Rosso agrodolce

James Hillman and the Courage to Inhabit One’s Life Some books have entered my life like quiet guests. They made no noise, claimed no power to change me, and offered no formula for happiness. And yet, when I finished reading them, something inside me was no longer quite in its place. Or perhaps, paradoxically, it finally found where it truly belonged. Puer aeternus by James Hillman was one such book for me. It is not merely a psychological essay. For me, it was one of those readings that ends up turning into a mirror—and not always a flattering one. We recognize ourselves in a trait, in an evasion, in a stubborn hope, in that subtle art we all share of postponing life while waiting to finally be ready to live it. Because sometimes, the problem is not failing to know what we desire; it is desiring it without being willing to pay the price required to make it real. The Seduction of the Infinite The puer aeternus, the eternal youth, is an archetypal figure that Hillman contrasts with its opposite, the senex: the old man, the principle of maturity, measure, endurance, and responsibility. The puer thrives on possibility. He sees the world as an open expanse, a horizon where anything can happen. He has not yet made a definitive choice, and for that very reason, he feels he possesses everything. Every path can be traveled, every project remains intact, every possible life retains the allure of a promise. There is something profoundly beautiful in this disposition of the soul. Without the puer, we would lose the capacity to imagine, to feel enthusiasm, to start anew, to break free from the routines that turn existence into a bureaucratic chore. But there is a cost. As long as we linger in the realm of possibilities, no choice can truly disappoint us. The life we imagine never encounters the friction of real life. It knows nothing of daily toil, imperfection, compromise, or responsibility toward others. It is, so to speak, an untouched world—precisely because it has never been inhabited. And so it can happen that freedom, instead of becoming a constructive force, turns into an exquisite form of escape. We can spend years preparing our life, chasing ideal conditions, imagining the best version of ourselves. We wait for the right moment, the right opportunity, the right inner frame of mind. Meanwhile, real life—which has terrible manners and no regard for our plans—keeps unfolding. Inner youth is a gift. Youth used as an alibi can become a prison. The Necessary Betrayal One of the book’s most profound insights is its reflection on betrayal and the necessity of shedding certain illusions in order to become an adult. There are moments when the world fails to keep the promises we projected onto it. Figures we deemed invulnerable reveal their limits. Authorities in whom we placed absolute trust prove imperfect. Our expectations collide with reality. That does not mean every disappointment is justified, nor that every wound is necessary. It would be too simplistic to turn suffering into a school to which we owe gratitude. Yet, certain illusions must fall away so that we can stop living by proxy. As long as we wait for someone to grant us permission to become ourselves, we remain dependent on an approval that may never come. As long as we demand that life hand us ideal conditions, we risk evading responsibility for the real ones. The betrayal of certain expectations can then prompt a decisive question: who are we when we can no longer identify with what we imagined? It is an uncomfortable question, because it strips away the refuge of excuses. But it can also be a liberating one. It compels us to distinguish authentic desire from idealization, vocation from fantasy, freedom from the mere avoidance of commitments. Perhaps growing up also means this: to stop waiting for the world to rise to our dreams, and to begin asking ourselves what we are prepared to do, here and now, with what the world gives us. The Senex Is Not the Enemy of the Puer I believe it would be a mistake to read Hillman as an invitation to suppress the youth living inside us. We have no need to turn into gray, efficient creatures devoid of wonder. The world is already crowded enough with them. The point is something else entirely: learning to hold together the openness of the puer and the endurance of the senex. The puer desires. The senex builds. The puer imagines the journey. The senex understands that one must pack the bags, check the route, and accept unforeseen events. The puer loves beginnings. The senex knows how to stay when the initial excitement has faded and the less glamorous labor of constancy begins. It is not a matter of determining which of the two is right. A life without the puer loses the capacity for renewal; a life without the senex risks restarting incessantly without ever arriving anywhere. Maturity, then, does not mean abandoning our dreams, but transforming them into something capable of withstanding time. This is where Hillman’s thought challenged me most deeply: how often do we call our difficulty in choosing 'freedom'? How often do we defend our authenticity merely because we fear testing it against reality? And how many possibilities do we keep open just to avoid discovering whether we are truly capable of bringing even one to fruition? These are not questions to be answered once and for all. They are questions worthy of walking beside us. Growing Old Without Growing Old Within There is a difference between growing older and growing old on the inside. One can be young and already have surrendered all capacity for change. One can walk through the later chapters of life keeping curiosity, the capacity for wonder, and the appetite to understand what is not yet known fully intact. Time does not automatically grant wisdom. It can make us more self-aware, but it can also harden us in our certainties. It is not enough to have lived long; one must also have let what was lived do its work within us. In this sense, the puer is not merely a phase to outgrow. It is a presence to be nurtured, a wellspring to be protected without letting it govern our entire existence on its own. Perhaps true youth lies in never abandoning the possibility of becoming different. But true maturity lies in allowing that possibility to take on concrete form, with all its limits and consequences. Because a life spent entirely on keeping one’s possibilities intact risks, in the end, fulfilling none of them. And so I understand why this book left such a mark on me. It did not tell me to stop dreaming. It forced me to examine the relationship between my dreams and my life, between who I imagine myself to be and who, day after day, I choose to become. It reminded me that there is a form of eternity that does not consist of staying young forever, but of continuing to transform without ever ceasing to be alive. The boy inside us deserves to be heard. But he cannot expect to remain the sole master of the house forever. Sooner or later, he too must learn to inhabit the world. And, ideally, to pay the bills.