My stay at the Mittag-Leffler Institute (in the suburb of Stockholm) comes to its end. I spent there almost two months. It is difficult to express how wonderful this period was without feeling sadness. It seems that I was free to think. No. I should rather say that I felt freedom.  In the core of the library, hidding in the tower, and surrounded by old books, sitting at the piano, walking on the coast, listening to the whisperings of a melting sea breaking the perfect reflection of a nordic sky.

After tomorrow, I will be back to the “real world”. But, aren’t dreams more real than reality? Probably, I will continue to live in a dream of life, and try to share the same dream with others. Until when? Will I see again this island and its surprising inhabitants? Who knows?

I feel as if I were abandoning a temporary love. But I did not only like the people I met there, I also liked the time we spent together discussing about mathematics. Mathematics is entangled in eternity, and when we think together in time, we experience our true nature.

Six years ago, I got the same impression when I was about to leave. I was not only leaving a charming house and beautiful people: I was also leaving an old me behind and about to (re)discover extraordinary people. Without dying to myself, I would have probably been unable to contemplate the touching spectacle of human relationships. This time, which beauty will I meet? Will “I” be, in six years?

My ephemeral boat is waiting on a poisoned river, under the laws of a crystalline sky.

Comment inaugurer ce nouveau blog ? La tâche n’est pas aisée. Et, pour commencer, pourquoi ce titre La rose est sans pourquoi ? Pourquoi l’avoir cueilli chez Angelus Silesius ? D’une lecture à l’autre, de conversations en conversations, au gré du hasard, la rose s’en est allée, puis est revenue, comme une question. Fleur vagabonde. Toujours semblable et toujours différente, elle renaît chaque année. Sans pourquoi, elle passe, sans début, sans fin, en souriant aux subjectivités illusoires. Toujours prête à tirer sa révérence, la rose dure au-delà d’elle-même ; elle consent à l’irréversible en cédant mollement pétale après pétale. Sans pourquoi, elle est étrangère à la vie, à l’intelligence et à la beauté.