In terraces, I am again faced with humans and their ability to make the steep flat and level, to make of natural heights other than what they are. To introduce general uniformity, I must ask whether there be something decidedly human in this undertaking, this vocation. No wonder philosophers have everywhere taken to their hills, mountains and towers.
At times, terraces seek to join the river bottom by means of stairs. Yet the stairs inevitably lead nowhere and I find myself before a shed or in a private garden or on an overgrown terrace or merely lost among redcurrants, the spillover of some unseen garden. The river fares no better than the stairs for some civil authority has seen fit to lay a concrete bottom over mud or stone, and drought has drained all but a trickle from the passage, running in a central groove.
Again lost, I came upon at a crossroads a memorial of the Second World War, a stone in the shape of a fishhook and bearing the words “Ce que l’on enterre est semencé”. I paused for a moment to consider the literal and figurative fate of their dead and asked no one in particular where those remains now were.