‘THE DREAM OF A RIDICULOUS MAN’ & THE HUMAN SOUL

Claire Fontaine and The Grandma share many interests -among them, a love of literature- and if there is one author they both consider pivotal, it is Fyodor Dostoevsky.

Today, Claire has decided to reread The Dream of a Ridiculous Man, the English version of Сон смешного человека.

Few writers have explored the contradictions of the human mind as profoundly as Fyodor Dostoevsky. His characters are rarely simple heroes or villains. They are complex individuals, torn between reason and emotion, pride and humiliation, selfishness and compassion, despair and hope.

Published in 1877 as part of A Writer's Diary, The Dream of a Ridiculous Man is one of Dostoevsky's most remarkable psychological and philosophical short stories. Through the confession of an unnamed narrator, the Russian author invites us to explore the darkest corners of human consciousness and the extraordinary possibility of moral transformation.

At the beginning of the story, the narrator describes himself as a ridiculous man. He believes that everyone laughs at him, although the deepest source of his suffering is not society's judgement but his own perception of himself. He has gradually become indifferent to everything around him. Nothing seems important. Nothing has meaning. Even his own existence has lost its value. From a psychological perspective, his condition resembles a profound existential crisis, accompanied by emotional detachment, isolation and a loss of purpose.

Dostoevsky portrays a man who has not simply lost faith in society but has lost his connection with humanity itself. His intellectual convictions have become a prison. He believes that nothing matters, yet his suffering reveals that he has not entirely escaped the human need for meaning.

One of the most psychologically significant moments occurs when a desperate little girl approaches the narrator, begging him to help her dying mother. He rejects her. However, the encounter awakens something he believed he had lost: his conscience. Why should he feel guilty if nothing matters? Why should another person's suffering disturb him if he has already decided that existence is meaningless? This contradiction is essential to understanding Dostoevsky's psychology. The little girl represents the emotional and moral connection that survives beneath the narrator's apparent indifference. His reason tells him that nothing matters, but his conscience refuses to accept it.

In Dostoevsky's universe, human beings are never entirely governed by intellectual theories. Emotions, memories, guilt and compassion continually challenge the explanations we construct about ourselves.

That night, the narrator experiences an extraordinary dream. He imagines his own death and finds himself transported to another world, a place inhabited by people who live in harmony, innocence and mutual affection. Initially, this world appears to represent everything humanity has lost: trust, simplicity, emotional honesty and a natural connection with others. Yet the dream gradually becomes disturbing. The narrator believes that his presence introduces corruption into this innocent society. Lies appear, followed by jealousy, pride, violence and suffering. Psychologically, the dream can be interpreted as a projection of his deepest fears about human nature. The man who believed himself insignificant suddenly imagines himself responsible for the moral destruction of an entire civilisation. His dream reveals the extraordinary tension between his feelings of worthlessness and his sense of moral responsibility. It also exposes one of Dostoevsky's central concerns: human beings possess both the capacity to destroy innocence and the capacity to recognise the consequences of their actions.

Guilt is one of the most powerful forces in Dostoevsky's fiction. His characters frequently struggle with the distance between what they believe and what they feel, between the justifications they invent and the moral truths they cannot completely silence. In The Dream of a Ridiculous Man, guilt becomes the beginning of transformation. The narrator discovers that knowledge alone cannot save humanity. Intellectual superiority does not necessarily produce wisdom, and reason without compassion can become another form of isolation. What changes him is not an argument but an emotional experience. He begins to understand that love is not merely an abstract ideal. It is a responsibility towards other human beings. His transformation is therefore both psychological and ethical. He moves from indifference to empathy, from isolation to connection, and from despair to the possibility of hope.

Perhaps the most fascinating question concerns the narrator's own identity. At the beginning, he considers himself ridiculous because he feels alienated from society. At the end, society continues to consider him ridiculous because he has discovered a truth that others refuse to recognise. The judgement remains the same, but its psychological meaning changes completely. He no longer needs society's approval to believe in the value of his existence. His identity is no longer defined exclusively by the opinions of others. The man who once wanted to escape humanity now wants to dedicate his life to it.

Dostoevsky does not suggest that this transformation will be easy. The narrator knows that people may laugh at him, reject his message or consider him mad. Nevertheless, he chooses to continue.

What makes Dostoevsky's characters so fascinating is their refusal to fit into simple psychological categories. They can be cruel and compassionate, arrogant and insecure, rational and irrational, sometimes within the same moment. The Ridiculous Man is no exception. His story reminds us that human identity is not fixed. Our convictions can collapse, our emotions can contradict our beliefs, and even our darkest experiences can force us to reconsider our relationship with the world.

Ultimately, The Dream of a Ridiculous Man is not simply a story about despair or a dream of paradise. It is a profound exploration of the human need for connection.

Dostoevsky presents a disturbing but hopeful possibility: perhaps the greatest transformation does not occur when we understand the world intellectually, but when we rediscover our capacity to care about the people who inhabit it.

The Ridiculous Man begins his journey believing that nothing matters. He ends it believing that every human being matters. And perhaps that is the most extraordinary psychological transformation of all.

More information: The Philosopher

Я вдруг почувствовал, что мне всё равно было бы, 
существовал ли бы мир или если 

б нигде ничего не было.

 

I suddenly felt that it was all the same to me 

whether the world existed or 

whether there had never been anything at all.

Fyodor Dostoevsky

A JEWISH GIRL'S LIFE BEHIND THE WALLS OF THE CALL

Today, Joseph de Ca'th Lon has got up early to go for a run before catching a train from Lyon to Girona, where Claire Fontaine and The Grandma were waiting for him around midday.

They want to visit this beautiful city, the Jewish Quarter in particular, a fascinating and enigmatic place where history and faith are inextricably intertwined. The plan is to have lunch in the Jewish Quarter and then head down to Barcelona, ​​where they are set to join some fifty thousand other people to enjoy a Clásico, a match expected to be difficult, yet no less thrilling.

While waiting for their friend, The Grandma couldn't help but wonder what life might have been like for an ordinary young woman in this Jewish Quarter centuries ago, before she was forced to abandon her home and her land.

More information: 'El Call de Girona', The Medieval Jewish Quarter

Musings of The Grandma... 

Girona, Catalunya, around 1450.

My name is Esther. I am sixteen years old, and I live in Girona. I am Jewish. I am Catalan. I am a daughter of this city.

Every morning, I wake up to the sounds of the narrow streets of the Call, the Jewish quarter where my family lives. Beyond our door, neighbours greet one another, merchants prepare their goods, and the familiar noises of everyday life fill the air. Our streets are narrow, but our world is not small.

My father works to support our family. Like many members of our community, he knows the importance of trade, craftsmanship and the relationships that connect us to the wider city. My mother manages our household and teaches me the traditions that she learnt from her own mother. She tells me that memory is something we must carry carefully.

Friday is a special day in our home. As evening approaches, we prepare for Shabbat, the sacred day of rest. The ordinary rhythm of the week gives way to prayer, family and reflection. Our celebrations follow the Jewish calendar. We remember the Exodus during Passover, welcome the Jewish New Year at Rosh Hashanah, and gather for other festivals that connect us with generations who lived long before us. Food, prayers, family stories and familiar gestures help preserve our identity.

Our community has its own religious institutions. The synagogue is a place of worship, study and gathering. The ritual bath, or mikveh, is part of Jewish religious life, particularly important in traditions concerning family purity. These places are not simply buildings. They are part of the way we understand ourselves.

I know that Girona is more than the Call. Christians and Jews inhabit the same city, and our lives are connected through work, commerce and daily encounters. Yet we do not enjoy the same rights, and the boundaries between our communities are not always easy to cross. Our elders remember the terrible violence of 1391. Since then, our community has become smaller and more vulnerable. Some families have left. Others have converted to Christianity, sometimes under pressure. There are stories that adults discuss quietly, especially when they think children are not listening. I do not know what the future will bring. I only know that this is my home.

What remains of Esther's Girona?

Girona, twenty-first century.

Esther never existed as a documented historical person. Yet girls like her lived in these streets, celebrated their festivals, learnt family traditions and witnessed the changing fortunes of their community.

Today, visitors can still walk through the narrow streets of Girona's Jewish quarter, particularly around Carrer de la Força.

The Museum of Jewish History, housed in buildings associated with the last medieval synagogue, preserves objects, documents and memories of a community that contributed profoundly to the city's cultural and economic development. Among its most moving remains is a fifteenth-century mikveh, rediscovered in 2014. The surviving ritual bath offers a rare material connection to the religious lives of Jewish women. The museum also preserves Hebrew funerary inscriptions from Girona's medieval Jewish cemetery on Montjuïc, reminders that these were real families who lived, loved, worked and died in this city.

In 1492, the decree issued by the Catholic Monarchs forced Jews who wished to remain Jewish to leave their kingdoms. For Girona's medieval Jewish community, it marked the end of centuries of established communal life. But it did not erase its history.

When we study medieval Jewish Girona, we often encounter the names of celebrated scholars, rabbis and intellectuals. Yet history also belongs to those whose names have disappeared. To the women who prepared the Sabbath meal. To the girls who grew up in the narrow streets. To the mothers who passed on prayers, customs and stories. To the families who considered Girona their home.

Esther is imaginary, but the world she represents was real. And perhaps that is why walking through the Call can be such a moving experience. We are not simply visiting old buildings. We are entering a place where human lives unfolded, where traditions survived from one generation to another, and where a community helped shape the identity of an entire city.

The Jewish history of Girona is not a separate chapter from the history of Girona. It is part of Girona itself and also part of Catalunya.

More information: Museu d'Història dels Jueus

Vaig deixar la meva família. Vaig abandonar casa meva. 
Allà, amb els meus fills i filles, 
aquelles criatures estimades que havia criat 
sobre els meus genolls, també hi vaig deixar l'ànima.

I left my family. I forsook my house. 
There, with my sons and daughters, 
the sweet, dear children whom I brought up 
on my knees, I left also my soul.

Mossé ben Nahman (Bonastruc ça Porta)

MEDITERRANEAN PREDATORS & PREY, HOW TO SURVIVE

Today, Claire Fontaine and The Grandma are exploring the underwater world of El Port de la Selva, discovering how marine creatures have developed extraordinary strategies to survive.

Autumn has arrived on the Catalan coast. While the villages prepare to celebrate La Castanyada, the traditional festival of chestnuts, they have decided to look for a rather different kind of chestnut: the sea urchin, known in Catalan as garota, garoina or eriçó de mar.

Beneath the waters of El Port de la Selva, where the Mediterranean meets the rugged landscape of Cap de Creus, another world exists. It is a world of extraordinary beauty, but also one of constant danger. Every creature that inhabits it faces the same fundamental challenge: how to survive. In the ocean, being a predator does not prevent an animal from becoming prey. Evolution has therefore produced an astonishing variety of defensive strategies, from camouflage and poisonous spines to electric shocks and clouds of ink.

The common octopus (Octopus vulgaris) is one of the Mediterranean's most fascinating inhabitants. Without a protective shell, its soft body might appear extremely vulnerable. However, what the octopus lacks in physical armour, it compensates for with intelligence, flexibility and an extraordinary capacity for disguise. Specialised pigment cells called chromatophores allow it to change its appearance rapidly. By altering both the colour and texture of its skin, the octopus can become almost indistinguishable from the rocks and algae surrounding it. When camouflage is insufficient, it has another remarkable defence: ink. By releasing a dark cloud into the water, the octopus confuses its attacker and gains precious seconds to escape. Yet these abilities are not used exclusively for defence. The same camouflage that protects the octopus from predators also enables it to approach unsuspecting prey. In the underwater world, invisibility can be both a shield and a weapon.

Unlike the octopus, the sea urchin cannot rely on speed or sophisticated camouflage to escape danger. Instead, evolution has provided it with an impressive defensive structure: a rigid skeleton covered with movable spines. The Mediterranean purple sea urchin (Paracentrotus lividus) inhabits rocky seabeds, where it feeds mainly on algae and other organic material. Its spines discourage many potential predators and help protect its vulnerable body. Nevertheless, this defence is not infallible. Certain fish, including sea bream, have developed powerful jaws capable of breaking sea urchins apart. This illustrates one of evolution's most fascinating relationships: as prey develop better defences, predators may develop new ways to overcome them. Sea urchins also remind human visitors that the marine environment deserves respect. Their spines can penetrate the skin, break off and cause considerable discomfort. They do not attack divers. They simply possess an effective defence against unwanted contact.

Some Mediterranean rays have developed a particularly surprising survival mechanism: electricity. The marbled electric ray (Torpedo marmorata) possesses specialised electric organs capable of producing powerful discharges. These electrical shocks serve two essential purposes: immobilising prey and discouraging potential predators. Usually resting on sandy or muddy seabeds, the electric ray also benefits from camouflage. Its mottled colouring makes it difficult to distinguish from its surroundings. The combination of concealment and electricity transforms this apparently peaceful animal into an effective hunter. Unlike electric rays, manta rays do not possess electric organs. Although they belong to the broader group of rays, their survival strategies are very different.

The common cuttlefish (Sepia officinalis) is another extraordinary master of disguise. Like the octopus, it possesses chromatophores that enable rapid changes in colour and pattern. Its camouflage serves both defensive and offensive purposes, helping it disappear from the sight of predators while approaching smaller marine animals. When threatened, it can also release ink to confuse an attacker. What makes the cuttlefish especially remarkable is its ability to combine visual deception with sophisticated behaviour. It demonstrates that survival is not necessarily achieved through physical strength. Sometimes, the most effective strategy is to manipulate what another animal perceives.

The Mediterranean is not simply a battlefield where the strongest creatures defeat the weakest. It is a complex ecological system in which every species participates in relationships shaped by millions of years of evolution. The octopus hunts crustaceans but must avoid larger predators. The sea urchin grazes on algae but may become food for fish. The electric ray captures smaller animals while relying on camouflage and electrical defence to protect itself. Each creature has evolved within a network of relationships in which feeding, escaping, reproducing and surviving are inseparable.

These relationships help regulate marine populations and maintain ecological balance. When humans disturb this balance through pollution, habitat destruction, overfishing or climate change, the consequences can extend far beyond a single species.

As Claire Fontaine and The Grandma swim through the waters of Cap de Creus, they understand that the greatest lesson offered by the sea is not about danger, but about adaptation. Marine creatures do not possess spines, ink or electricity because they are aggressive. These characteristics are the results of evolutionary processes that have helped their ancestors survive. The underwater world is not ours to conquer. We enter it as visitors. Observing animals without touching or disturbing them, maintaining a respectful distance and protecting their habitats are essential responsibilities. And perhaps, as autumn arrives and the smell of roasted chestnuts fills the streets of Catalunya, Claire Fontaine and The Grandma will remember the little spiny creatures resting among the Mediterranean rocks. The chestnuts of the sea have their own story to tell.

In nature, survival is not simply about defeating others. It is about finding a way to live in a world where every creature is both part of the struggle and part of the balance.

More information: Pirates del Cap Creus

When the Sepia is frightened and in terror, 
it produces this blackness and muddiness in the water, 
as it were a shield held in front of the body.

Aristotle

SANT PERE DE RODES, BUILT BETWEEN MOUNTAINS & SEA

After spending a few days in Oslo and Paris, Claire Fontaine and The Grandma
returned to Barcelona just in time to grab their scuba gear and head off to El Port de la Selva, where Tina Picotes was waiting for them.

Diving in October is a delight: you avoid the crowds, benefit from greater safety -since there are fewer recreational boats around- and get to enjoy the marvelous treasure that is the Mediterranean seabed along this stretch of the Costa Brava.

One of their steadfast traditions before any dive is to go for a walk and get into shape. There's no better way to do this than by hiking up to the monastery of Sant Pere de Rodes via the path through the Vall de la Santa Creu -taking in a unique and spectacular natural setting while wondering, time and again, why that monastery is there and how they ever managed to transport all the materials needed to build it.

To this day, that question remains a mystery. But then again, not every question needs an answer -after all, what would our lives and our history be without a little bit of intrigue?

There are buildings that belong to a landscape, and others that seem to challenge it. The monastery of Sant Pere de Rodes, standing on the slopes of the Verdera mountains, above the Mediterranean Sea, appears to do both.

At first sight, its location raises an unavoidable question: Why would anyone decide to build such an extraordinary monastery in such a difficult place?

Why carry enormous quantities of stone up a mountain? Why construct walls, vaults, columns and cloisters on steep, rocky terrain? Why choose a site exposed to the wind, far from the comforts of the valleys?

To understand Sant Pere de Rodes, we must temporarily forget our modern ideas of convenience and enter the medieval world, where geography, religion, political authority and architecture were inseparable.

In medieval Christianity, mountains possessed a powerful symbolic meaning. They were places of revelation, contemplation and spiritual encounter.

Moses received the Law on Mount Sinai. The Transfiguration of Christ took place on a mountain. Throughout Christian history, hermits and religious communities sought solitude in elevated and remote places.

A monastery built on a mountainside could therefore express more than a desire for isolation. It could represent the separation of monastic life from worldly distractions and the search for spiritual elevation.

Sant Pere de Rodes fits naturally into this religious tradition. Yet its location was not simply a matter of spirituality. The monastery occupies a commanding position overlooking the northern coast of the Alt Empordà, the Mediterranean and the surrounding mountains. This landscape was not an empty wilderness. It belonged to a region crossed by maritime connections, political interests and religious networks.

From this perspective, its apparent isolation becomes something different: a privileged position from which a religious institution could establish its presence within the territory. The monastery was not merely hidden in the mountains. It was also a monument that proclaimed its existence. Who decided to build it? The origins of Sant Pere de Rodes remain partly mysterious. Archaeological evidence indicates occupation before the great medieval monastery was constructed. By the ninth century, documents already referred to a small monastic establishment in the area.

Its transformation into a powerful Benedictine abbey took place during the tenth century. Two figures were particularly important: Tasi, a nobleman who supported the religious community, and Gausfred, Count of Empúries. Through donations, privileges and political protection, the monastery acquired the resources necessary to undertake an ambitious building programme. The abbey achieved independent status in 944, and the monumental church that survives today was constructed during the tenth and eleventh centuries. This development reflected more than religious devotion.

For the counts of Empúries, supporting a prestigious monastery strengthened their authority, reinforced their territorial influence and associated their dynasty with an important spiritual institution. In the medieval world, building a monastery could be an act of faith and an expression of political power at the same time. Sant Pere de Rodes was both.

Perhaps the most extraordinary aspect of Sant Pere de Rodes is not simply where it stands, but how medieval builders managed to construct it. The terrain offered very little naturally level ground. Instead of forcing the entire complex onto a single horizontal platform, the builders adapted the architecture to the mountain by creating terraces at different levels.

The church, cloisters and monastic buildings were organised around the uneven topography. The mountain was not merely an obstacle to overcome. It became part of the architectural structure. This required an exceptional understanding of the terrain, careful planning and considerable technical skill. Before the walls could rise, the builders had to prepare foundations, adapt the rocky ground, create stable platforms and organise access for workers and materials. Every architectural decision had consequences. The monastery could not simply be designed independently of its location. Its architecture had to emerge from the mountain itself.

Today, we admire the beauty of the monastery's masonry, columns and monumental spaces. But behind that beauty lies another story: the physical labour required to create them. How many hands were needed to transport the stone? How many journeys were made along mountain paths? How many hours were spent cutting, shaping and positioning the building materials?

The surviving architecture reveals the use of stones of different sizes, carefully dressed blocks for important structural elements and reused architectural materials. Local stone would have reduced the need for long-distance transport, although the precise origins and routes of every building material cannot always be established. The construction process would have depended on skilled stonemasons, builders, carpenters and labourers, supported by systems of transport and lifting appropriate to the period. Animal power, human strength, ropes, wooden scaffolding and lifting devices were among the resources available to medieval builders. We cannot reconstruct every movement of every stone at Sant Pere de Rodes, but we can appreciate the immense logistical effort represented by the surviving buildings. A monastery of this scale was not the achievement of one individual. It was the result of organised labour, accumulated knowledge and sustained economic investment over generations. Behind every column and every wall were people whose names history has largely forgotten.

Sant Pere de Rodes was never an entirely isolated monument. Nearby stood the settlement of Santa Creu de Rodes, whose inhabitants supported the religious community through commerce, crafts and other activities. Above the monastery rose the Castle of Sant Salvador de Verdera, associated with the defence and control of this strategically important territory. Together, these three places illustrate the organisation of medieval feudal society: those who prayed, those who worked and those who fought.

The monastery's position therefore had several meanings. It expressed religious devotion, but also political authority. It offered relative separation from ordinary life, while remaining connected to a network of economic activity. It occupied a difficult site, yet one with considerable symbolic and strategic value. Its location was not simply an architectural inconvenience. It was part of its identity.

Perhaps the most remarkable thing about Sant Pere de Rodes is that its builders did not choose the easiest solution. They chose to create something monumental in a landscape that demanded extraordinary effort. And that decision tells us something essential about medieval architecture. Buildings were not always designed primarily to satisfy practical needs. They could also communicate beliefs, ambitions and ideas about the relationship between humanity, nature and the divine.

Sant Pere de Rodes transformed a mountainside into a place of worship, pilgrimage and power. Its stones remind us that architecture is not only the art of constructing buildings. It is also the art of giving meaning to a place. The mountain was there long before the monastery. The achievement of its builders was to make the two seem inseparable.

More information: Museu d'Història de Catalunya (MHCAT)

La natura és indissociable de l’art.

Nature is inseparable from art.

MNAC

FRANCE... ET L'APPAREIL SANGLANT DE LA DESTRUCTION!

Yesterday evening, Joseph de Ca'th Lon, Claire Fontaine, and The Grandma enjoyed the classic French women's football match between PSG and OL. It wasn't a great game, but the experience of being at the Parc des Princes -and getting to see the Northern Star play for a few minutes- made it all worthwhile. 

On their way back to the hotel, the three friends encountered a scene that was nightmarish, surreal, and unacceptable in a democratic, rational country.

The news they have read today regarding the riots in various French cities -especially in Paris, Limoges, and Lyon- brought to mind authors as diverse as Charles Baudelaire and George Orwell, all pointing to a common truth: nothing justifies gratuitous violence, vandalism, looting, or the destruction of cultural heritage. Nothing justifies it. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing...

Sans cesse à mes côtés s'agite le Démon;
Il nage autour de moi comme un air impalpable;
Je l'avale et le sens qui brûle mon poumon
Et l'emplit d'un désir éternel et coupable.

Parfois il prend, sachant mon grand amour de l'Art,
La forme de la plus séduisante des femmes,
Et, sous de spécieux prétextes de cafard,
Accoutume ma lèvre à des philtres infâmes.

Il me conduit ainsi, loin du regard de Dieu,
Haletant et brisé de fatigue, au milieu
Des plaines de l'Ennui, profondes et désertes,

Et jette dans mes yeux pleins de confusion
Des vêtements souillés, des blessures ouvertes,
Et l'appareil sanglant de la Destruction!

Ceaselessly, the Demon stirs at my side;

He swims around me like an intangible air;

I inhale him, and feel him burning within my lungs,

Filling them with an eternal, guilty desire.

Sometimes -knowing my deep love for Art-

He assumes the form of the most seductive woman,

And, under the specious guise of melancholy,

Accustoms my lips to vile, intoxicating draughts.

Thus he leads me, far from the gaze of God,

Gasping for breath and broken with fatigue, into the midst

Of the plains of Ennui -vast, deep, and desolate-

And casts before my bewildered eyes

Soiled garments, gaping wounds,

And the bloody apparatus of Destruction!

Charles Baudelaire

More information: Poetry Verse

There will be no art, no literature, no science… 

There will be no distinction between beauty and ugliness. 

There will be no curiosity, no enjoyment of the process of life. 

All competing pleasures will be destroyed.

George Orwell

CÉLINE DION, VOIX D'UNE FEMME ET ÂME D'UNE LANGUE

Musings of The Grandma...

Il y a des voix que l'on découvre et que l'on oublie. Et puis, il y a celles qui nous accompagnent toute une vie.

Le 19 juin 1991, à Montréal, au Québec, j'ai eu le privilège d'entendre Céline Dion sur scène pour la première fois. Elle était jeune, j'étais encore mineure, et je ne pouvais pas imaginer que cette chanteuse québécoise deviendrait un jour l'une des plus grandes voix de la musique internationale. Ce soir-là, ce n'était pas une superstar mondiale que je découvrais. C'était une artiste dont la voix possédait déjà cette force extraordinaire, cette capacité de transformer une chanson en émotion. Trente-cinq ans plus tard, je me souviens encore de cette rencontre musicale.

Née à Charlemagne, au Québec, en 1968, Céline Dion appartient à une culture où la langue française représente bien davantage qu'un moyen de communication. Elle est une mémoire, une identité, une manière de comprendre et de raconter le monde. Avant de devenir une star internationale, Céline était une jeune chanteuse francophone. Sa victoire à l'Eurovision en 1988, où elle représentait la Suisse avec Ne partez pas sans moi, annonçait déjà une carrière exceptionnelle. Puis vinrent les grandes chansons anglophones. Beauty and the Beast, When I Fall in Love, The Power of Love et, bien entendu, My Heart Will Go On, immortalisée par le film Titanic, contribuèrent à faire d'elle une icône mondiale.

Je ne conteste ni la beauté de ces chansons ni les qualités vocales extraordinaires qu'elles exigent. Pourtant, à mes oreilles, elles appartiennent souvent à une esthétique musicale plus commerciale, construite autour des grandes ballades de la pop internationale. La Céline Dion qui me touche profondément est ailleurs. Elle chante en français.

La rencontre entre Céline Dion et Jean-Jacques Goldman constitue, selon moi, l'un des moments les plus importants de sa carrière artistique. Avec D'eux, publié en 1995, puis S'il suffisait d'aimer, en 1998, Céline trouve un univers où sa puissance vocale rencontre une écriture plus intime, plus narrative et profondément humaine. Goldman ne lui offre pas simplement des mélodies. Il lui donne des personnages, des contradictions, des souvenirs, des blessures et des espoirs. Dans Pour que tu m'aimes encore, l'amour devient une lutte contre l'oubli et l'éloignement. Dans Je sais pas, la fragilité se cache derrière une apparente force de caractère. Dans On ne change pas, l'identité personnelle se construit autour de l'enfant que nous avons été et que nous continuons à porter en nous. Dans Zora sourit, la chanson aborde le racisme, les préjugés et la nécessité de reconnaître l'humanité de l'autre. Et dans S'il suffisait d'aimer, l'amour dépasse la relation individuelle pour devenir une réflexion sur notre capacité à transformer le monde.

Mais parmi toutes les chansons francophones de Céline Dion, deux occupent une place particulière dans mon cœur: La mémoire d'Abraham et Je ne vous oublie pas. La première, écrite par Jean-Jacques Goldman, est une méditation bouleversante sur la mémoire, l'exil, la foi et l'héritage que les générations transmettent à celles qui leur succèdent. Elle possède une profondeur presque spirituelle, comme une prière adressée à ceux qui nous ont précédés. La seconde, écrite par Jacques Veneruso, parle d'une autre forme de mémoire: celle de la reconnaissance, de la fidélité et des liens humains qui résistent au passage du temps. L'une évoque la mémoire collective ; l'autre, la mémoire affective. Toutes deux nous rappellent que l'oubli est peut-être l'une des plus grandes fragilités humaines. Ces chansons ne cherchent pas uniquement à impressionner par la voix. Elles racontent quelque chose. C'est précisément ce que j'aime dans la chanson francophone: cette tradition où les paroles ne sont pas un simple accompagnement de la musique, mais une véritable œuvre littéraire.

La richesse du répertoire francophone de Céline Dion ne se limite pas à Goldman. Avec Luc Plamondon, auteur québécois et figure majeure de la chanson francophone, elle explore des sentiments complexes dans des œuvres comme L'amour existe encore ou Ziggy (Un garçon pas comme les autres). Avec Le blues du businessman, issu de l'univers de Starmania, elle s'inscrit dans une tradition où la chanson devient théâtre, critique sociale et réflexion sur les contradictions de la réussite. Mais l'un des projets les plus intéressants de sa discographie demeure, à mes yeux, D'elles, publié en 2007. Cet album donne la parole à des écrivaines, des poétesses et des intellectuelles francophones. Françoise Dorin, Nina Bouraoui, Marie Laberge, Jovette-Alice Bernier, Lise Payette, Denise Bombardier, Janette Bertrand ou encore George Sand participent, par leurs textes, à cet hommage à la condition féminine. Le résultat dépasse largement le cadre d'un simple album de chansons d'amour. Il devient une exploration de la mémoire des femmes, de leurs désirs, de leurs blessures, de leur liberté et de leur place dans la société. Dans D'elles, Céline ne chante pas seulement des femmes. Elle leur donne une voix. Et cette distinction me semble essentielle.

Pendant plusieurs années, la maladie a éloigné Céline Dion de la scène. Atteinte du syndrome de la personne raide, une maladie neurologique rare, elle a dû affronter une épreuve particulièrement cruelle pour une artiste dont la voix et le corps constituent les principaux instruments de travail. Comme beaucoup de personnes qui l'admirent, j'ai fini par craindre de ne jamais la revoir chanter devant un public. Puis vint le 26 juillet 2024. Paris. Les Jeux olympiques. La tour Eiffel. Et cette voix. En interprétant L'Hymne à l'amour d'Édith Piaf, sur des paroles de Piaf et une musique de Marguerite Monnot, Céline Dion renouait avec l'une des plus belles traditions de la chanson française. Mais ce soir-là, elle ne chantait pas seulement l'amour. Elle chantait aussi, à mes yeux, la persévérance, la fragilité humaine et le courage de revenir à ce qui donne un sens à notre existence. J'avoue avoir pleuré en l'écoutant. Non pas par nostalgie, mais parce que je pensais avoir perdu à jamais la possibilité de retrouver cette voix sur scène. Et soudain, elle était là.

Aujourd'hui, Céline Dion est de retour devant son public parisien. Après des années d'incertitude, la chanteuse québécoise retrouve les applaudissements, les lumières et cette relation si particulière qui unit une artiste à celles et ceux qui l'écoutent.

La nuit dernière, Joseph, Claire et moi avons eu l'honneur d'assister à son concert à Nanterre. Trente-six ans de musique, de souvenirs, de changements et de vies traversées. Mais une même voix.

Céline avait interprété deux œuvres particulièrement surprenantes: Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This), du groupe Eurythmics, et Ebben? Ne andrò lontana, l'aria de l'opéra La Wally d'Alfredo Catalani. Deux univers musicaux presque opposés: la froideur hypnotique de la musique électronique britannique des années 1980 et l'intensité dramatique de l'opéra italien du XIXe siècle. Et pourtant, une même voix capable de les réunir. 

Si je reste profondément attachée à son répertoire francophone, je dois reconnaître qu'entendre Céline interpréter Sweet Dreams sur scène serait une expérience extraordinaire. Quant à Ebben? Ne andrò lontana, quelle audace de s'aventurer dans un répertoire aussi exigeant! C'est peut-être là que réside l'une des plus grandes qualités d'une interprète: ne pas se contenter de chanter des notes, mais donner à chaque œuvre une nouvelle existence. 

Pourquoi avoir choisi d'écrire cet hommage en français? Parce que cette langue fait partie intégrante de l'histoire que je voulais raconter. Céline Dion a conquis le monde en anglais, mais c'est en français que je retrouve le plus profondément la chanteuse que j'ai découverte à Montréal. Je retrouve la richesse des textes de Goldman, l'imagination de Plamondon, la sensibilité des écrivaines de D'elles et l'héritage immense d'Édith Piaf. Je retrouve aussi cette conviction que la musique ne se mesure pas uniquement au nombre de disques vendus ou à la puissance d'une voix. Elle se mesure à ce qu'elle est capable de nous faire ressentir, comprendre et transmettre. Les chansons anglophones de Céline Dion ont accompagné des millions de personnes à travers le monde. Ses chansons francophones, elles, racontent à mes yeux quelque chose de plus intime: une culture, une mémoire et une certaine idée de la poésie.

En 1991, à Montréal, j'ai découvert une voix. En 2024, à Paris, j'ai retrouvé une émotion que je croyais perdue. Parce qu'on peut devenir une voix universelle sans jamais cesser d'appartenir à une langue.

Merci, Céline. Et bon retour sur scène.

More information: Céline Dion

Je serai un Québécois-Canadien. 
Je viens du Québec, 
et chaque fois que je me rends dans un pays, 
je le précise. Ce sont mes racines, mes origines, 
et c’est ce qu’il y a de plus important pour moi.

I'll be a Quebecker-Canadian. 

I'm from Quebec, and every time I go to a country, 

I say that. It's my roots, my origins, 

and it's the most important thing to me.

Céline Dion

THE LOUVRE, WHEN ART SURVIVES FAR FROM HOME

Today, Joseph de Ca'th Lon, Claire Fontaine, and The Grandma have visited the Louvre. It does not matter how many times you visit Paris; a trip to the Louvre is a must. No matter how often you come to the City of Light, you will never have enough time to take in all the art on display in this impressive museum.

A museum is a fascinating place where history draws you in, allowing you to travel through time and space simply by moving from one room to the next. 

Today, for a few fleeting moments, Joseph has felt like Sant Jordi, Claire like La Belle Ferronnière, and The Grandma like Isabel de Requesens, moments during which The Grandma herself has reflected on the importance of museums, as well as the universality and democratization of art.

Musings of The Grandma...

The Louvre is much more than one of the world's most celebrated museums. It is a remarkable journey through human civilisation, a place where thousands of years of artistic creation coexist beneath the roof of a former royal palace.

Yet walking through its galleries raises a question that goes far beyond artistic admiration: how much of the world's cultural heritage survives today because it was taken far away from the place where it was created? The answer is neither simple nor comfortable.

European museums such as the Louvre, the British Museum or Berlin's great archaeological collections preserve extraordinary works from civilisations whose political borders, institutions and historical circumstances have changed dramatically over the centuries. Some objects arrived through archaeological expeditions, purchases or donations. Others were acquired during colonial domination, military campaigns or periods of profound political inequality. Some were removed illegally, while others were transported to protect them from destruction. Their histories are different, and treating them all alike would be a mistake. Nevertheless, they share one extraordinary characteristic: they have survived. And survival, particularly when we are speaking about cultural heritage, should never be taken for granted.

The destruction of ancient Palmyra in Syria offers one of the most painful reminders of how vulnerable cultural heritage can be. During the Syrian Civil War, the Islamic State deliberately destroyed monuments that had survived for nearly two thousand years. Temples, funerary towers and other archaeological treasures were reduced to rubble. Their destruction represented something greater than the loss of beautiful architecture. It was an attack on historical memory itself. Palmyra reminds us that civilisations do not disappear only when their people die or their political institutions collapse. They can also disappear when the material evidence of their existence is systematically destroyed.  This raises an uncomfortable hypothetical question. What might have happened to certain ancient objects now preserved in European museums if they had remained in regions subsequently devastated by war? Some might have survived. Others might have been destroyed, stolen or sold on the illegal antiquities market. We cannot know. But acknowledging that uncertainty does not mean defending colonialism or historical plunder. It simply means recognising that the history of an artwork does not end with the circumstances of its removal. Its survival becomes part of that history too.

For a Catalan visitor, this question is not merely theoretical. Walking through The Met Cloisters in New York and suddenly encountering the Romanesque architecture of Sant Miquel de Cuixà is an extraordinary emotional experience. There, thousands of kilometres from the Pyrenees, stands a reconstruction incorporating original twelfth-century columns and capitals from one of the great monuments of Catalan Romanesque art. Their presence in America is the result of a long history of political upheaval, the dispersal of monastic property after the French Revolution and the subsequent international art market. The monastery suffered abandonment, architectural deterioration and the sale of many of its sculptural elements. Today, part of that heritage survives in New York, while other elements remain in or have returned to Cuixà.

The experience produces contradictory emotions: admiration for the beauty of the collection, gratitude for its preservation, and a profound sadness at seeing a fragment of one's cultural identity so far from home. The same feeling can arise when discovering Catalan Romanesque painting in American collections, including the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. These works were not originally created as isolated museum objects. They belonged to churches, monasteries and communities. Their colours, religious imagery and architectural surroundings formed part of a shared cultural landscape. Once removed, they acquired a new existence. They became works of art displayed to an international public, but they also lost part of their original context. And perhaps this is the central paradox of museum preservation: an artwork can survive physically while losing part of the world that gave it meaning.

Another remarkable example is the Bible of Rodes, a magnificent medieval illuminated manuscript associated with the monastery of Sant Pere de Rodes, in Catalunya, and now preserved in the Bibliothèque nationale de France in Paris. Its history reminds us that the movement of cultural treasures across borders is not exclusively a consequence of modern colonialism. Wars, dynastic ambitions, political revolutions, religious transformations and the activities of collectors have been reshaping Europe's artistic geography for centuries. A manuscript may survive because it was carefully preserved in a foreign library. Yet its cultural significance remains inseparable from the community and historical environment in which it was produced or used. Preservation and belonging are not necessarily opposing principles. Both deserve recognition.

It would be misleading to imagine that the destruction of cultural heritage is a tragedy belonging only to Africa or the Middle East. Europe has experienced the same devastation. The Spanish Civil War and the Second World War demonstrated how quickly centuries of artistic and architectural achievement could disappear beneath bombs, fire and deliberate destruction.

In Catalunya, the ruins of Corbera d'Ebre remain a powerful testimony to the Battle of the Ebre in 1938. Its shattered buildings remind us that war destroys more than lives and infrastructure. It also destroys the physical spaces in which collective memory is preserved. 

During the Second World War, European museums and cultural institutions faced similar challenges. Collections were hidden, transported, dispersed or sheltered underground to protect them from aerial bombardment and military occupation. At the same time, Nazi Germany systematically looted works of art, particularly from Jewish families and occupied territories. These experiences show why it is essential to distinguish between safeguarding cultural heritage and appropriating it. One seeks to ensure its survival. The other deprives people and communities of what belongs to them.

Beyond questions of ownership, restitution and preservation, there is another essential dimension to the existence of great museums: the universality of art. Art belongs to particular cultures, traditions and historical circumstances, but its ability to inspire, challenge and move people transcends geographical borders. We do not need to be Egyptian to admire an ancient Egyptian sculpture, Greek to appreciate classical architecture, or Catalan to be moved by the extraordinary beauty of Romanesque painting. Every civilisation has developed its own artistic language, but the human desire to create, communicate and leave something behind is universal. This is perhaps one of the greatest achievements of institutions such as the Louvre or the British Museum. Within their walls, visitors can travel through thousands of years of human history simply by moving from one gallery to another. Not everyone has the financial means, physical ability or opportunity to travel around the world. Yet a great museum can bring distant civilisations within reach, allowing people to discover cultures they might otherwise never encounter. In this sense, museums are not merely repositories of valuable objects. They are extraordinary educational institutions, places where curiosity becomes knowledge and cultural differences become opportunities for understanding.

Private collectors have also played an important role in the history of art. Throughout the centuries, individuals have acquired, protected and studied works of art, sometimes preserving objects that might otherwise have disappeared. Many have eventually donated their collections to public institutions, transforming private passions into shared cultural treasures. Others have chosen to retain their collections privately, exercising the rights associated with legitimate ownership. Both realities form part of the history of collecting, although the public accessibility of cultural heritage remains an important consideration. Ownership carries rights, but it can also inspire a sense of responsibility towards future generations. After all, a painting may belong legally to one individual, but its artistic and historical significance can extend far beyond its owner's lifetime.

The British approach to free admission to the permanent collections of many major national museums is particularly admirable. At the British Museum, the National Gallery or the Victoria and Albert Museum, visitors can explore extraordinary collections without purchasing a general admission ticket. Special exhibitions may require payment, but the principle behind free access to permanent collections is profoundly democratic. It recognises that the opportunity to experience art should not depend entirely on personal wealth. A student, a pensioner, a family or someone simply seeking a moment of inspiration can enter a museum and encounter the artistic achievements of humanity. Art becomes part of everyday life rather than an occasional luxury. And perhaps this is the most beautiful expression of the universal museum: a place where the achievements of different civilisations can be appreciated by people from every background. Free admission also allows visitors to develop a different relationship with art. One does not need to spend an entire day exploring every gallery to justify the price of a ticket. Sometimes, visiting a museum simply means contemplating a single painting, discovering an unfamiliar civilisation or finding a moment of beauty in an ordinary afternoon. Of course, universal accessibility does not resolve the difficult questions surrounding the origins of museum collections. Nor should it be used to dismiss legitimate demands for restitution. But it reminds us that cultural heritage has a public dimension that deserves protection alongside historical justice.

Art has roots, but it should also have wings. Its origins deserve respect, its history deserves honesty, and its beauty deserves to be shared.

Today, an increasing number of countries and communities are requesting the return of artworks removed during earlier historical periods. Many of these claims are legitimate, supported by historical evidence, cultural rights and the desire to recover objects that form an essential part of collective identity. A country's present political stability, however, is only one factor in considering restitution. The circumstances of acquisition, the rights of the original communities, conservation conditions and the wishes of those concerned must also be taken into account. The discussion should not become a competition between those who claim ownership and those who claim to have ensured survival. Museums have played an extraordinary role in preserving, restoring, studying and sharing the artistic achievements of humanity. Their contribution deserves recognition. But preservation does not automatically establish a permanent right of ownership, just as historical injustice does not erase the conservation work carried out over generations. Perhaps the future lies in greater international cooperation: restitution where appropriate, long-term loans, shared research, travelling exhibitions and conservation partnerships that allow cultural heritage to reconnect with its origins. Above all, it requires listening to the communities whose histories these objects represent.

The Louvre is a magnificent place to contemplate the creativity of humanity. But it is also a place to reflect on the complicated journeys that works of art have undertaken before reaching the museum walls. Every sculpture, manuscript or painting has two histories: the history of its creation and the history of its survival. Sometimes those histories are beautiful. Sometimes they are painful. And sometimes they are both.

As a Catalan, seeing a piece of my country's Romanesque heritage in New York or Boston can inspire admiration and melancholy in equal measure. I am grateful that these works have survived. But I also understand the desire to see them reunited with the landscapes and communities from which they came. These feelings are not contradictory. They are two expressions of the same conviction: cultural heritage matters because it connects us with those who lived before us.

The ultimate question should therefore be not only who owns a work of art, but who is responsible for ensuring that it survives, that its history is told truthfully, and that future generations can continue to recognise themselves in it. 

Because saving an artwork means preserving an object. But respecting its origins means preserving its memory.

More information: Musée du Louvre

Thus today, as always, 

art knows no national boundaries.

John F. Kennedy

A TRIBUTE TO RURAL FRENCH WOMEN & THEIR CULTURES

Today, while Claire Fontaine, Joseph de Ca'th Lon and The Grandma are spending some time in Paris, they remember the women whose work has sustained France for centuries.

Not the queens who lived in magnificent palaces, nor the aristocratic ladies whose portraits hang in museums, but the millions of anonymous women who cultivated the land, raised animals, harvested crops, preserved food, and kept rural communities alive.

Women whose names rarely appear in history books. Women whose hands shaped the countryside. Women without whom the history of France would be impossible to understand.

October 15 is the International Day of Rural Women, established by the United Nations to recognise the essential contribution of rural women to agriculture, food security, economic development, and the preservation of communities. It is also an opportunity to remember that the territory we now call France has never been culturally homogeneous.

Long before the consolidation of the modern French state, its lands were home to different peoples, languages, traditions, and historical identities. Bretons, Occitans, Catalans, Basques, Alsatians, Normans, Provençals, Corsicans, Flemings, and many others developed their own relationships with the land. And in all these societies, rural women played an indispensable role.

In Brittany, women worked on small farms, cared for livestock, cultivated vegetables, and participated in the production and sale of dairy products. Their daily lives were closely connected to a landscape shaped by the Atlantic Ocean, harsh winds, and agricultural traditions. They also helped transmit Breton songs, stories, customs, and the Breton language through family and community life.

In Occitania, women worked among vineyards, wheat fields, orchards, and pastures. From Gascony to Languedoc and the Auvergne, rural life reflected an extraordinary diversity of landscapes and traditions. Occitan-speaking women contributed to the preservation of a culture whose language had once produced one of medieval Europe's richest literary traditions.

In Northern Catalonia, the Catalan-speaking territories incorporated into France in the seventeenth century, women cultivated vineyards, olive groves, orchards, and vegetable gardens. From the Roussillon plain to the valleys of the Pyrenees, their agricultural work helped sustain communities while family traditions, songs, recipes, and the Catalan language passed from one generation to another.

In the French Basque Country, women played important roles in family farms, known as baserriak, caring for animals, cultivating the land, and participating in rural markets. The Basque farmhouse was more than a place of work. It was a centre of family identity and cultural continuity, where the Basque language, Euskara, could survive through everyday use.

In Alsace, women worked among vineyards, cereal fields, and vegetable gardens, contributing to a rural economy shaped by the Rhine valley and centuries of cultural exchange between French-speaking and German-speaking worlds.

In Normandy, women were particularly important in dairy farming, livestock care, and the production and marketing of agricultural goods. Butter, cream, cheese, and apples became characteristic products of a region whose rural prosperity depended on the work of entire families.

In Provence, women cultivated olives, grapes, vegetables, and aromatic plants. Their knowledge of seasonal crops, local markets, food preservation, and traditional cooking helped shape one of Europe's most recognisable regional food cultures.

In Corsica, rural women contributed to mountain agriculture, livestock farming, chestnut production, and the preservation of local knowledge in communities often separated by difficult terrain.

And in Flanders, Burgundy, Picardy, Lorraine, the Limousin, and countless other territories, women performed the same essential task: ensuring that the land could feed the people.

Their experiences were not identical. Their languages, customs, and agricultural practices differed enormously. But they shared a common struggle. They worked, produced, organised, and cared for their families in societies that frequently refused to recognise them as independent economic actors.

For centuries, agricultural work was largely represented as a masculine activity. Land ownership, inheritance, professional authority, and public recognition were frequently associated with men. Women, however, worked alongside them. They planted and harvested crops, milked animals, managed poultry, maintained vegetable gardens, prepared food, sold produce, and often kept farms functioning when husbands or sons were absent.

During wars, epidemics, economic crises, and periods of migration, their responsibilities could become even greater. Yet their work was often described merely as helping their husbands. This apparently innocent expression concealed a profound inequality. They were not simply helping. They were working. They were producing. They were sustaining the agricultural economy. And frequently, they were doing so without independent income, professional status, or adequate social protection.

In France, the legal recognition of women farmers progressed remarkably slowly. It was not until 1980 that the status of co-exploitante offered greater recognition of women participating in the management of farms. Further reforms in 1985, 1999, and 2010 progressively strengthened their professional position and social rights.

For generations, women had helped feed the country without enjoying the same recognition as the men beside them. Their struggle was not simply about agriculture. It was about dignity.  The contribution of rural women extended far beyond food production. They were also important transmitters of cultural memory. In rural homes, kitchens, farms, markets, and village gatherings, knowledge passed from one generation to another.

Recipes were learned through observation. Songs were remembered through repetition. Traditional remedies were taught through experience. Stories were told beside the fire or during long evenings after work. And languages survived because people continued to speak them.

Breton, Occitan, Catalan, Basque, Alsatian, Corsican, Norman, and other regional languages remained part of everyday life in many rural communities, even as the expansion of standard French and centralised education increasingly reduced their public use.

Women were not their only guardians, but their participation in family life, education, oral traditions, and local networks was fundamental. Their contribution reminds us that culture does not exist only in libraries, universities, and museums. It also lives in the words used to name a plant, the songs sung during a harvest, the stories told to children, and the recipes passed from grandmothers to grandchildren. A language survives when somebody speaks it. A tradition survives when somebody practises it. And a culture survives when somebody considers it worth passing on.

The twentieth century brought profound transformations to French agriculture. Mechanisation, urbanisation, rural depopulation, and changes in family structures altered the traditional organisation of agricultural life. Women increasingly demanded professional recognition, economic independence, access to land, social protection, and participation in agricultural decision-making. Their struggle was part of the wider movement for women's rights, but it also reflected the particular difficulties of rural life.

Living in the countryside could mean geographical isolation, limited public services, fewer employment opportunities, and a demanding combination of agricultural labour and domestic responsibilities. These difficulties have not entirely disappeared.

Today, women farmers continue to face challenges involving access to resources, professional representation, work-life balance, and the economic survival of small agricultural businesses. Nevertheless, they are also central to the future of rural territories. They lead farms, develop sustainable agricultural projects, protect biodiversity, promote local products, and contribute to the revitalisation of villages threatened by depopulation. Their work connects historical knowledge with contemporary environmental challenges.

Paris has long been one of Europe's great political, artistic, and intellectual capitals. Its monuments, museums, boulevards, and cultural institutions tell an extraordinary story. But the history of France cannot be understood through Paris alone. It must also be discovered in a Breton farmhouse, an Occitan vineyard, a Catalan orchard, a Basque mountain village, an Alsatian wine-growing community, a Norman dairy farm, or a Provençal olive grove.

It is a history written not only by kings, generals, politicians, and intellectuals, but also by ordinary people whose work rarely attracted public attention. And among them, rural women deserve a particularly important place. Their labour sustained the economy. Their knowledge helped preserve agricultural traditions. Their voices contributed to the survival of languages and cultures. And their determination opened the way towards greater professional and social equality.

Today, Claire, Joseph and The Grandma wish to pay tribute to all those women. To the women who worked before sunrise. To those who harvested crops while caring for their children. To those who preserved ancestral knowledge without ever writing a book. To those who spoke languages that official institutions sometimes attempted to silence. To those who fought for recognition. And to those who continue cultivating the land today.

Because the history of a country is not written only by those who govern it, but also by those who feed it. And the women of rural France have been writing that history for centuries.

More information: Quatuor

Voyez donc la simplicité, vous autres, 
voyez le ciel et les champs, et les arbres, 
et les paysans surtout dans ce qu’ils ont de bon et de vrai.

Look at simplicity, 
at the sky, the fields, the trees, 
and above all, at the goodness and authenticity of country people.

George Sand

HENRIK JOHAN IBSEN & THE SEA, FREEDOM & BELONGING

Joseph de Ca'th Lon, Claire Fontaine, and The Grandma are enjoying their final hours in Oslo with old friends. That's the best part of travelling. Beyond the scenery, the cuisine, or the culture, a place is defined by its people -by your friends.

Tomorrow, they will fly to Paris, where they will stay until Sunday. They have taken advantage of these last few hours to buy a masterpiece by Henrik Ibsen, Fruen fra havet (The Lady from the Sea).

There are cities that can be understood through their monuments, others through their history, and some through the rhythm of their streets. Oslo, however, is a city that must also be understood through the sea.

Situated at the northern end of the Oslofjord, the Norwegian capital has developed a profound relationship with the waters that surround it. The sea is not merely part of its landscape. It is part of its history, its economy, its culture, and perhaps even its way of understanding life.

Norway is a maritime nation. With more than 230,000 islands, depending on how they are counted, and a coastline deeply fragmented by fjords, bays, and inlets, the country has always lived in close contact with the sea.

For centuries, the sea was both a road and a frontier. It connected isolated communities, provided food, encouraged trade, and allowed Norwegians to explore territories far beyond their own shores.

From the Viking Age to the modern shipping and fishing industries, maritime life has played a fundamental role in shaping Norwegian identity.

But the sea has another face. It can connect people, yet it can also separate them. It offers freedom, but demands respect. It creates opportunities, but imposes limitations. Perhaps this permanent relationship with a powerful and unpredictable natural environment helps explain something about the Norwegian cultural imagination: the importance of independence, self-reliance, personal space, and silence.

Of course, no national character can be reduced to geography. Nevertheless, landscapes influence the way societies develop, and Norway's landscapes have never been particularly gentle.

Oslo is a fascinating example of this relationship between human achievement and environmental conditions. Today, it is one of Europe's most prosperous capitals, with modern architecture, excellent public services, impressive infrastructure, and an extraordinary connection with nature. Its waterfront has undergone a remarkable transformation. Former industrial and port areas have become cultural and recreational spaces, where contemporary buildings stand beside the waters of the fjord.

The Oslo Opera House, seemingly emerging from the sea, symbolises this dialogue between architecture and landscape. Nearby, the modern MUNCH museum celebrates one of Norway's most internationally recognised artists. Yet the city's greatest luxury may not be its architecture or its economic prosperity.

It may be the possibility of escaping into nature without really leaving the city. Forests, islands, walking trails, and the waters of the fjord are part of everyday life. In summer, residents can swim, sail, explore the islands, or simply enjoy the extraordinary light of northern evenings.

But Oslo has another identity, one that visitors who arrive during the warmer months may never fully understand. Winter changes everything. The days become remarkably short. Around the winter solstice, Oslo receives only about six hours of daylight. Temperatures frequently fall below freezing, snow and ice transform the streets, and the absence of sunlight becomes an unavoidable part of daily life.

Unlike the regions of Norway situated above the Arctic Circle, Oslo does not experience the polar night. Nevertheless, its winter darkness can be challenging, especially for those who have grown up in sunnier climates.

For someone accustomed to Mediterranean light, the contrast can be extraordinary. In Barcelona, the sea is associated with sunshine, outdoor life, crowded terraces, and long evenings. In Oslo, the same element exists within a completely different relationship with light, temperature, and the seasons. Both cities are maritime. Both have been shaped by their ports. Both understand the sea as an essential part of their identity. Yet their climates have encouraged very different ways of living.

And this raises an interesting question: how much does climate influence our happiness, our habits, and our sense of belonging? Norwegians have developed ways of embracing the conditions of their environment. Outdoor activities continue throughout the year, winter sports are deeply rooted in national culture, and the concept of friluftsliv, literally 'open-air life', expresses the importance of maintaining a close relationship with nature. There is also a strong appreciation for domestic comfort, warm interiors, and the pleasures of everyday life during the colder months. But adaptation is not always easy.

For people arriving from other countries, especially those accustomed to more daylight and milder temperatures, the Nordic winter can become a considerable psychological and emotional challenge. Darkness may affect energy, sleep, and mood. Cold weather can change social habits, and cultural differences may make it harder for newcomers to establish relationships and feel at home. Some people discover a profound sense of peace in the Nordic way of life. Others struggle with the long winters, the quieter social environment, or the distance from their families and familiar landscapes. Neither experience is more authentic than the other.

A country can offer extraordinary economic opportunities, security, and natural beauty without necessarily becoming the ideal place for everyone. Quality of life is not determined by income alone. It also depends on personal relationships, emotional well-being, cultural belonging, and the environment in which we feel comfortable. Perhaps this is one of the most interesting contradictions of northern Europe: some of the world's most prosperous societies inhabit landscapes that demand considerable adaptation from those who live in them. 

And yet, there is something deeply admirable about the Norwegian relationship with nature. Instead of expecting the environment to adapt to human needs, Norwegians have learned to organise much of their lives around its rhythms. They understand that darkness is followed by light, that winter eventually gives way to spring, and that the sea, however cold or unpredictable, remains an inseparable part of their existence.

Oslo is beautiful because of its architecture, its culture, its prosperity, and its spectacular natural surroundings. But it is also beautiful because it reminds us that human beings are not separate from the landscapes they inhabit. The sea shapes the coast. The seasons shape everyday life. And over generations, geography leaves its mark on culture. Perhaps the real essence of Oslo lies somewhere between the silence of its winter mornings and the endless light of its summer evenings. Between the forests and the fjord. Between prosperity and resilience. Between the human desire for comfort and the extraordinary power of nature. Because the sea does not simply surround Norway. In many ways, it has helped make Norway what it is.

For Henrik Ibsen, the sea was much more than a geographical feature of his homeland. It was an emotional landscape, a source of inspiration, and a powerful symbol of freedom.

Born in Skien in 1828, Ibsen spent his early years in a country where the sea was inseparable from everyday life. Later, during his long residence in Italy and Germany, he discovered that geographical distance could also become an emotional separation.

In letters to his publisher Frederik Hegel, Ibsen repeatedly expressed his longing for the sea. It was not simply Norway that he missed, but the presence of the waters that had accompanied his youth.

This relationship became particularly significant in Fruen fra havet (The Lady from the Sea) (1888), a play in which the protagonist, Ellida Wangel, feels imprisoned by the limitations of her existence. For Ellida, the open sea represents freedom, possibility, and the life she might have lived. The sheltered waters of the fjord, by contrast, reflect the security and restrictions of her marriage and social environment.

Through her psychological struggle, Ibsen explores a profoundly human question: can we truly belong somewhere if we have never been free to choose it?

The sea becomes a metaphor for everything that cannot be entirely controlled or possessed: desire, independence, memory, and personal identity.

Perhaps Ibsen understood something essential about the Norwegian relationship with nature. The landscapes we grow up with do not simply remain in our memories. They become part of the way we understand ourselves. And sometimes, only when we leave them behind do we discover how deeply they belong to us.

More information: Gutenberg

Av alt jeg savner her nede, savner jeg havet mest.

Of all that I miss down here, I miss the sea most.

Henrik Ibsen