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The book of the philosopher Simone Weil "Gravity and grace" is a compilation of scattered texts, gathered after her death. One can read this: "We possess nothing in the world- a mere chance can strip us of everything- except the power to say ‘I’."
I put the house in order, took the sheets off the furniture, swept the dust off the floor. The ceiling was in heaven, the floor was anchored to the earth, the walls were unbreachable. There were two large paintings in the living room, each occupying an entire wall.
The etymology of the word paradise probably comes from the ancient Persian "pairi-daeza", meaning an enclosed space. Later, the Persian word "pardez" designates a closed garden, royal or princely, where wild animals live. Through time, the enclosed nature of paradise has been remarkably preserved. Beyond the thin and fragile layer of the earth's atmosphere, there is only an extraordinarily hostile space, nothing living within the reach of human life.
One represented the wind blowing over a sea of clouds.
I couldn't explain how I felt that wind. As I reached out my hand to the painting, it was as if it was my own breath that I felt running over my skin. Suddenly the window slammed open and a gust of wind and dust filled the room. Where do these winds of light, these winds of dust, these winds of particles, these magnetic winds, swirling in the darkness, come from? Where does this cyclopean energy come from? We live in the middle of this maelstrom of dimensions that we do not comprehend, protected by the walls of our tiny garden. And everything seems to be done so that we forget it.
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