It is known that when Boabdil, the last of the Abencerrages, left Granada definitively, driven out by the reconquest, he gave a final look at his admirable city and, at that precise moment, sighed deeply. That sigh—el suspiro del Moro—has come down to us through history and after us will no doubt touch and disturb the sensibility of our descendants until the end of time. However, is it really a matter of Boabdil‘s sigh only, or is it the one, coming from Adam, of those who have lost Paradise? Here, Boabdil seems to be one relay among others of that lament issuing from the depths of the species and rising, as regret and never-ceasing nostalgia, to the easily-agitated surface of our ocean of domesticity. Since that first garden, we have been the unloved children of this regret and this nostalgia. The angel with the fiery sword changes nothing: he does not have our memory that, alone, makes us every day a little less original and, in doing so, expels us, making us a little more defenseless than we were when we came out of the void. To remember is obviously to lose oneself, and we are at every moment in this vertiginous situation. As Heidegger said, to remember is to contemplate oblivion.

The Greeks invented the words “city,” “democracy,” “people,” “oligarchy,” “liberty,” “citizen.” It is therefore tempting to suppose that they invented the eternal truth of politics, or of our politics, with only one exception: slavery is the major difference between their democracy and democracy as such. For there must exist an eternal politics about which it is possible to philosophize instead of simply writing history. Therein, across the ages, could be found the central essence of politics; despite their diversity, political regimes would have a functional analogy to one another which could be represented in a variety of ways: establishing justice, making men live in peace with one another, defending the group, exercising a domination of the master class over the forces of production.

At first glance, the formulation of the principle of inertia—not. yet complete with Galileo, more precise with Gassendi, finally systematic with Newton—seems to constitute but one of the aspects of a process of deep transformations at the end of which traditional cosmology was replaced by various world systems. These transformations—or, to use a more classic term, this “ scientific revolution” —have been the object of numerous works, a list, of which would alone fill the pages of a thick volume. But the principle of inertia itself, a principle about which can be said without exaggeration that it expressed the essence of this revolution at the same time as it stimulated it, has perhaps not received all the attention it deserves. And especially the impact of this principle on Western culture has not been fully measured. True, Alexandre Koyré has always insisted on the fact that, by reducing movement to a state like that of the state of rest, the principle of inertia expressed a new vision of the world more than a scientific result. But his admirable analyses deal more with the slow advent of the priciple of inertia among the natural philosophers who preceded, accompanied and then followed Galileo than with the theological, philosophical and literary impact of this principle. Moreover, by examining this impact, we discover that it is necessary to make a distinction between Euclidian space and absolute space, a distinction which is frequently implicit with certain scientific historians, but, and this must be emphasized, is more often ignored.

Unesco and the International Council of Music have begun work on a musicological project of considerable extent, since it is a universal history of music in ten volumes. At present, the provisional title is Music as a Language of Man: A World History of Music.

Hardly any other problem has been discussed more than that of the status of time in modem physics. This is only natural since there are not many other more important problems in philosophy of science and in philosophy in general. There are also few other areas where controversies as well as confusion were more frequent. This is true not only of popular and semi-popular expositions of the Minkowski concept of space-time but also of a number of its philosophical interpretations. Generally we do not find anything of this kind in the writings of physicists, at least as long as they confine themselves to strictly mathematical and physical expositions; but when they sometimes venture beyond a strictly mathematical approach, they often do not escape certain unconscious or semi-conscious prejudices which are contrary not only to the spirit but sometimes even to the letter of relativity. The true significance of the relativistic fusion of space and time can be understood only when we contrast it with its classical counterpart, i.e., with what may be called the Newtonian space-time. Only on such a contrasting background will the revolutionary meaning of the new concept clearly stand out.

The land has come Into its own. At last it has become the focus of great national problems which until now were evoked most frequently with regard to and for the benefit of cities, or even of metropolitan areas. Its very representation, until very recent ages held to be terribly abstract and reserved to technicians, today belongs to the public domain. Exhibitions bearing titles such as Maps and Illustrations of the Earth (Paris, 1980) or Landscape: Image and Reality (Bologna, 1981) attract as many visitors as an Impressionist retrospective, not only because of the novelty of the theme, the rarity of certain documents or the beauty of most of them, as proven by the success of even more specialized events such as those dedicated to the 1730 Sardinian cadastre in Savoy or to the one of Maria-Theresa in Lombardy (Chambéry and Pavia, 1980).

Much has been written and said about music's time, much less— at least in recent epochs—about time's music. Today this most subtle, yet most powerful form of music finds fewer and fewer listeners. It has become, in fact, harder and harder to listen to. The “congruent melodies,” i.e. “the rhythms of times which were given to us to alleviate our labors” (as the 13th-century music theorist had put it) have long since been silenced and drowned by subsonic noises.* In its organization of time, Western civilization has, to an appallingly large extent, replaced rhythmic aliveness with abstract measures, reducing it to a “functional mechanism” (Baudrillard 1974). The main tools by which these measures are set, the clock as we know it and the modern calendar, are obviously, taken as such, remarkable achievements, but in their impact on our lives they are not so much companions enabling us to be “in harmony with things at the right moment” (see the Chinese shih, Larre 1976) as they are hostile guardians “watching our steps.”

The coming year introduces a notable name for commemoration-Simon Bolivar. Since his birth only two centuries have elapsed, it is true. Yet I propose to go back two millennia or more, to Rome: imperial Republic and world empire.

The past is too much with us, so it may be objected anywhere, and not least in the New World. Why bring up “portions and parcels of the dreadful past” (I adopt the phrase of an English poet)? The lessons of history, it will pertinently be observed, are either obvious or fallacious. That maxim need not deter rational enquiry. The experience of antiquity offers valid comparisons, if and when the social and political setting is similar. On that count, human history becomes real, alive, intelligible.

Nation and liberty: two ideas that in spite of the innumerable works that have been devoted to them are still open to new approaches, indeed, to new definitions. They pose a problem whose essence is to remain without a definitive answer, to be always actual, because it concerns man of all times, all countries and all conditions. This apparently-simple remark raises a question: is it possible to put nation and liberty on the same level? It is permissible to consider liberty and nation as a pair forming a new concept, or do we simply have a relationship located in a precise time at a given place?

Philosophers and others have often debated whether we have freewill: i.e. whether (in a sense I shall try to elucidate) our power to choose between X and Y is radically undetermined, so that if we choose X we yet might have chosen Y, and vice versa. My concern is not with that question but with a hypothetical one which arises from it: if we had such freewill, what implications, if any, would, that fact have for the sciences. My argument concentrates on the social sciences, since the phenomena with which they deal inevitably involves human choice.

The ancient history of flamenco is pure hypothesis, partly owing to the “ Dark Ages “ which shrouded the folk expression of a large portion of Andalusia from soon after the victory of the Catholic Kings at Granada in 1492 until the emancipation laws of Charles III in 1783. Although flamenco as such is a product of the nineteenth century, the hypothesis may be taken right back to pre-Iberian days when there was a flourishing civilization in the south of Spain, with its capital, Tartessos, more or less where Seville—or Cadiz—is now, perhaps the first Empire in the West. The Iberians inhabited the north and the east but the towns along the Andalusian coast were founded by Phoenicians from Tyre (Cadiz) and Phocaeans from Asia Minor (Málaga). During the Celtic invasions the south was held by Carthage until Andalusia finally became Roman as a result of the Punic wars.

Should the city be read as a negative or a positive? Is it a tissue of buildings, separated by streets and squares, or is it a series of public spaces: streets, squares, gardens, parks—between which buildings rise as enclaves of private and semi-private volume?

The different ways in which the three medieval societies of Byzantium, Latin Christendom, and Islam institutionalized the charitable impulse present in their respective faiths reflected the fundamentally different religious values which motivated these civilizations as well as their different levels of material and intellectual development. All three societies exalted the relief of human suffering, especially the care of the sick, as a religiously sanctioned gesture; and all three invented or adopted institutional means for attaining this pious objective. The various medieval counterparts of the modern “hospital”—the Byzantine nosocomeion or xenodocheion, the European hospitale, and the Islamic maristan—differed significantly, however, with respect to their organization and operation, the clientele which they served, and the ultimate intent of their charitable efforts. Accordingly, a comparison of these social welfare institutions reveals the contrasting ways in which the two Christendoms and Islam defined and applied the ideals of “piety” and “charity” during the middle ages.

Renaissance and Baroque, two terms unknown in the ages they describe, are now an integral part of the general public's cultural vocabulary. The first encompasses European civilization from the mid-fifteenth century to around 1550, and the second refers to developments in the seventeenth century, with the intervening fifty years forming a period of transition termed Mannerism. Beginning with the appearance of Heinrich Wölfflin's Kunst geschichtliche Grundbegriffe in 1915, these two great epochs of intellectual development have been described quite successfully by juxtaposing the one with the other. Wölfffin, for example, saw five great categories of discrimination between the two, namely Linear and Painterly, Plane and Recession, Closed and Open Form (Tectonic and A-tectonic Form), Multiplicity and Unity (Multiple Unity and Unified Unity), and Clearness and Unclearness (Absolute and Relative Clearness). More recently, Wylie Sypher in Four Stages of Renaissance Style has extended the list with the polar characteristics of Cyclic-Broken (Cyclothym-Schizothym), Exact-Abstract (Representational-Nonrepresentational), Visual-Haptic, Nearseeing-Farseeing, Dark-Light, Horizontal/Vertical-Oblique/Spiraling, and Points/Lines-Planes/Volumes.

The New Towns Movement began in England and later spread world-wide in response to the increasing concern felt at the deterioration of the quality of life in the large cities under the impact of industrialization. The New Towns, it was felt, would combine the advantages of life in the country with that of life in the city. They would be small communities of between 30.000 and 60.000 inhabitants. Their principal characteristics were to be a balanced economy and a well-defined pattern of industrial, commercial and residential zones.

Inspired by Columbus, Spaniards set out on an adventurous voyage of the circumnavigation of the globe and, to their surprise, encountered a new continent.

This is the essential fact. There were no preliminaries, no previous knowledge, but an abrupt and unexpected meeting between a handful of men who represented the mentality of Spain at the end of the 15th century and an immense geographical panorama that slowly and continuously unfolded, populated by beings for whom there was not even a name and who represented native cultures in different stages of devopment with no previous contact with Europeans, almost diametrically opposed in values, concepts and mentalities to what the transatlantic navigators represented and brought with them.

Since 1973 the experts of O.C.D.E. have been presenting the development of systems born of computer science and telecommunication as a “ second industrial revolution.” A year earlier the Japan Computer Usage Development Institute announced for the year 2000 the advent of a “society of information.”

The origination of General Systems Theory is credited to Ludwig von Bertalanffy who, two years after receiving his doctorate from the University of Vienna, published a work in 1932 entitled Theorie der Formbildung. Despite, by his own account, an exposure to and familiarity with the positivism of the Vienna circle, von Bertalanffy was dissatisfied with the reductionist and atomistic forms of explanation which this group asserted is characteristic of scientific explanation. He was particularly unhappy with attempts to pattern explanations of biological phenomena after the model of classical Newtonian physics. In this early work, Models Theories of Development, von Bertalanffy maintained both that the main problem for biology is to discover patterns (laws) which are typical of biological systems and that the discovery of such patterns would produce a major change in the way the world is viewed in general. Von Bertalanffy worked out his proposed model for biological explanation in such subsequent books as Theoretische Biologie and Problems of Life and then in his later years in such works as Robots, Man and Minds and Organismic Psychology and Systems Theory, went on to apply his concepts in a cross-disciplinary way to psychology. Again, by his own account, at a somewhat later period, others, for example the economist Kenneth Boulding and the bio-mathematician A. Rapport, had arrived at, for parallel reasons, certain similar ideas relative to their own disciplines. These individuals together with others formed a joint enterprise which was to result in the interdisciplinary systems movement. Von Bertalanffy stressed the multi-dimension possibilities for fruitful research in a large number of conceptual areas, including the humanities, in his final major work, General Systems Theory Foundation, Development and Applications.

In the past few decades world architecture has seen radical changes as the result of industrialization, standardization and mass production. For Soviet architecture this half century of scientific and technical revolution along with the growth of economic potential has been the most fruitful in its history. If we return to the past and try to form a judgment on the urbanism of our day we will no doubt see that what is offered us by new cities, modern residential zones and social amenities corresponds to our dreams of the cities of the future. From the point of view of the past, we have only to look at the zones of Yassenevo, Tropariovo, the Olympic village or the civic centers of Tashkent or Navoi.

A nation is not a creation of the brain but a collective experience. It does not equal the sum of the individuals that compose it but transcends that sum like a global personality that is not only juridical (although there once was a “League of Nations”) but also moral in the highest sense of the word.

We may ask ourselves if liberty is indetermination, nonalienation and autonomy in its accomplishment; if it is congenial in the genetic code of the nation for its entire existence or, on the contrary, if there is not a sort of dialectic, that is, historic, aleatory and problematic relationship between these two realities. In fact, there is danger in the desire to find a similarity, even by analogy, between the life of nations and a biological process. The nation is a historical phenomenon appearing through a chain of circumstances in 19th-century Europe, theorized by Europe and often born elsewhere as a reaction to European imperialism. The Nation is largely a bourgeois idea and reality.