicate themselves to recover lost time. It is not strange that people consider them parasites and crazies; after all, they have lacked the most basic norms of urbanity: they have stripped off capitalism in the sight of all. His is a moral contrary to the work ethic, where competitiveness is replaced by cooperation, enrichment through exchange and the yoke of extra hours through play. And something else: the non-participation in the labor transactions that sustain the system. With their backpacks on their backs, wandering along with the dogs between hiding places and forbidden deposits, the freegans could easily belong to the lineage of Diogenes. And they also invite to the scandal with that practice so yours of garbage eaters that awakens the horrified curiosity of the girls of the TV who do not stop frowning when they interview them. People take away the freegans, ridicule them, laugh at them. But in the end he always does it with a tremor on his lips, the trembling of the one who has been exposed, naked, dying of cold. The freegans could be chics, of course. Unlike the defunct rhetorics of the traditional left or the ambiguous practices of good anti-consumer consciousness, freegans have moved from discourse to everyday practice, from representation to act. His is not the elaboration of a theory, but the capacity to live -according to the dictates of a desperate wisdom- a simple, generous, unprecedented existence. And while eating waste is contrary to the idea of ​​civilization, its dissatisfied spirit will remain intact, and its garbage dump, oblivious to the domestication of advertising. While doing the last revision of this manuscript, I was invited to a public bartering session in an artists' cooperative. Due to the immense power that the garbage mafia has in Mexico City, it always seemed unthinkable that a movement like the freegan would emerge here. The influences change with the passage of time because we are not, fortunately, monolithic structures. But Kafka and the Coen brothers remain. Journalists never stop throwing their hooks to hunt explanations; They do not tolerate uncertainty. The Coens belong to the lineage of excess. Let everything be said at once and unambiguously. That the plot unfolds with fluency and exact dosages of suspense. Let there be no loose threads or ambiguities. That the comic effects are timed and have been emptied of acidity. That the intentions of the author are identifiable, modest and conform to the orthodoxy of the genres. That the characters correspond to unlabeled types, without breaks or ideological dilemmas. The entertainment proposes a smooth, obvious, comfortable world, without pitfalls for the spectator. A world devoid of complexity. And that is the same for cinema as for literature. But the cinema is a collective and expensive art, while the writing is solitary and austere. When a film fails, a world collapses and for that reason its creativity is usually even more conditioned by commercial imperatives. Not only because of the way in which they have developed over the course of almost three decades a brilliant, oblique, unpredictable filmography, on the edge of the monetary pressures of Hollywood. Also because in their best moments they have reformulated, parodying them, the most rancid conventions of the genres and they have overflowed the dykes that made the notion of plot harmless. The Coens belong to the lineage of excess. In his films, as in the cartoons to which they are openly fans, too many things always happen. Neither balance nor moderation nor harmony nor cause and effect. Far from the classic narrativity, reigns in them the nonsense, whose mood is black humor. One of its central strategies lies in bursting the argument taking its most elementary formulation to its ultimate consequences. For example: a policeman and a thief fall in love and decide to move to a motor home in the Arizona desert. They are unhappy, because they can not have children and all their adoption requests are rejected. Then, they decide to steal a baby from a mogul. But the happiness lasts very little: the stolen baby is, in turn, kidnapped by a couple of criminals who managed to escape from prison. Educating Arizona Everything else deliberately borders on implausibility. And in the center, a nomadic argument, which does not stop moving. In Educating Arizona everything is possible, because in the end everything is meaningless. That is the finding of the two-headed cinema of the Coens: the exacerbation of the plot as a way to escape its tyranny. The routes of the argument multiply unchecked and this lack of mouth invariably leads to the absurd, which is, as in Kafka, the territory where the creatures of the Coen inhabit. The questions lurk from an apparent superficiality. Because in the end, this is always a perplexed cinema, full of characters who abandon themselves to the centrifugal flow of events without understanding what happens around them. They are tragicomic beings wrapped in plots that are incapable of unraveling, loners found in the suburbs of life. Vagos or strangers, insignificant barbers or incorruptible policemen, it does not matter; all live facing something unknown with what they seek in vain to establish an orderly relationship. An unemployed person of good mood, friend of the conversation and the bowling alley. Dude is the reverse of the exemplary American, the living critique of puritanical culture and the work ethic that reduces the individual to his professional being. The voiceover of El Forastero, presents us the hero of the film, with a tone out of context, coming from the western epic. The hairy endearing appears half awake, in the supermarket. Open a container of milk, check its expiration date, smell the interior and drink it without anyone seeing it. A few years ago - after a streak of labor exploitation that I prefer not to remember - I vowed not to go back to work. Since then I worship indomitable laziness, even if it is a distant aspiration and never completely satisfied. I have already spoken in other essays of this book of the history of a good number of idlers who, like me, resigned from the values ​​of their time. He is a man anchored in the sixties, a pacifist lost in the Bush war era. He leads a carefree existence near the beach, spends many afternoons playing bowling with his friends and holds a rigorous diet of soft drugs "to keep the mind, you know... agile". This is how the daily life of one who has freed himself from the cursed oppression of work takes place, allowing himself to be led by the natural flow of things. That is the formula that disturbs everything. So it is with Dude when one morning reality hits him with a punch in the face and it involves him in a hellish plot built on other people's messes. The excess begins, everything goes crazy and we enter the extraordinarily confused and comic universe of the Coens. Dude is outraged, beaten, trampled, in his bungalow. And something worse: they have pissed on their Persian carpet. Following his peculiar sense of dignity, he seeks to restore his carpet and asks for an appointment with the magnate in one of the emblematic scenes of the film: the confrontation of two worlds. One of those guys who know, that "a couple of drinks will never abolish chance". The millionaire asks: "Do you have work, sir? Someone would call this without exaggerating a staging of the new class struggle. The entanglement is frantic and there is everything in it. Because deep down, it's all about that: of pursuing the truth in a world founded on simulation. In this decapitated world, Dude becomes an impossible Marlowe, a hero by mistake. And in all cases I have felt slightly drugged, with fits of uncontrollable laughter, as if I was under the influence of a good hydroponic cannabis. And also the culture of the bowling alley: a closed and almost childish orb, where time does not pass and people indulge in conversation and relaxed evenings. Or Dude's journey on his flying carpet, like a lost Aladdin in a ruthless and frivolous time, over which he gravitates without problem. Until it falls, like the characters in the cartoons, when it ominously warns that it is suspended over nothing. He wears Gucci clothes and a lined wallet. Or rather: a Master Card. He is a collector and his fortune is ethereal, a superior condition, something that makes him walk as if he were floating. Everyone recognizes him by that way of walking and they follow him discreetly. And it is thanks to his presence that the artists have finally developed a keen commercial sense, detaching themselves from the heavy Kantian ethics according to which every relationship with art must be disinterested. Today the artists burn museums with insurance policies and the anonymous graffiti quoted their street walls in the Stock Exchange. It's time for assisted subversion. Guy Debord had foreseen it, but never with enough force: the recovery of the vanguards prefigured already the flexible capacity of capitalism to survive all the assaults, to neutralize all the resistances. The artist is free to choose, to criticize, even to rebel, as long as he accepts the temptation to become a product or representative of an institution. In other words: the triumphant ideology has become more powerful than ever because it is not even experienced as such. Here is a tactic of fusion between economic and cultural power within the landscape of market democracies. In other words: the coronation without opponents of the misery of the times. Someone in the distance raises his hand to sketch an idea: "Hypervisible fire-guards," he says almost secretly, "a new religion." Art critics and curators raise their ears and pay attention. 2 A man enters a Walmart as if entering a cathedral. He is dressed as an evangelist reverend. In the pockets, not a penny. The man is willing to preach. It is the Reverend Billy and is followed by a group of parishioners composed of a chorus of gospels. His parishioners raise their hands, shout, prostrate themselves. And people, confused, do not know whether to laugh, get angry or ask for help. Most look with curiosity. They are in New York and they suspect that the cameras or the patrol will arrive at any moment. Meanwhile, the policemen do not dare to remove the Reverend from the charcuterie hall, who is already moving towards the quilts to preach to more consumers with an allure between terrifying and irresistible. There is not only all the strength of seduction of the Church, but also the techniques of cerebral intoxication of advertising giving a punch in the face. That does not mean that she will manage to undermine the rules of the game that limit us to earn enough money to look like an ad. Some itching must provoke the Reverend Billy system because he has not yet become a preacher of any biennial nor has he offered him a consolation grant. I arrived around six and returned to my study at night, after having read the books that I could not buy standing up. Every once in a while I would meet a friend with whom to talk or have a coffee, while time went by smoothly. We exchanged readings, we shared our phobias. That was better than attending college. That city of books, that Arcadia completely at hand, was my hiding place, my locus amoenus. But it happened that one day the books I was looking for in the bookstore began to disappear. And that subtraction-that particular form of censorship-meant something. Every time a book was out of action because of rating pressures, we became more ignorant and more fragile simply because we allowed that to happen. What was being imposed was a model of cultural unification, which began in the media and spread everywhere to endanger the diversity of bookstores. It was as if the shelter had been discovered and there was no area left free of scandal or simulation. A tacit acceptance of the prevailing anti-intellectualism, complicit in all the censures, was propagated in the form of immobility and opportunism. One day the bookshop had to lay down his name and together with him he also lost his human dimension. The era of the point of sale had arrived, the hypertension of industrial prints with an expiration date, an impersonal and full of confusion where it was no longer possible to shield oneself against the world. The indeterminate power of books is incalculable. " We know that there is a tradition of forbidden literature that gained more strength than ever when the censorship without borders was promulgated with the fatwa to Salman Rushdie. But there is also its reverse: the tradition of tireless transmitters, the anonymous heroes of the letter. Between gacetilleros and clandestine editors, between booksellers and stubborn humanists, the incessant offspring of books sprouts and spreads always. Philanthropists of the letter, the founders often bought unsalable books to people who fell into disgrace and insisted on paying just enough, even if they were on the verge of bankruptcy, to those who auctioned their libraries for sacks of flour. And when printing books became absolutely impossible they undertook their samizdat on a small scale: the publication of a series of works in a single copy written by hand. It is probable that the complete catalog of those autographed editions was lost during the long exile of Osorguín. That conviction, that form of humanistic pride that is not extinguished even when words seem to have lost their value, when misery forces us to use books as fuel, is what gives meaning to their prowess. Throughout Osorguín's story, that pride prevails - which is also a form of intellectual responsibility, something we could call "the ethics of the publisher and the bookseller," a spirit buried today under commercial pressures. Basically, he and his friends still believed that human survival depends on the possibility of being convinced through words, of propping up the sensitivity and defending oneself against tyrannies. But he also talks about everything that is lost when he closes a bookstore or when he confuses his objectives, as it happens in the whole world since the model of the hypertension of novelties with an expiration date prevailed instead of the small neighborhood bookstores. The bureaucratic insanity that Osorguín describes does not seem worse than the mercantilist ignorance of the contemporary booksellers: both suffocate the existence of the book. Putting a title out of circulation after three months because it has not sold enough is the way Profitability places the culture on its knees. It is a form of censorship without harassment that endangers the very nature of the book, because its transcendence can not be measured in weeks. A standardized, homogenized cultural space dominated by the major media agencies and transnational cultural industries. " In these days censorship means, first and foremost, "the tyranny of the One." Just take a look at the big bookstore chains or check the catalogs of the publishing corporations. And times are always difficult. " Only because it was the last one. Otherwise nobody would have paid any attention to him. The same thing happened to St. Ambrose when one day he closed his mouth to read. In the middle of the usual murmur of the cells, his silence was loud. Some fellow students gave him looks of horror; among them St. Augustine, who wrote about the event in the midst of his own scandal. San Ambrosio's eyes roamed the pages, "but his voice and his tongue rested," and that unmoving tongue was of enormous importance to the later history of mankind. The privacy of the reader had just been conquered and with it the fury of possession, reading in the dark. Reading had become an absorbed force. In front of his eyes appeared the forbidden shelves and the possibilities of the library multiplied ad infinitum. I could read anything, at any time, anywhere. And soon he would learn to build his refuge even in the most hostile conditions: hidden among the crowd of cafes or locked in the bathroom, reading standing in the traveling bookstore of the subway or isolated in his room. A freedom conquered in that way, without spatial limits and with enormous powers of maneuver and introspection, ended up giving him a formidable appetite. Thus, the insatiable reader rushed for centuries after the books. Under the peephole of an illiterate era, the reader has ceased to be a sybarite of hard covers, to become a hero of good consciences. It is the last of its kind and on its back lies the continuity of culture, that is, of civilization. How much responsibility for a boy who just wanted to know, one afternoon when he did not feel like doing homework, if Gregorio Samsa had become himself again. He scratches his head, farts, feels happy; nothing he likes more than being alone. However, for some minutes someone has been insistently calling at the door. The pollster promises not to take away much time, that material so precious to the reader. Rate from 1 to 10 the book you are reading at this time... Here is how the time of intimacy has been officially condemned to disappear under the tyranny of quantifiable knowledge. We already know: information, unlike literature, is regulated daily by mechanical watches that promote mechanical readers and mechanical writers compulsively delivered to the immediate and conjunctural recreation-empty-of the reality that feeds the system. The realm of the game, of the gratuitous, has been supplanted by the empire of calculation. And above all: Do not waste your time! The habit of reading is as good as daily exercise, sobriety, the habit of getting up early. In fact, the reader had never been as exemplary as when he began to disappear. His epitaph could say without irony: "I was an addict reader, until the vice of reading became virtue." All indecent laziness has been banished; the same as the voracity. It is not strange that one morning the tortured reader lost his appetite forever. He was not interested in anything anymore, not even Salinger. The scenario seemed unthinkable: hundreds of editors and teachers thanking all those good people on TV who lend their image to win readers, even if deep down they do not like to read. Because, according to the opinion of the corporate publishers that promote their authors as if they were circus clowns, today nothing earns more readers than TV. Let the drivers of the morning bar come to tell us a summary of Don Quixote. That's better than nothing, say high school teachers without fear of sinking into their false premises, that's better than vainly searching for the pearls in the dunghill. So many hands linked around the enduring fire of the book are doing a great job, they are about to stifle it forever. There is something if not perverse, at least suspicious in that stellar entry of literature to the society of the show. It is not that the writer must blaspheme in national chain, it is only that he has become an eloquent puppet of the same power that he sometimes criticizes. Maybe that's why the reader simply does not want to read anymore. With his resignation he wants to tell us something. He has shouted that no, taking to the extreme the radical attitude that literature has lost, and has closed the door - perhaps forever - to that rectangular object that others venerate as if it were an urn. In his refusal expresses a repudiation, an implicit distrust of the most hypocritical conventions that in recent decades have been built around the book, taking away the critical force that makes it breathe. It is likely that during his childhood, the unsubdued reader passed from the books to the stamp album and from there to some game that lasted until nightfall, without there being any boundaries between one thing and another. The book belonged to the same timeless sphere of the game where no clock gave the time; it began again in each reading, it opened doors to ever wider regions. And on the radio, journalists and authors do nothing more than endorse the sense of duty that politicians defend with their empty rhetoric. We are not all expected to be musicians, but we must read... ". He is anxious to live and is building his autonomy. That is why his frustrations with the book, a torture device that only causes him distress, speak more of our failure-of our impostures-than of his. His insubordination marks a defeat: the books no longer offer him refuge from the hostility of the world, because they have turned themselves into products and replicas of that hostility. No official discourse will dissipate that disappointment; on the contrary: it will legitimize its radicality. That paranoid conviction led him to take extreme security measures in his library, such as banishing children and banning thieves from entering. Rather than reading the numerous volumes he had, his ideal was to watch them as best he could. In 1756, he published his famous Warnings, a set of instructions to protect the Book against the four elements. Although he imagined all the possible threats, from breath drops to floods and earthquakes, he never thought that the real enemy was at home and he was himself. One day Volpi had a fit of melancholy, during which he imagined, terrified, the burning of his library. A few hours later, in the midst of his grief, he brushed a book with a candle for distraction. He had fallen into the trap of his imaginary terrors and a few hours later he died in the flames of his library. Something similar happens in these days in which panic scenes proliferate due to the lack of interest of readers, the debacle of bookstores and the editorial crisis. That is to say: we have chosen to protect books by preventing them from being read. Born of fear of his disappearance, the duty to read is a hysterical response that only produces a legitimate phobia in readers. All that painful bondage of the letter harms the future of the book more than five hours of soap operas. Books are an elective passion, not an imperative. In the same way that no one can be forced to dream or love, intimacy with the book, says Daniel Pennac, is not something that can be decreed or promoted through the yoke. From a certain perspective, books, We already know, they are useless. Reading is a free act, fortuitous, sometimes difficult. It has to do with moods and individual cosmogonies, with the kind of world that each reader wants to create for himself. That is why there is no way to perpetuate it except by assuming its impractical and unruly character. Against the sanctimoniousness of reading that prevails in the media today, the insubordinate reader has made his choice, defends a position, frees an area of ​​the spirit. He knows he is at the doors of a fire. From waking up before dawn to refusing any invitation to leave the house after six in the afternoon. I have designed meticulous work schedules by hours or pages, I have disconnected the phone, I have restricted my access to the internet; but I always end up going back to the disorder of my impulses. I am inconstant and perhaps too unruly to even become my own boss; The idea of ​​working without pleasure disgusts me. I just start writing in the morning three days in a row, and I already feel like taking any book and wandering in different directions, and even contrary, to those of my page. Then I am distracted by a multitude of ideas for new essays and stories, so that everything suffers, as Pessoa said, from a kind of impossibility. I suspect that my bibliography would be more bulky and rich if I felt capable of submitting to a discipline. Disintegration is the greatest of my weaknesses. So are the lack of economic solvency, the ineptitude in the kitchen and the excess of nocturnal mental activity, a way of life that simply does not conform to the rhythm of the current world. The noise of the street sweepers at six in the morning, the scandal with which they get up early only so that we can fill our garbage coffers without remorse, without the accumulated landscape of the previous day, makes me shudder. To not hear them I designed some cotton plugs. I also use them so as not to wake up with the voices of my son and my husband when they get ready to leave. I'm lucky: I live with a daytime writer who understands my needs and takes our son to school every morning. It's funny how at that time I have to walk at the pace of a wolf, or on tiptoes, so as not to wake anyone up. Like a thief in my own house, I walk blindly and in slow motion when I get out of bed in the direction of my study, or vice versa, always afraid to stumble in the dark and make a fuss with the chairs or doors. I would like to float to avoid the grunts of the parquet that always give me away. I do not think the lack of discipline makes me a simple fan. That is to say, no matter how inconstant and dissipated, I have not stopped writing and when something outside prevents me, life seems unbearable. Suddenly, the night is shaping without end. And in the same way that you can not remove or remove a dead person from your grave, no one will be able to tear me away from my desk at night. " Kafka and Pessoa, two self-absorbed and elusive writers, two radicals of writing. For both, the interruption is the maximum threat and that is why writing is being "out of here", anywhere, far from the intimidating hostility of the world. I write as one who sleeps, or in other words: I write as a loner who carries out his work to the exclusion of all, submerged in a psychic immensity comparable only to that of the man who dreams. The writing then appears as a temporary barricade against the excess of reality, although then the debts accumulate and life becomes a receipt for signing. Writing is being out of time. Someone has said that death is hidden in clocks, and that is intuited better than anyone by the prisoner of the office or the factory, thrown every hour into the consciousness of his own mortality. In those spaces, ruled by rabid chronometrists, any hope of joy is abolished not only because the singularity, but because the demands of the second hand are inescapable. Everything is urgent, the day is not enough; and the slow passing of an hour in the office was never more unbearable than when the seconds became so scarce. That's why it's easy to know if someone is unhappy in their work, just count the number of times you turn to see the clock in a day. When I write, I do not look at the clock. I have not put back batteries, why? In The Hourglass Book, Jünger relates how he banished all mechanical clocks from his study: it seemed impossible to think in terms of a fixed schedule. Both open into rooms dedicated to the study, rooms to think, "Pensderos". The general atmosphere is one of calm, silence and a pleasant placidity touched gently by affliction. To the fit of the engravings this phrase of Jünger could appear: "The hours that the spirit passes in its leisure or delivered to a creative work, those hours the clock does not measure them". Because no one there owns their own time. Neither of his time, nor of his life, nor of anything. After all, insurance agents are nothing but voracious administrators of someone else's time, tricksters in the pay of death. Kafka, who was full of remorse for working as an insurance agent instead of devoting himself to his vocation, wrote that he could not imagine a better way of life for him than to meet his desk objects and a lamp in the recesses of a hermetically sealed cave.. Because extreme concentration does not know the effort ". It is clear that he never found that kind of exaltation in the agency where he worked badly and with regret, far from himself, turned into an efficient animal, perhaps into a cockroach. It's the only way I can reach my goal. " With his back to the world, it is likely that in that imaginary cave Kafka would spend too much time, emancipated from the active life, and would forget even the time to eat. He would stop going to the office, he would not attend to his fiancee, he would make the fast a new form of his art. All his family would say with concern, with annoyance: "Realize, you're wasting your time." There is a free Kafka, a silent subversive, who lives at night the life that his civic obligations prevent him during the day. To this rare genre of men belong the artists and contemplatives of all kinds. Work and pleasure: an equation banished from the halls of bourgeois morality, the morality of the merchant father of Kafka who would like to see half of the earth converted into a warehouse and the other half into records of it. According to Adorno, few things distinguish so profoundly the life of the intellectual and the bourgeois as the relation that each one keeps with work. If the foreman does not understand the possibility of playing with the employees, instead of driving them with bad manners, the intellectual or the artist does not admit the repressive split between work and enjoyment. The same thing happens if a friend calls you at noon to talk or take a moment to stretch the muscles or give the rest of the afternoon to the dissipation. In a world where the boundary between work and leisure is strict, where the spheres of duty and joy seem irreconcilable, writing-that activity of "idlers dribbling in the Void" -can only arouse suspicion. My mother still wonders why I like to write so much on vacations, when the crowd has left the city and I find myself in the streets as in my solitary room. In the same way, I do not feel any remorse when I stay in bed until eleven o'clock in the morning or I spend a day or two without typing. Voluntary servitude fulfills the expectations of the bosses who have never trusted the autonomous use of time and prefer to have hundreds of humiliated humans in front of the desk, even if they do not move a finger or have nothing to do. After his boss passed a couple of times by his side and caught him with his hands in the book, he scolded him with severity. After all, there is always the suspicion that perhaps he deserves to live in misery. That is the first moral dishonor received by those who prefer to spend the day locked in their cavern, refusing to participate directly in the social enterprise, and therefore, in the economy of the city. When I decided to dedicate myself to writing, I will do that for about ten years, I understood that after language, my biggest problem would be the stomach. Because you can not write on an empty stomach, no matter how hard you try. Gombrowicz said flatly that no. So much the better if the public also buys my books. So, I have the right to participate commercially in the business, but it is a secondary circumstance that bears no relationship to the real literature. " The genuine coral seller realizes that the fake coral seller sells much more, and then decides to include a few imitations and from there the ruin of his business begins. By betraying himself, his perdition begins. Sometimes things are the reverse of what we can think. " The same thing happened to Bukowski: when he was finally given a salary for writing, after working for fourteen years as a postman, he was blocked for a week. When Beckett resigned from the academy, fed up with the cuban pedantry, he said at a conference that economic hardship was preferable to starvation of the spirit. Jünger also insisted that the pursuit of social success could destroy the writer or, at least, take away a lot of time. There are many authors who built their work without expecting another gain other than the act of writing itself, although even a bad payment would have helped them to cope with less tortures the transactions of daily life. But all that seems distant and romantic in the shadow of the comfort that society offers these days to the professional writer, in exchange for his time and, sometimes, his docility. The most serious thing is that in the long run many untalented writers become under this system respectable names, already devoid of any propensity for criticism. They work even when black Russians drink by the pool. One takes notes of his trip, another corrects evidence, the third seeks appointments for his next trial. And he who does not do anything confesses with guilt or unrest, as if he had been abandoned by his muse. It is likely that the literature managers feel happy to see the photos of their authors in the country house, surrounded by papers. While they rest, far from the worldly dealings with men, they have not stopped producing. Passing the writer by show or merchandise, interrupting his concentration at all hours and asking him not to bite the hand that feeds him. In capitalist logic, writing and doing nothing are the same thing. If he "writes on vacation", it is because he lives outside the gridded time of the factories and does not accept the Puritan distinction between duty and pleasure. It is a pity, but sometimes, the economic freedom of the writer is achieved only thanks to his servitude. Even then Swift sensed that many of the rituals with which the poet is worshiped are only meant to make him a steward of culture. Or something even more serious: that of the intellectual encouraged by the government to travel through its colonies and bring back a condescending and bucolic portrait in the suitcase, leaving it to the contradiction. The middle class wants them to move away from their usual monotony, and for that it is necessary to have at home, in addition to television, a laureate novelist. The professional writer often lives under the yoke of his mass readers; they ask him to reduce the horizon of his pretensions, to attend to the topics of the moment or to change the destiny of his heroes. The paid writer builds endearing characters and round plots; mix any genre with a good dose of thriller, eroticism and gourmet cuisine. Always publish; Suppress complex words. His books are already the movie of the next season. And he must learn to like, if he aspires to fly in first class. Say: no, as my touch of withdrawal. Because I do not like to work, I answer. And he would add, so that his laughter would be complete: "A poet must be deliberately lazy; he has to write as little as possible. " That is why, because it is dominated by the roles of figuration and the values ​​of profit, it happens to me that piecewriting and billing per page produce violent reactions of a respiratory, nervous or eruptive nature. In a way, the figure of the professional writer is that of someone who has turned the game into an obligation, the abduction into a commercial article, the writing into a product. Its tempo is not that of the hourglass, but that of the industrial machine and mass production. And that which supposed a historical conquest, its economic independence, ends up dominating it. By sacrificing creative time or self-censorship, the professional writer is reintegrated into society. He is an employee who no longer despises his employer. And from there it has had to increase prodigiously its capacity of manufacture, to satisfy the rhythms of the market, the academy or the scholarships. As with all employees in the world, leisure has become another form of duty. Now he has to write on his laptop as he flies by plane from one conference to another, pursued by an evident feeling of fatigue and anxiety. It is as if a bulldozer had painfully pulled the dead man from his grave. Kafka has been torn off, like this, from his desk. I am finishing this essay, which I have written over several weeks in the midst of all the interruptions of our time, and I do so by returning to the initial question: should the writer regulate his life? I thought I had found there two paradigmatic and contradictory days: that of the puritan capitalist and that of the shameless and visionary artist. For my part, I believe that in the writer there is a busy self that does not stop typing; but there is also a self that prefers to spend hours wandering. But he will need the risk, the depth, the sudden visions of the second. One pleases his time; the other, betrays her. It is also true that the purely contemplative side of the writer would remain without writing if the other, the laborious side, did not appear from time to time. Continue the studies in progress and breakfast. 6-10 Put things in their place, have dinner. Music or fun or conversation. and I get up from the table at 12.14 hrs. Occupations, from 16.21 to 18.47 hrs. Dinner is served at 7:16 pm and ends at 7:20 pm. I usually go to bed at 22.37 hrs. Once a week, wake up startled at 3.19 hrs. I boil the wine, which I drink cold with fuchsia juice. I have an appetite; but I never talk about eating, for fear of choking. When I walk I go by the sides and I stare back. Very serious in appearance, if I laugh it is unintentional. That's why I always apologize and be polite. I only sleep with one eye; I have a very hard dream. My bed is round and perforated by a hole so that it passes the head. Every hour, a servant takes my temperature and puts another one on me. I have been a fashion magazine for a long time. I wear a white cap, white stockings and a white vest. The doctor has always told me to smoke. The look, first, slides through a large room of Persian carpets upholstered to the ceiling with lps. They seem meticulously sorted. In the background, other rooms full of books and discs and built-in shelves where videocassettes are accumulated. It is a collection of films that invades all corners and low tables. In the study, the booksellers have a long series of drawers. The television is on at full volume. And on the desk there is a computer. It's John Zorn's apartment. More properly, an improviser. He likes the saxophone and the soundtracks. Of influences and appropriations. It is a polyglot music and is surrounded by signs and references, such as New York or its own department. Whoever tries to find in Cobra a unique, recognizable melody, will be passed by the arms. The choppy symphony of the street. He spent a good part of his money buying records in small music stores. Among his favorites, there is one that cost him 95 cents made of special effects. He paid and then began to create from that. In another interview, Zorn laments: "What I've been observing is fucking depressing. I see huge corporations acting as slave traders, as if this were the return of the pharaohs. I see the destruction of what you and I love, the little shops of mom and dad-people who love music and that's why they own those stores. I see that all that has been replaced by Tower, HMV, all those large surfaces. And then I see giant corporations that come together and become even more powerful, like what happened with Polygram and Universal. We will have a world run by a corporation. All artists will sign for that one stamp and anyone who does not will be persecuted. We will have an inquisition, well, we almost have it now. " It is known that every time that Mickey Mouse was about to become public domain, the company concentrated all its efforts so that the law was modified and the coverage of copyright was extended. But they treat them as if they were exclusive. The tyranny of copyright stifles culture. An example among thousands: the artless art history text, the case of the absent book. The description of the work without the work. It is not a conceptual gesture, but the erosive effect of commercial censorship: our future of blank books. Maybe it's time to learn certain works of art by heart, to reproduce them when it is impossible to find them. The inquisition of the market will return us to the oral culture, the perpetuation of the works by word of mouth, as happened in the forests of Fahrenheit 451. And when they also want to collect royalties from us, we will transmit them with mime or in the language of the deaf and dumb. I imagine a prefiguration of absent literature: the blank page with copyright. A fascinating process of loans and transformations, ideas taken from here and there, subsequent reworkings of an original idea. Piracy, say those who write contracts. Of necessary plagiarism, the provocateurs will say. Of aesthetic strategies against the romantic figure of the author, add the surrealists. Of rewrites, appropriations, intertextualities, say the academics. It is not only that the central resource of the art of the last century has been anticopyright. It is that all the culture from its origins was based on the technology of the copy for its spreading and contagion, from the mnemotecnia to the p2p. When someone learned a poem by heart and repeated it later in front of others, was he committing a crime? In the time of the troubadours, no. In the era of excessive controls, yes. Is that by converting it to digital format, companies could return to own it. During the 2010 Soccer World Cup a small scandal broke out around the annoying buzz of the official song of the tournament. Vargas denied the rumor explaining that the authorship was in fact from a Cameroonian group, Golden Sound. Sure, not entirely to Shakira, but she charged royalties for humming her for five seconds on television and was willing to defend her property against piracy. It is not that I feel a special appreciation for the scouts, but here it is evident that they have been cheated. Someone has wanted to sell us something that belonged to us beforehand. In aesthetic and political terms, I like to distinguish between conservative plagiarists and anarchist plagiarists. It is the anarchist plagiarists who today wage a real battle against the tyranny of copyright. They have understood that the new digital context drastically modifies the foundations of writing, the book and the reproduction of creative content, just as we had known them until now. A revolution that is based on the extraordinarily ductile nature of the digital text and the ease with which copy-paste is operated, at all times everywhere. The writers and activists of the free copy or copyleft understand that writing is suffering its biggest challenge since Gutenberg and needs to redefine itself. And with it, the copyright legislation. That said, half the world is shaking, as it did not since the sixties. Those who still base their practice on nineteenth-century concepts such as originality tremble. Also those who fear losing control of their intellectual property. And those who want to perpetuate the monopolies of distribution and copying. Good consciences shudder again against the counterculture. But what does copyleft do that makes it so menacing? It allows each author to decide what the hell to do with his work. A way to turn the copyright around so that it ceases to be an obstacle, without ceasing to be a guarantee. It is a type of license that protects the legitimate rights of the author, but without going over the readers neither of the community nor of the culture that have also nourished that author. Defend the rights of everyone, and not just a few. For this reason, copyleft vehemently distinguishes between piracy as a mere extralegal extension of capitalism and a community spirit piracy, which understands culture as a collective creation, where money is above all a nuisance. Free circulation, library loan, reading aloud, the gift. In a short time they will become creators themselves. To pass without intermediation from reading to writing is another of the fascinating effects of the mutations that digital language causes today: the redefinition of the relations between author and reader. Of course, this new geometry of barbarism still bothers many authors who can not tolerate the sampling of their works. The active users belong to the creative lineage of John Zorn, a lineage that does not deserve to be imprisoned for the crime of being influenced. A question that several open source activists have been asking for a long time is placed in the foreground: what part of the culture is private and what is a common good? On one side are those who believe that sharing the link or photocopy of this essay is criminal, something that makes you a potential pirate. On the other, there are those who advocate for the rights of authors to be respected without restricting the freedoms associated with the enjoyment of works. The former see culture as an inexhaustible source of profit. The latter recognize that there is an immaterial value in the imagination and knowledge, a value that can not be legislated or quoted in the same way as a car. Copyright on one side, copyleft on the other. The economy of the maximum benefit in front of the economy of the gift. No one doubts at this point who has placed himself at the service of whom. That is the confusing situation in which we are since the market became the only horizon, impassable, of our time. 2 And what are we going to do with the market? Imagine that the age of the ladder culture is here to stay, that domestication is general, that the empire of the same has conquered a prolonged, sordid and impenetrable aesthetic and vital recession. Imagine that nobody feels uncomfortable in the midst of this landscape of monotonous conventions, without ideological roughness or language shocks. This would be the time to throw a bomb. 3 The confusion that the market has promoted in art and literature has ended up depreciating, also, the essay. The first pokes at the essay for not even being a genre, and being "just a draft, a way to the disordered writing or in crisis ". But what essays does Oliva speak of? Definitely, ends Yépez, the essay "is a popular genre, a genre on the rise. And as we all know, what is booming is the worst, the most degrading. " Oliva and Yépez confuse writing with the labor yoke, and it is not strange that in Mexico there are fewer and fewer genuine and more professional essayists submitted to their employer. On the Internet the pages proliferate: "Follow these ten steps to do a good job!". Mechanized prose, maquila prose, verbal products of the post-industrial era. Nothing that indicates the authentic presence of an essay, that is, of a writing associated with autonomous thought and the practice of a language without servitude. 5 It is not that the essay has been democratized, massified or debased; it's just that the essay vanished. Sales managers do not turn into balls; They know that if they only published essays, their industry would be dead some time ago. One denigrates himself as soon as he forgets his own ideas; the other grows by the mere fact of assuming the risk of his inner formation. Socratic ambition of the essay: to know oneself. It is not a magnification of the neurotic ego, but a dangerous excursion towards personal dilemmas, a journey that does not exclude the possibility of transformation. 7 Oblivion of self: here is the dogma of our time. Nothing that raises our conscience about the miseries of the world as it is, let alone about our own inertia. Non-fiction and its current issues are a useful format to reproduce the system that today is cracking to be rebuilt. Ideas recycled, easy to consume, written in a neutral and readable style, easy to quote. All that abjection that Oliva criticizes without concessions. We have already seen how the essay has been officially condemned to disappear under the tyranny of information, polemic and entertainment, the three preferred forms of the false democracy of mass culture. The market and the academy, the technocracies of knowledge, have put it on their knees long ago. It is to these instances that we must set them on fire. 8 I think of some exit routes. First of all, you have to deschool the essay, take it outdoors, as did Montaigne or Thoreau. Upon entering the cloister, the trial underwent its first domestication. 9 Secondly: do not mutilate. If you are asked for an essay for a periodical publication, do not give an apex on the subject, the extension, the language, the vision, or -don't forgive the editors- the dead line. It is idiocy to think that you will become an essayist writing reviews of abominable books or under the yoke of the chronometer. The only certain thing is that you will not be able to write if you do not have time to think. The blog as a blog of our mental and aesthetic processes. If we dissolve the old hierarchies that encumbered the author, will we perhaps find the space of a new dialectic? Even so, the possibilities of that universe are infinitely more vast and diverse than those of the already known routes. On the internet and in the new digital reality of the text, dimensions not yet fully explored for writing are growing. The answer is critical fiction, the sample that the essay also practices the imagination of the possible, and not just the lead argument. Like the novel, which seemed already dead until it was confused again with the essay and was oxygenated. 12 For a long time I like to think of the essay as the vague of literary genres, an unruly and wandering genre, a way of thinking that can be taken anywhere. If I stop, I stop thinking; My mind only works with my legs. " The road goes by me, firm and brave, sometimes through the countryside, sometimes through the paper ". The path goes for me: that is the non-fossilized form of the essay, its anti-method. No one yet forgives him to be a mere attempt, to insubordinate himself to the supreme value of efficacy. The essayist refuses to produce results; For him, getting lost is a form of learning. The essay is that: daring to fail, as Beckett wanted for all writing, where no one dares to fail. That's why viciousness: the essay is subversive. His most groundbreaking resource, the digression, always takes him out of the river, turns him into a deviant. On the other hand, the digression is not profitable, it is irremediably linked to the postponement. In the essay, temporality is experienced as a recovery of experience. 13 Besides reprobate, the essayist is impudent: we see him thinking in front of us. The page would be the moment of that continuous, disorganized and doubtful flow of thought where one experiences one's life as writing. 14 Lately the essay interests me less as a walk, than as a walk taken to the limit, a drift. And with that I mean: a disorientation of the known influences, the deviation of the codes in which we live. Understood as a renunciation of the status quo, the drift neglects the transactions of spectacle, consumption or work that impose their hegemony on urban organization. Question tourism and advertising. It proposes wandering and the inversion of values. He detests the specialization of urban activities and seeks to recover the experience that has been expropriated from contemporary man. The essay that interests me would be exactly that: the transposition of the bucolic walk through the meanders of the mind, by the affirmation of risk as the power of writing. The essay understood as derived, rather than literary is a libertarian genre. You can even afford to rehearse. To be the laboratory of all forms, the place of an explosion. It seeks to hack: reconfigure thought systems. The counter-trial is left-handed, think the world from another place. It is political because criticism is always political. Descends from a line that comes from the avant-garde although it does not intend to nostalgically return to them. But reprojecta in the contemporary sensibility one of his most peregrine ideas: the overcoming of the fracture between art and life. On another scale, the counter-trial seeks to change life. It is a laboratory not only of language, but also of existence. The counter-trial as a sculpture of itself. 16 I think, for example, about my voluntary unemployment. It is not simply a question of exhibiting the title of unemployed essayist, much less of writing lively criticisms of the active life from the office seat, from the servitude. It is about taking the risk of leaving everything and giving up work. Inventing another way of living, creating vital and aesthetic strategies to counteract the indigence of the world. The counter test is not imposture. Conducts a questioning based on an awareness. It is not a program, much less a treaty. It is neither preaching nor doctrine. It is to prove for oneself the creation of a world of one's own, different from the second-hand life offered by the institutions of art, hyper-consumption, technological obsession. Epicurus affirmed that the arguments of philosophy are vacuous if they do not mitigate some human suffering. Something similar affirms the counter-test. 17 Before this book, in the origins of Writings for the unemployed, is an accumulated physical exhaustion that drilled my life. I felt disappointed in literature. The new isms: conformism, careerism, conservatism. And suddenly I saw myself working on a lot of stupid things for that... I worked a lot and they paid me badly. The spirit of the times suffocated me. However, during a trip to Buenos Aires, which suffered from its own crisis, I had an epiphany. An authentic commotion in a place and a designated hour, like those revelations that precede conversion. That's it: a scratch on the wall. But it was not just any stencil, it was what the streets shouted, the synthesis of an emancipatory cultural atmosphere that sought to walk in the opposite direction. to the spirit of the end. Kill your boss: quit, said the stencil and did it with humor. I've told you before; I have told it too many times. I could even believe that I invented it, if it was not because I keep the photo. That work is the destruction of being. The "necessary victims" of neoliberalism daily update the violence of the system for work. In the average twelve-hour day of contemporary work, there is no room for self-sculpture. Neither for the empathy or the idea of ​​the other: the competition and the wild struggle is propagated, the every man for himself, the common distrust. It is pure survival, our return to the animal state prior to the community. And I was deeply saddened. But after the despondency came the counter-trial: the experiment in search of the vital transfiguration. 18 Never before have I had so much time to think like then. A few months after my voluntary unemployment, I felt the desire to be so virulent that I started writing, I founded a publishing house and I even had a son. Nobody can tell me that leisure is not fruitful. Tumbona Ediciones y Oliverio, this book that ended now, became extensions of my recovered freedom. That the existence is the trial, the space of the trial, the weighing of the contrary. After all, building oneself is also, like the essay, an unfinished program. He told me: if I believe that condemning ourselves to the asphyxiation decreed by our time is a mistake and I do nothing in my concrete life to answer it, what is the use of writing? Our more or less crazy intention was to create for us a new modality of existence, besides being a place that would avoid the traditional circuits and that would favor experimentation, opening a space to everything that the market denied. Books with heterodox and irreverent spirit. Under the slogan: "The universal right to laziness", we would challenge the logic of productivity that had also drowned the publishing industry. We would publish few books and we would have a lot of free time. We would change the principle of profit through complicity, creation and collective responsibility. And we agreed that once those conditions disappeared from our horizon to become a company like the others, we would vanish. 19 "The only valid question is to know how to live". That is the daily question of the counter test. In Montaigne, rehearsal was an activity at the same time reflective and vagabond that led to a consistent existence. We do not aspire to the subsidies of scientific research or to the praise of intellectuals. We took the oil to where the fire was. " Suddenly I sensed that the digresive character of the essay, its peripheral wanderings, has a highly explosive background. The essayist is a dissident, refuses to be codified. Or in other words: the counter-test is more and more similar to that act suggested by Debord: to open the roofs to be able to walk through them. Essays written to several hands, in collaboration, tumultuously or in pairs. Open source tests that favor the collisions of the self. Essays written in the margins or at the foot of page, with diagrams of flow or in Flash; tests that are contaminated by the ductility of the digital text, the proliferation of links and contemporary intermittences. Network tests, with progressive digressions. Left-handed essays that subtract from productive seriality or mere rhetorical use. Current Mexican essay anthology. Neither would Vivian Abenshushan, that literary brand, be for much longer. Because I hate the economy of control. Besides that, I have a schizophrenic cousin who has wandered the streets of Tel Aviv for six years. My trips have been of another nature, less psychedelic, more precarious, less drastic than those of my cousin. But no less confusing. In London they have taken me for German and in Germany they have asked me if I am Chinese, Mayan or Aztec. I have been Armenian and once Bolivian, and in Mexico nobody believes that it is Mexican. I have become a transferee of myself or, at least, of that self that matters to investment funds. But let no one be confused; It's not exactly the name that weighs me down. Deep down, I like its indecisive and remote sonority, its history of philologists and wandering Jews. I also like his orthographic schizophrenia, its mutable character, its instability. The brand system is nothing other than the annulment of the individual by his salable appearance, the way in which we degrade ourselves in exchange for our social membership. It is the brand that must be sold and that must fit with what it means... ". When I have the misfortune to run into absolute truths like this, I have no choice but to try to imagine the luminary that proclaims them unashamedly to the four winds. An alienated and exhausted employee who works overtime to please an authority that he does not believe in and that, deep down, he hates, but will never face for fear of being fired before paying his mortgage. Here is the new canon of spectacular literature, whose most effective rudiment is the anguish of absence, the fear of being excluded. In this framework of showcase what matters least is writing and what is read instead is the attitude of the author, his cultural solvency. It is not uncommon for the professional writer to worry less and less about the lack of ideas than about the lack of visibility. His thing is to be everywhere, attend all possible events, go from here to there with quick movements. This statement is a hypothesis: there is a notion that has domesticated writing: the idea of ​​success. That is, the desire to control a sphere that is not language, but power. Success in literature is the confusion of ends and means, the conversion of the page into an instrument of media recognition, which is today the most powerful form of the exercise of power. Flaubert's severe currency has changed its sign: personality is everything; the work nothing! We have thus arrived at the era of the chattering personalities, thousands of authors who run frayed under the kind whip of their agents, because they need to make a place for their work in the tight bookshelf of the literary offer. In this way, the book destined to endure is displaced daily by the book without day after. Once the myth of transcendence has expired, the battle of the novelties will be pitched. It will imply, in the first place, the writer's renunciation of solitude and isolation, two resources of social self-sabotage that are tolerable only under the gaga consolation of posterity. If the global tsunami will wipe out all the referees of the future, why sacrifice the immediate satisfactions of vanity? It will not be strange to see how distrust in the future will promote the hyperactivity of the printing presses, the steaming publications, the impatience of the editors. The writing of the dead line will be the writing of a world that will behave in an uncritical way towards its line of death. That could be the headband printed on all the covers with cellophane, the message of paralyzing fear promoted by the non-book of the non-future. For the writing of consensus there is no change to undertake. Quite the opposite: what is involved is to recover the most conventional values, the most superfluous ideas, the least taken risks. Anyone can get off at the next station and follow another path, demarcate. I declare myself incompetent to seek success, the ideal that our age has imposed as a rule. Maybe that's why nothing seems more suspicious than the books that adhere unconditionally to unanimous thinking, the titles that reassure. Maybe that's why I'm annoyed by the uses and customs of the publishing market, the way in which they convert the writer's subjectivity into mere exchange value or try to seduce him by giving him treatment of rock star. Although I do not always manage to escape coding. The neurosis has to do with that, too. And with this other: I write from birth with my right hand, but I am inclined to think with the sinister one. Nothing, at least for those who want to stay there. Therefore, worry when you are invited to the TV. Although you think you are being sincere, even if you defend an aesthetic position contrary to the setting of the set, television will finally make you yours. And the public will have seen the cover of your book so many times throughout your promotion week that it will be read. In other words: the saturation of the image, the overexposure, will supplant the solitary experience of the reader. Something else: in the media, communication is always transparent, never breaks up or explodes or loses manners or keeps silence or hesitation. So much transparency, so good vibes of the TV, annihilates the poetic language and returns it to the jail of conventional language. The press has become the reading guide of the contemporary reader, a guide that makes the writing itself insignificant. After the cut your work will be integrated into the catalog of the new, the newcomer, the last, will become part of the material with which the system is recycled. The means have no exterior, they are a closed door. It is necessary to destroy that door or become, without ambiguity, a young media writer and contribute routinely to the dynamics of entertainment. But maybe there is another way out. This silence is the signal that announces a strike by the writer. " It is known that in a congress of Soviet writers, Isaac Babel was the target of fierce criticism. It had not been published for several years. The entire cultural world expressed its strangeness, would not that be an underhanded way of showing its disagreement with the ongoing communism? I have a reputation as a great teacher in the art of silence. " Our attempt could be that: to become masters of silence, to remain silent before the incredulity of the national audience. There has been too much talk about the ways in which the system ends up absorbing its detractors. What is at issue here then is to formulate new tactics to overcome the culture of deception, to open gaps in the neurosis of confinement. There is nothing more contrary to the empire of stardom than the sacrifice of self-image, self-immolation. After all, the pseudonym is the way in which the artist doubts about the false lifestyle in which he has been born. He hesitates and then transforms to be free again, to be in agreement with himself. Adopting a pseudonym has something of conversion and renunciation. In Buddhism, the proper name is abandoned to start a different life, to rise above the possession and reach another spiritual height. This is the case with false identities, which seek to rise above anesthetic well-being. The pseudonym is a rest of the face once that face was spent to be a thin film on suspicious objects. The being of dissimulation in front of the being of the promotion ". Here is a literary strategy, but also a political attitude. Pseudónimo: nom de guerre, name of battle. Attention: the mask is not a flight, but a confrontation; one to turn his back on the audience to speak again head on. But, at the same time, it is a strategy of literary banditry, a recovered dissidence. Pretending to be someone else allows you to bypass checkpoints and break the shield of advertising or power. Who hides the face, dissolves the identity and frustrates the control procedures, "says Camille de Toledo again. Anonymity makes us unassimilable. In the 1990s, once the networks of cyberspace brought about a new atmosphere of anonymity, a crowd called Luther Blisset provoked the second great revolution in the history of fabricated identities. Luther Blissett was an open reputation, a multi-user alias, a myth. Anyone could be Luther Blissett simply by adopting the name, and anyone could feed from any part of the world the war he had waged against official monopolies of information. Through that faceless revolution, Blissett managed to filter a lot of false notes in the yellow media to manipulate them and denounce, from the inside, their simulation mechanisms. It was the mask-unmasking tactic employed at the same time by the Zapatista guerrilla, a tactic that spread as a metaphor and the root of new forms of protest. Luther Blissett was everywhere, and yet, properly, he did not exist. I am not interested in proposing any paradigm or founding a movement of cultural insurrection. Nothing more alien to my neurosis than the possibility of a new order. I only gather ideas that could inform us about the future of writing, a future different from the writing of consensus and indigence. I think, for example, of an imaginary community of insolvent writers and defectors. Everything in it will be hidden and it is probable that its secret will never be seen completely. It will be a postponement literature. A derogation from immediacy. You will like to postpone the reader's gratification until the impossible, convinced that only then can you offer a more intense and lasting pleasure. In a way, it will be so close to the non-identifiable that it will remain on the threshold of disappearance. It will be an invisible, anomalous, paradoxical, insurrectionary literature directed towards nothingness. Although in the world the conscience prevails that there is no future, this literature will be written with the hope that the future will belong to him some day. To put it another way: the writers of the disappearance will invent a writing later to their world, after the servitude and property, after the merchandise. In the midst of the general feeling of finishing, they will ask to fight once more in front of the language, they will jump without a parachute over the abyss. Following the dictation of an old Epicurean precept, hide your life, your method would be not to be someone. They will shun any form of coding, be it the market, the academy or the state. Declaring war on the usefulness of understandable languages ​​and consortia of great solemnity. Enemy of comfort and custom, this invisible society will suddenly suspend its activities and will escape in the mist of dawn, without leaving behind any trace. JavaScript must be enabled in order for you to view this website in full form. However, it seems JavaScript is either disabled or not supported by your browser. To view this website properly, enable JavaScript by changing your browser options, and then try again.


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