Salvador Moreno Peralta: Lastra and time


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Miss Lastra, socialist spokesperson in Congress, with the thoughtless impetus and the absolute unawareness that only youth can be forgiven, has said without regard that she represents the new PSOE that has come to liquidate the old one of her parents who, emerged from the Congress of Suresnes, both contributed to the success of the Transition. This liquidating old people is in fashion and, disrespectfully paraphrasing Adolfo Suárez – (who was that man?) – it seems that now it is about bringing to institutional normality what, at street level, the ill-fated “neo-Malthusianism” of the Covid -19 had already made it just normal.

The stupid face that the old socialist militants thus disposed of must have been the same that my father had when I sent his entire generation to the devil, weighed down by the need to carry out a depleted country and the very heavy traumas that the Civil War left in it. To all this we opposed the ocean of freedom under the cobblestones of May / 68 – what a good time we had! – and, later, that little century of Pericles that was the glorious eighties “move”, whose creative wind left an indelible aroma in Spanish culture, not yet dissipated. And it will be that same face that will remain with Miss Lastra when, after a few years, her children send her to the attic of History as the protagonist of that PSOE -the one of today- that undertook the feat of replacing the firm solera of the Social Democracy for the exciting ice rink of the post-truths, without realizing that, from skating so much, we were reducing the skills of standing to the clumsy waddling of the penguins. But I will no longer belong to that new world, and I will really regret not being in it at that time to, with all cordiality, personally welcome you to the club of the amortized.

All this is what with philosophical depth we call the law of life, which serves us for little more than to fill in the embarrassing silences of burials. But the truth is that, until the socialists made it fashionable, we did not know that each generation needed a “story”, that is, a pamphlet full of epic with which to follow the ritual script of killing Dad, although in the end everything It will remain on the fateful – and tiresome – wheel of the eternal return. During youth, which is when the consciousness of oblivion is still distant, that story is built day by day like a hymn, moving and joyous, in the style of “La Marseillaise.” But as soon as that story has been written, it begins to wither like a flower, so that, lost the attractiveness of its freshness, it is degraded in grandfather’s rancid battle, out of time and place, fulfilling the implacable disaffection of Cronos, so Well expressed by Vasili Grossman, “time only loves those it has engendered: its children, its heroes, its workers. He will never, never love the children of the past time, (…) ». If the human being is more history than nature, as Ortega said, then the passage of time through the wrinkles of the body and the soul is closely related to what happens around, rather than to the awareness of ailments. And about what happens around there can be two situations: either that you star in them or, simply, that you observe them. Any of us can remember when we were starring in the time when we lived according to the law of that time; but we also remember the day when we went from being protagonists to observers, imperceptibly, relentlessly.

In the balance of the socialist fifth of Felipe González or Alfonso Guerra, what there were of protagonists weighs much more than there were observers, both at least as to deserve a certain respect on the part of those who belong to the political union and more still on the same ideological chord. If I’m not mistaken, in zoology there are few cases of the extermination of the old, and the same happens with human cultures, which tend to revere the wisdom of old age except, perhaps, those pristine Aztecs with whom we Spaniards behave so uneducated. Why, then, is this harsh and enraged contempt for the experience of the elderly, this imperative need to cancel, not an ideology, but an entire generational stage? Is not one of the profound keys of the politics of the moment hidden here?

Today it is surprising to hear two politicians say that they are in ideological “antipodes” and then take a stand and deliver a tense, coarse and rude speech in identical ways. As Maurizio Ferraris explains, this formal coincidence, which is the expression of populism in which, in turn, has crystallized postmodern banality and the “anything goes” of post-truth, is what today has replaced ideologies, for more that we witness this stomachache of the “antipodes.” When ideological and programmatic references are so liquid, we cannot use them as a target for our invectives or support for our defenses: ideas today are a moving target, and in desperation we have no other resource to justify our political role – function and function. salary – to invent the real enemy: the fixed target of the generational tree, that is, our elders, those representatives of a generation called “plug”, because not with their works, not even with their ideas, but with their sole obstructing presence will be accusingly underlining, from the pulpit of its questioned legitimacy, what a plebiscite cry is: that the current political class is the worst in our democracy; and that the creation of an external enemy is the world’s oldest resource to justify the survival of a ruling minority when its privileges are threatened. Only in this case the external enemy… is ours.

Salvador Moreno Peralta, architect.

Salvador Moreno PeraltaSalvador Moreno Peralta

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