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 ?
