One nineteen sixty-eight for another nineteen sixty-nine tying a faint sheaf of seasons and firing three, perhaps four, generations of astonished, vanished men.

Owned with hanging curls, parchments on their palms with electronic screens at a close distance to strike the drowsy imagination, surfacing from dusty desks to explain, make understand, interpret, guide, without visibly trampling the step on the line of information to be consumed as culture, training, politics and history.
And so, the languages, which destroy words, fall in cascades, and the already happened empties into the present, which is already happening.
No memory can resist the blows of time launched onto the tomorrow in its remnant possibilities of long, medium and brief duration. Languages do not tell what has been; they resound like profound echoes in the shadows of the memory.

For many of us, these two years completed in themselves were the first, for others they will also have been the last. But they will not fall onto the vertical of intelligence; and they do not press on the conscience with equal quality.
Can we wait for the judgment of "history"?
When it can be organically conceived, it will be language and words, above all, that will be measured again.

"On its level, the level of truth - said Lefebre - intrigues intersect. The ideas have started to become useful. To whom? In what way? Conscious strategies? Manipulations? The ideas lose all innocence, becoming tangles of vipers".

Any projection on a wave, despite being long, does not stabilise the fibrillations of the immediate contingent. The conscience that we all have of ourselves is the highest vertex of the parabola of our instabilities. Yet it is also a realistic landing point, which measures our level of awareness, and without which in any case, we could not be without.

The duty to remember is a monotonous answer
And we remember Piazza Fontana, the winter of sixty nine; and the men, parts of that May at university, at school and in the streets, not in Europe alone, whilst we cast into our memory the months and days of the last Chinese nineteen eighty-nine, which are before the present.
For Hegel, the conscience feeds the moments of previous existences within the memory.
Yet, the memories distort any lived possibility on incoherent plains. Conscience is always a conscience of a particular, singular self, unable to return the self conscience in a multiple spectography. What we think we have lived is simply a cloud full of fog, which overlooks the individual presence.

"In the figure that appears again - said Hegel - in the perspective of development conscience can find neither expansion nor specification of content; all the more so, it lacks that formal refinement, by virtue of which differences are determined and ordered in their solid relations".
And the idealistic coincidences of overlapping rationality and reality are pre-announced.

Autumn nineteen sixty-nine.
At the end of the season defined in Italy as "hot" by collective conventions, reality plunged and rationality was powerless in the dialectic recovery of a total caesura.
What rationality can ever illuminate with a consequential link of snaps | May sixty-eight | autumn sixty-nine | Fontana Square |? Collective and individual self conscience, questioned in the accumulation of events, explode onto the tangent of the first months of nineteen sixty-eight and fall back parabolically onto the ellipse of the same first months of nineteen sixty-nine.

Two years completed in themselves in the every day memories?
Yes, in the sense of non inclusion of that polychrome two-year period in the meshes of the chain of causes; the ones which rust after being freed by the imagination, and weigh down the limbs of science and culture. Yes, also, if it goes for everyone and every thing, to re-read sources and previous motivations.
In January sixty-eight the ruptures, resting silently, were ready to be fulfilled and precede the zero from which to start again. The forecast kept silent on the scenarios that were ready to open up and set to close swiftly in between the scenes.
Meanwhile, the professional historians and humanists, fed on the twentieth century were singing the epic deeds of the sixties that were no more.

The shadows vanish with the rising day but every mother knows how to listen to her children's steps.