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The thirst for knowledge

I’ve eat­en anoth­er book in two days. My vaca­tion, which is com­ing to an end, could be summed up as sleep, read, eat, read, sleep. I still washed the win­dows of the house in antic­i­pa­tion of the win­ter that would close them all. I also lived with my neigh­bours, as we usu­al­ly do. A Net­flix or Apple+ series under our eyes, laugh­ter and gos­sip. I also helped one of them with a web page prob­lem. I did my gro­cery shop­ping, watched the neigh­bours. One of them has ren­o­vat­ed a lot and bought some nice and expen­sive appli­ances. Mon­ey grab ?

But most of the time was spent read­ing pro­pos­als on the inter­pre­ta­tion of the uni­verse ; the lat­est book dealt with the his­to­ry of quan­tum physics with a title that per­haps promised more than it could deliv­er : What is real ?, by Alan Beck­er. As soon as I fin­ished read­ing it, I went to the vir­u­lent reviews writ­ten by peo­ple more qual­i­fied than me to dis­cuss it. The pre­vi­ous books, three by Lan­za (1, 2, 3), deal­ing with his bio­cen­tric pro­pos­al, those by Las­z­lo (1, 2) propos­ing a more mag­i­cal-sci­en­tif­ic-lyri­cal ver­sion around the akashic field, have informed me and left me hungry.

The quan­tum adven­ture is fab­u­lous. The read­ing of Beck­er’s book and the pre­vi­ous ones showed me that all is not played in the com­pre­hen­sion of the famous why and how.

At the begin­ning of each read­ing, I am like the young lover who believes that his ecsta­sy will last for­ev­er. In the mid­dle of the task, I become the lover who wants more and demands more. At the end, I am this tired body, pris­on­er of its final­i­ty. I am then per­haps a lit­tle wis­er, the fer­vour of my pas­sion trans­formed into an old snake­skin left on the ground for the plea­sure of greedy bacteria.

It is as if, dur­ing the first pages, I was endowed with promis­ing and vibrant wings until the heat of my igno­rance came to burn each feath­er that com­pos­es them. By dint of try­ing new feath­ers, I man­aged to glide and thus soft­en the fall with time.

Then I open an umpteenth book or write a few sen­tences before going back to sleep.

Dur­ing the dreams, the adven­tures are dif­fer­ent, rein­vent­ing them­selves. The birds are some­times naked or dressed in human armour. Pos­si­bil­i­ties and prob­a­bil­i­ties have a field day. There is this intense obsti­na­cy in poets that leads them to sur­round them­selves with clouds when they wake up. We, the so-called ordi­nary peo­ple, the physi­cists who keep silent and cal­cu­late, prob­a­bly imi­tate them a lit­tle. Hap­py peo­ple who, with­out cov­er­ing their ears, man­age to dance on the ten­u­ous thread of mystery ?

What could I read now ?

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