He who looks from without through an open window never sees as many
things as he who looks at a closed window. There is no object more
profound, more mysterious, more rich, more shadowy, more dazzling than a
window lighted by a candle. What one can see in the sunlight is always
less interesting than what takes place behind a blind. In that dark or
luminous hole life lives, dreams, suffers.
Over the sea of roofs I see a woman, mature, already wrinkled, always
bent over something, never going out. From her clothes, her movement,
from almost nothing, I have reconstructed the history of this woman, or
rather her legend, and sometimes I tell it over to myself in tears.
If it had been a poor old man I could have reconstructed his story as
easily.
And I go to bed, proud of having lived and suffered in lives not my own.
Perhaps you may say, "Are you sure that this story is the true one?"
What difference does it make what is the reality outside of me, if it
has helped me to live, to know who I am and what I am?