Demócrito debió haber nacido alrededor del 460, en Abdera, ciudad tracia. Sócrates fue su contemporáneo, pero existe la sospecha de que éste lo ignoró, y un fragmento —el 116, ‘estuve en Atenas pero nadie me conoció’— así parece indicarlo. Platón, por su parte, no habla nunca de él si bien hay sobrados motivos para creer que está presente en su mente al leer muchos pasajes de sus diálogos, sobre todo el Timeo. Aristóteles se mostró más generoso con Demócrito, pues lo cita con respeto y hasta con admiración. Lo mismo puede decirse de Epicuro y del poeta romano Lucrecio, quien lo utilizó como base filosófica de su hermoso poema De rerum natura.Alfredo Llanos, Los presocráticos y sus fragmentos.
“La lista de obras adjudicadas a Demócrito pasan de sesenta, según Diógenes Laercio, quien reproduce una recopilación de los sabios alejandrinos. En el siglo I de nuestra era, época en que todavía existían algunos trabajos del abderita —cuya pérdida no se considera casual sino resultado de una sistemática destrucción— el erudito romano Trasilo, que vivió en el reinado de Tiberio, arregló los escritos de Demócrito en trece tetralogías de acuerdo con su contenido”.
Yesterday I watched Wonder Wheel —Woody Allen’s 2017 film. At 82 you have the brains and the will and the talent to make such a wonder —a bitter Allen, pure drama here, not redeeming humor, a superb work of art that goes to the deep of human nature, and yet so lightly, so nicely presented.
I loved shooting cities. The hustle and bustle and street life. And in the rain, they’re so moody. I was able to begin with a montage of Paris accompanied by Sidney Bechet, who caught the French spirit on his horn so perfectly. I’d be happy just doing montages of cities with my favorite music in support. To work in Paris. To live in Paris. Why didn’t I stay when Pussycat was over? What a different life I would have had. Couldn’t have been a stand-up comic. Never would have met Soon-Yi. Paid a big price for loving Soon-Yi. All worth it. Pretty, sexy, bright, funny, a perfect wife. If only she remembers to have me cremated. While doing preproduction for Midnight in Paris, we were invited to meet President Nicolas Sarkozy and his wife, Carla Bruni. We brunched at the Élysée Palace. I was so nervous I forgot to bring my Joy Buzzer. And so we all chatted for a while and finally, because Carla Bruni was delightful and fascinating and I knew she had done some show business work singing, I got up the nerve to ask if she’d be willing to do a stint in the movie. She looked at her husband for a signal about how he felt about getting involved with a grubby commoner, and he said nothing wrong in it, so she agreed. From the press you’d have thought a spaceship had landed. All over Europe it was front-page news. When it came time to shoot she was totally professional. She came on time, did her acting and did it well, impressing all of us. She knew her lines, performed beautifully, and could make quick switches and add or cut lines on the spur of the moment. They should all be so good to work with, as Mom might have put it.
Naturally, her husband, President Sarkozy, came to watch our shoot one night, and you can imagine how the French crew was excited and on best behavior lest some clumsy grip accidentally drop something and get guillotined.
of Woody Allen’s memoirs Apropos of Nothing. There’s not a single line in the whole book that is not worth it.
This Woody Allen’s film is worth very little; the following piece of dialogue, though, caught my attention. A student, Jack (John Cusack), a regular customer in the city’s whorehouse, is having a conversation with one of the girls (Jodie Foster):
Prostitute: The chief magistrate likes me to tie him up, hand and foot…
Jack: Exactly. You take away his freedom.
Prostitute: …and he becomes blissful, delighted, sexually aroused.
Jack: He’s frightened of his freedom.
This Escape from Freedom explains a lot about our current disregard for it.