And this is justified: doesn’t the contingency of the world mean that everything is always different, that everything, in a way, is always new?

As Borges’ emblematic character, Funes, any one of us can think that the cloud that passed above just a moment ago can have the same name as that funny shaped cloud we saw yesterday. Is it possible to know whether this is how it happens? To paraphrase a famous Buddhist koan, are the colors that arise with the first light of dawn beautiful if nobody is watching? Wittgenstein wrote: “What we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence.” He, like the Romantics, realized that there are parts of reality where language is insufficient.Īnd, regardless, our inclination to understand reality takes us to border on the aforementioned lands, to try and name them until we run out of expressivity. ––As if the phenomena that take place there were poetic in and of themselves and did not need a resource to confine their beauty because this offers itself like that: gratuitously, in the moment’s circumstance. There it is at its purest state and, in a way, at a stage that comes before and after language, simultaneously. In collective imagination, Nature is the original source of poetry.

Heavy rain synonym