When it's too late

Joan Salvat-Papasseit, a self-taught young man of humble origins, fragile but vital, explains in a famous poem, written at the beginning of the 20th century, what he will do when he is able to get out of bed, where he lies sick with tuberculosis. He will see the sun-filled squares of the city and the flower-filled gates. He will see a girl with a bright smile. He will see the boy who sells newspapers getting on and off the tram. He will see the women who go to the market and return with bags full of the vivid colors of cabbage and cherries; he will see the shopkeeper who makes the girls laugh while he grinds coffee, and an airplane that will make him look up to the sky... From his tubercular bed, all this seems like a delight.

The wine is also delicious: if he gets up, he'll be able to taste it. He doesn't dream of a three-star banquet, but of a home-cooked stew on the table. The sick poet invites his friends to share the wine and the glances. But above all, he invites them (invites us, really) to look at the streets he can't see, for his eyes are forced to turn toward the wall of the room, which we imagine to be dark and poorly ventilated.

Furthermore, although the poem is hopeful, it is also lucid. The poet is aware that illness can defeat him. Perhaps—he says—he will no longer be able to see the bustle of the streets or the beauty of the squares, but readers will be able to.

It is the fire, not the rain, that tells us about the beauty of the forest.

It's not entirely true. Most of those who, thanks to their acceptable state of health, could see, while strolling, what the young man with tuberculosis longs to see again, pass indifferently through the streets and squares. The poem doesn't say that: it's a commonplace. We only appreciate reality when we lose it. We only want to contemplate the same old streets when we don't have the strength to leave home. The sick, the elderly, or the prisoner yearn for what the young, the vigorous, and the free despise.

Read also Tolstoy for the goalkeeper and Laporta Antoni Puigverd

Salvat-Papasseit puts his finger on a very human wound. We only perceive the beauty that surrounds us when we are in danger. It is the fire, not the rain, that speaks to us of the beauty of the forest. It is the ruins of war that make us value peace. Beauty is always a promise; that is why it calls to us, above all, when it is already too late.