I receive many requests from abroad—from both male and female authors—for literary exchanges. They arrive in flocks, like swallows in spring. To my great surprise, I read that they ask for a very brief biography—no more than eight lines—or, for poets, a maximum of thirteen lines.
Perhaps they measure sentiment in millimeters, thinking a writer ought to arm themselves with a tape measure to indicate the distance between a space and a word.
The irony is that their biographies contain all sorts of things—details that have nothing to do with a biography—or a tedious back-and-forth of actions meant merely to fill up empty white space.
Some authors write about everything: changing a diaper for their own children or for kids at daycare; visiting a relative, a mother, or a neighbor; offering condolences after a death; or doing the grocery shopping for a sick person living alone.
All of this is a civic duty toward one’s neighbor—something that shouldn’t be paraded about. Yet, simply to stain pages with ink, they label these simple gestures „humanitarian aid” (useful for padding a CV).
They fail to realize it is a moral, ethical, and religious duty, given that need—in various guises—knocks on every door, and death shows no mercy to anyone. They fail to realize that the principle of suffering is not merely a matter of memory; it is something that traverses time without getting lost or clashing with one’s own inner self.
Yet none of these ladies and gentlemen has gone off to war, adopted an orphan, or observed a moment of silence out of respect; none of them has stopped, even for a single day, performing on the trendy stage of their Facebook profiles.
None of these individuals, who cast themselves as saints, went to dig through the rubble of the recent earthquake that struck Argentina; no one wept, and no one prayed. Everyone has set off to collect the useless scraps of paper they churn out endlessly—cups and medals.
This surge of madness knows no pain; for some, it is stronger than blood or death.
No one shows the wounds earned at the “front,” the lined-up corpses, the children consumed by mud and hunger, the walking skeletons, the skies of stone and fire, the collapsing buildings, or life flickering out like a candle.
And it drifts away like a snowflake. True charity is that which is done in silence—the suffering that makes us bite our lips to keep from screaming, the pain of our own helplessness in the face of the evils of our time.
We must fight to prevent society from shattering so that humanity might be saved. “He who shows, sells,” said Saint Pio of Pietrelcina. This ghoulish exploitation by figures who improvise and act out the tragedies of the century involves fake actors—not people who are truly suffering, as they would have us believe. They place themselves on a pedestal of the predictable and the obvious, seeking visibility through the misfortunes of others.
They feign suffering with the smiles of hyenas, performing like circus acrobats. They fail to grasp that pain is elusive—much like a pearl diver. These opportunists parade like beasts in a shadow play, shifting roles between actors, makeup artists, directors, and costume designers, blurring the line between reality and daydream.
They are incapable of perceiving the emotional and ethical tension at play; if they were to analyze what passes before our eyes, they would see the exact opposite of the “golden rules”—where goodness is shared so that no one is excluded.
But for those with neither brains nor a soul, everything only gets worse. It is like looking at an open book and being unable to read a single line. To borrow a phrase from Flaiano: “There are few important days in life; the others merely fill the space.”
Time is an unhappy love, and every day is a farewell. No one can reach the non-existent.
Social media has destroyed humanity, turning it into walking robotics. Feelings have turned into rust, thorns, nails, concrete, hatred, vengefulness, malice, and exhibitionism; writing is viewed as soulless ink.
Many people have lost sight of the truth—of man’s origins in time and history—and have learned nothing from the mistakes of the past.
We embody the fragility of time—indomitable, ironic, possessive, and at times violent—which overtakes us by surprise like a storm of snow, sand, or darkness, where only voices stir, only to be stifled in a world of false modesty.
Memory becomes a shawl of waves between present and past—devoid of light, a very hell. Truth is a word that does not crawl; instead, it sheds the scales of time and, in its stripping-away journey, seeks its own authenticity. Freed from dross, it is reborn within the time that both devours and generates, ultimately transforming into the dawn of resurrection.
The word is the only freedom left to us; it holds a heart that dwells within our very being, and only patience can overcome fear. Silence and hatred belong on the wall of oblivion. True wealth is measured neither by strength nor by gold, but by peace. Genocide remains the greatest danger to Humanity.
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