There is a connection between the tilde de solo and the fear of death. If you go through this corner-hugging few paragraphs, I can explain.
As in psychoanalysis, when linguistic arguments about the written superiority of solotildistas over the adverb solo and the demonstratives este, eso or aquel (this, this or that) broke down, deeper and more personal reasons emerged, intertwined between autobiography and worldview. . Dialectically, it is difficult to argue against such an unreasonable premise, so it seems more interesting to dig into it and understand where such a visceral attachment to a dash over a vowel comes from.
The argument, which is argued at the end of the discussions and clings to the spoon without wanting to break it, is nostalgia. From listening carefully to the advocates of personal causes, they seem to be divided into two types of nostalgia: melancholic and reactionary. The latter came from screaming in the previous battle, still hot, but it didn’t stop them from losing steam.
An immediate surge of nostalgic reactionaries came when Sight & Sound magazine revised its list of the greatest films in cinema history and Chantal Akerman’s Jeanne Dielman, 23 quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles unseated Vertigo, which in turn ousted Citizen Kane. first position The ideas very much pro “only” (that’s how I studied) and anti Ackerman (I don’t know that woman), both very similar and essentially the same, coincide with placing the defender at the center of the argument and valuing his memories. , their previous experiences, their learning, their value system, their need for elements that serve to explain or relate to the world.
And then there’s the wistful nostalgia. They, like others, have inexhaustible energy, despite their deeply troubled position in life. Self-presentation, as well as their projection to others, as misunderstood, is necessary to protect their main obsession: memory. No one knows better than the nostalgic melancholic that the memorial legacy is perhaps the only true possession, even if it is elusive, invisible, and largely fictional.
The current philosopher of Madrid Diego S. Garrocho (and head of ABC’s Opinion for two months) opens his essay on nostalgia by quoting Nietzsche, who argues that “only [sic] What does not stop the pain remains in the memory. ” Garrocho contradicts the German when he affirms that we also remember beautiful things. But he opens the door to restlessness when he suggests that, exactly, it doesn’t hurt to remember that these beautiful things of the past are over. That’s why today’s nostalgic melancholia – and a little bit of reactionary nostalgia – reminds us of the cursed poet of the 19th century, living in agony for all that is lost.
Garrocho teaches us to move according to timelines in his book. And suddenly, from watching it so much, we don’t know what time it is. What exactly is it now? In reality, there is no way to determine this. is it a minute And what about the 58 seconds left from the minute after reading the sentence “Is this the minute?” what is this? Where does the past end and where does the future begin? In fact, we are so interested in the future that we are able to move forward with nostalgia for the past. The future is nothing, it’s a black abyss, the only way to navigate it with some moderation is the projected return of beloved elements of the past.
Whoever says love is saying something else that is like it: faith, stability, comfort, the skeleton of history.
By reading Garrojo, we can understand that nostalgia is an irreversible pain. The inability to return to the past is a huge sour pit of dissatisfaction and misery. Accepting memory loss is like accepting the loss of life. And it is neither more nor less than the fear of death.
And that’s when we return to the original premise: to deny that the film we’ve always considered the best in the world – directed by a man, telling us about what happens to a man – shouldn’t be. So, since there is no need to abandon the use of the tilde that we were taught in school and that has been with us for years, they remind us nostalgically that death is on the other side of the corner.
Garocho also tells us that longing, nostalgia and loneliness are related to myth. A myth appears when there is an amazing episode in the story. They are fundamental episodes that help us narrate the past, organize it, and give meaning to the future. Something like metaphors. In the discussion of the “solo” tilde, metaphors appear on the side of writers rather than linguists, nostalgia rather than the rationality of language. And what is a metaphor if not an artistic exercise, an effort of the imagination? Nostalgia is built with the bricks of myths and metaphors.
However, this blurred, slippery line between past, present, and future moves so imprecisely and rapidly that metaphors and myths move ever closer to the present, the moment in which, theoretically, the existence of reality should diminish. Nostalgia. And it’s not, because what happened yesterday can already be “mythical” today, and because the vertigo of the present is so overwhelming that we use metaphors foolishly and madly to explain the present, now, moment.
Pop music helps us in a different way than the philosophers, but it is equally effective because its lightness frees it from the responsibility of the past. In the song La nostalgia es un arma (1999), Astrud duet sang, after calling the interlocutor a “mythoman”, that “everything is the best moment when it didn’t happen, because then all you can do is comment”. . On another occasion (2003), Kiki D’Acci sang a verse by Fernando Marquez that said “the future is not a stain on the wall or watching the world for more hours on the couch. The future is drowning in small glasses. Thermal water, summer sipping”. The future is the result of rolling the dice before they come to rest on the edge of the table. The future is the instruction that the machine will execute before the fingers touch the keys. The future is what the past cannot predict, whether by graph, metaphor or fiction.
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Source: El Diario