Most of the figures that pop up in media chatter and feed the hottest online forums are people who keep the conversation going. In the days of the Daily Courant, scholars regarded it as the earliest newspaper designed to capture rapid events in 1702. It remains a valuable resource for historians, offering analysis, ideas, and interpretation while events unfold. And it reminds us that tomorrow will bring more to consider.
Some of today’s influential voices—those who have become almost psychic presences in public discourse—might be erased from bibliographies in two or three centuries. Or at least they will fade from casual conversation. I don’t know the speaker of the parliamentary commission; I don’t know how many Foreign Ministers there are; I don’t know the mayor who preens with words rather than deeds. There are judges who render questionable rulings, influencers and YouTube hosts, macho talk show hosts, pop stars who speak out against sweeping political waves. If we’re honest, society often magnifies the trivial and the transient while erasing those who leave no enduring mark on history.
No one will recall those who started the latest trend or nested within follower culture. If, as Vargas Llosa suggested, today’s Nobel Prize winners in Literature may have zero readers in the future, try finding a Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson title in a bookstore and imagine future references to many who read it daily. On the floor of Congress, with claims that echo Julius Caesar, history would convict rather than absolve. Forgetting becomes a form of punishment.
Recently, a New Year’s concert at the National Auditorium brought Josep Vicent to the podium. He’s a distinguished conductor who carries the aura of a rock star—a sort of Star Man of classical music. He led the ADDA Simfònica, a 76-piece ensemble, in performances that were so in-demand they left pieces unsold the next day. The great composers—Ravel, Falla, Sibelius, Shostakovich—will continue to be celebrated as long as conductors like Altean keep the flame alive, even if cities seem dystopian. As social media fills with chatter about “El Yoyas,” Ravel’s presence still resonates in the concert hall. Looking ahead, it seems the Alicante maestro’s orchestra could outlive today’s fleeting trends, while those ephemeral voices may fade like Bjørnson, leaving little trace behind. It’s a stark reminder of fragility in fame.
Society tends to pay attention to people who leave nothing behind when they disappear, to the special names that pass through life as moments of transition toward oblivion. A score that has been interpreted for centuries can be immortalized by Unamuno’s phrase about the eternal struggle not to perish. The day has an expiry date for individuals, not for art or ideas. So why chase after mediocrity? Greta Thunberg will be remembered for her climate activism, while a figure in a dressing gown with a sports car might be forgotten. While Nadal’s triumphs at Roland Garros and Champions League victories endure, Falla and Ravel remain fixed in the cultural atmosphere; even fictional characters like Mr. Usher Man, Major Tom, and Penelope live on in memory, as Serrat’s voice surfaces as a lasting beacon somewhere beyond the stage.
What kind of legacy will the opposition leave, especially when it owes its momentary rise to the agenda or to divided government members who stumble during voting? It’s likely that names like Risto Mejide, the “El Yoyas” crew, and other symbols of a noisy movement will be remembered only as footnotes in the broader story.
The strangers of today become the immortals of tomorrow. From them we will inherit vaccines, breakthroughs, extraordinary inventions, expeditions to Mars, enduring novels, films, masterworks of art, and cures for cancer. Lesser-known names will fill encyclopedias and anchor mathematical formulas and physical principles. They will have lived in the radiant, enduring glow of a comet, while the minor figures pass through life with brief, bright bursts that eventually fade like meteorites, leaving only a trace in memory.