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The gods had condemned Sisyphus to ceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain, whence the stone would fall back of its own weight. They had thought with some reason that there is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor.
Nothing is told us about Sisyphus in the underworld. Myths are made for the imagination. As for this myth, one sees merely the whole effort of a body straining to raise the huge stone, to roll it, and push it up a slope a hundred times over; one sees the face screwed up, the cheek tight against the stone, the wholly human security of two earth-clotted hands. At the very end of his long effort, the purpose is achieved. Then Sisyphus watches the stone rush down in a few moments toward the lower world whence he will have to push it up again toward the summit. He goes back down to the plain.
It is during that return, that pause, that Sisyphus interests me. A face that toils so close to stones is already stone itself! I see that man going back down with a heavy yet measured step toward the torment of which he will never know the end. That hour like a breathing-space which returns as surely as his suffering, that is the hour of consciousness. At each of those moments when he leaves the heights and gradually sinks toward the lairs of the gods, he is superior to his fate. He is stronger than his rock.
The workman of today works everyday in his life at the same tasks, and his fate is no less absurd. But it is tragic only at the rare moments when it becomes conscious. Sisyphus knows the whole extent of his wretched condition: it is what he thinks of during his descent. There is no fate that can not be surmounted by scorn.
If the descent is thus sometimes performed in sorrow, it can also take place in joy. When the images of earth cling too tightly to memory, it happens that melancholy arises in man's heart: this is the rock's victory. But crushing truths perish from being acknowledged. Thus, Edipus at the outset obeys fate without knowing it. But from the moment he knows, his tragedy begins. Yet at the same moment, he realizes that the only bond linking him to the world is the cool hand of a girl. Then a tremendous remark rings out: 'Despite so many ordeals, my advanced age and the nobility of my soul make me conclude that all is well
Los dioses habían condenado a Sísifo a rodar sin cesar una roca hasta la cima de una montaña, desde donde la piedra volvía a caer por su propio peso. Habían pensado con algún fundamento que no hay castigo más terrible que el trabajo inútil y sin esperanza.
Nada se dijo sobre Sísifo en los infiernos. Mitos están hechos para la imaginación. En cuanto a éste, lo único que se ve es todo el esfuerzo de un cuerpo tenso para levantar la enorme piedra, a rodar y ayudarla a subir una pendiente cien veces; uno ve el rostro crispado, la mejilla pegada a la piedra, la seguridad enteramente humana de dos manos llenas de tierra. Al final de su largo esfuerzo, se logra el objetivo. Entonces Sísifo ve la piedra prisas para bajar en pocos instantes hacia el mundo inferior desde el que habrá que empujarla de nuevo hacia la cumbre. Él vuelve a bajar a la llanura.
Es durante ese regreso, esa pausa, que Sísifo me interesa. Un rostro que sufre tan cerca de las piedras es ya propia piedra! Veo a ese hombre volver a bajar con paso pesado pero igual hacia el tormento cuyo fin no conocerá el final. Esa hora como una respiración y que vuelve tan seguramente como su desdicha, que es la hora de co
Ayúdanos a mejorar, si encuentras errores ¡Envíanos tu corrección!
La Dispute
Six
Six
The gods had condemned Sisyphus to ceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain, whence the stone would fall back of its own weight. They had thought with some reason that there is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor.
Nothing is told us about Sisyphus in the underworld. Myths are made for the imagination. As for this myth, one sees merely the whole effort of a body straining to raise the huge stone, to roll it, and push it up a slope a hundred times over; one sees the face screwed up, the cheek tight against the stone, the wholly human security of two earth-clotted hands. At the very end of his long effort, the purpose is achieved. Then Sisyphus watches the stone rush down in a few moments toward the lower world whence he will have to push it up again toward the summit. He goes back down to the plain.
It is during that return, that pause, that Sisyphus interests me. A face that toils so close to stones is already stone itself! I see that man going back down with a heavy yet measured step toward the torment of which he will never know the end. That hour like a breathing-space which returns as surely as his suffering, that is the hour of consciousness. At each of those moments when he leaves the heights and gradually sinks toward the lairs of the gods, he is superior to his fate. He is stronger than his rock.
The workman of today works everyday in his life at the same tasks, and his fate is no less absurd. But it is tragic only at the rare moments when it becomes conscious. Sisyphus knows the whole extent of his wretched condition: it is what he thinks of during his descent. There is no fate that can not be surmounted by scorn.
If the descent is thus sometimes performed in sorrow, it can also take place in joy. When the images of earth cling too tightly to memory, it happens that melancholy arises in man's heart: this is the rock's victory. But crushing truths perish from being acknowledged. Thus, Edipus at the outset obeys fate without knowing it. But from the moment he knows, his tragedy begins. Yet at the same moment, he realizes that the only bond linking him to the world is the cool hand of a girl. Then a tremendous remark rings out: 'Despite so many ordeals, my advanced age and the nobility of my soul make me conclude that all is well
La Dispute
Seis
Seis
Los dioses habían condenado a Sísifo a rodar sin cesar una roca hasta la cima de una montaña, desde donde la piedra volvía a caer por su propio peso. Habían pensado con algún fundamento que no hay castigo más terrible que el trabajo inútil y sin esperanza.
Nada se dijo sobre Sísifo en los infiernos. Mitos están hechos para la imaginación. En cuanto a éste, lo único que se ve es todo el esfuerzo de un cuerpo tenso para levantar la enorme piedra, a rodar y ayudarla a subir una pendiente cien veces; uno ve el rostro crispado, la mejilla pegada a la piedra, la seguridad enteramente humana de dos manos llenas de tierra. Al final de su largo esfuerzo, se logra el objetivo. Entonces Sísifo ve la piedra prisas para bajar en pocos instantes hacia el mundo inferior desde el que habrá que empujarla de nuevo hacia la cumbre. Él vuelve a bajar a la llanura.
Es durante ese regreso, esa pausa, que Sísifo me interesa. Un rostro que sufre tan cerca de las piedras es ya propia piedra! Veo a ese hombre volver a bajar con paso pesado pero igual hacia el tormento cuyo fin no conocerá el final. Esa hora como una respiración y que vuelve tan seguramente como su desdicha, que es la hora de co
Ayúdanos a mejorar, si encuentras errores ¡Envíanos tu corrección!
