though it might exist merely as memories of memories, homesickness for homesickness, or longing for longing…

Václav Havel, August 21, 1982:

Dear Olga,

We live in an age in which there is a general turning away from Being: our civilization, founded on a grand upsurge of science and technology, those great intellectual guides on how to conquer the world at the cost of losing touch with Being, transforms man its proud creator into a slave of his consumer needs, breaks him up into isolated functions, dissolves him in his existence-in-the-world and thus deprives him not only of his human integrity and his autonomy but ultimately any influence he may have had over his own “automatic responses.” The crisis of today’s world, obviously, is a crisis of human responsibility (both responsibility for oneself and responsibility “toward” something else) and thus it is a crisis of human identity as well. But a warning here: all this does not mean in the least that the experience of Being and the orientation toward it have vanished entirely from the structure of contemporary humanity. On the contrary: as that which in humanity is failing and breaking down, and which is constantly betrayed, duped and deluded by humanity, they are both, in fact, latently present in the structure of humanity, be it only in the form of fissures and faults that must be filled at all costs to preserve appearances—both on the surface and “inside.” The point is that morality seldom sees itself as purely utilitarian, and even less would it admit publicly to this. It always pretends, or tries to persuade itself, that its roots go deeper, even in matters less extreme than fanaticism. Would anyone, for example, dare to deny that he had a conscience? There are no two ways about it: the “voice of Being” has not fallen silent—we know it summons us, and as human beings, we cannot pretend not to know what it is calling us to. It is just that these days, it is easier to cheat, silence or lie to that voice (think of the many ways science gives us to do this!). The source of this latent regard for Being, therefore, is not merely convention (that is, a reified morality of traditions which, from the point of view of our existence-in-the-world, it would be a pointless faux pas to ignore publicly) but rather it lies deeper: in our thrownness into our source in Being from which—so long as we remain people and do not become mere robots—we cannot extricate ourselves and which—though it might exist merely as “memories of memories,” “homesickness for homesickness” or “longing for longing”—exposes us to that voice. And regardless of how selfishly we act, of how indifferent we remain to everything that does not bring us immediate benefit (the kind that is fully rooted in the world of phenomena), regardless of how exclusively we relate to our utilitarian “here” and “now,” we always feel, in some corner of our spirit at least, that we should not act that way and that therefore we must find a way to defend and justify our actions, and by some “mental trick,” gloss over its disaccord with something we are simply no longer capable of striving toward. It makes no difference whether, to that end, we invoke the somewhat mystical claim that “all is lost anyway” or on the contrary, the illusion that our bad behavior serves a good cause.

All of this—the turning away from Being, the crisis of the absolute horizon, of genuine responsibility and thus of genuine identity as well, along with heightened efforts to “satisfy” the betrayed “voice of being” by mystification—is transferred or projected, understandably, into the behavior of various “interexistential” formations as well: society, na-tions, classes, social strata, political movements and systems, social power groups, forces and organisms and ultimately even states and governments themselves. For not only do all these formations shape and direct contemporary humanity, humanity shapes and directs them as well, since they are ultimately the product and image of humanity. And just as man turns away from Being, so entire large social organisms turn away from it—if I may put it that way—having surrendered to the same steadily increasing temptation of existence-in-the-world, of entities, aims and “realities” (whose attractions are merely strengthened by surrendering to them). And just as man conceals his turning away from the world and himself by pretending that it is not a turning away at all, so these social organisms hide their turning away from the world and themselves in an analogical fashion. For this reason, we may observe how social, political and state systems, and whole societies, are inevitably becoming alienated from themselves. The difficult and complex task of serving primary moral ideals is reduced to the less demanding task of serving projects intended to fulfill those ideals in a concrete way; and, when such projects have won the day, there is a further reduction to the even more comfortable task of serving systems allegedly designed to carry these projects out; and finally, it degenerates into a situation, common enough now, in which the power that directs these systems (or more precisely “possesses” them) simply looks out for its own interests, or else the systems, in a purely utilitarian fashion, adapt themselves to the demands of that power. By now, the behavior of social power, of various establishments and finally of whole societies (which either identify with the given power, or adapt to it, or simply surrender to it) has become utterly self-serving, alienated many times over from the original ideals and has degenerated into the “realities of existence-in-the-world,” and at the same time, of course, it still persists in operating in the name of the morality of the original—and long since betrayed—ideals. One consequence of this alienating process is the enormous conflict between words and deeds so prevalent today: everyone talks about freedom, democracy, humanity, justice, human rights, universal equality and happiness, about peace and saving the world from nuclear apocalypse, and protecting the environment and life in general—and at the same time, everyone—more or less, consciously or unconsciously, in one way or another—serves those values and ideals only to the extent necessary to serve himself, i.e., his “worldly” interests—personal interests, group interests, power interests, property interests, state or great-power interests. Thus the world becomes a chessboard for this cynical and utterly self-serving “interplay of interests,” and ultimately there are no practices, whether economic, political, diplomatic, military or espionage, which, as means sanctified by an allegedly universal human end, are not permissible if they serve the particular interests of the group that carries them out. Under the guise of the intellectually respectable notion of “responsibility for everything” (i.e., for the “welfare of mankind”)—that is, pretending to relate to the absolute horizon—huge and uncontrollable forces and powers are in fact responsible only to the particular horizon from which they derive their power (e.g., to the establishment that put them in power). Pretending to serve the “general well-being of mankind,” they serve only their own pragmatic interests, and they are oriented exclusively toward “doing well in the world” and expanding and proliferating further—wherein that very expansion and proliferation which flows directly from the expansive essence of focusing on existence-in-the-world is interpreted as service to “higher things”—to universal freedom, justice and well-being. This entire mendacious “world of appearances,” of grandiose words and phraseological rituals is, again, merely the tax that one who has surrendered to existence-in-the-world pays— on the social level this time—to his “recollection of conscience,” i.e., to his duty to respond, in this formal and ritualistic fashion, at least, to the languishing “voice of Being” in his indolent heart.

The tension between the world of words and the real practices of those in power is not just directly experienced by millions of ordinary, powerless people, nor thought about only by intellectuals, whose voices those in power either ignore (in some places) or pay “too much” attention to (in others), nor is it pointed out only by minorities in revolt. The power in society can actually see it better than anyone else, but only in others, never in itself. In such circumstances, however, it is not surprising that no one believes anyone and that everyone uses the contradiction between someone else’s words and deeds to justify a deepening of the same contradictions in himself. It may even appear that those with fewer inhibitions in this regard will ultimately triumph and crush the others. So the power structures apparently have no other choice than to sink deeper and deeper into this vicious maelstrom, and contemporary people—if they take any interest at all in such “great matters” —apparently have no other choice than to wait around until the final inhibition drops away.

Naturally I am not underestimating the importance of international talks on arms limitation. I’m afraid, however, that we will never attain a peace that will permanently eliminate the threat of a nuclear catastrophe as long as mutual trust among people, nations and states is not revitalized to a degree far greater than has been the case at any time in the past. And that, of course, won’t happen until the terrifying abyss between words and deeds is closed. And that, in turn, won’t happen until something radical— I would even say revolutionary—changes in the very structure and “soul” of humanity today. In other words, until man—standing on the brink of the abyss—recovers from the massive betrayal he commits every day against his own nature, and goes back to where he has always stood in the good moments of his history: to that which provides the foundations for that dramatic essence of his humanity (as “separated being”), that is, to Being as the firm vanishing point of his striving, to that absolute horizon of his relating.

But who should begin? Who should break this vicious circle? I agree with Levinas when he says that responsibility cannot be preached, but only borne, and that the only possible place to begin is with oneself. It may sound strange, but it is true: it is I who must begin. One thing about it, however, is interesting: once I begin—that is, once I try—here and now, right where I am, not excusing myself by saying that things would be easier elsewhere, without grand speeches and ostentatious gestures, but all the more persistently—to live in harmony with the “voice of Being,” as I understand it within myself—as soon as I begin that, I suddenly discover, to my surprise, that I am neither the only one, nor the first, nor the most important one to have set out upon that road. For the hope opened up in my heart by this turning toward Being has opened my eyes as well to all the hopeful things my vision, blinded by the brilliance of “worldly” temptations, could not or did not wish to see, because it would have undermined the traditional argument of all those who have given up already: that all is lost anyway. Whether all is really lost or not depends entirely on whether or not I am lost.

I kiss you,
Vašek

sainthood over martyrdom

Steve Robinson:

These are some maxims I’ve come to after many years of imbalance, lack of discernment, unwise choices, pride, delusions, zeal, laziness, despondency, independence and co-dependence. 

We are called to self-giving, not self-harm. 

We are called to self-lessness, not self-destruction.

We are called to spiritual disciplines, not spiritual masochism.

We are called to deny the flesh, not mutilate it.

We are called to lay aside all earthly cares, not all earthly necessities.

We are called to fasting, not starvation.

We are called to sacrifice our personal agendas, not our families and relationships.

We are called to give up our egos, not our mental health.

We are called to be godly, not God.

We are called to prayer, not a monastic rule and schedule.

We are called to be present for people, not omnipresent.

We are called to be strong, not omnipotent.

We are called to give our cloak if asked for a coat, but not to go naked.

We are called to step out on faith, not walk off a cliff.

We are called to not judge, not to be suckers.

We are called to walk the second mile with someone, not to carry them the entire distance.

We are called to help people, not support their lifestyle. 

If you are doing the latter of these you are not being a saint, you are being a “martyr”, but not for God.

There is dysfunctionally/neurotic self-martyrdom that is chosen or manufactured. There are people who cannot live without drama, a cause, controversy, or someone/something to “save” requiring great sacrifices. And there are legitimately un-self-orchestrated difficult circumstances that require sacrifice beyond what you thought you were capable of enduring by the grace of God.

If you don’t know which is which in your life, perhaps you should look at finding a spiritual director, or therapist, or even a trusted spiritual friend that you will accept them calling BS on your “stuff” and work it out. It won’t happen over-night and without its own kind of suffering. But the middle path of pain is wisdom: knowing that both an easy life and a painful life can kill us spiritually if we have no discernment. If you die from suffering try to make sure it’s redemptive for yourself and the world and not an indictment of your poor judgment, choices and spiritual discernment. 

But… in the end, in general, our intentions for the choices we made were good, even in great obliviousness and at great expense. And no matter how we chose to die and from what, God raises the dead, no matter how dead we are and how dead-end our efforts were.

“the horror disappears in the routine”

David Bromwich:

War makes violence a habit: the horror disappears in the routine, and we come to accept it as part of human nature. And there is a shade of truth in that acceptance. War appeals to the propensity (keener in men than in women) to cut short all reasoning and go fast and hard into a physical assault that stops all argument. The violent thrust bespeaks decision, a pride beyond challenge in the person who commits it: the act acquits itself, and postpones any weighing of motives. War thus forms an exception to the rule of empirical prudence, in favor of a vainglory that human nature has always found ways to permit. War stands outside the usual priority of moral considerations. It must often be, for many people, a relief from the day-to-day routines of work and responsibility. And in the conditions of modernity, where inaction is the normal human state, war appeals to the craving for action. We are taught early that nothing is so honorable as to act decisively in an approved cause; and war is the preeminent instance of such action—as much for the spectacle it affords as for the change it effects.

But there is also a quasi-moral seduction in the violence of war. It commits the individual who supports the otherwise abstract entity that is a nation. It makes each of us a little bigger. Even in a vicarious war such as the American fight against Russia by alliance with Ukraine, the consciousness of sympathy links the anonymous citizen with a remote effect: a satisfaction that is hardly available in the ordinary rounds of social engagement or political work. As a site of impressive action, in which one person can see the difference he makes, the only rival of war might be the construction of a new city. But that is a long-term ameliorative project that requires imagination and the passage of time. Destruction is faster.

I’m certainly not onboard with every point he makes in this essay, and like many in the anti-intervention camp, he misses much of the forest for the criticisms. But still… Oof:

And the program of drone assassinations, initiated by George W. Bush and greatly expanded in the two terms of Barack Obama… “Terror Tuesday” meetings, led by John Brennan at the CIA and President Obama, arrived in the latter years of the War on Terror: a fair alternative (it was thought) to the Bush policy of capturing terror suspects for transportation to an indefinite imprisonment in Guantanamo. Though their names were not always known—a pattern of suspicious contacts was enough to convict—they could now be killed individually by presidential command. Death may somehow have seemed cleaner than the kidnapping and torture and the consequent twilight legal status of a suspect who fitted the category of “enemy combatant.”

Two things must strike an American looking at a pattern that now extends from the NATO bombing of Yugoslavia to the three-year trench war in Ukraine. First, to repeat, these wars have all been preventive wars. They have had to travel an extraordinary distance in the cause of safety. The other curious feature is the pride with which American leaders have announced that most of these wars required no sacrifice of American lives. (This is said in a bluff shorthand: we have no “boots on the ground.”) All the killing and dying is done by other people.

a John Hinckley universe

Sam Kriss:

Of course, Don Quixote is also the origin of the realist psychological novel. By repeating the forms of chivalric romance, its knight created something completely new. For the three hundred years between Don Quixote and the emergence of film, the psychological novel shaped how subjectivity thought about itself. I think John Hinckley might have done something similar. In the future, we might remember him as one of the heralds of the internet age.

It’s not just school shooters and spree killers: we are all John Hinckley now. This is the promise of the smartphone. No more passive masses staring at one glowing celluloid image. Instead, everyone gets to turn themselves into an object. Arrange yourself over your highly curated Instagram grid. Pull the appropriate faces on TikTok. Add filters, augment with AI.…Look at the screen too much and the odds of bloodshed start rising. The internet permeates the world with a diffuse, secularized violence and some people, if they’re desperate or bitter enough, will always follow its logic right to the end. But for everyone else, the gun is no longer really necessary; being online means confronting a lifeless object that happens to be yourself. Just look into the front-facing camera, take a picture, and there you are.

John Hinckley has a YouTube channel. He films himself in his house in Virginia, performing songs about love and redemption, or delivering short homilies on peace and harmony to his subscribers. There are just over forty thousand of them. Sometimes he’s shirtless. Every video starts the same way. “Hello everybody,” he says, “hope you’re doing great.” He reads the comments. Most of the time he’s wearing sunglasses, but you can still see it in his eyes. He loves it. The same dream he’s been dreaming since he was nine years old, to melt into the magnetic field and pulse through infinite space. It’s all real. What an incredible world he’s made.

rearguard

Jordan Hall, on the virtues of tradition conservatism the rearguard:

In contrast, the rearguard I’m envisioning isn’t especially ambitious. Its members are neither cool nor subversive. They seem out-of-step compared to their peers — behind, literally and figuratively — an unenviable group with an inglorious mission: watch everybody’s back, clean up everybody’s messes, and don’t get captured. Mostly they second-guess the thoughts and actions of everyone ahead of them. Way up at the front, where the air turns hot and hallucinatory, and enthusiasm melts into groupthink, the vanguard says, Look at this new thing! Look at that new thing! But the air in the rearguard is noisome and dust-filled, and the wizened denizens can only mutter, Lo, there is nothing new under the sun.

“eternally gaslit”

Craig Mod:

When the lights changed it became a mad rush to get your shot amidst melee of The Crossing, to pose it up, to hope to be blessed later by the algorithm.

From there we walked into Center Gai. Or, rather, were swept into it, the “main” street of Shibuya, you could say. A long, long time ago, it was said Blade Runner was modeled on Tokyo. (I always felt Hong Kong was the true spiritual model.) But the core of the aesthetic that made Black Runner so alluring was grittiness. Old neon has a quality like film — a grain — that can’t be reproduced with LED lighting. It had been years (maybe ten?) since I walked Center Gai at night, and the blast of light, the kind of GenAI scene before us (“LLM: Please make Future Tokyo”) was so overwhelming all I could do was laugh. LED signage galore, crowds so thick you couldn’t see the street. White kids smoked casually left and right, outside every conbini groups drank chuhais and beers (though now drinking alcohol on the streets in Shibuya is “banned” precisely because of all of this; the death of The Good Thing by dint of scale), harried European parents fed meat buns to their kids in strollers like they were puppies, more people smoked,3 a sprawling Indian family lined up to order ramen from a chain ramen shop with giant English-language kiosks out front, twenty Black folks posed for a group portrait in front of a conveyor belt sushi joint, a Japanese rap group was shooting a video gonzo-style as a dozen tourists filmed, grown men livestreamed speaking Spanish as they jostled past, a woman speaking Portuguese frantically grasped at objects in a shop filled with souvenirs. And mixed within, I suppose, too, there were travelers and locals like us simply there to be eyewitnesses to the circus.

What was different, say, in 2001? Well, there was (ostensibly) local culture. You had the gyaru and gyaruo and the yamamba and other Shibuya oddities straight out of Egg. You could, uh, see the street. Center Gai was never a strictly “local” spot (I mean, this is Shibuya after all), it always had an aura of transience, but there was never not a human-ish-scale to it: kids trickling in from the suburbs looking to find meaning in “the big city.” That sort of stuff. Sure, some tourists, a rouge Gas Panic, but nothing like today, and without the same impulse to consume the very place itself. Because that was the overriding feeling — that everyone around us was there to eat the city, to ingest the city, to take home as much as they could. The purity of intent was breathtaking. Shibuya was there for their pleasure, for them to merge with, mostly digitally. I’m not even sure you can call it selfish when it happens at a mass scale, an existential natural disaster.

In this sense, it was fascinating. Horrifying but also kind of … cool? Hordes, yes, but international in a way Tokyo should aspire to, and with a laudible placidity and straightforwardness to their desires. Nobody was lying. Everyone was authentic in their hunger. Tourists rapacious for overpriced knickknacks and waiting in line for substandard food. Tourists chowing down on white-bread egg sandos, guided by: a billion hours of staring at hand computers, flick-flicking through TikToks and Reels, the Algorithm rewarding the most garish over the most thoughtful, rewarding extremes over silence, travel-fluencers, a full realization of what happens when you scale late-stage capitalism through the lens of omnipresent technology with no guardrails. You get Center Gai in 2025. […]

Center Gai was never that gritty, but today it’s even more risk-free, pure anodyne delight, a sheet of glass reflecting back a million transient people “being in Tokyo.”

Something happened in this last decade the world over — in consumerism and politics and city planning, in education (smartphones in the classroom) and the way we consume news (smartphones everywhere), in how addicted we are to dopamine (smartphones always in hand) and how incapable so many of us are of standing in quiet thought for even a ten-second escalator ride, in how there is an irrepressible and ravenous hunger to reduce complexity (“Vaccines, BAD!”) to the ten-second sound bite — that has infused the masses with a kind of thinking that, to those of us who aren’t eternally online, who haven’t binged Fox News for twenty years or who don’t clock six hours a day of TikTok, feels utterly foreign and unknowable. Not even in the “you’re just getting old” sort of way (though I’m sure there’s that, too), but more cleaving, more incongruous. There’s a growing collection of us who feel eternally gaslit, like the whole of the world has shifted into a configuration that can’t possibly be true, and yet here it is. These are our leaders? These are our policies? This is how we develop a city?

And just to be clear: The reason I feel such a tinge of discomfort by the Center Gai scene is not because I care what travelers do, but because I can’t unsee: the forces driving mass hyper-consumptive tourism are the same ones fomenting fascism, science skepticism, kleptocracy, billionaire veneration, labubus, and entertaining ourselves with little colored bubbles until the very second before we die.

“cast out the authority of this bad passion”

The thought of a company going (somewhat naturally, it would seem) from pet cameras to armed drones, to say nothing about the 5 stages of drone autonomy in warfare, throws me back on something that I think will be increasingly important: everyone will need to work moral overtime if we want to avoid becoming Günther Anders’ “murderers without malice.”

Martha Nussbaum has drawn this lesson thoroughly from Greek tragedy. I’ve mentioned Agamemnon before, but another example she gives comes from Aeschylus’s Seven Against Thebes. Eteocles, king of Thebes, son of Oedipus, upon realizing the seventh Argive fighter at the gate is his own brother, chooses to go with the other six Theban fighters so that he may oppose his brother himself. After a brief lament, Eteocles declares “it is not fitting to weep or grieve” and seems to conclude that “brother against brother” is as fitting and just a conflict as “foe against foe.”

It’s important to note that Nussbaum is willing to grant, at least for the sake of argument, that Eteocles has made the best decision he can, that, given the circumstances, it may in fact be the right decision to have made. But the Chorus of Thebes is struck not by his choice but by the way he faces and embraces it:

The Chorus of Theban women, themselves mothers of families, feels this strangeness, reproaching their king not so much for his decision — or at any rate not only for his decision — but, far more, for the responses and feelings with which he approaches the chosen action. ‘O child of Oedipus, dearest of men’, they implore him, ‘do not become similar in passion (orgēn) to a person who is called by the worst names’ (677-8). He is showing the feelings of a criminal, although he may have reasoned well. Again they implore him: ‘Why are you so eager, child? Do not let some spear-craving delusion (ata) filling your spirit (thumoplēthēs) bear you away. Cast out the authority of this bad passion (kakou erōtos)’ (686-8).

Nussbaum calls this a perversity of imaginative and emotional responses to a serious practical dilemma.

the struggle to articulate and let fully be

Meša Selimović:

I told all this, for the first time, to a little girl; the first time, from beginning to end, in some sort of order. In this way I put it together as a consistent story, one that had, hitherto, always lost itself in a confusion of isolated parts, in a fog of fear, in a sort of extratemporal occurrence. Perhaps it went beyond any defined meaning, like some bad dream that I could neither accept nor reject. And why to her particularly, and why this, is something I can’t explain, even to myself. I felt she might have the ability to listen. For sure, she’d not understand, but, then, listening is more important than understanding.

Experience had taught me that what you can’t explain to yourself is better told to another. You can deceive yourself with just one part of the picture that happens to impose itself with a feeling difficult to express, since it hides in the face of the pain of comprehension and flies into the mists, into the intoxication that seeks no meaning. For the other, exact speech is essential, and this forces you to seek it, to feel its presence somewhere within you, and to grasp it, it or its shadow, so as to recognize it in another’s face, in another’s glance, as he begins to comprehend it. The listener is the midwife in the difficult birth of the word. Or, still more important—if he desires to understand.

He adds: “All unusual, all as it should not be. But I didn’t choose the circumstances, nor they me: We were like two birds in a storm.”

declining the b-grade drive-in horror movie in the rain

Jeffrey Foucault:

I went to the river too because living in America means absorbing an endless broadcast of technicolor neuroses, like a B-grade drive-in horror movie projected onto a paper screen in the rain. Going outside is the only specific remedy available. To hear a river and smell it, and if you elect to keep the occasional fish, to taste it as well, may put you in relationship to the world again.

Last year I taped two small pieces of paper above my desk. On one I’d written in block letters, REFUSE, and the other, SIMPLIFY. Each of these things, like the Golden Rule, is easy to say and hard to accomplish.

I recently looked back through ten years of journals and letters and found, predictably, that my obsessions didn’t change. Love, death, weather, family, fishing, God, booze, landscape, books, music, history, memory, America, time, all make serial appearances. But what struck home like a harpoon was the litany of complaint, bordering on despair, about digital life, as the culture vanished into parody, like a long joke with no punch line. And through all those years, I stayed in harness. We all did, as our politics darkened and decoupled, and the kids got all fucked up. We kept working for the Corporations, full time. We pay to play, and go on paying. Posting a letter like this to the socials feels like trying to communicate by passenger pigeon, if you strangled the pigeon, and just threw it in the direction you wanted it to go. […]

After a while I sat down on a deadfall, lay the stick at my feet in the shallows, and watched a cloud of minnows negotiate the soft hydraulic that pulled on my boots, as they fed on whatever I’d kicked up. I listened to the buzzing high summer day, the water sliding by, the sounds of birds that don’t know that we name them. I was treasuring up a fund of daylight and silence to get through the fall, and this world we’ve made.

There are places we remember, and things we used to do. Like the river I imagine they change and breathe, in fact and in memory. I think we can go back there and find them. That’s what I’m going to try to do.

“the recognition of an exceptional encounter”

Luigi Giussani (1985) on the confusion, even disollution, of the “I” and the “you”:

In the confusion surrounding the ultimate face of the I and of reality, an extreme attempt is developing today that would pursue this flight from the relationship with the infinite Mystery which every reasonable man sees as the horizon and root of every human experience…. If reality seems to escape one’s every attempt at mastery, the extreme resource of pride is to deny reality any consistency, arbitrarily considering everything as an illusion or a game. We call “nihilism” that which reigns today in the world of thought and the worldview of the dominant culture. But it is a nihilism that does not even have a tragic feeling for the defeat behind it and rather conceals this tragedy in a false reduction of everything to a game, to an arbitrary invitation to skepticism and moral superficiality.

For two thousand years, the encounter with the Christian event has been the encounter with a human phenomenon (a man, a companionship) in which the passion for the discovery of the human face and the openness to reality are strangely awakened. This passion is continually reawakened by something that is not the result of our thoughts or of a particular philosophy.

The first two who followed Jesus along the banks of the Jordan are the first protagonists, after the Virgin Mary, of the mysterious re-conquest of our humanity: these were the first protagonists of the encounter with Christ, with this exceptional presence in history. In the Gospel, in which, after so many years, John wrote down his memory of that day, of the encounter with Jesus by the Jordan, of having followed him after the strange words of the Baptist who pointed him out, of the visit to the house where after their question he simply responded, “Come and see,” all these things are described. And yet, as François Mauriac recognizes in a page of his Life of Jesus, this episode remains the most moving episode of the Gospel. In fact, it tells of a precise, historic encounter (it even tells us the time: four in the afternoon!), but in the notes of the disciple almost everything is left implicit. We can imagine what is said only implicitly, seeing how it would become explicit and change the life of those two fishermen, but already their humanity and their heart in that first decisive encounter were struck by a presentiment, by an initial but certain piece of evidence: no man ever spoke like him; they had never met anyone like him. After many years, how many other things they saw and understood, albeit confusedly, about what he started to tell them that day; and still the exceptionality of that encounter remained intact to the eyes of the elderly evangelist. Their heart, that day, ran into a presence that corresponded in an unexpected and clear way to the desire for truth, for beauty, for justice which constituted their simple and humble humanity. From that moment, notwithstanding a thousand betrayals and misunderstandings, they would never abandon him…

Giussani goes on to quote Romano Guardini: “In the experience of a great love, everything that happens becomes an event within its sphere.”