Infrahistory

Río Chico in the Alpujarra
(Sierra Nevada–Granada–Spain)

  Miguel de Unamuno spoke of intrahistory, the subterranean current of the “eternal tradition”. We are going to refer to that hidden course with the term infrahistory, with the old philosopher’s permission: the histories of every town and village, of every family, of every person, or even of every living being; for, humble as it may be, each existence unfolds in circumstances that can be narrated.

Every vital experience has its effects on other lives, near or far, and also on its surroundings, like the famous flutter of the fragile, hidden butterfly’s wings. These are lives whose temporal course runs concealed beneath the stage machinery of the macro-events of heroes and characters, which are always recounted, embellished, or falsified by the victors.

Today I walk along a narrow path that connects Cáñar with Soportújar, in the Alpujarras of Granada (Spain), traversing an Eden of distant horizons and rugged hills, virgin springs and aged irrigation channels. A harmonious blending of the efforts of successive generations, taming the natural environment with respect: their unpaved paths, their small clay-tiled houses facing south, their simple terraced gardens, and the centuries-old chestnut trees—“they are the only cathedrals I admire,” a Nietzschean shepherd from these parts once confessed to me—whose roots sink deep into the steep slopes to prevent erosion and provide leafy shade to the hands that planted them.

Two nightingales hold a prolonged conversation on this cool July morning, with the murmur of the Chico River as a basso continuo. They know no other place, desire no other life or paradise than this one they inhabit during the days of their brief existence, of their unknown infrahistory, which today intersected with mine.

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