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THE SEALED NEW IN PARIS. TO THE TOMB OF OR IS

were returning, after nineteen years, back to the streets of Paris my wife and me. At that time it was the dream come true for travelers newlyweds wedding, and now the gift from my wife by my half-century, accompanied by my two children, although most at the last minute could not join us.

The streets, the same monuments, the same pleasure of the language, the same rapture to work as The Raft of the Medusa , the Victory of Samothrace or Code Hammurabi, among many others, the same rain, although stations antipodes was then spring, just released, it was now autumn, wet and girt with promise. All the same, and so different, like ourselves.


The gift included "I do not deserve so much, not only the" recherche du temps perdu ", and live this with my children, but by attending a spectacular staging of Verdi's Aida at the Stade de France directed by Charles Roubaud, with the excellent soprano Adina Aaron, and a visit to the Grande Palais to enjoy a retrospective of Claude Monet. Claude Monet

deserves a specific comment, as well as hearing of various body parts at Notre Dame, but I would stop at our visit to the cemetery of Montparnasse. In the spring of 91 we visited, under a fine rain of Montmartre, approaching the graves of Renan, Berlioz, Stendhal, Heine, Degas, Zola, De Vigny, or Truffaut, among others. At the southern end now visited Montparnasse, also from the fine drizzle that brought us the strength Vallejo's poem, there upheld. We went to visit, of course, the tomb of Cortazar, who wrote an excellent article about the cemeteries of Paris and the reading of which caused our first visit, "Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, Baudelaire, Cioran, Tzara, Duras, or Sontag.

Walking toward the Cimetière, on the Boulevard Edgar Quinet, we saw the tall poplars lush, and I wanted to see the tangled roots crowded in the basement, see the bowels of the earth together with those of men. It was a peaceful stroll, breathing the air cool and clean the air of life in the city of the dead.

Once we decided to leave I noticed a tomb from which emerged a small olive tree, rooted in her, a tiny green olives. I went and saw a small sign containing words of the dark Presocratic of Ephesus, the beloved Heraclitus: "You trouverais ne pas les limits de l'âme, même toutes parcourant les routes, tant elle tient a profond discours. "
was beautiful, how replete beauty. And then I saw who lived there: Cornelius Castoriadis 1922-1997.

I read it in 80 years when I started my studies in Philosophy Pure-as we said then, when I was interested in the German self-governing movement and closely followed the thoughts of Wolfgang Harich and Manuel Sacristán in the journal Meanwhile . I was attracted and committed his incisive analysis of social behaviors, intituciones of capitalist society and its proposals libertarian emancipation. His concept of "social imaginaire" helped me to prepare a paper on the "birth State "I made for the subject of Anthropology on the thought of Pierre Clastres.

has rained much! And to continue raining and authors like Castoriadis soak us with the seed of his ideas and the courage and the boldness of his life .