I hate indifferent people

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Author's name: Antonio Gramsci

When we reread Gramsci’s short essays today, written in a turbulent moment between 1916 and 1918, we do not return to them as relics of a past struggle, but as arduous attempts to think within time, to understand how reality is made and reproduced daily, and to pose a serious question: Why do we accept this reality? And who defined the lexicon, distributed the roles, and decided who speaks on behalf of whom?

In this book, we do not encounter Gramsci in prison, but rather Gramsci in his formative years, the Gramsci who has not yet fallen silent to write his journals of reflections, but continues to write amidst the clamor, amidst the defeats, amidst an almost daily sense of failure. He does so in a language that does not transcend language, but rather attempts to grasp the essence of things at the moment of their birth, or the moment of their explosion. While the reader may find some useful theories within the book, Gramsci is primarily not a theorist here, but a prospector; he is not searching for gold, but for a new name for what he sees. A name that is neither conciliatory, nor complicit, nor repetitive. Therefore, his aversion to indifference is not merely a fervent moral outburst, but a necessary condition for any serious politics. For what ultimately paralyzes politics is not the absence of a project, but the absence of judgment, the absence of discernment, and the absence of the courage to call things by their names.

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