The one who looks in an open window from outside never sees
as many things as the one who looks at a closed window. There is
no deeper, more mysterious, more fertile, more shadowy, more
dazzling object than a window lit by a candle. What one can see in
sunlight is always less interesting than what is taking place behind
a window. In that black or luminous hole life is being lived, life is
dreaming, life is suffering.
Beyond waves of roofs I see a mature woman, already wrinkled,
poor, always bending over something, and who never goes out.
With her face, her dress, her gesture, with almost nothing, I have
reconstructed the history of that woman, or rather her story, and
sometimes I tell it to myself in tears.
If it had been a poor old man, I would have done the same just
And I go to bed, proud of having lived and suffered in others
as for myself.
Perhaps you will say to me: ,,Are you sure that this story is the
true one?” What does it matter what the reality outside myself may
be, if it has helped me to live, to know that I am and what I am?