If a tree falls into a forest and no one is there to listen to it, does the tree make noise? The question was asked by the philosopher George Berkeley. Now I do not remember – I would have to consult him – what he was responding to, nor what path he would propose in order to demonstrate his response. I would not know what to answer, among other things, because the current technology (the one that could make you see/hear the landing of the tree through a closed TV circuit or measure noise in decibels without presence) and the literary theory (the Aesthetics of the Reception, for example, says that the writing does not exist without a reader) seem to contradict.

I have another question: if someone tells a completely empty thing, a non-verifiable thing that goes nowhere and does not affect anything, without what has actually happened, does he lie? I think it is clearly not. To prove this, as Iñigo Astiz in his book of poems Also Residues, I will do an experiment, taking as an example a situation I have at my disposal:

A friend has called me to take something and in the end I have decided to stay at home because I have to write an article (not this) that I have delayed and out of the lead time. I could justify myself by saying this, but like the other day I told her this, I could be mongered or believe that I try to distinguish myself, because she also writes and has never come to me with that kind of chucherías. That is why I have given him another excuse, not decisive, but which, nevertheless, is also the truth. “I’ve hit my left foot hard, I’ve got my fingers purple and everything. As I got out of the tub, I slipped and I hit the stove with all my strength. I've seen sparks," I said, and he, knowing that I'm hemophilic, as you would expect, told me that it's better to take care of the blow.

I hung up and laughed. The friend will never know, he will never know, nor will anyone know that the bruising of the fingers has not done so, but that he has been barefoot, in search of a date, for having gone to take a fat book of a high shelf and have fallen on my feet. I can now mention exactly which book the blood produced to me. I can say that it has been The World of Sofia by Jostein Gaarder, but I do not want anyone to know that my knowledge of philosophy comes from a young people's informative book, that is, from Berkeley, etc. And also, as I am demonstrating (and that is the basis of the fraud of autophobia! ), there is no truth or lie in matters that only one knows; the only criterion is the one that best fits history.

However, now comes the final test. I have passed the previous text to my friend, have I really slipped into the bathtub or the book fell on my foot? if you are able to detect it.

“Yes, the two are lies,” he replied, “and not only that, all the rest of the text is false: that day we left juerga and the delayed article we have to write is this. Fuck, dude, you put me in a self-referential text!”

“How did you know?”

“Are you staying at home? There's no one who believed it. Self-fication also has its limits.”

“What a sharp eye you have. At least, you deserve to be offered the next article.”

(Dedicated to Iñigo Astiz)