"St. Thomas Aquinas was one of the great liberators of the human intellect"

"IT will not be possible to conceal much longer from anybody the fact that St. Thomas Aquinas was one of the great liberators of the human intellect. The sectarians of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were essentially obscurantists, and they guarded an obscurantist legend that the Schoolman was an obscurantist. This was wearing thin even in the nineteenth century; it will be impossible in the twentieth. It has nothing to do with the truth of their theology or his; but only with the truth of historical proportion, which begins to reappear as quarrels begin to die down. Simply as one of the facts that bulk big in history, it is true to say that Thomas was a very great man who reconciled religion with reason, who expanded it towards experimental science, who insisted that the senses were the windows of the soul and that the reason had a divine right to feed upon facts, and that it was the business of the Faith to digest the strong meat of the toughest and most practical of pagan philosophies. It is a fact, like the military strategy of Napoleon, that Aquinas was thus fighting for all that is liberal and enlightened, as compared with his rivals, or for that matter his successors and supplanters. Those who, for other reasons, honestly accept the final effect of the Reformation will none the less face the fact, that it was the Schoolman who was the Reformer; and that the later Reformers were by comparison reactionaries. I use the word not as a reproach from my own stand-point, but as a fact from the ordinary modern progressive standpoint. For instance, they riveted the mind back to the literal sufficiency of the Hebrew Scriptures; when St. Thomas had already spoken of the Spirit giving grace to the Greek philosophies. He insisted on the social duty of works; they only on the spiritual duty of faith. It was the very life of the Thomist teaching that Reason can be trusted: it was the very life of Lutheran teaching that Reason is utterly untrustworthy."

~G.K. Chesterton: St. Thomas Aquinas, Chap. I.

Triumph of St. Thomas Aquinas,
by Benozzo Gozzoli.
Tempera on panel, 1471; Musée du Louvre, Paris.

El ruso que ríe en Zaragoza


Gabalzeka Teatro seleccionado para participar en el VIII Certamen de Teatro No Profesional "Cívico Universidad" en Zaragoza con nuestro último montaje Antosha Chejonté. El ruso que ríe.

Un placer compartir cartel con grupos y montajes conocidos por su participación en ediciones anteriores en el Festival de Teatro del Tercer Sector y otros festivales como el de Rivas. Grupos amigos con los que además de compartir cartel, compartimos inquietudes culturales y artísticas.





El Centro Cívico Universidad, dependiente del Servicio de Centros Cívicos del Área de Participación, Transparencia y Gobierno Abierto del Ayuntamiento de Zaragoza, organiza este Certamen de Teatro no Profesional, que celebra su octava edición con este programa

MUESTRA NAVARRA DE TEATRO AMATEUR. HISTORIA Y FUTURO


El Teatro Amateur, el Teatro Asociativo, en Navarra es parte fundamental de la historia del teatro en Navarra; pero no es solo historia. Sorprende su vitalidad ante el deficiente apoyo institucional y el acoso al que es sometido desde sectores profesionales dedicados a la gestión cultural y a la creación teatral.



El Teatro propiamente navarro, surge con nuestras características, como teatro asociativo, teatro de aficionados.  La presencia del teatro en Navarra es antiquísima en expresiones populares como los errandos o las mascaradas ; pero es importante y significativo señalar que según la Gran Enciclopedia Navarra hay que esperar al siglo XX, concretamente hasta 1920 para hablar con propiedad de “Grupos de teatro navarros”, y cita como excepción la “Sociedad Liceo de Tafalla” creada en 1861 con fines teatrales que organizó representaciones con aficionados dirigidos por un actor tafallés. [i]

Insisto en que nuestro teatro no es historia, es contrastable su vitalidad en la cantidad de personas y grupos que llevan décadas, desde casi medio siglo dedicándose a la labor de promover la presencia del teatro en nuestra comunidad y la cantidad de jóvenes que participan activamente en nuevas asociaciones. El resultado es que el teatro asociativo navarro cada año es más conocido y reconocido fuera de nuestra comunidad por la calidad e interés de sus propuestas siendo seleccionado para participar en muestras, certámenes y festivales, modestos o importantes. Los circuitos de difusión del teatro amateur en España, cuentan cada vez más con algún grupo navarro en sus programaciones.

Hay que reconocer que esta vitalidad y el prestigio conseguido por el teatro navarro tiene su base en el trabajo y tesón de cantidad de personas vinculadas al teatro de manera altruista, en la extensión de las actividades formativas en torno al teatro, la colaboración entre profesionales, artistas, gestores y aficionados, el apoyo de algunas instituciones y de la sociedad más cercana a los grupos... en definitiva de una serie de condiciones que surgen al margen y a pesar de que no exista en Navarra ninguna política cultural que atienda de manera específica esta realidad cultural histórica.

Quizás me haya extendido en este preámbulo pero lo considero necesario para situarnos frente a lo que ha ocurrido y está pasando ahora con la Federación Navarra de Teatro Amateur y su programa, la Muestra Navarra de Teatro Amateur, que suscitó un gran interés y apoyo institucional por parte de Ayuntamientos, Gestores Culturales y el Departamento de Cultura del Gobierno de Navarra en su momento. Primer programa dedicado específicamente al Teatro Amateur en nuestra comunidad con apoyo institucional. Un programa que precisamente ha contribuido muchísimo, entre otras cosas, a alcanzar esa proyección, reconocimiento externo consolidación y futuro prometedor del teatro amateur navarro .

Hay explicaciones a la retracción de los apoyos suscitados por este programa que tuvieron como consecuencia más importante el pasado año la retirada de la subvención del Gobierno de Navarra, a pesar de la alta valoración técnica y artística que venía consiguiendo en todas las convocatorias. Intentaré explicar mi opinión sobre el “relativo” fracaso de este programa de difusión del teatro amateur navarro. Aunque infunda alguna antipatía personal  lo hago desde el convencimiento de que es fundamental y necesario cambiar la dirección de algunas actitudes.
En primer lugar la Muestra Navarra de Teatro Amateur provocó la exaltación de algunos profesionales que elevaron su voz públicamente contra las instituciones y los gestores culturales por apoyar al teatro amateur navarro. Una actitud incomprensible cuando la mayoría de esos profesionales tuvieron sus comienzos en el teatro asociativo y entre otras de sus actividades vinculadas al teatro amateur la mayoría se dedican, se han dedicado  o han promovido la formación teatral de aficionados. Resulta contradictorio esperar que las personas que se acerquen al teatro no quieran practicar y desarrollar su inquietud artística. También inexplicablemente, muchos profesionales que ven a los grupos amateur como una competencia desleal a su trabajo, realizan tareas de dirección, apoyo técnico y formación a numerosos grupos amateur, de modo que tiran piedras sobre su propio tejado si arremeten contra la supervivencia de los grupos que les dan trabajo y oportunidad de desarrollar sus aptitudes artísticas en un ámbito menos presionado por la comercialidad.
Gestores culturales y profesionales de las instituciones públicas orientadas a la difusión cultural, se han visto sometidos a esa presión por parte de los profesionales del teatro en Navarra, al mantener con ellos estrechas relaciones personales y de colaboración; dedicándose a reforzar este mensaje parcial, cerril, obsoleto, contradictorio en su esencia, de que el teatro amateur sea un peligro, un mal a extinguir por el bien de la cultura. Me quedo sin palabras.

Hay que reconocer que la Federación Navarra de Teatro Amateur también ha tenido dificultades internas para gestionar un circuito de difusión entre otras cosas por la enorme diferencia entre proyectos y características de las asociaciones navarras. Diversidad que evidencia la riqueza y proyección futura de nuestro teatro amateur. 
Lo que empezó siendo un programa de colaboración con gestores e instituciones para aprovechar la oferta cultural del teatro asociativo y acercar el teatro a nuevos públicos, encontró su mayor dificultad en el interés de que todos los grupos tuvieran la misma ayuda, surgiendo actitudes competitivas que dificultaron enormemente la gestión por falta de adecuación de la oferta de la Federación a las necesidades y compromisos de los gestores culturales con su actividad y  la atención a su público.
La Federación Navarra de Teatro Amateur es una experiencia asociativa relativamente joven que tiene que aprender mucho de otras Federaciones que han encontrado, no sin dificultad, un buen camino de trabajo y están consiguiendo en sus comunidades lo que en Navarra no tenemos, una política cultural que entienda el hecho diferenciado del teatro amateur y promueva su desarrollo, entre otras cosas facilitando la difusión de sus creaciones en condiciones dignas.
La Muestra Navarra de Teatro Amateur pudo ser una lección para las instituciones. Estas pudieron coger el testigo para cambiar su rumbo e iniciar como en los países más avanzados de Europa y en el resto de España programas de atención y apoyo al teatro de base. Con muy poco esfuerzo y escaso sacrificio económico, aprovechando el potencial del teatro asociativo en Navarra se podían hacer maravillas.
Solo deseo que la experiencia del programa de la Muestra estos años haya servido para reconducir actitudes en bien de objetivos comunes y que tanto la Federación como  gestores, trabajadores de las instituciones, políticos y profesionales encuentren en la recuperación de un diálogo fluido el inicio de un camino en favor de la cultura en nuestra sociedad que cuente con la inestimable aportación de nuestro teatro.


Javier Salvo
Miembro fundador de la Federación Navarra de Teatro Amateur
Promotor y coordinador de la I Muestra Navarra de Teatro Amateur



[i]Gran Enciclopedia de Navarra. www.enciclopedianavarra.biz/navarra/teatro/17268/2

"Every great literature has always been allegorical"

"Every great literature has always been allegorical—allegorical of some view of the whole universe. The 'Iliad' is only great because all life is a battle, the 'Odyssey' because all life is a journey, the Book of Job because all life is a riddle."

~G.K. Chesterton: 'A Defense of Nonsense'. (The Defendant)
■ See the complete essay here


Homer and his Guide, by William-Adolphe Bouguereau.
 Oil on canvas, 1874.


"Then the Lord answered Job out of the Whirlwind . . . ", by William Blake. 1826.

A Defence of Nonsense

THERE ARE two equal and eternal ways of looking at this twilight world of ours: we may see it as the twilight of evening or the twilight of morning; we may think of anything, down to a fallen acorn, as a descendant or as an ancestor. There are times when we are almost crushed, not so much with the load of the evil as with the load of the goodness of humanity, when we feel that we are nothing but the inheritors of a humiliating splendour. But there are other times when everything seems primitive, when the ancient stars are only sparks blown from a boy's bonfire, when the whole earth seems so young and experimental that even the white hair of the aged, in the fine biblical phrase, is like almond-trees that blossom, like the white hawthorn grown in May. That it is good for a man to realize that he is 'the heir of all the ages' is pretty commonly admitted; it is a less popular but equally important point that it is good for him sometimes to realize that he is not only an ancestor, but an ancestor of primal antiquity; it is good for him to wonder whether he is not a hero, and to experience ennobling doubts as to whether he is not a solar myth.

The matters which most thoroughly evoke this sense of the abiding childhood of the world are those which are really fresh, abrupt and inventive in any age; and if we were asked what was the best proof of this adventurous youth in the nineteenth century we should say, with all respect to its portentous sciences and philosophies, that it was to be found in the rhymes of Mr. Edward Lear and in the literature of nonsense. 'The Dong with the Luminous Nose,' at least, is original, as the first ship and the first plough were original.

It is true in a certain sense that some of the greatest writers the world has seen—Aristophanes, Rabelais and Sterne—have written nonsense; but unless we are mistaken, it is in a widely different sense. The nonsense of these men was satiric—that is to say, symbolic; it was a kind of exuberant capering round a discovered truth. There is all the difference in the world between the instinct of satire, which, seeing in the Kaiser's moustaches something typical of him, draws them continually larger and larger; and the instinct of nonsense which, for no reason whatever, imagines what those moustaches would look like on the present Archbishop of Canterbury if he grew them in a fit of absence of mind. We incline to think that no age except our own could have understood that the Quangle-Wangle meant absolutely nothing, and the Lands of the Jumblies were absolutely nowhere. We fancy that if the account of the knave's trial in 'Alice in Wonderland' had been published in the seventeenth century it would have been bracketed with Bunyan's 'Trial of Faithful' as a parody on the State prosecutions of the time. We fancy that if 'The Dong with the Luminous Nose' had appeared in the same period everyone would have called it a dull satire on Oliver Cromwell.

It is altogether advisedly that we quote chiefly from Mr. Lear's 'Nonsense Rhymes.' To our mind he is both chronologically and essentially the father of nonsense; we think him superior to Lewis Carroll. In one sense, indeed, Lewis Carroll has a great advantage. We know what Lewis Carroll was in daily life: he was a singularly serious and conventional don, universally respected, but very much of a pedant and something of a Philistine. Thus his strange double life in earth and in dreamland emphasizes the idea that lies at the back of nonsense—the idea of escape, of escape into a world where things are not fixed horribly in an eternal appropriateness, where apples grow on pear-trees, and any odd man you meet may have three legs. Lewis Carroll, living one life in which he would have thundered morally against any one who walked on the wrong plot of grass, and another life in which he would cheerfully call the sun green and the moon blue, was, by his very divided nature, his one foot on both worlds, a perfect type of the position of modern nonsense. His Wonderland is a country populated by insane mathematicians. We feel the whole is an escape into a world of masquerade; we feel that if we could pierce their disguises, we might discover that Humpty Dumpty and the March Hare were Professors and Doctors of Divinity enjoying a mental holiday. This sense of escape is certainly less emphatic in Edward Lear, because of the completeness of his citizenship in the world of unreason. We do not know his prosaic biography as we know Lewis Carroll's. We accept him as a purely fabulous figure, on his own description of himself:

   'His body is perfectly spherical,
   He weareth a runcible hat.'

While Lewis Carroll's Wonderland is purely intellectual, Lear introduces quite another element—the element of the poetical and even emotional. Carroll works by the pure reason, but this is not so strong a contrast; for, after all, mankind in the main has always regarded reason as a bit of a joke. Lear introduces his unmeaning words and his amorphous creatures not with the pomp of reason, but with the romantic prelude of rich hues and haunting rhythms.

   'Far and few, far and few,
   Are the lands where the Jumblies live,'

is an entirely different type of poetry to that exhibited in 'Jabberwocky.' Carroll, with a sense of mathematical neatness, makes his whole poem a mosaic of new and mysterious words. But Edward Lear, with more subtle and placid effrontery, is always introducing scraps of his own elvish dialect into the middle of simple and rational statements, until we are almost stunned into admitting that we know what they mean. There is a genial ring of commonsense about such lines as,

   'For his aunt Jobiska said "Every one knows
   That a Pobble is better without his toes,"'

which is beyond the reach of Carroll. The poet seems so easy on the matter that we are almost driven to pretend that we see his meaning, that we know the peculiar difficulties of a Pobble, that we are as old travellers in the 'Gromboolian Plain' as he is.

Our claim that nonsense is a new literature (we might almost say a new sense) would be quite indefensible if nonsense were nothing more than a mere aesthetic fancy. Nothing sublimely artistic has ever arisen out of mere art, any more than anything essentially reasonable has ever arisen out of the pure reason. There must always be a rich moral soil for any great aesthetic growth. The principle of art for art's sake is a very good principle if it means that there is a vital distinction between the earth and the tree that has its roots in the earth; but it is a very bad principle if it means that the tree could grow just as well with its roots in the air. Every great literature has always been allegorical—allegorical of some view of the whole universe. The 'Iliad' is only great because all life is a battle, the 'Odyssey' because all life is a journey, the Book of Job because all life is a riddle. There is one attitude in which we think that all existence is summed up in the word 'ghosts'; another, and somewhat better one, in which we think it is summed up in the words 'A Midsummer Night's Dream.' Even the vulgarest melodrama or detective story can be good if it expresses something of the delight in sinister possibilities—the healthy lust for darkness and terror which may come on us any night in walking down a dark lane. If, therefore, nonsense is really to be the literature of the future, it must have its own version of the Cosmos to offer; the world must not only be the tragic, romantic, and religious, it must be nonsensical also. And here we fancy that nonsense will, in a very unexpected way, come to the aid of the spiritual view of things. Religion has for centuries been trying to make men exult in the 'wonders' of creation, but it has forgotten that a thing cannot be completely wonderful so long as it remains sensible. So long as we regard a tree as an obvious thing, naturally and reasonably created for a giraffe to eat, we cannot properly wonder at it. It is when we consider it as a prodigious wave of the living soil sprawling up to the skies for no reason in particular that we take off our hats, to the astonishment of the park-keeper. Everything has in fact another side to it, like the moon, the patroness of nonsense. Viewed from that other side, a bird is a blossom broken loose from its chain of stalk, a man a quadruped begging on its hind legs, a house a gigantesque hat to cover a man from the sun, a chair an apparatus of four wooden legs for a cripple with only two.

This is the side of things which tends most truly to spiritual wonder. It is significant that in the greatest religious poem existent, the Book of Job, the argument which convinces the infidel is not (as has been represented by the merely rational religionism of the eighteenth century) a picture of the ordered beneficence of the Creation; but, on the contrary, a picture of the huge and undecipherable unreason of it. 'Hast Thou sent the rain upon the desert where no man is?' This simple sense of wonder at the shapes of things, and at their exuberant independence of our intellectual standards and our trivial definitions, is the basis of spirituality as it is the basis of nonsense. Nonsense and faith (strange as the conjunction may seem) are the two supreme symbolic assertions of the truth that to draw out the soul of things with a syllogism is as impossible as to draw out Leviathan with a hook. The well-meaning person who, by merely studying the logical side of things, has decided that 'faith is nonsense,' does not know how truly he speaks; later it may come back to him in the form that nonsense is faith.

~G.K. Chesterton: The Defendant

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LA FUNCIÓN DE ESTE DOMINGO EN LOS ARCOS

QUEDA  S U S P E N D I D A  POR LA NIEVE

PRONTO AVISAMOS DE LA FECHA NUEVA

JUS-LA-ROTXA GRUPO DE TEATRO.

Savonarola

SAVONAROLA is a man whom we shall probably never understand until we know what horror may lie at the heart of civilisation. This we shall not know until we are civilised. It may be hoped, in one sense, that we may never understand Savonarola.

The great deliverers of men have, for the most part, saved them from calamities which we all recognise as evil, from calamities which are the ancient enemies of humanity. The great law-givers saved us from anarchy: the great physicians saved us from pestilence: the great reformers saved us from starvation. But there is a huge and bottomless evil compared with which all these are flea-bites, the most desolating curse that can fall upon men or nations, and it has no name, except we call it satisfaction. Savonarola did not save men from anarchy, but from order; not from pestilence, but from paralysis; not from starvation, but from luxury. Men like Savonarola are the witnesses to the tremendous psychological fact at the back of all our brains, but for which no name has ever been found, that ease is the worst enemy of happiness, and civilisation potentially the end of man.

For I fancy that Savonarola's thrilling challenge to the luxury of his day went far deeper than the mere question of sin. The modern rationalistic admirers of Savonarola, from George Eliot downwards, dwell, truly enough, upon the sound ethical justification of Savonarola's anger, upon the hideous and extravagant character of the crimes which polluted the palaces of the Renaissance. But they need not be so anxious to show that Savonarola was no ascetic, that he merely picked out the black specks of wickedness with the priggish enlightenment of a member of an Ethical Society. Probably he did hate the civilisation of his time, and not merely its sins; and that is precisely where he was infinitely more profound than a modern moralist. He saw that the actual crimes were not the only evils: that stolen jewels and poisoned wine and obscene pictures were merely the symptoms; that the disease was the complete dependence upon jewels and wine and pictures. This is a thing constantly forgotten in judging of ascetics and Puritans in old times. A denunciation of harmless sports did not always mean an ignorant hatred of what no one but a narrow moralist would call harmful. Sometimes it meant an exceedingly enlightened hatred of what no one but a narrow moralist would call harmless. Ascetics are sometimes more advanced than the average man, as well as less.

Such, at least, was the hatred in the heart of Savonarola. He was making war against no trivial human sins, but against godless and thankless quiescence, against getting used to happiness, the mystic sin by which all creation fell. He was preaching that severity which is the sign-manual of youth and hope. He was preaching that alertness, that clean agility and vigilance, which is as necessary to gain plea sure as to gain holiness, as indispensable in a lover as in a monk. A critic has truly pointed out that Savonarola could not have been fundamentally anti-æsthetic, since he had such friends as Michael Angelo, Botticelli, and Luca della Robbia. The fact is that this purification and austerity are even more necessary for the appreciation of life and laughter than for anything else. To let no bird fly past unnoticed, to spell patiently the stones and weeds, to have the mind a storehouse of sunset, requires a discipline in pleasure, and an education in gratitude.

The civilisation which surrounded Savonarola on every side was a civilisation which had already taken the wrong turn, the turn that leads to endless inventions and no discoveries, in which new things grow old with confounding rapidity, but in which no old things ever grow new. The monstrosity of the crimes of the Renaissance was not a mark of imagination; it was a mark, as all monstrosity is, of the loss of imagination. It is only when a man has really ceased to see a horse as it is, that he invents a centaur, only when he can no longer be surprised at an ox, that he worships the devil. Diablerie is the stimulant of the jaded fancy; it is the dram-drinking of the artist. Savonarola addressed himself to the hardest of all earthly tasks, that of making men turn back and wonder at the simplicities they had learnt to ignore. It is strange that the most unpopular of all doctrines is the doctrine which declares the common life divine. Democracy, of which Savonarola was so fiery an exponent, is the hardest of gospels; there is nothing that so terrifies men as the decree that they are all kings. Christianity, in Savonarola's mind, identical with democracy, is the hardest of gospels; there is nothing that so strikes men with fear as the saying that they are all the sons of God.

Savonarola and his republic fell. The drug of despotism was administered to the people, and they forgot what they had been. There are some at the present day who have so strange a respect for art and letters, and for mere men of genius, that they conceive the reign of the Medici to be an improvement on that of the great Florentine republican. It is such men as these and their civilisation that we have at the present day to fear. We are surrounded on many sides by the same symptoms as those which awoke the unquenchable wrath of Savonarola—a hedonism that is more sick of happiness than an invalid is sick of pain, an art sense that seeks the assistance of crime since it has exhausted nature. In many modern works we find veiled and horrible hints of a truly Renaissance sense of the beauty of blood, the poetry of murder. The bankrupt and depraved imagination does not see that a living man is far more dramatic than a dead one. Along with this, as in the time of the Medici, goes the falling back into the arms of despotism, the hunger for the strong man which is unknown among strong men. The masterful hero is worshipped as he is worshipped by the readers of the 'Bow Bells Novelettes,' and for the same reason—a profound sense of personal weakness. That tendency to devolve our duties descends on us, which is the soul of slavery, alike whether for its menial tasks it employs serfs or emperors. Against all this the great clerical republican stands in everlasting protest, preferring his failure to his rival's success. The issue is still between him and Lorenzo, between the responsibilities of liberty and the licence of slavery, between the perils of truth and the security of silence, between the pleasure of toil and the toil of pleasure. The supporters of Lorenzo the Magnificent are assuredly among us, men for whom even nations and empires only exist to satisfy the moment, men to whom the last hot hour of summer is better than a sharp and wintry spring. They have an art, a literature, a political philosophy, which are all alike valued for their immediate effect upon the taste, not for what they promise of the destiny of the spirit. Their statuettes and sonnets are rounded and perfect, while 'Macbeth' is in comparison a fragment, and the Moses of Michael Angelo a hint. Their campaigns and battles are always called triumphant, while Cæsar and Cromwell wept for many humiliations. And the end of it all is the hell of no resistance, the hell of an unfathomable softness, until the whole nature recoils into madness and the chamber of civilisation is no longer merely a cushioned apartment, but a padded cell.

This last and worst of human miseries Savonarola saw afar off, and bent his whole gigantic energies to turning the chariot into another course. Few men understood his object; some called him a madman, some a charlatan, some an enemy of human joy. They would not even have understood if he had told them, if he had said that he was saving them from a calamity of contentment which should be the end of joys and sorrows alike. But there are those to-day who feel the same silent danger, and who bend themselves to the same silent resistance. They also are supposed to be contending for some trivial political scruple.

Mr M'Hardy says, in defending Savonarola, that the number of fine works of art destroyed in the Burning of the Vanities has been much exaggerated. I confess that I hope the pile contained stacks of incomparable masterpieces if the sacrifice made that one real moment more real. Of one thing I am sure, that Savonarola's friend Michael Angelo would have piled all his own statues one on top of the other, and burnt them to ashes, if only he had been certain that the glow transfiguring the sky was the dawn of a younger and wiser world.

~G.K. Chesterton: Twelve Types (1902)

Girolamo Savonarola Monument by Enrico Pazzi

El banquete de Agatona en Los Arcos

Este próximo Domingo 15/01/2017 abrimos el ciclo de Teatro Amateur de Los Arcos con "EL BANQUETE DE AGATONA" Os esperamos a las 19:00h. En la casa de Cultura

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THE WISE MEN

Step softly, under snow or rain,
   To find the place where men can pray;
The way is all so very plain
   That we may lose the way.

Oh, we have learnt to peer and pore,
   On tortured puzzles from our youth,
We know all labyrinthine lore,
We are the three Wise Men of yore,
   And we know all things but the truth.

We have gone round and round the hill,
   And lost the wood among the trees,
And learnt long names for every ill,
And served the mad gods, naming still
   The Furies the Eumenides.

The gods of violence took the veil
   Of vision and philosophy,
The Serpent that brought all men bale,
He bites his own accursed tail,
   And calls himself Eternity.

Go humbly . . . it has hailed and snowed . . .
   With voices low and lanterns lit;
So very simple is the road,
   That we may stray from it.

The world grows terrible and white,
   And blinding white the breaking day;
We walk bewildered in the light,
For something is too large for sight,
   And something much too plain to say.

The Child that was ere worlds begun ─
(. . . We need but walk a little way . . .
We need but see a latch undone . . .)
The Child that played with moon and sun
   Is playing with a little hay.

The house from which the heavens are fed,
   The old strange house that is our own,
Where tricks of words are never said,
And Mercy is as plain as bread,
   And Honour is as hard as stone.

Go humbly; humble are the skies,
   And low and large and fierce the Star,
So very near the Manger lies
That we may travel far.

Hark! Laughter like a lion wakes
   To roar to the resounding plain,
And the whole heaven shouts and shakes
   For God Himself is born again
And we are little children walking
   Through the snow and rain.

~G.K. Chesterton (1913)

Adoration of the Magi, by Gerard David. Oil on oak, c. 1500;
Musées Royaux des Beaux-Arts, Brussels.

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