A society that cannot use metaphor is far less free
En España, el parlamento aprobó con 307 votos una proposición no vinculante que prohíbe el uso metafórico de la palabra 'cáncer', alegando proteger el bienestar psicológico de los enfermos. Lo que podría parecer una medida compasiva revela, en su trasfondo, algo más inquietante: la creciente incapacidad colectiva para distinguir entre el dedo que señala y la luna que ilumina. Cuando una sociedad legisla contra la metáfora, no protege a sus ciudadanos —los empobrece, atándolos a una literalidad que es, en sí misma, una forma de censura.
- El parlamento español respaldó con una mayoría aplastante —307 votos frente a 33— una medida que prohíbe usar 'cáncer' como figura retórica, convirtiendo la gestión del lenguaje en política de Estado.
- Lo verdaderamente perturbador no es la norma en sí, sino el consenso que la sostiene: una señal de que la literalidad ha colonizado la forma en que leemos, escuchamos y juzgamos.
- Los políticos, atentos a las nuevas sensibilidades sociales, aprovechan este clima para construir teatro político: poses de protección que distraen de problemas más profundos y menos fotogénicos.
- La autocensura —las obras no escritas, las metáforas no pronunciadas por miedo al escarnio— es más difícil de rescatar que los libros quemados; no deja rastro que recuperar cuando cambian los tiempos.
- La resistencia más eficaz pasa por las aulas: enseñar análisis literario y lectura de clásicos es, hoy, un acto político de primer orden.
La primera vez que vi Fahrenheit 451 en una proyección, salí pensando que quizás debería leer la novela. Nunca me habían atraído las distopías —necesitaba que las historias me parecieran verosímiles para atraparme. Quemar libros me parecía casi pintoresco. Y sin embargo, la ficción nos ha alcanzado.
El gobierno español propuso recientemente una medida no vinculante que prohíbe el uso metafórico de la palabra 'cáncer', argumentando que podría causar daño psicológico a quienes padecen la enfermedad. Lo que podría haber sido un titular de periódico satírico se convirtió en algo mucho más revelador al pasar por el parlamento con 307 votos a favor. La amplitud del respaldo fue el verdadero golpe.
Siempre se ha considerado peligrosa la literatura —Umberto Eco nos lo recordó, y también el pánico moral que estalló cuando se descubrió que ciertos asesinos en serie poseían El guardián entre el centeno. Pero hay una diferencia crucial entre la censura institucional, que entierra manuscritos en archivos polvorientos, y la autocensura: las obras nunca escritas porque sus autores temen el ridículo público. Estas últimas no pueden rescatarse cuando cae un régimen.
Hace poco leí una columna sobre el arte de morir bien. La autora usaba una metáfora transparente; cuando dijo que 'admiraba' a quienes morían así, quería decir que los envidiaba. Los lectores lo tomaron al pie de la letra. En Instagram, la acusaron de burlarse de quienes agonizan lentamente. El sentido se disolvió en el literalismo.
Nos hemos acostumbrado tanto a leerlo todo como hecho que, cuando alguien señala la luna, miramos el dedo. Los políticos han notado este desplazamiento —son más sensibles a las corrientes sociales de lo que les reconocemos. Saben que una medida contundente e inaplicable funciona como teatro político: les permite posar de protectores frente al peligroso poder de las palabras.
Por eso las escuelas necesitan seguir enseñando análisis literario y por eso los estudiantes necesitan leer los clásicos. El daño reside en la intención, no en las palabras elegidas. Restringir artificialmente el lenguaje es un juego de manos que puede parecer inofensivo o incluso gracioso, pero apunta hacia algo genuinamente aterrador. Una sociedad que no puede usar ni comprender la metáfora es una sociedad mucho menos libre.
The first time I watched Fahrenheit 451 at a film screening, I left the theater thinking I might finally read the novel—though I'd never been drawn to dystopias. I needed stories to feel plausible to grip me, and science fiction had always felt too distant. What genuinely unsettled me was a different film entirely, one about real unemployment and real despair. The idea of burning books seemed almost quaint by comparison. Yet here we are, and the fiction has caught up.
Spain's government recently proposed a non-binding measure that reads like satire: a ban on metaphorical language. Specifically, the word "cancer" can no longer be used figuratively, in the pejorative sense. The reasoning is that such usage might cause psychological harm to people living with the disease. What might have seemed like a headline from a satirical newspaper became something far more striking when it passed through parliament with 307 votes in favor, 33 against, and 6 abstentions. The breadth of support was the real shock.
Literature has always been considered dangerous—Umberto Eco reminded us of that, as did the moral panic that erupted when serial killers were found to own copies of The Catcher in the Rye. Irene Vallejo's acclaimed work on the history of reading explores this phenomenon at length. But there is a difference between institutional censorship, which hides manuscripts in dusty warehouses, and self-censorship—the works never written because creators fear public ridicule. The second kind cannot be rescued when a regime falls.
Not long ago, I read a column about the art of dying well: how to approach death quickly and painlessly, without prolonging suffering for oneself or one's family. The author noted this was an art not everyone could learn—the metaphor was transparent, since no one chooses how they die. When she said she "admired" those who died well, she meant she envied them. But readers took it literally. On Instagram, commenters accused the newspaper of publishing something that mocked people facing slow, agonizing deaths. Some called the author heartless. The meaning dissolved in the literalism.
We have become so accustomed to reading everything as fact that when someone points at the moon, we stare at their finger. We cannot abstract, cannot grasp the general idea or the writer's intent. Politicians have noticed this shift—they are more attuned to social currents than we give them credit for. Worried about future elections, aware of how we respond to new sensitivities, they understand that a blunt, unenforceable measure can work as political theater and smoke screen. It lets them pose as protectors, standing between us and the dangerous power of words.
This proposition is precisely why schools need to keep teaching literary analysis and why students need to read the classics. What would Quevedo make of all this? The harm lies in intention, not in the words chosen. To threaten danger over this word or that, to artificially restrict language, is a sleight of hand that may seem harmless or even funny—but it points toward something genuinely frightening. A society that cannot use or understand metaphor is a society far less free. To force us into literalism is to bind our feet with chains made of language itself.
Citas Notables
The harm lies in intention, not in the words chosen— Irene López Cortijo, author
To force us into literalism is to bind our feet with chains made of language itself— Irene López Cortijo, author
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why does a ban on metaphorical language feel different from other forms of censorship?
Because it attacks the mechanism itself—not what you say, but how you're allowed to think about saying it. It's censorship of abstraction.
But couldn't someone argue they're just protecting vulnerable people from harm?
That's the seduction of it. The intention sounds compassionate. But harm comes from cruelty, not from the shape of a sentence. Banning the word doesn't change someone's malice—it just makes us all less able to speak precisely.
You mentioned that readers completely misread a column about dying well. Is that the real problem—that we've lost the ability to read carefully?
Partly. But it's also that we've been trained to read defensively, looking for offense rather than meaning. Politicians see that and exploit it. They pass measures like this knowing they'll never enforce them, but they get to look like they're on the right side.
So this is really about politics, not protection?
It's about both. The politics works because there's a real shift happening—we're becoming more literal, more suspicious of nuance. Politicians just accelerate what's already there.
What happens to a language that loses its metaphors?
It loses its ability to think new thoughts. Metaphor is how we understand one thing through another. Without it, we're trapped in what already exists.