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It is inside us a little boy who not only shudders, as Cebes Tebano believed, which first discovered him, but still tears and his own tears. When our age is still tender, he confuses his voice with ours, and of the two children who ruffle and contend with each other, and, together always, they fear they hope they enjoy crying, one feels a single throb, a scream and a yelping only . But then we grow up, and he remains small; we light a new desire in the eyes, and he fixes his old serene marvel in it: we thicken and rustle the voice, and he always makes his tinnacle ring like a bell, however. Whose secretive tinkling we do not hear distinguished in the juvenile age perhaps as well as in the more mature, because in that busy to argue and plead the cause of our life, the less we pay attention to that corner of soul whence it resounds. And also, he, the invisible child, gets pitied by the young man more than beside the man made and the old man, who is more dissimilar to himself than he sees what he is. The young man rarely and rarely stays with the boy, who disdains his conversation, like someone who is ashamed of a past too recent. But the rested man loves to talk to him and hear the chatter and answer him tone and grave; and the harmony of those voices is very sweet to hear, like a nightingale trilling at a stream that murmurs.

Or at the old gray sea. The sea is fatigued by the anxiety of life, and covers itself with white foams, and rattles on the beach. But between a wave and the other sound the notes of the nightingale, now singultite as a lament, now drifted like a jubilation, now punctuated as a question. The nightingale is small, and the sea is big: one is young, and the other is old. Old is the aedo, and young his ode, Väinämöinen is ancient, and his song is new. Who can imagine, if not old, the aedo and the bardo? Vyasa is aged in penance and knows all things sacred and profane. Old is Ossian, old many of the skaldi. The aedo is the man who has seen (oide) and therefore knows, and even sometimes does not see anymore; it is the non-clairvoyant (aoidos) that makes his song appear.

Not the grave age prevents hearing the voice of the inner child, or rather invites and helps, missing the other noise around, listening to it in the dim light of the soul. And if the eyes with which one aims beyond us, do not see any more, well the old man sees then only with those eyes that are inside him, and has nothing but the vision that he had as a child and that they have to usually all children. And if one had to paint Homer, he would have to appear old and blind, led by the hand of a little boy, who would always talk while looking back. From a little boy or a girl: from the god or from the god: from the god who sowed in the precocious of Femio those many songs, or from the idy which the blind Aedo of Achilles and Odysseus addresses.

But the garrulous brat or the virgin vowel were inside him, invisibly. They were his same childhood, preserved in his heart through life, and resurrected to remember and sing after the great noise of the senses. And his childhood spoke more about Achilles than about Helen, and he talked with the Cyclops better than with Calypso. It is not love, it is not women, for beautiful and goddesses that are, which are rewarding children; yes, bronze temples and war chariots and long journeys and great troubles. So these little things told old man his old boy, rather than the beauties of Tindaride and the voluptuousness of the goddess of the night and of the daughter of the sun. And he told them with his own childish language.

He came back from countries not perhaps farther than the village that is closer to the shepherds of the mountain; but it spoke to other children who had never been there. He talked about it for a long time, eagerly, telling the details one after the other and not forgetting one, not even, for example, that the slaves to burn were without leaves. That everything to him seemed new and beautiful, what he had seen, and new and beautiful he believed he had in his opinion to the auditors. The word “beautiful” and “great” recurred every moment in his novellar, and he always included a note in the speech to which he could recognize the thing. He said that the ships were black, that they had painted the prow, that floated because well balanced, that they had beautiful tools, beautiful benches; that the sea was so many colors, that it always moved, that it was salty, that it was sparkling. The warriors? Wore long hair. Their helmets? They had ridges that kept pace. Their auctions? They made a long shadow. Not to be misunderstood repeated the same thought with another form; he said “a little, not so much!”, “to live, not to die!”, and also “he spoke and said”, “they gathered and they were all in one place”. There was no lack of those explanations that close the mouth: “obey, why obey … it is better”, “only I have to remain without a gift? He’s not fine”. The clarity is never too much: “The chicks were eight, and nine with the mother, who had made the chicks”, “Aias, the smaller one, not as big as the other, but much smaller: it was small … ». Sometimes he succeeded sublime, but without doing it on purpose: some circumstance jumped, to arrive at what mattered most and was more sensitive. A divine archer drew his bow “and burned heaps were burned to burn the dead”. The supreme god moved his eyebrow and shook his hair, “and he eroded the Olympus, which is so great.” Above all, in order to make all his thought understand, in some new and strange fact or spectacle, he made use of comparisons taken from what he and his listeners had more in the eye or in the ear. And in this he held two contrary ways: now he remembered a small fact to make one understand a great, now a greater one to make one see a lesser one. Thus it represented an agitated sea which, with the great foaming waves, throws itself against the beach, and roars and thunders, to give the idea of ​​a multitude of men rushing to a place; and he described a swarm of flies around the buckets full of milk, to express the confused and vast agglomeration of an army of warriors.

This was his only artifice, even if it can be called artifice what he so ingenuously did that often the thing, by his comparison, was smaller, although it always seemed clearer; as when he compared the fluid to speak of some wise old men to the incessant chirping of cicadas, or the resistance of a great hero to the indifference of a donkey who, after being washed with grass in the wave-bed, the children want to chase him away of sticks. No no: the blind child was not so much wanted to be honored, but to be understood: he did not exaggerate; because the facts he told, they already seemed very admirable as they were. And he knew, or on another subject, if not because they also seemed to him, that admirable they should also have regard to other children like him, who were in the soul of all his listeners. Who now as then listen to him with marvel. And it would not be reasonable, of things that, after thirty centuries, are no longer believed to be true. But even after thirty centuries men are not born of thirty years, and even after the age of thirty they remain for some children.

But is it really in all the musician child? That someone is not, I would not believe neither to others nor to himself: so much to me would seem to him the misery and loneliness. He would not have within himself that concave bosom from which the voices of other men resound; and nothing of his soul would reach the soul of his neighbors. He would not be united to humanity except by the chains of the law, which either severed severely or brought light, like a slave or rebel for novelty or indifferent to custom. Because men do not feel like brothers to each other, they grow different and differently arm themselves, but all arm themselves, for the battle of life; yes, the children who are in them, who, for every little comfort and truce that is given, run to meet and embrace and play.

And yet it is those who say that there are two kinds of human beings, and one can not see that they are two, and that one crosses the other, always divided but always indistinct, like a sweet current the bitter sea. They live even in the same family, under the eyes of the same mother, and apparently live the same germinated life from the same seed in a single furrow; and these are foreigners to those, not of a single tract of heaven and earth, but of all mankind and of all nature. They are called by name and do not know each other nor will they ever know each other. Now if this is true, it can not happen except for a cause: that some have the eternal child inside, and the others do not, unhappy!

But I do not like to believe in so much unhappiness. In some it does not seem that he is; some do not believe it is in them; and perhaps it is false appearance and belief. Perhaps men expect from him who knows what marvelous demonstrations and operations; and because they do not see them, either in others or in themselves, they judge that he is not there. But the signs of his existence and the acts of his life are simple and humble. He is the one, therefore, who is afraid in the dark, because in the dark he sees or thinks he sees: what in the light dreams or seems to dream, remembering things never seen: what he talks to beasts, trees, pebbles, clouds , to the stars: that it populates the shadow of ghosts and the sky of gods. He is the one who cries and laughs without because of things that escape our senses or our reason. He is the one who in the death of loved ones goes out to say that particular childish that makes us melt in tears, and saves us. He is the one who in mad joy pronounces, without thinking about it, the grave word that hampers us. He makes happiness and misfortune tolerable by tempering them bitter and sweet, and making two things equally sweet to the memory. He makes love human, because he caresses it as a sister (oh, the whisper of the two boys amidst a wild beast), caresses and comforts the little girl who is in the woman. In the interior of the serious man he listens to the fairy tales and legends, and in that of the peaceful man echoes shrill fanfares of trumpets and peaks, and in a corner of the soul of those who no longer believe, the altar that the child has still preserved since then is incense. He makes us waste our time, when we go about our business, because now he wants to see the great tit that sings, now he wants to pick up the flower that he smells, now he wants to touch the flint that shines. And to chat in the meantime, without ever ceasing, and, without him, not only we would not see so many things that we usually do not mind, but we could not even think about it and give it back, because he is the Adam who puts the name to all this that sees and hears. He discovers in the things the most ingenious similarities and relationships. He adapts the name of the biggest thing to the smallest, and on the contrary. And to this it pushes him better amazement than ignorance, and curiosity better than loquacity: he becomes impiculous in order to see, he enlarges himself in order to admire. Nor is his language imperfect as someone who does not say the thing if not by means, but prodigal indeed, as if two thoughts give for a word. And in any case it gives a sign, a sound, a color, to always recognize what it once saw.

So there are those who have never heard of all this? Perhaps the child is silent in you, professor, because you have too much frown, and you do not hear him, or banker, between your invisible and assiduous counting. It pouts in you, or peasant, that hoards and spades, and you can not stop to look a little; he sleeps with his fists closed in you, worker, you have to stay closed all day in the workshop full of noise and no sun.

But everyone is, I want to believe.

Let the workers, the peasants, the bankers, the teachers in a church to a function of celebration; they find poor and rich, the exasperated and the bored, in a theater with a beautiful music: here are all their little children at the window of the soul, illuminated by a smile or aspiring of a tear that shine in the eyes of their unaware hosts; here they are the little ones who recognize each other, from the impatient to the balcony of their hovels and palaces, contemplating a memory and a common dream.

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If it is in everyone, it is also in me. And I, because since I was a child together, I have not lived a life which at least the pain, which was so much, gave importance, I have almost never lost sight and hearing. On the contrary, since I have not changed my first affections, I ask sometimes if I have lived or not. And I say yes, because there is more life where there is less death, and others say no, because he believes the opposite. However, I often speak with him, as he speaks to me sometimes; and I tell him:

Child, you can not reason if not in your own way, a childish way that is called deep, because suddenly, without letting us down one step the steps of thought, transports us into the abyss of truth …

– Oh! I do not believe that you, simple child, come from certain strands of syllogisms, although they are exposed in a language that resembles yours, and arranged according to the rhythms that are yours! Perhaps those rhythms make us better follow them, those strands, and that language makes us better understand that reasoning; or maybe not, that one, dazzling, distracts us, and the others, cradling, abstract us; so that the end of the reasoning is not obtained as it would be without those images and without that cadence. But let’s say it is: now your end is not, I believe, ever this, let it be said: You have convinced me of what was not in my thought. And not even this one: You have persuaded me to something that was not in my will. You do not expect so much, or child. You say in your own way plain and simple things you see and feel in your own clear and immediate way, and you are satisfied with your saying, when those who hear you say: I too see now, now I hear what you say and that was , of course, even before, inside and outside of me, and I did not know it at all or not as well as now! Only this you want, even if some thing you want from the beloved out that you yourself come from that vision and that feeling. And how could you aspire to such big operations with such small tools? Because you must not let yourself be seduced by a certain resemblance that is, for example, between your language and that of the speakers. Yes: the speakers too magnify and unpick what they like, and use, when they like it, a word that depicts instead of another to indicate. But the difference is that they do this precisely when they like and what they like. You no, child: you always say what you see as you see it. They do it in malice! You would not know how to say otherwise; and they say otherwise from what they know they say. You enlighten it, they dazzle your eyes. You want them to see better, they want you to see no more. In short, theirs is the artifice of men who have been stubborn, who intend to steal their will from other men, no less than scolded; Yours is the naive language of a naive child, who, triumphing or lamenting, speaks to other naive children.

It is not so? –

Child, therefore, that not reasons if not your way, saying from time to time the most common and sublime, clearest and most unexpected sentences, you can for anything else in what concerns you more closely, and understand mine and say your reason. This is why I speak to you more severely than I do not threshold, and I would like to have an answer from you less … what do I have to say? childish? … poetic, that you do not cost.

You know that I love you, or my intimate benefactor, or invisible cup-bearer of the drug nepenthes and acholon, against pain and anger, or troubadour and guardian of a secret treasure of tears and smiles! And you still know that I do not believe you, as a child, so unreasonable, nor do I esteem a lost time listening to you when you say it inside. Oh! no, a lot of us runs. Although sometimes, to see the isosyllabic and homeotelite tiritere (do not be frightened !, is like saying “versi rimati”) with which certain earwires want to make believe to make your art, I too risk thinking, as many, that this rhythmic and sound talk is neither natural nor reasonable. But it’s a moment. I forget those tiritere, and I say to you that for that moment I stare between frightened and discontent with those eyes that see with marvel; I tell you:

No no: do not be afraid. You are the eternal child, who sees everything with marvel, all like for the first time. The man, things, internal and external, does not see them as you see them: he knows many details that you do not know. He studied and did his own studies of others. Yes that the man of our time knows more than that of the past, and, as you go back, much more and more. The first men knew nothing; they knew what you know, child.

Of course they resembled you, because in them the intimate child merged, as it were, with all man as much as he was. They marveled at everything, with all their indistinctness; that it was really then all new, not just for the boy, but for the man. Wonder with mixed feeling now of joy now of sadness, now of hope now of fear. If then this commotion wanted to express to themselves and to others, they extracted from the quiver, to put it with you, certain precious and numbered strals that should not be thrown away.

They proclaimed, the first men, with uniform slowness, with measured gravity, the difficult word that astonished flew and shone and sang, and were them and became of others, and carried around the soul of those who emitted it after long silent meditation . Oh! they did not throw them, like vile things that overwhelm, the words even born, bound with the most subtle knots, marked with the most lively imprints, worked with the most ingenious knives! They saw all the merits of it, and the weight and the timbre of their metal, and the sound with which they at first broke from their lips, and the one with which they were finally buzzing in their open ears. Now you, child, do as they do, because you are like them.