“He who even to a certain extent has reached the freedom of reason, can never feel anything but a wanderer on the Earth, not a traveller moving towards a final destination (…).

When, silently, in the balance of the morning soul, he walks beneath the trees, around him only good and clear things fall from the heights and depths of the foliage, the gifts of all those free spirits who live on the mountain, in the woods and in solitude and that, like him, in their manner that alternates between joy and meditation, are both wanderers and philosophers.
Born from the mysteries of the morning, they ponder on how the day, between the tenth and twelfth stroke of the bell, can have such a pure face, such a bright one, such a transfiguratively serene one: they seek the philosophy of the morning.”

…But what about the interval between the beginning and the end? What about the journey for he who wants to get there? For he who aims at the last things, but also for he who aims at the next destinations, there is nothing of the journey. The lands he crosses do not exist. Only the destination counts. He travels to arrive, not to travel. Thus the journey dies during the journey, it dies at every step that brings him closer to the goal. And, with the journey, the Self dies too, fixed as it is on the destination and blind as it is to the experience that the way opens up to the wanderer, who knows how to inhabit the landscape and, as well, to leave it.

by Umberto Galimberti

Categories: Approfondimenti

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