Schopenhauer’s laughter!
The wretched can pass beyond a dead, senile pair of lips,
can grant weight to peals of laughter,
can search for a joy dried out and cured, and that’s enough.
But with a tear they draw the coffin of language closer to the meaning carried on the shoulders of the namer.
Plato says to his teacher Socrates: why did you never tell life, I love you?
Why do the shadows loiter, incomplete?
Why does your face always claim its features are finished?
That the spring of the ideal has run dry?
That beauty has no identity?
That Kant is still in his bed for some purpose,
sleeping awake to decipher the grave?
Why did the child who read him grow up without knowing journalism?
Why did the informant steal Nietzsche’s fingerprint and alter the substance of the meanings?
Why doesn’t the hammer mean: let us destroy everything?
Why did the ontologist forget the plan of reconciliation
and leave the text wounded?
Why did Gadamer leave consciousness impoverished?
Why does the self not grieve for itself?
Why does it find comfort in its own anxiety,
in essences butting horns against each other?
Why does Sartre return without his ancient dread?
And why did we laugh in the very moment the wolf devoured the conscience?
