The Paradox of Poverty: Reflections on Nietzsche’s Perspective and Personal Experience

There is a phrase by Nietzsche that recently gave me a hammer blow to the head: “Truly, whoever has little is possessed so much less: praise little poverty!” Me, fleeing from poverty since I found out that it possessed me, especially during childhood and adolescence. Although the fact that my legs are no longer dripping wet and my clothes torn does not make me worthy of any wealth, I do have inheritances: lack of culture, for example. I have collapsed before words like culture, decency, protocol, investigation, just as it happened to the great Violette Leduc. I have a medium education, saved by the occasional conscious reading.

Being poor means not having leeches on you, you don’t care three pesos to “good people”. How wonderful, Mr. Nietzsche! Of course, a few issues remain unanswered: that aporophobia is the disease par excellence of the poor, there is no one who hates a poor person more than another poor person; or the idea that the poor, instead of contributing to a society, take away from it; or that it is the source of the types of rejection in society. For example, don’t you think blacks are more accepted in any setting if they’re wearing a Gucci jacket?

On a few occasions, I have attended important events, with literate and good-looking people, whose cordiality and good posture come from their blood. The lineage and ancestry praised in all centuries. I, with my eyes wide open, attentive to any lexical fall, some trace of their human misery that would clothe me, even for the moment, with a weak security; get rid of that feeling of fatigue that we poor people carry everywhere.

I remember once that my immediate boss, a writer, manager of a cultural events company whose name I do not want to remember, assigned me the task of directing a very important speech for the opening of a permanent literary gathering. The highest intellectuals of the region came. I used my four most decent words, which is to say, a disaster. From the small, heated crowd a hand reached out, on the ring finger the stone of a ring gleamed. A friend of the house, a well-known writer, asked for the floor to ask my little boss where she had gotten me from, in a rather contemptuous tone. And I, without finishing telling them how honored we felt to have her presence, demonstrated the price of opening spaces for discussion about the high values ​​of literature, cinema; our passion for art united us, we were the cultural awakening in the region. My boss explained that I was a university student and accentuated: “It’s one of the good ones.”

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Until then I had believed that writers, thinking people, had such an alert conscience that they did not talk about appearances, they understood what makes a society great: the good development of the abilities of its individuals for the benefit of the whole, and these should not be measured by credentials or by the way people may or may not be dressed at construction sites. He thought they understood that those of us less experienced need that special place. Of course I may be taking the part for the whole: it is not true that writers suffer from such stupidity, I say that beans are cooked everywhere. It would be necessary to look at what are the types of poverty that have us self-absorbed within the label of underdevelopment. Speaking ill of the rich is also another symptom of regression. That is, apart from poor, involuntary.

2023-07-31 10:54:15
#Plutophobia #enviable #art #poor