Humanity In A Pathoplastic Society
Julián Carrón: Good morning, everyone. Thank you for inviting me to speak on this challenging topic. The term "pathoplastic society" refers to the complex phenomenon of the many disorders we increasingly face, as noted by Cornaggia, Maspero, and Peroni (1). According to the authors, this characteristic of contemporary society is evident; one does not need to read or study statistics to realize that the proliferation of disorders among young people—and not only young people—has undermined the distinction between "norm" and "pathology."
Due to the difficulty in understanding the true nature of these growing discomforts, they are often described as "indefinable." The authors suggest that these discomforts represent something that cannot be fully understood or grasped using traditional psychopathological models alone, attributing them to the absence of a coherent "self" or "I." In response to this situation, they argue that merely increasing psychotherapeutic and psychological approaches is insufficient. Instead, we need to develop a new way of thinking that helps individuals overcome psychological suffering, addressing the urgent need for cultural, health, and educational measures—a way of thinking that recovers the generativity that modern reason has lost”. (2)
The stakes are high: we must understand the events before us and find an adequate response. Whenever I face new challenges, I am reminded of a quote from Hannah Arendt that has always resonated with me: "A crisis forces us to return to questions; it demands new or old answers, provided they result from direct examination; and it only becomes a catastrophe when we try to deal with it with preconceived judgments, that is, prejudices, thus aggravating the crisis and, moreover, renouncing the experience of reality, the opportunity to reflect that the crisis itself constitutes." (3)
Faced with these "indefinable" discomforts, the authors pose a crucial question: "If these discomforts are not illnesses, what are they?" This is fundamentally a problem of understanding, rather than one to be simply "fixed." Indeed, how can we address something without first deeply understanding it? Such profound questions are more widespread than one might think, as discomfort permeates every aspect of human activity: work, relationships, education, and all levels of society.
A keen observer of this situation, the Canadian philosopher Charles Taylor, writes: "In the contemporary landscape, many people find themselves in a situation of great loneliness"—as if they cannot find someone who understands their discomfort—"and a profound question arises within them: What is the center of my life? What do I want to spend my life on? And many people struggle to answer these questions." (4)
María Zambrano provides an insight into the origin of this crisis that surprised and provoked reflection in me from the first time I read it: "What seems to be in crisis is that mysterious link uniting our being with reality, so deep and fundamental that it is our very essence." She further elaborates: "What is in crisis, it seems, is that mysterious link that unites our being with reality, so deep and fundamental that it is our inner sustenance." (5)
Today, it is crucial to reestablish this link with reality, as it is through experience that we uncover the insights needed to understand the root of the problem.
I recall an example I used to share with my high school students. Imagine parents taking their children to Disneyland. The child would likely be amazed by all the attractions. Observing their reactions, we would see the fascination that reality can evoke. Everything would seem absolutely captivating to them. But if the child were to stray from their parents and get lost in the crowd, that same reality would suddenly become threatening. Though unchanged, the child's perception would shift dramatically: no longer friendly, but hostile. At that moment, what would they feel? What would they do? They would frantically search for their parents to restore a sense of safety and reestablish a positive relationship with their surroundings. Only by finding their parents could they regain the authentic perception of the reality that had previously fascinated them.
What if this sense of loss is what compels us to regain our connection with reality, to rehabilitate the "connection" that Zambrano describes as being "in crisis"? In the child, disorientation triggers a frantic search for that connection, activating their entire human dynamism. This search appears widespread, as Taylor perceptively notes: "Today, in a context completely different from that of past eras, religious experience takes the form of a common search." (6) This phenomenon is not limited to a child lost at Disneyland; it reflects the global condition of our lives, which we might liken to a "world Disneyland." In this context, many emerge as "seekers of meaning." The prevalence of these "seekers" in our time prompts us to ask: What does this reveal about our perception of these discomforts, especially when we claim they "have no meaning" or "no relational value"? (7)
Is there a deeper aspect we should consider first? The child will not rest until they find something that satisfies their search. The more threatened we feel by our circumstances, the more we recognize an inner drive that compels us to seek—an unbearability that leaves us no choice but to continue searching. What astonishes me most is this very unbearability we experience within ourselves. In this context, Luigi Giussani writes in The Religious Sense: "An individual who has had little contact with reality, because, for example, he has had very little effort to make, will have little sense of his own consciousness and will perceive less of the energy and vibration of his reason." He continues: "Little impact with reality because, for example, he has had very little effort to make, will have little sense of his own conscience, will perceive less of the energy and vibration of his reason." (8) Therefore, if all the energy and breadth of reason emerge through engagement with reality, how does this relate to the "lack of generativity" in modern reason that the authors criticize?
It is through our experiential relationship with reality that the true nature of reason becomes apparent. In today’s context, the prevalence of people searching for meaning prompts us to ask: What does this indicate? What if, as Giussani suggests, our engagement with reality is the most valuable resource for self-awareness and for experiencing the full vitality of our reason?
1. The Provocation of Reality Brings Out the Constitutive Factors of Man
"The constitutive factors of the human being are perceived where they are engaged in action; otherwise, they are not detectable — it is as if they did not exist, they are obliterated." (9)
I recall a situation where a school principal learned that one of his students had been having a difficult week. He called the student into his office and said, "I hear you’ve been a little nervous." They talked for a while to understand the reason, and the boy said, "There’s something I need to understand. When I look back at the past week, I have to admit that I’m doing fine at school, I get along well with my classmates and teachers, even with my girlfriend—everything is going well. But it’s boring! Everything seems fine, but I don’t feel well. There’s something I need to find out because something doesn’t add up." "What do you need to find out?" asked the principal. "The truth! I want to find out the truth." The boy then described his family situation, where he was taught that the world is full of demons to be cast out, which frightened him. He had learned that when something goes wrong, it’s the demons’ fault. A few days earlier, his younger brother had a panic attack for the same reason. However, the boy was not convinced by these explanations; he wanted the truth. It was the only way to free himself from the anxiety that oppressed him. Indeed, his anxiety had triggered his desire for truth.
This illustrates that within the "I," there is something unassailable that drives the desire for truth. Suddenly, symptoms like anxiety prompted the boy to declare, "I want to find out the truth." His self-awareness and the vitality of his reason surfaced not despite the symptoms, but because of them. The emergence of symptoms can trigger a search for answers, serving either as a moment of closure or as an opening—a crack through which new understanding can emerge.
2. What Is This Lack, Heart, That Suddenly Fills You? What Is It?
What do the various discomforts we observe tell us about humanity? As previously mentioned, the primary challenge is to comprehend their nature. What if these discomforts are symptoms of our inherent irreducibility?
Paradoxically, in this historical moment, the irreducibility of the individual seems more evident than ever, precisely because of the situation’s unbearability. Marracash captures this sentiment: "I fill time but do not fill the void." (10) One does not need extensive cultural knowledge to experience this profound truth. But what exactly is this irreducibility?
Don Giussani wrote: "At this moment of supreme aberration, precisely at this time, religious sentiment emerges more powerful than ever. Never has religious sentiment been so vigorously present, making people of all races and ages restless; never has it been so alive as it is today: imprecise, confused, terribly disconcerted, but never so powerfully present in the human soul as it is today.
Religious sentiment is that irreducible characteristic of the human heart, of the ultimate nature of man, whereby he cannot be satisfied, fulfilled, by anything you give him and offer him—except the illusion of the moment. Man has something for which he cannot ‘square,’ he cannot be complete because man is a relationship with something infinite: he is by his very nature a relationship with something incommensurable with himself. It is as if this man had a strange destiny.
It is because of this feeling in the heart of man, because of this irresolvable restlessness, a sign of a greater destiny that even all the plans of his works cannot contain; it is because of this religious sense that awakens just as man is about to be strangled by power. Precisely at this moment, man, feeling his heart boiling, does not know where to go, does not know how to read this restlessness, does not know how to identify the content of the purpose, the goal towards which he is being pushed, what all this is for." (11)
The difficulty in interpreting this restlessness affects even us—psychiatrists, psychologists, and educators. I was struck by a comment from Hans Urs von Balthasar, whom I consider the foremost theologian of the twentieth century, regarding psychiatry and psychology. I share this as a contribution to our dialogue, as it helps explain why psychotherapeutic efforts often fall short. Balthasar writes: "The lonely individual of our time is alone with himself, as with a stranger. What he knows with certainty about this stranger is that he is alone, that it is his nature to be alone"—this echoes the great loneliness Taylor discusses today, though Balthasar wrote this in the 1950s. (12)
"In this loneliness, the individual can only become neurotic. And psychiatry, the therapy that arose simultaneously with the illness, is incapable of helping him effectively." He continues: "It is therefore an unforgivable superficiality for psychology to simply refer the man of this experience back to the community. What he encounters there is nothing but individuals similar to himself, always the same lonely, questioning man, who in his perplexity asks other perplexed people for information. Today’s lonely person does nothing but encounter himself in others. He is more Narcissus than anyone has ever been in the history of humanity. Two lonely people always find in each other their own inalienable loneliness." (13)
Another incident from a few days ago reminded me of the lost child at Disneyland. A doctor friend shared a conversation she had with a hospital patient who was venting after a phone call from a relative. The patient said, "I can’t stand these people calling me and trying to downplay the drama of the moment"—oneself encountering another self.
"They tell me that what happened to me… happens!" How many times do we console ourselves with such platitudes? "But I can’t take it anymore!" We often think that by minimizing or censoring people’s pain, we can solve their problems. Instead, this approach is unbearable. People become frustrated with those who try to help without truly understanding their situation. Yet, this frustration can be a resource, as it compels us to seek companionship that is truly adequate; mere words of consolation are insufficient and can even exacerbate our loneliness.
The patient also spoke about her husband: "It’s gotten cold in the house because I react differently, and if I talk to him, he can’t handle it. So I’m going through all this alone." Even her husband, a typical modern loner, cannot comprehend his wife’s struggle, leaving her isolated. She added, "I have to pretend to be strong and fine, but the truth is, I don’t see the meaning in what’s happening to me. They tell me not to ask questions, but I have questions—many of them! Why did this happen to me?" Most strikingly, she concluded, "They tell me there is no answer, but I know there is an answer, and I need to know it."
This powerfully illustrates that reason inherently seeks to understand existence—it demands a complete and adequate explanation. Giussani asserts, "If we want to save reason, that is, if we want to be consistent with this energy that defines us, if we do not want to deny it, its very dynamism compels us to affirm that there is an exhaustive answer beyond the horizon of our lives." (14) The woman’s unwavering certainty is striking: "I know there is an answer." Why does she know? Because, as Giussani might say, "The answer is there because it cries out through the fundamental questions of our being, even though it cannot be measured by experience. It exists, though we do not know its nature." (15)
Interpreting this "irresolvable restlessness," as Giussani terms it, has not always been so challenging. Giacomo Leopardi understood the discomforts we experience, but he did not view them as pathological symptoms. His perception, which differs profoundly from the conventional view, makes the question even more pressing. (16)
For Leopardi, symptoms like boredom, inadequacy, emptiness, and lack are "the greatest sign of greatness and nobility in human nature." Thus, failure, emptiness, and boredom are not pathologies but indicators of our inherent greatness. It is this greatness that enables us to experience and recognize these feelings. Animals, lacking this greatness, do not experience boredom. Why? Because humans are aware of their limitations, precisely because they possess an infinite desire within them. We often take this for granted, yet it is anything but ordinary—it cries out within us.
Our greatness is the source of these symptoms; we could never feel boredom, lack, or emptiness if we were not so great. Leopardi marvels, "Human nature, how, if you are frail in everything and vile, if you are dust and shadow, do you feel so high?" (17) His amazement at this greatness is poignant. In his Zibaldone, he writes, "Man desires, naturally and necessarily, always and in every case, and for a certain time, in every condition of his being, to be happy, to feel good, to feel as good as he can, to feel better than others." (18)
Similar to the student I mentioned earlier, Leopardi’s amazement brings him to the brink of discovering the origin of this infinite desire. However, the leap may seem too daunting, causing him to hesitate. This hesitation leads him to view his inability to attain happiness as a mere illusion of the imagination. He writes in Zibaldone, "Happiness is nothing but an illusion of our imagination, which always embraces more than it can obtain." (19)
One cannot help but recall Shakespeare’s Hamlet: "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." (20) Yet, St. Augustine, with his profound understanding of humanity, recognizes in this greatness the very thing that cries out within us. His reflections on his own turbulent life reveal the key to understanding restlessness.
Addressing God, Augustine exclaims, "You show quite clearly the greatness you wished to bestow upon rational creatures; for nothing less than You satisfies them." For Augustine, the only adequate explanation for man’s greatness is to acknowledge the One who instilled it in His creation. Thus, as Augustine states, "God shows quite clearly" the source of this greatness. What a relief to understand our true nature—that we are not flawed that our greatness is not a solitary burden, for it could not have arisen from a nature so "frail and vile." Therefore, "our heart is restless until it rests in You." (22)
Augustine asserts that we are not alone in our greatness because it could not have originated from a nature so "frail and vile." Thus, "our heart is restless until it rests in You." Without this "You," life becomes unbearable, as it is for many. Recognizing that this "You" exists and is the source of our being provides a path forward.
Unlike Leopardi, Augustine does not merely marvel at human greatness or acknowledge the vast gap between our aspirations and our fragility. He is compelled by reason to seek an explanation for this greatness. For Augustine, its existence is not self-evident; precisely because he does not take it for granted, he searches for its cause.
This realization prevents him from becoming stagnant, revealing that human greatness is a gift from the One who bestows it. This understanding liberates him from the burden of achieving greatness on his own, a concern that troubled Leopardi. Augustine concludes that since human nature is so profound, "nothing less than You" can bring it peace.
All else is insufficient. This sentiment is echoed by Jesus of Nazareth: "What good will it do a man to gain the whole world if he loses his soul? Or what can a man give in exchange for his soul?" (23) The conception of humanity in this statement is not pathological, but rather a testament to our astonishing nature, leaving us awed by our own greatness. The "I" is fundamentally a relationship with the Mystery that created it.
As Teilhard de Chardin writes, "Yes, my God, I believe, and I believe all the more willingly because it is not only for my tranquility but for my fulfillment. You are at the origin of the impulse and at the end of this attraction. In the life that is born in me, in this matter that sustains me, do I find something even more beautiful than your gifts? I find You yourself, who make me a partaker of your being, who shape me." (24)
Our desire originates from the One who created us and continually draws us to Himself, for we were made to find fulfillment in Him. St. Bernard describes man as "a being who aspires to something that can only be achieved through the gift of the one to whom his desire aspires." (25) This perspective answers many of our questions: Why do we have this desire? Why this deep restlessness? Why this boredom? What is its purpose?
Nicola Cabasilas explains, "In the beginning, God created human nature with the new man in view: mind and desire were fashioned for him. We received thought to know Christ, desire to run toward Him, and memory to carry Him within us, for He was the archetype as we were being formed. The old Adam is not the model for the new, but the new is the model for the old." (26) For those who grasp this, a new life begins.
A friend wrote to me: "One morning, upon waking, I felt a profound and oppressive emptiness, more intense than usual. Without thinking, I said to myself, ‘How I miss you, Lord!’ At that moment, I was surprised and began to embrace my emptiness, realizing it was not truly emptiness but a hidden, infinite longing for God’s company." Often, when we wake up, we are immediately burdened by worries, and our entire day can be shaped by the weight or lightness we feel.
For someone who becomes familiar with their own humanity, this unbearable feeling transforms into a valuable resource for seeking God and entering into a relationship with Him. Children naturally do this; as soon as they open their eyes, they seek the face of their loved ones. This is the true nature of humanity. While it is spontaneous for children, for adults, it is a challenge that depends on their freedom. This is where education plays a crucial role.
3. The Task of Education
The authors refer to education as the "bridge function." They state, "Today, we are undoubtedly facing changes that affect family, work, society, and communication. The lack of useful patterns leads young people to experience a void that generates anxiety and anger. Therefore, it is our responsibility to fulfill this ‘bridge function,’ using patience, listening, and our physical presence as tools to help them rediscover the fascination of finding meaning in reality, with all its light and shadow." (27)
They provide a simple yet significant example of our educational role: rather than cushioning discomfort, we should offer a working hypothesis that enables self-discovery. They use the example of fear, which can either paralyze or propel us forward. In the case of the child at Disneyland, fear acts as a defense mechanism in response to a threat. The authors explain, "Fear, when understood in this way, emerges when we stray too far from our true nature, leading to confusion, blockage, and exhaustion linked to anxiety.
By heeding this powerful signal, we can uncover the true desire that forms the natural foundation of our being and recognize the distortions we have encountered. This allows us to rediscover the original trace that dispels fear, as it reveals the true relationship between the self and the Other." (28)
Fear, anxiety, restlessness, and feelings of emptiness should not be dismissed as useless or mere obstacles. Instead, they should be interpreted as impulses that challenge adults to exercise their freedom fully. When viewed this way, these emotions can become resources that activate true desire and the power of reason. For instance, the child lost at Disneyland is driven by fear to search for his parents.
Similarly, the student I mentioned earlier is motivated by anxiety to seek the truth. In a later conversation, he said, "I want to know the truth because when people talk about demons, I get agitated, but I long for peace." After listening, I responded, "If you don’t know yourself, you become susceptible to others’ opinions. Let’s start with what you can touch, see, and recognize in your experience. For example, can you identify when you feel anxious?"
He said, "Yes." "Anxiety is something you can recognize. What triggers your anxiety? Why do you seek peace? Would you like to embark on a journey to verify everything you’re told? We can do this together if you wish." He was enthusiastic, and I was impressed by his ability to discern the truth. He remarked, "For the first time, someone is telling me that I can find the answer and recognize it through my own experience.
I feel reassured because I realize I don’t have to rely on others to determine what is true; I can experience it myself through the peace it brings." When offered a path to discover truth through personal experience, he eagerly embraced it.
What facilitates this process? The presence of individuals who can accompany him on his journey. Without such companionship, we remain isolated and powerless, surrounded by others who are equally alone. Thus, it is crucial for each of us to ask, "What am I?" Our self-perception often limits us. Giussani emphasizes that "the newness of life is proportional to the maturing of this self-awareness, this feeling of self, this view and taste of oneself." (29)
Indeed, self-awareness is what brings newness to life; one experiences life as renewed proportionally their self-awareness. (30)
What if this historical moment, where we acutely feel our irreducibility, is a great opportunity to rediscover self-awareness and truly enjoy life? Giussani states, "The capital problem is rekindling the person’s mastery over themselves." In the face of what we term "the indefinable," this experience paves the way. (31)
In his dialogue with Giovanni Testori in The Meaning of Birth, Giussani asserts that this experience occurs only through encountering a presence: "I can find no other sign of hope than the multiplication of these people who are presences. The multiplication of these people, and an inevitable sympathy between them." (32)
The recovery of the person hinges on encountering a presence that is not solitary but can "act as a reagent, a catalyst for energies that have become dormant." (33)Therefore, "the fundamental aspect of a counterattack in today’s society" is that "the truth, which resides in my person, in my very ‘I,’ is revived, truly embracing its existence and life; that it becomes self-aware." (34)
Thus, the central issue is the presence of a consistent and unified "I." Von Balthasar emphasizes, "As long as God is excluded from anthropology, it cannot solve the problem of man through mere human encounters and mutual love." (35) Consequently, God’s method of entering history poses a supreme challenge to modern thought, which deems it "impossible to know and change oneself and reality solely by following a person"—a person with such consistency.
In contemporary culture, the individual is not seen as a means of knowledge and transformation; reason is reduced to analytical thought, and morality to the application of rules. (36) Giussani counters this by pointing to John and Andrew, who, by following Jesus, learned a different way of knowing and changing themselves and the world. From their initial encounter, this method unfolded over time. (37)
Therefore, the challenge lies in fostering the development of the person through a perspective that does not reduce their nature to mere antecedent factors. "Christian religiosity does not stem from philosophical preference, but from Jesus Christ’s persistent emphasis on His relationship with the Father as the sole means to preserve the individual’s value. Christian religiosity is thus the essential condition for humanity. Man must choose: to see himself as free from the universe and dependent solely on God, or to reject God and become enslaved to every circumstance." (38)
Only through a bond with His presence can we regain our connection with reality. Otherwise, we face bewilderment, akin to a child lost in the "Disneyland" of the world, where reality turns threatening, and we become slaves to every circumstance.
Thank you.
Cornaggia: First, I want to thank Julián. His talk has been invaluable, particularly after our two days together. It raises a crucial question: Where does ontology end and pathology begin in today’s malaise? I fully agree with Julián and would like to highlight a few points, framing them as questions for further discussion. I graduated in medicine in the late 1970s and have been a psychiatrist since the 1980s. Today, I encounter a world and pathologies vastly different from those I studied. There’s a new kind of discomfort, more widespread and distinct, and I believe Julián’s insights explain much of this shift.
To be "mad" in the traditional sense, one needed a well-formed "self," language, symbolic capacity, and a relational perspective—albeit altered or challenging to understand. The absence of such "madmen" today signals a change in the constitution of the "ego" and its relational dynamics, where symptoms represent both limitations and opportunities. Moreover, especially after Julián’s talk, I believe we must reconsider our overreliance on "psychology" or the concept of "illness." The Austrian writer Ivan Illich would have appreciated this perspective, as he argued that depending on specialized professions can lead to abdicating our own capacity and responsibility to engage in relationships and be challenged by others.
Yesterday, we heard that about 60% of young people, from a certain age, visit psychologists occasionally or regularly. I question what psychologists do with this 60%—not out of criticism, but curiosity about their role and the questions they address. We need to ask not only where the line between norm and pathology lies but also what psychology itself entails. Faced with discomfort, what is my approach? How do I assess it? I am not the same psychiatrist I was when I graduated; my practice has evolved. So, what is my role now, and how should I position myself? My question for Julián is this: You beautifully described the child at the amusement park, a story I’ve heard before. You said that when the child loses sight of his mother, the park transforms from a place of joy to one of fear.
Carrón: Inhospitable.
Cornaggia: You argue that the child’s fear stems from losing the "connection," a term I believe you used. Thus, the symptom is not a deficiency but an expression of a deeper question. However, sometimes we encounter people who seem never to have had that connection, making it difficult for them to experience either the joy of Disneyland or the terror of being lost. Unlike the child who has experienced this connection and can therefore feel both joy and fear, these individuals may struggle to express or distinguish their emotions. So, my question is: Are we dealing with people who have experienced this connection so poorly, or not at all, that they cannot even articulate or differentiate between excitement and fear? If so, what can we do?
Carrón: In the situation you describe, which reflects our current reality, many lack even a basic frame of reference. What is our only hope? Encountering a human presence that transforms reality from inhospitable to welcoming. This presence is not afraid of anxiety or confusion; it is akin to Jesus’ gaze upon people who were like sheep without a shepherd. Only such a presence can establish the "connection" that some have never experienced or known possible. While acknowledging the value of psychological work, we urgently need individuals whose way of living reality introduces others to its meaning upon meeting them. How can we cultivate people who offer not just words or rules, but a presence that makes reality feel like "home"? This is our task. It can be fulfilled by anyone—teachers, parents, psychologists, priests—regardless of profession. The key is generating individuals who, through their presence, help others, from children to adults, reconnect with the entirety of reality.
This is God’s method, though many doubt it. God sent His Son, vulnerable and exposed, to address the world’s condition comprehensively, not partially. Everything Jesus did and said aimed to foster a relationship with the Mystery. It always strikes me that Jesus did not merely address physical hunger; when people sought to make Him king after being fed, He challenged them: "You are looking for Me, not because you saw signs, but because you ate of the loaves and were filled. Do not work for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures to eternal life, which the Son of Man will give you." (40)
When He raised the stakes, many turned away, and He even asked His disciples, "Do you also want to leave?" (41) Only those who had experienced life with Him had a reason to stay. Thus, in our time, we must generate people who can testify to their relationship with reality amidst today’s challenges. We live in an age of "evangelical poverty," as Giussani called it, where generating such presences is crucial. Yet, this approach is often dismissed as "self-referential." By presenting Himself as a human presence and challenging those He met, Jesus pointed to what truly saves life.
We must recognize the nature of our predicament without resorting to inadequate solutions. We face a different hypothesis: God’s incarnation in history. Is this relevant to our situation, or is it outdated? This is the core issue, beyond the roles of psychologists, psychiatrists, priests, or educators. The question is whether this hypothesis is still capable of producing individuals who can confront today’s discomforts.
Cornaggia: Thank you! So, am I correct in understanding that you believe there are no situations where this "I" cannot be awakened?
Carrón: Absolutely not!
Cornaggia: Oh! Thank you!
Carrón: I don’t believe that at all! We cannot reduce a person to their past experiences or circumstances.
Cornaggia: Of course.
Carrón: Why? Because history is replete with attempts to annihilate the human spirit through control and programming, yet these efforts have failed. To erase the "I," one would have to destroy it entirely. You can oppress it, and individuals might submit, but they will never be true to themselves. Thus, the only alternative to external power is the power of the "I." It cannot be suppressed, not even by the person themselves. Our nature is an otherness that we cannot fully control.
We experience symptoms precisely because we are irreducible to them, and this truth is undeniable. Without this understanding, we might as well give up. But I refuse to believe that. Consider the cases you see in your work: people who, against all odds, rediscover their consciousness and rebirth. Even one such case proves that hope exists. Since we witness this, our challenge is to undertake the educational journey we’re called to. We might feel defeated in schools or psychiatric wards if we reduce individuals to their pasts, but that reduction—whether by professionals or patients—will never be the final word. This is a profound cultural debate: Is the human person irreducible? This question can only be answered through lived experience. When you encounter even one person among many who asserts their "I," it demonstrates that it is possible. No reductionist theory can account for that individual.
Cornaggia: Thank you for your emphatic "no." If we didn’t believe in the irreducibility of the "I," we risk creating a new form of reductionism, akin to twentieth-century psychiatry but potentially more harmful.
Carrón: Indeed, it would be worse! That’s why fidelity to experience is essential. Finding even one person who embodies this irreducibility proves it’s possible, even if others are oppressed or self-diminished. One such individual, as Cormac McCarthy might say, "carries the fire," (42) affirming the existence of true humanity.
Notes
1 See C.M. Cornaggia, G. Maspero, F. Peroni, Ansia e idolatria, Inschibboleth, Rome 2024.
2 Cornaggia-Peroni, “Le nuove realtà tra paura, ansia e speranza” (The new realities between fear, anxiety, and hope), in Nuova Atlantide, no. 13/2024.
3 H. Arendt, Between Past and Future, Garzanti, 1991, p. 229.
4 C. Taylor, Questions of Meaning in the Secular Age, Mimesis, p. 34.
5 M. Zambrano, Towards a Knowledge of the Soul, Cortina Editore, Milan 1996, p. 84.
6 C. Taylor, Questions of Meaning in the Secular Age, Mimesis, p. 34.
7 Cornaggia-Peroni, “The New Realities Between Fear, Anxiety, and Hope,” in Nuova Atlantide, no. 13/2024, p. 15.
8 L. Giussani, The Religious Sense, BUR Rizzoli, Milan 2023, p. 139
9 L. Giussani, The Religious Sense, op. cit., p. 48.
10 Marracash, Tutto questo niente – Gli occhi, in Persona, 2019.
11 L. Giussani, “Making Christ Present in Our Flesh, in Every Environment, in Every Human Reality,” in
Litterae Communionis-Tracce, 3/2006, pp. 3-4.
12 H.U. Von Balthasar, “Parola e parola trascendente” [Word and Transcendent Word], in La domanda di Dio dell'uomo contemporaneo [The Question of God in Contemporary Man], Brescia, Queriniana, 2013, p. 127.
13 Ibid.
14 L. Giussani, The Religious Sense, op. cit., p. 162.
15 Ibid.
16 G. Leopardi, Thoughts, LXVIII.
17 G. Leopardi, “On the Portrait of a Beautiful Woman…,” in Dear Beauty, BUR, Milan 1996, p. 97.
18 G. Leopardi, Zibaldone di pensieri, July 12, 1820.
19 Ibid., October 18, 1821.
20 W. Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act I, Scene V.
21 St. Augustine, Confessions, Book XIII, 8,9.
22 St. Augustine, Confessions, Book I, 1.
23 Mt 16:24-26
24 P. Teilhard de Chardin, El medio divino. Ensayo de vida interior, Madrid, 2000, pp. 48-50.
25 St. Bernard, Sermons on the Song of Songs, 84, 1.
26 N. Cabasilas, Life in Christ, Book VI, Chapter X; Book VII, Chapter IV, passim.
27 Cornaggia-Peroni, “The New Realities…,” op. cit., p. 18.
28 Ibid.
29 L. Giussani, notes from a talk given at the Spiritual Exercises for CL university students (Riva del Garda, December 5, 1976); in J. Carrón, “No Gift of Grace Is Missing,” attached to Traces, no. 9/2021, p. 9.
December 1976); in J. Carrón, “Nessun dono di grazia più vi manca,” attached to Tracce, no. 9/2021, p. 9.
30 Ibid., p. 12.
31 L. Giussani – G. Testori, Il senso della nascita, BUR Rizzoli, Milan 2023, p. 78.
32 Ibid., p. 82.
33 Ibid., p. 86.
34 Ibid., p. 87.
35 H.U. Von Balthasar, “Parola e parola…,” op. cit., pp. 139.
36 L. Giussani, “Dalla fede il metodo,” Litterae Communionis-Tracce, 2/1994, p. II.
37 L. Giussani, “Dalla fede il metodo,” in Litterae Communionis-Tracce, 2/1994, pp. II-III.
38 L. Giussani, All'origine della pretesa cristiana, Rizzoli, Milan 2011, p. 108.
39 I. Illich, Too Much Expertise: The Paradox of Disabling Professions, Erickson, 2021.
40 Jn 6:26-27.
41 Jn 6:67.
42 Cf. C. McCarthy, The Way.
Psychological Distress and Postmodernity - Man in a Pathoplastic Society
Speakers: Julián Carrón, Cesare Cornaggia, Giulio Maspero
Moderator: Ubaldo Casotto - Date: March 30, 2025 - Location: Seveso (MI)
