Mostrando las entradas con la etiqueta books. Mostrar todas las entradas
Mostrando las entradas con la etiqueta books. Mostrar todas las entradas

domingo, 26 de julio de 2026

Walk Through Palermo: Between the Urban Beat and the Literary Mosaic

 
There are many ways to walk the city. Ours is urban hiking (Urban Trek), a low-intensity steady-state walk (LISS) that transforms movement into an active yet deeply contemplative journey. A porteño city-trekking experience where the rhythm of your legs adapts to your gaze.

The poem "Las calles" ("The Streets") by Jorge Luis Borges provides the perfect conceptual framework to understand this way of walking that connects every scene:

"The streets of Buenos Aires are already my innermost self.
/ Not the greedy streets, uncomfortable with crowds and hustle,
/ but the lingering streets of the neighborhood,
/ almost invisible out of habit,
/ touched by gloom and sunset
/ and those further out devoid of merciful trees...
"

— Jorge Luis Borges, Fervor de Buenos Aires (1923)


The Route

We begin the journey on foot at the intersection of Av. Las Heras and República Árabe Siria street. From there, we link a green, monumental path connecting Av. Las Heras, República de la India street, Av. del Libertador, and Av. Sarmiento.

The final stretch skirts two icons of the porteño landscape:

•    A complete loop around the Galileo Galilei Planetarium.
•    A circuit around Dr. Benjamín Apthorp Gould Square.


Snapshots of the Trail: The City Between Urgency and Rest

Walking through Buenos Aires means constantly crossing paths with two opposing forces. On one side, "the wail of the siren cutting through the neighborhood like a gust" (Ernesto Sabato) and the ambulance that shatters "the neighborhood's calm" (Roberto Arlt). On the other, the quiet pause where "time binds them, delays them" over a chessboard on the sidewalk (Jorge Luis Borges).

Amidst this pulse, the sight of "a small red car, polished and humble" (Osvaldo Soriano) preserves everyday life, while the afternoon comes to a standstill in the foliage and "light filters through the iron railings and the leaves" (Adolfo Bioy Casares).


Literary Mosaic: The Walk's Photos through Its Authors

Every element encountered along the step finds its exact reflection in Argentine literature:

1.    Chess at a sidewalk table
"Tenacious in their eager labyrinth / time binds them, delays them, / in their silence the game holds them prisoner..."
— Jorge Luis Borges, excerpt from the poem Ajedrez (Chess, from El hacedor, 1960).
2.    Vegetation and iron railings backlit
"The afternoon has come to a standstill in the foliage of the trees. Light filters through the iron railings and the leaves, drawing a lace of shadows over the cold pavement of the street."
— Adolfo Bioy Casares, Dormir al sol (Asleep in the Sun, 1973).
3.    The urgency of the fire truck
"The wail of the siren cut through the neighborhood like a gust. The red, heavy fire truck passed by, vibrating the windowpanes and the afternoon air."
— Ernesto Sabato, Sobre héroes y tumbas (On Heroes and Tombs, 1961).

4.    The ambulance in the city
"An ambulance crosses the avenue at full speed, shattering the neighborhood's calm with its white and green howl."
— Roberto Arlt, adapted excerpt from Aguafuertes porteñas.
5.    The small, popular car (a little red Fiat / "fitito")
"A small red car, polished and humble, parked next to the sidewalk curb, seemed to be the center of gravity for the whole block."
— Osvaldo Soriano, Cuentos de los años felices (1993).

6.    The Planetarium
Focal point and grand finale of our journey, standing as an astronomical and geometric landmark in the middle of the park.


Wikiloc Link: https://es.wikiloc.com/rutas-senderismo/walk-through-palermo-caba-planetarium-292600860

jueves, 23 de julio de 2026

Girandomédulas: Chronicle of a Book Rescued from the Sidewalk, a Poem for Oliverio Girondo, and Three Laps Around the Rosedal

 


«Yo no tengo ni deseo tener sangre de estatua...
Mejor reírse de uno mismo, excederse de humano
»

(“I do not have nor do I wish to have statue’s blood... / 
Better to laugh at oneself, to be excessively human
”)

— María del Mar Estrella, Girandomédulas, p. 37

Chronicle of the Find: An Object Released on the Sidewalk

Urban chance in Buenos Aires rarely presents itself with violence: it arrives with the stealth of things rested at the edge of the curb, half a meter from the footsteps of strangers. There, exposed to traffic, appeared the copy: Fuegos Ceremoniales (Ceremonial Fires), by María del Mar Estrella, published in 2007 by Vinciguerra under its Metáfora Collection. A textured hardcover book, the kind that invites touch before reading, with that sober paper weight that promises permanence. Someone discarded it. Someone, once upon a time, chose it.

Upon opening it, the first sign of its private life rests on the flyleaf, penned in ink with a fluid script:

«A mi querida amiga y poeta Susana, con cariño y en hermandad de palabra.»
(“To my dear friend and poet Susana, with affection and in sisterhood of the word.”)
May 2, 2015.

Eight years elapsed between the press (2007) and the author’s affectionate gesture (2015). And then, more than a decade until the copy ended up on the street.

Facing this scene, one cannot help but wonder what route the object took to the sidewalk. Four hypotheses come to mind:

1.    The dissolution of the bond. The “sisterhood of the word” expired. Letting go of the object is an attempt to erase the material proof of the link: if the gifted book no longer exists, it is as though the affection was never on the bookshelf.

2.    Death or the clearing out of a personal library. The passing of the recipient and the subsequent cleanout by indifferent heirs, who dispatch whole boxes to the public street without even opening the cover. The inscription becomes invisible to anyone who cannot read the interior of others' bonds.

3.    Implicit devaluation. The gift was never truly appreciated in its proper measure and slowly rolled toward discard: first a shelf, then a box, then the street.

4.    A ritual of detachment and circulation. The noblest and most poetic hypothesis. The book was not discarded out of contempt: tucked between its final pages was a bookmark from another publisher—unequivocal evidence that someone traversed the text all the way to the last line. Its mission fulfilled with that reader, the book was liberated so it could find the next one. It is the age-old practice of book-sowing: the work, once read, returns to the city’s flow. The bookmark acts like a message cast into the river: “I made it this far; now it’s your turn.”
There is no way to know which hypothesis is true, or if others exist that escape me, and that ignorance is part of the find. The object tells what it tells; the rest is interpretation. But the book contained more layers.


A Pantheon in Verse

Fuegos Ceremoniales has an unusual structure: each poem is explicitly dedicated to a giant of literature, and each dedication adds an attribute, as if the author were constructing a museum of busts in verse:

•    Standing before the light (To Julio Cortázar: sentiment)
•    Shadows on the wall (To Ernesto Sabato: commitment)
•    The prodigal (To Alejandra Pizarnik: anguish / tearing)
•    Night notebook (To Jorge Luis Borges: memory)
•    Terrestrial tool (To José Pedroni: hope)
•    Chance and circumstance (To Alfonsina Storni: challenge)
•    Sower of dreams (To Fermín Estrella Gutiérrez: devotion)
•    Girandomédulas (To Oliverio Girondo: irony)
•    Circle of fire (To Enrique Molina: eroticism)
•    Under the sign of a wing (To Olga Orozco: mystery)

  And so it continues with many more…
Cortázar, Sabato, Pizarnik, Borges, Pedroni, Storni, Girondo, Molina, Orozco: this is not a dedication to a “nobody,” to an indistinct figure. It is a national pantheon, and each poem seeks its place in the shadow of a giant. One of the names, however, is not an aspiration but a heritage: Fermín Estrella Gutiérrez, a Spanish-Argentine academic and poet, was the author's father. María del Mar Estrella, born in Buenos Aires in 1941, is the daughter of that poet and boasts over fifty years of uninterrupted writing and seven published books, starting with El poblador (RdC Publishing). This reframes everything: we are not before an unknown coasting on the fame of others, but a poet with her own trajectory, raised in a home where the busts of the pantheon were, at least one of them, the living room family portrait.


The Seven Pages of Validation

And then appears the other peculiarity, the uncomfortable one: at the end of the volume, under the title “About María del Mar Estrella,” the author deploys nearly seven pages reproducing praise and commentary from established authors who wrote to her throughout her career. Apparently, she didn’t just dedicate poems: she wrote in person to many of the living (this is my conjecture) and received responses. And she published those responses. One of them decrees: “María del Mar will no longer be forgotten.”

The scene thus takes on its most ironic shade: a book designed to ensure the legitimation and endurance of its author through the endorsement of literary authorities ends up abandoned on the paving stones. The phrase “she will no longer be forgotten” coexists within the very same object alongside a forgotten bookmark and a street that remembers nothing.

Before judging, a shift of focus is in order. First: the search for validation is not a personal flaw of María del Mar Estrella; it is a trait of the creative condition—of every creator who knows that ink guarantees nothing and signs the world hoping someone will sign back. She was merely more transparent than others when showcasing her pats on the back. Second: the 2015 dedication is the record of genuine affection at a given moment; that it ends up on the sidewalk speaks to the implacable passage of time, of how libraries are scattered, not to the falsity of the affection. The paradox is melancholy, almost tragic, and deserves respect rather than mockery. Third: the noblest twist of this story is the act of rescue itself. Instead of ending up in a dumpster or ruined by rain, the copy was picked up by someone who took the trouble to read it completely, analyze it, and take it for a walk. If anyone should be grateful for this ending, it is the word itself, which keeps circulating.

The street is the great equalizer: it evaporates vanity and dutiful praise, but it also restores books to their primary function: finding readers, one at a time, by chance.


The Motivation for the Walk: Turning the Marrow (Girando la Médula)

Among the first ten poems of the pantheon, one leaped off the page on its own merits: Girandomédulas, page 37, expressly dedicated “To Oliverio Girondo: irony.” It is worth transcribing a fragment:

(Through what crazy lock does it subversively penetrate
and winding up leisure
makes the blood dance on the truth of a single edge?
Immodest, perverse provocateur, irony distracts
prowling in a twilight streetcar
like a scarecrow crawling
in the masmédula of weeping
.)

Ladies and gentlemen: here you have
a pin or filigree or convincing cyanide kiss;
depending on which hand releases it, which lips pronounce it
it will be a subtle feast or a crude bacchanal
scandal of puritan hypocrisy.

(Girandomédulas pulls the trigger against the ghost of doubt
fires
astride a nomadic and sharp vigil
while the girls of Flores agonize
clenching groans in their marble muscles.
)

I do not have nor do I wish to have statue’s blood...
Better to laugh at oneself, to be excessively human

(and it continues)

La masmédula: The Word Buried in the Title

The title is a portmanteau word that only opens with the right key: girando (turning/spinning) + masmédula. It is not abstract anatomy: “en la masmédula del llanto” directly quotes the title of Oliverio Girondo's final poetry book, En la masmédula (1956), the deepest and most anguish-ridden work by the author of Veinte poemas para ser leídos en el tranvía (Twenty Poems to Be Read on the Streetcar). The marrow (médula) in Estrella's title isn't generic bone marrow: it is Girondo’s marrow—his final word—quoted and turned.

And the poem is stitched with Girondian nods that confirm the operation:

•    “Ladies and gentlemen: here you have” — The formula of the buffoonish lecturer that Girondo premiered in Espantapájaros (Scarecrow, 1932), the manifesto-book of his I that mocks all solemnity.

•    “prowling in a twilight streetcar” — Impossible not to read there the streetcar of his foundational 1922 title, Twenty Poems to Be Read on the Streetcar.

•    “like a scarecrow crawling” — The scarecrow, Girondo’s alter ego, reappears crawling within the tribute itself.

•    “while the girls of Flores agonize / clenching groans in their marble muscles” — An image of masmedular pedigree, baroque and piercing.

•    “I do not have nor do I wish to have statue’s blood” — The anti-statue: he who does not want to be a monument, he who chooses to laugh at himself.
Estrella does not merely dedicate a poem to Girondo: she dresses up as Girondo, mimics his syntax, borrows his bestiary, and spins it. And here lies the object's greatest irony: the poem she dedicated to the great Argentine ironist met—she, her book—the most Girondian ending possible: the sidewalk, where the scarecrow from the beginning ends up “crawling in the masmédula” of urban discard. Girondo would have signed off on that script.


The Geometry of the Concept

On that basis, the walk organized itself, because the poem and the surname trace a mental map in the shape of a circle:

•    Girondo / Giro: The surname carries rotation inscribed within it. Giro (turn/spin). Going in circles.

•    Hondo (Deep): The deep, the concave. And the deep, stretching the thread, is a pit or well; and a pit, almost by definition, is round.

•    Marrow (Médula): The center, the core, the internal axis. Turning the marrow (girar la médula) is stirring one's depths while one's feet trace the circle on the outside.

•    Rosedal / Laps: The walk materializes the concept: tracing around the lake is literally a deep turn (giro hondo) with water at the center.
The natural response to the reading was to translate the text into physical movement: the book in the pocket and laps around the Lake at Palermo's Rosedal, whose perimeter of approximately 1.6 km is the classic circuit for park walkers and runners.


Why the Rosedal: The Coincidence That Is No Coincidence

There is an extra argument, almost scandalous in its exactness: the Rosedal, designed by Carlos Thays based on a project inaugurated in 1914, preserves among its rosebushes a collection of writers' busts—the so-called Paseo de los Poetas (Poets' Walk)—with over two dozen sculptures of authors from around the world. That is to say: walking through the Rosedal is literally walking among poets turned into marble and bronze. And the book in the pocket is precisely that: a stroll of poets turned into busts of ink—“marble muscles,” “statue's blood”—each with its dedicated pedestal.

The physical stage and the stage of the book are the exact same stage. The poem's question (“Through what crazy lock does it subversively penetrate?”) finds its urban answer: the street was that crazy lock through which the object filtered out here. Add the White Bridge—the Puente de los Enamorados (Lovers' Bridge), to cross from one shore to the other without getting wet, like promised relationships—the Andalusian Patio donated by Seville in 1929 with its fountain and tiles, and facing it, the Eduardo Sívori Museum, and the apparatus is complete.


Book–Poem–Walk Relationship: The Three Concentric Laps

The journey was framed as a pedestrian essay in three laps around the lake, each with its own axis of reflection. Three times 1.6 km: almost five kilometers of circles for a book that left one circle—the printing press—and returned to another—that of the street.


First Lap: Surface and Legitimation

The Rosedal in bloom is pure surface: petals, fragrances, nature’s ornamentation organized by the landscape architect's hand. Upon that surface, the busts: marble poets who no longer breathe, monuments the park exhibits as proof of its own nobility. It is impossible not to think of the seven final pages of the book, of the pantheon of dedications, of the author taking shelter under the shadow of giants and printing their applause as a shield against oblivion.
The irony of the first lap: whoever seeks the immortality of the statue ends up on the curb. But also the reversal: the true validation of the book did not come through the signatures of the masters, but through this moment in which an anonymous walker rescues it and reads it completely. The street, which equalizes, also redeems.


Second Lap: Sisterhood and Detachment

On the second turn, the focus shifts to the handwritten dedication. “Sisterhood of the word and dispute” is the trace of a genuine affection that included its own disagreement: a bond known to be two-way. Relationships change, libraries dissolve, people part with objects, and what was once blue ink of affection is today paper baking under the sun on the curb. There is no trauma in this: there is only the passage of time.

The bookmark from another publisher between the last pages is material testimony that the reading was completed. If the abandonment was an act of surrender rather than contempt, then the second lap is walked as a ritual of detachment: someone let the book go so that the word could continue its course. Urban sowing works if someone gathers. It was gathered.

On the physical plane, this lap has its iconic moment: understanding that spaces are also dedications—the Andalusian Patio was left by Seville for Buenos Aires in 1929, and the city continues to read it.


Third Lap: The Masmédula and the Turn

The final lap integrates the entire game: Giro — Hondo — Médula — Rosedal. The lake is the pit, the deep filled with water; the marrow is the unseen center, the axis of oneself; spinning around it is the only way to encircle depth without falling into it. Walking in circles while contemplating the futility of human recognition is, literally, turning the marrow: stirring the core while the feet repeat the outline.

The poem—and with it the entire book—finds its proper scale: not that of the monument, but that of the body that turns and laughs at itself. “I do not have nor do I wish to have statue’s blood... Better to laugh at oneself, to be excessively human.” The circle closes with the Girondian decree: the book that sought to erect itself as a printed monument finds its human dimension in discard, in chance, and in the act of walking.


The Final Paradox

If the author were ever to find out, the irony would reach its peak: a poem dedicated to Oliverio Girondo about irony comes to life precisely through the most ironic event possible—discard, chance, rescue, and the walk. But there is something even deeper: the book that wanted not to be forgotten will not be remembered for its seven pages of crowning praise, but for the gap it left in a bookshelf and the knot it formed in a stranger’s pocket. The true life of the word occurred not in the fixed ink of the press, but in motion: from the press to the friend, from the friend to the sidewalk, from the sidewalk to the pocket, from the pocket to the loop around the lake.

And this chronicle is the next link in the chain. The found word keeps circulating. One open question remains, that of all sowing: when this book finishes fulfilling its mission with this reader, will it return to the street to find the next one? The bookmark already left its message: “I made it this far; now it’s your turn.”


Sources and Verifications

•    Biographical details of María del Mar Estrella (daughter of Fermín Estrella Gutiérrez, born in 1941, fifty years of writing, seven books): RdC Publishing https://rdcpublishing.com.ar/artista.php?id=167
•    Lake Rosedal Circuit, ~1.6 km: Meteored https://www.meteored.com.ar/noticias/actualidad/el-rosedal-de-palermo-el-pulmon-verde-de-buenos-aires-aire-libre.html and Pacer Map https://www.mypacer.com/es/routes/327892/lago-del-rosedal-caminar-y-correr-sendero-palermo-buenos-aires-argentina
•    Design by Carlos Thays (1914) and collection of writers' busts: Alquiler Argentina https://www.alquilerargentina.com/blog/paseos-y-excursiones/recorriendo-el-rosedal-de-palermo.html
•    Andalusian Patio (donation from Seville, 1929), White Bridge, Sívori Museum: Buenos Aires 123 https://www.buenosaires123.com.ar/paseos/rosedal.html
•    Poem Girandomédulas (p. 37), index of dedications, handwritten dedication from 2015, and publication details: transcription from the found copy itself.
•    https://www.cultura.gob.ar/oliverio-girondo-7-poemas-imperdibles_7045/
•    https://www.cervantesvirtual.com/portales/oliverio_girondo/su_obra_literaria/

Wikiloc track: https://es.wikiloc.com/rutas-senderismo/walk-through-palermo-caba-maria-del-mar-estrella-girandomedulas-book-poetry-290489244

 

With AI help. (Gemini) 


domingo, 18 de enero de 2026

Il bastone miracoloso (The Miraculous Staff) by Lorenzo Pignotti


Il bastone miracoloso (The Miraculous Staff) is a poemetto burlesco—a satirical narrative poem written in octaves (ottava rima)—by Lorenzo Pignotti. The standard description found in Wikipedia and academic sources notes: «Uscì postumo, nel 1831, il suo poemetto burlesco Il bastone miracoloso che narra la storia di un uomo dotto abissino che smaschera i ciarlatani». Published posthumously in 1831 (with a Dublin imprint, though actually printed in Florence), the work tells the story of a learned Abyssinian scholar who uses a "miraculous" staff to unmask impostors, charlatans, and frauds.

The text maintains an ironic and critical tone characteristic of the author's most satirical side, distinct from his more widely known fables. While in his Favole e Novelle he attacked human vices through irony, in Il bastone miracoloso he continues along the same lines, focusing specifically on intellectual hypocrisy and charlatanism. Alongside La treccia donata, it was praised in its time as one of his most agreeable and pleasant verse compositions, even though it contains sharp wit and period-specific personal references that are less easily understood today.

I’ve been writing several blog entries about this text. The issue was that I couldn't find a Spanish translation of the work. It is a rather unusual and hard-to-trace text. It doesn't appear fully digitized and accessible on Google Books or on easily searchable Italian public domain sites. It is only mentioned in biographies and catalogs of Pignotti's works (Italian Wikipedia, Treccani, etc.), but the complete text isn't available. Either my search was insufficient, or there really are no digitized translations published on web platforms.

However, there is an Italian version uploaded to Archive.org:

https://archive.org/details/bub_gb_JOBFm18SyJQC/mode/2up


So, what I did was use the help of an AI—in this case, Grok, although all AIs have OCR capabilities that allow them to read and translate text from an image. I was originally planning to convert the result into a PDF, but the AI solved that for me by generating a clean PDF directly. Finally, I uploaded it to Archive.org so that it remains available for anyone interested in reading these unusual texts.

https://archive.org/details/pignotti-lorenzo-el-baston-milagroso-en-espanol/page/n15/mode/2up

miércoles, 14 de enero de 2026

The Cane and the Doubt: Ismaele and the Forms of Disillusionment

 

There is a phrase that could summarize Ismaele's entire story, even if at first it seems like a contradiction: he has studied too much. It is not about an ignorant man who one day discovers that wise men make mistakes. It is the exact opposite. Ismaele traversed disciplines, learned languages, studied metaphysics, physics, mathematics, theology, medicine, astrology. He did everything a society that venerates knowledge would ask of an intelligent man: accumulate, compare, learn. And yet, he arrives at an uncomfortable conclusion: the more he knows, the less sure he is of knowing. That is where his true disillusionment begins.

Lorenzo Pignotti could have constructed Ismaele as an enemy of books—the ignorant man who scoffs at scholars because he does not understand what they say. That would have been the easiest route. But he does something far more interesting: Ismaele knows doctrines from the inside out. His mistrust does not stem from a lack of reading, but from an overabundance of explanations. He found too many answers to the same question, and when that happens, an uncomfortable suspicion arises: perhaps some of those answers are nothing more than different ways of disguising ignorance.

This is why his observation about words being mistaken for things matters so much. There is a moment when language creates the illusion of knowledge: naming something seems to explain it. A complicated word, an elegant theory, a detailed classification give the sensation of having penetrated reality, when in truth only a description was constructed. The danger lies in failing to notice the difference. A word can be a window, but it can also be a curtain. Ismaele begins to suspect the curtains.


A Crisis with Precedents

His crisis is somewhat Socratic, even if Pignotti resolves it through satire. Socrates is not important because he accumulated answers, but because he discovered a strange relationship between knowing and ignorance: recognizing that one does not know can be a superior form of knowledge. Ismaele arrives at a similar place after having studied so much that he begins to see the seams of what previously seemed solid.
However, there is also a touch of Montaigne in the scene. Montaigne turns doubt into a form of intellectual hygiene: he does not deny that knowledge exists; he mistrusts the ease with which we turn our opinions into certainties. His Que sais-je? does not simply mean "I know nothing," but something more unsettling: What do I really know, and what do I merely think I know because others taught me to believe it?

And then the Genius appears. What is remarkable is what he does not do: he does not hand Ismaele a new theory, he does not offer him a doctrine to replace the ones that disappointed him, he does not say "you studied incorrectly, now you will study correctly." He gives him a cane.

After traversing a universe of words, Ismaele receives an object. After systems, a thing. After arguments, an experience. The cane does not explain the world: it reacts to it. It does not construct a metaphysics of error; it strikes it when it appears. Pignotti takes it, of course, into the realm of caricature—it is a magical and absurd instrument—but beneath the joke lies a serious intuition: after too many theories, perhaps what is needed is to look at what happens once again.

This unexpectedly brings Ismaele closer to an empiricist attitude. The empiricist mistrusts what claims to be valid simply because it was asserted; he wants to know what happens when an idea collides with experience. Doctrines can contradict one another infinitely in the realm of words; the world has the bad habit of not caring too much about our debates. A wise man can construct an explanation for hours about what a cane should or should not do. But if the cane actually strikes, the nature of the discussion changes. Reality has just barged into the conversation.


The Third Place

The most interesting aspect is that disillusionment does not turn Ismaele into an absolute skeptic. The vulgar skeptic says "everything is false"; the naive person says "what I was taught is true." Ismaele begins to occupy a third place: I do not yet know what is true, but now I mistrust the reasons I used to settle for. That place is far more fertile, because doubt does not act as a final destination, but as the beginning of a more careful investigation.

Here, it is worth bringing in Taleb, despite the enormous historical distance. Taleb insists on our tendency to construct overly satisfying explanations after events occur: human beings detest explanatory vacuums and prefer an imperfect story over admitting they do not know. Ismaele is not bothered solely by the fact that wise men contradict each other; he is bothered that each one has an overly confident explanation for something that, viewed from the outside, remains deeply uncertain. There lies true disillusionment: not in moving from one certainty to its opposite, but in discovering that between the two lies a vast territory called I do not yet know.

This makes the Genius an ambiguous figure. He can be read as the teacher who frees Ismaele from pedantry, but also as someone who hands him a dangerous tool. Abandoning the authority of scholars does not guarantee having found the truth: one can replace one authority with another, turn personal experience into dogma, or stop believing in scholars only to start blindly believing in oneself. Mistrusting the certainties of others does not automatically make us lucid; we must also learn to mistrust our own.

Therefore, Ismaele's story yields more value if it is read not as a defense of ignorance, but as a defense of a certain intellectual modesty. Studying stops meaning accumulating answers and starts meaning distinguishing between an explanation and an illusion of an explanation, between a word and a thing, between knowing something and knowing that one believes something. The truly disillusioned man is not the one who stops believing, but the one who begins to ask himself why he believes. The cane knows no philosophy, physics, theology, or metaphysics—yet it possesses a property that scholars seem to have lost: it reacts to error without needing to turn it into a doctrine.


A Phrase That Changes Owners

There is a phrase by Ismaele that sounds like a conclusion, but is better read as the beginning of a conversation: "I have studied a lot, and yet I know nothing." It holds a touch of paradox—if he studied so much, how can he know nothing? And if he knows nothing, what was the point of all that study? But the paradox perhaps lies not in Ismaele, but in our idea of what it means to know. We tend to imagine knowledge as accumulation: first we do not know, then we learn, and finally we know—as if intelligence were a room gradually filling with objects. Ismaele discovers that the opposite can also happen: the fuller the room gets, the harder it becomes to distinguish which objects serve to guide us and which merely take up space.

It is worth circulating that phrase among different thinkers, not to make them "say the same thing," but to see what happens to doubt when it changes hands.

In Socrates, the phrase becomes a question: What do I really know? That is not the same as saying "I know nothing"—which can be hyperbole, provocation, or despair. The Socratic question forces us to examine what we claim to know. Socrates does not need to prove that all opinions are false; it is enough for him to show that someone can defend an opinion without having examined the reasons behind it. Ismaele arrives at doubt through an excess of books; Socrates arrives through questions. Yet both discover that knowledge consists not only in having answers, but in knowing what kind of answer lies before you: it could be true, false, a conjecture, an inherited opinion, or a word simulating an explanation. Perhaps one of the primary forms of intelligence is knowing how not to confuse them.

In Montaigne, the phrase becomes an observation. If Socrates asks "What do I know?", Montaigne seems to ask: "How can I know anything, if I myself change while trying to know it?" In the Essays, knowledge does not appear as a tower built from outside the world, but as something entangled with the body, customs, mood, memory, illnesses, and circumstances. Montaigne does not merely observe things; he observes himself observing them. This complicates Ismaele's phrase, because the problem is not just that doctrines contradict one another, but that the person judging them is not a stable machine. Today something is believed, tomorrow it is disputed; after an illness, a loss, or an unexpected conversation, what seemed obvious may prove to depend on conditions that had gone unnoticed. Montaigne does not simply say "I do not know": he seems to say, "I am going to watch how my own knowledge behaves."

In Taleb, the phrase becomes a warning. The problem is not just that we can be wrong, but that we can build a convincing explanation for something we do not sufficiently understand. An explanation can seem excellent after an event occurs: it organizes the facts, highlights causes, and produces a coherent narrative. But the coherence of a narrative does not guarantee that what happened was actually understood. Ismaele studied many theories about the origin of the world; when he contemplates them together, he suspects that the abundance of explanations does not prove knowledge, but rather humanity's extraordinary capacity to produce answers before having resolved the problem. Taleb would not ask to abandon explanations, but rather pose a more uncomfortable question: What would have happened if things had turned out differently? An explanation that only works after the fact can be much less useful than one that allows us to recognize uncertainty before it happens. Socrates teaches us to examine reasons; Montaigne, to observe conditions; Taleb forces us to think about what explanations fail to anticipate. Ignorance ceases to be merely a lack of knowledge and becomes a condition of risk.

And in Gardner and Kant—a stranger connection, not because they speak of Ismaele, but because they allow us to think about another boundary: the boundary of what we can represent—the phrase becomes a frontier. In The Fourth Dimension, Gardner shows how an idea can be understood without being directly imagined as a daily object: one can reason about an additional dimension, follow its consequences, and build analogies without ever visualizing it internally as one sees a table. Kant, in his discussion of space, distinguishes between what belongs to the structure of experience and what can be thought through concepts: not everything thinkable presents itself in the same way. Perhaps studying a lot consists not just in accumulating knowledge, but in discovering that there are things that can be thought without being fully represented. The phrase could then mean: I have learned to think beyond what I can imagine, but that does not mean I have ceased to have limits. Ignorance is no longer just a deficiency; it is a border. And a border may prevent advancement, but it also lets us know where we stand.

Placed side by side, the four doubts are not the same doubt: Socrates suspects unexamined answers; Montaigne suspects the stability of the knower; Taleb suspects overly satisfying explanations after the fact; Gardner and Kant suspect the idea that everything thinkable must present itself in the same manner to us. None of them need to say exactly what Ismaele says, and that is where the fertility lies: the phrase does not remain identical as it passes from one author to another. And there is still the cane, which introduces something none of these thinkers need accept literally: that error can be interrupted by something that does not depend on our capacity to construct explanations. The cane does not prove a theory, does not explain the world, and does not replace one doctrine with another: it simply appears when someone makes a mistake. The man who cannot tolerate doubt needs to defend his explanation; the man who learned something from doubt can say, "Perhaps I need to look again." Ismaele does not pass from ignorance to knowledge: he passes from an excessive trust in knowledge to a more careful relationship with it. The cane does not deliver truth to him; it delivers an experience that prevents him from continuing to speak as if he already possessed it.


The Miller: Thinking for Oneself

The chain can continue in a rarer direction: Ismaele → Carlo Ginzburg's miller. One is a character in a short burlesque poem; the other, a real 16th-century man reconstructed from Inquisition trial documents. One receives a miraculous cane; the other ends up facing the tribunals of the Inquisition. The distance is vast, yet something brings them together: neither calmly accepts that the world is exactly as it is explained to them.

The miller did not study all the doctrines of his era. Out of what he reads, hears, observes, and thinks, he constructs his own interpretation of the world—one that does not align with religious authorities. His thought is not a collection of errors: it has structure, connections, internal logic, questions, even a certain coherence. He does not spout nonsense: he tries to understand. The problem is not that he does not think, but that he thinks outside the boundaries others consider legitimate.

Ismaele mistrusts out of an excess of knowledge; the miller, because he began to think for himself. One arrives at doubt by reading too much; the other, through a combination of readings and experiences that do not fit authorized knowledge. Yet both discover that knowledge is not only what a society permits one to learn, but also what a person attempts to understand when received explanations no longer suffice. The crucial difference is that Ismaele has a Genius accompanying him; the miller has only his own head, which can be far more dangerous.

Pignotti's cane is a comical authority: it strikes the one who makes a mistake, strikes again if he persists, and stops when someone acknowledges his error. The Inquisition is a historical authority, complete with tribunals, interrogations, documents, and punishments. The cane and the Inquisition can be read as two forms of interrupting thought, but they are not equivalent: the cane produces laughter, the Inquisition produces fear; the cane forces the scholar to say "I am an ox," while the Inquisition forces the miller to face the consequences of his ideas.
In Ismaele's case, error can be corrected: the cane strikes, the scholar acknowledges it, the scene ends. For the miller, error is not a mistake but a transgression: it is not about having said something false, but about having thought something an authority deems inadmissible. A society can tolerate someone making a mistake; what it cannot always tolerate is that person building an independent explanation of the world. Error is forgiven; intellectual autonomy is far more dangerous.

There lies the question bringing both together: What happens when a person stops accepting that knowledge belongs exclusively to those authorized to produce it? In Ismaele, the response is comic; in the miller, historical. Yet both stories allow us to consider the same tension: the difference between learning from others and accepting that others have the right to decide what can be thought.

Alongside the miller, Ismaele's phrase shifts in meaning once more. It no longer says merely "theories are insufficient"; it can say "I have learned that I must not confuse the knowledge I receive with the knowledge I can come to build." And that connects with something broader: unexpected connections do not always arise from knowing a great deal about an author, but from finding a question that runs through very different texts. Reading is not merely receiving an interpretation of the world: it can also be building one's own. That demands comparing, connecting, distinguishing, questioning, finding contradictions, and noticing unexpected similarities—without being overly afraid that a connection might seem strange at first, because it does not need to prove that two authors thought the exact same thing. It can simply be a question that emerges when they are placed side by side.


Borges: When Thinking Manufactures Worlds

One last stretch remains, and that is where Borges enters—not as another name on the list of those who mistrust authority, but to take a different step. In Borges, books do not merely contain worlds: they can manufacture them. A reader finds an idea, a citation, an imaginary encyclopedia, and from those materials constructs a reality that can end up appearing more coherent than reality itself. In Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius, the discovery of an encyclopedia about an imaginary world ends up altering the characters' relationship with the real world: the encyclopedia does not describe a place; it makes it possible for that place to begin existing.

The miller builds an interpretation of the world with the materials at hand; Borges shows that an interpretation can become a world for whoever accepts it. This introduces a new question: What happens when someone stops merely interpreting reality and begins, without realizing it, to inhabit the interpretation they constructed?

Three objects, three functions: Ismaele's cane strikes, the miller's book interprets, Borges's imagined world ends up imposing itself over the world believed to be real. The problem is then no longer just who has the right to think, but what one does with what is thought. An idea can serve to understand, to debate, to challenge authority—but it can also become a prison. Borges's characters are not always deceived by an external authority: sometimes they are deceived by the extraordinary capacity of books to produce a convincing reality.

If Ismaele discovers that he studied a lot and yet knows nothing, Borges adds a more haunting question: What if what I think I know is merely the world I learned to read? It is no longer just a matter of mistrusting scholars, but of mistrusting the way words organize experience. A map helps with orientation, but it can also make one forget that the territory is not the map. An encyclopedia teaches, but it can also make one forget that the world is under no obligation to resemble an encyclopedia. A theory allows us to understand, but it can also become a room in which we end up living.


Building Worlds and Knowing How to Exit Them

Placing Ismaele, the miller, and Borges in the same scene: Ismaele discovers that explanations do not always suffice; the miller discovers he can build his own explanation; Borges shows that an explanation can become a world. The opening phrase takes its final turn. It no longer means only "I cannot trust scholars," nor only "I must think for myself." It can mean: I must learn to distinguish between the world I understand, the world I imagine, and the world I might be constructing without realizing it.

That is a more complex form of disillusionment because it does not end in mistrust: it ends in responsibility. The responsibility to read, interpret, and build connections—and also not to confuse those connections with reality itself.

This is why Pignotti's cane serves to close the chain. It strikes the one who persists in error; the miller persists in his interpretation; Borges imagines worlds that can impose themselves over the real world. The cane then acquires one final symbolic function: it not only interrupts the discussion, it also interrupts the illusion that our interpretation is the world. An unexpected connection can be extraordinarily fruitful—it can lead from Pignotti to Ginzburg, from Ginzburg to Borges, from Borges to Gardner, from Gardner to Kant—but it can also become a small, private encyclopedia, a world that resembles oneself so closely that one stops noticing how much of oneself is inside it.

Perhaps true intellectual disillusionment consists in learning to do both: building worlds and, every now and then, stepping outside of them. Ismaele studied a lot. The miller thought for himself. Borges imagined worlds born of books. And all that remains for the reader is something more modest, and perhaps harder: finding an unexpected connection and then returning to the text to check if that connection was truly there. Because the miracle is not finding a definitive explanation. It is discovering that a single phrase can open up a world—and that, after opening it, one can still look at it anew.


AI-assisted publication, validated by me.

lunes, 12 de enero de 2026

The Cost of Nonsense. The Scar as Method: Il bastone miracoloso and the End of Free Opinions.


On Lorenzo Pignotti’s Il bastone miracoloso 

 There is an Italian poem from 1831, published after its author’s death, that deserves to be far better known than it is. It is called Il bastone miracoloso—the miraculous cane—and was written by Lorenzo Pignotti, an author remembered today mostly for his fables, those short, moralizing pieces taught as textbook curiosities. But this poemetto burlesco, divided into four cantos, is a different beast altogether: it is a demolition engine directed at pedantry, written with just enough irony to make the destruction thoroughly entertaining. The most common description in circulation comes from Wikipedia and academic sources: «Uscì postumo, nel 1831, il suo poemetto burlesco Il bastone miracoloso che narra la storia di un uomo dotto abissino che smaschera i ciarlatani.»

It is a poemetto burlesco (a satirical narrative poem) written in octaves (ottava rima). It was published posthumously in 1831 (in Dublin, though printed in Florence). It tells the story of a learned man of Abyssinian origin who, using a "miraculous" cane, unmasks and ridicules charlatans, swindlers, and frauds. It carries an ironic and critical tone typical of Pignotti at his most satirical, far removed from his best-known fables. It is not a genuine miracle performed by the staff that brings about the impostor's magically innocent demise, but rather the satirical use of the object to expose and defeat him.

The author, in his Favole e Novelle, critiques human vices with irony. Il bastone miracoloso follows this same path, but focuses squarely on charlatans and intellectual hypocrisy. Alongside "La treccia donata", it was once considered one of his most enjoyable works in verse, albeit filled with period-specific personal jabs that are less accessible today.

The text is rare. There is no easily accessible translation, nor does it appear complete in any easily searchable public repository; it is only mentioned in biographies and catalogs of Pignotti’s works (Italian Wikipedia, Treccani, etc.), but the full text is absent—except for an Italian version uploaded to Archive.org: https://archive.org/details/bub_gb_JOBFm18SyJQC/mode/2up Anyone wishing to read it must go track it down in Italian on Archive.org and wrestle with the language. Yet the organizing idea of the poem requires no translation to be understood, because it is an idea we recognize instantly: what happens when someone possesses, quite literally, a yardstick to measure nonsense?

 

A Young Man Who Studied Everything and Knows Nothing 

 The protagonist is Ismaele, a young noble from Abyssinia—a "foreign sage" who views European follies with fresh eyes, a classic device of Enlightenment satire—who was educated by the most celebrated scholars of his day. Metaphysics, physics, algebra, Greek, Hebrew, Latin, ethics, law, theology, chemistry, medicine, astrology. The list is deliberately exhaustive: Pignotti does not want an ignoramus dismissing what he fails to understand. He wants someone who has read everything, precisely so that his disillusionment carries real weight.

And that disillusionment arrives in a line that functions as the poem's entire center of gravity: "Gli pareva aver fin dalla culla / Studiato molto, e non saper poi nulla." It seemed to him that he had studied endlessly since the cradle, only to end up knowing nothing at all.

This carries echoes of Montaigne—the que sais-je? turned into burlesque verse—but there is something sharper at work here. Ismaele does not arrive at the conclusion that studying is useless. He arrives at something far more uncomfortable: that accumulated knowledge can yield two completely different results, and it is not always easy to distinguish between them from the inside. It can produce an awareness of one's own ignorance. Or it can produce pedantry—which is essentially the exact opposite disguised as the very same thing.


Words Passing Themselves Off as Things 

 Ismaele’s diagnosis rests on an observation that particularly interests me, as it is a problem one encounters constantly—not only in café erudition, but in any field that undergoes professionalization: he had learned thousands of mysterious words that are mistaken for things.

Therein lies the entire mechanism. A word seems to explain something, but merely names it. It seems to resolve a difficulty, but in reality just shifts it one space down the board. It seems to contain a truth, but all it really generates is the illusion that truth has already been reached. It is the difference between having a map and having the territory, except here there isn't even a map: there is simply a word acting as though it were the territory itself.

Pignotti applies this to the physics of his era—theories on the origin of the world, the Earth ripped from the Sun by a comet, or emerging from water, or from fire—and presents them as if they were fairy tales. The comparison he uses is spot-on: scientists look like players in a magic show, making the world appear sometimes out of water, other times out of fire. Whether the caricature is fair to actual 1800s physics is beside the point. What matters is the mechanism it describes: the confusion between a genuine explanation and a narrative that merely sounds convincing.

And there is an image, further along, that condenses all of this better than any argument: a starving man falls asleep and dreams of an extraordinary banquet—pheasants, partridges, ragouts. He wakes up with an empty mouth. The dream may be magnificent. What the image points out is that dreams do not nourish. A theory can be elegant, brilliant, sophisticated—and completely useless. This is, put in another language, the distance between what sounds convincing and what has verifiable consequences in the real world. It is a distance that Feyerabend exploited two hundred years later with different tools, and that Taleb reformulated as the difference between someone offering an opinion and someone putting skin in the game.
 

The Cane as Mechanism, Not Argument 

 What the domestic Genius does—when invoked by Ismaele in his sheer exhaustion—is not give Ismaele a better argument. He gives him a cane. An object that automatically strikes anyone who speaks nonsense, and which stops only when the victim yells three times: "Sono un bue"—I am an ox.

And here, for me, is the true stroke of genius in the poem. The cane does not need to know who is right. It presents no theory, constructs no syllogism, demands no proof. It reacts to error in a purely mechanical way. This is precisely what Bergson, much later, would describe as the core mechanism of the comic: something mechanical encrusted upon the living. Human debate, which in theory should be flexible and capable of self-correction, turns into an automated sequence. The scholar presents his system. The cane strikes. The scholar persists. 

The cane strikes again. The scene becomes funny precisely because intelligence begins to behave like a machine.

There is a real element of skin in the game here, even if the poem doesn't phrase it in those terms. The cane is, literally, physical exposure to the consequences of one's own error. There is no debating the cane, no qualifying your statements to it, no citing an opposing authority. Error carries an immediate, bodily cost. And the poem rightly laughs at how scandalous this turns out to be: our entire culture of debate is built so that spouting nonsense costs nothing, so that eloquence can indefinitely substitute for verification. The cane shatters that impunity.

Pignotti anticipates, without the modern vocabulary, something I find central: the difference between a system where holding an opinion is free, and a system where holding an opinion carries consequences. Kings argue with cannons, men of letters with syllogisms, theologians with fire, and the cane emerges as the court of last resort—the one left standing when all others have failed. The irony is that the cane, while the most brutal of arguments, is also the only one that cannot lie: there is no way to pretend you are right when facing it.


The Common Folk Believe; The Dotto Do Too 

 When Ismaele tests the cane in secret, leaving it in the Congo square with an inscription, something occurs that could be read as a simple defense of popular common sense against official science: the common people believe in the miracle, while the dotto (the learned) mock it.

However, reading it that simplistically seems like a mistake. The common people believe without examining. But the learned believe too—they believe in their own systems with the exact same lack of examination, only dressed up in methodology. The distinction is not between the credulous and the skeptical. It is between two different objects of faith: the cane on one side, and one's own intellectual authority on the other. And the poem, quite ruthlessly, goes on to show that both faiths can be equally naive—right up until the first blow hits.

Because the first blow does not land on an illiterate bystander. It lands on the scholar who approaches to chastise the crowd for their credulity, claiming it is embarrassing that an entire city should pay attention to such a childish fable. And right there, in the very gesture of intellectual superiority, the cane strikes him. The man who intended to unmask superstition ends up beaten by it. What hurts him most isn't the physical blow: it's that he cannot explain it, cannot stop it, and cannot negotiate with it. He must utter the word that saves him, which simultaneously humbles him.


A Limit, Not Omnipotence  

A detail I find decisive—and one that separates this poem from a simple fantasy of poetic justice—is that the cane has a limited radius of action: about thirty cubits (braccia). It is not omnipotent. It operates under specific conditions. And the people learn those conditions not because they understand the theory behind the cane—nobody does, not even Ismaele entirely—but because they observe what happens when someone steps too close.

It is an almost empiricist lesson, delivered sideways: you do not need to comprehend the mechanism to adjust your behavior in front of it. Seeing the consequences once is enough. This, once again, is an argument Taleb would feel right at home with: the knowledge that survives is not the kind that offers the best explanation, but the kind that leaves a scar.


To Entertain and Instruct, or Laughter as a Scalpel 

 The first canto closes with the narrator announcing his agenda: he wants the cane to entertain and, at the same time, instruct. It is a statement of methodology that applies to the entire poem. Pignotti isn't simply mocking the pedants of his era for sport. He is using laughter as an instrument of precision, much like one would use a scalpel instead of a sledgehammer: not to destroy knowledge, but to separate it from its disguise.

Because that is, ultimately, the operation performed throughout the canto. It does not claim science is false, nor that knowledge is useless. It says that out of everything presented as knowledge, very little remains once it passes through the sieve—and that the question that truly matters isn't how much we know, but how much of what we think we know could hold up if it had to face, quite literally, a blow from a cane.