Thoughts that pass through the mind. A sudden flash, a way of seeing the world. A desire to share.
“Writing is my remedy
against the impermanence
of things.”
Accepting the absurd, as Albert Camus understood it, is for me the only way to exist fully and, paradoxically, to love life. To evade it would be to betray the world as it is.
Becoming who we want to be is a constant struggle against a lie: the belief that we must improve the image we have of ourselves, when what we should do first is simply be ourselves. The problem is that we only discover who we are through the adversities that shake our certainties.
Increasingly, when scientific truths are inconvenient, researchers are accused of being driven by ideology. Conversely, when those truths appeal to us, they fuel new ideologies that the world embraces without fully understanding their consequences.
I love the profound exhaustion that comes at the end of the day, when, before going to bed, unable to think, I feel as though time has stopped and I can touch the universe.
If we allow AI to become anything more than an assistant, we will live in an illusion: the illusion of knowing how to read, write, draw and do so many other things; the illusion of acquiring skills we do not truly possess; the illusion of being something we are not, quite simply. I believe it is through improving our abilities that we fulfil ourselves and find meaning. Merely supervising superficial tasks could, little by little, cause us to lose touch with who we are.
I am often asked whether writing is a passion. I reply that I see myself more as a craftsman who has found the essence of his life in writing. My mind and body are drawn into it and devote themselves to it, with no turning back, like a train hurtling along a railway track, propelled towards a world whose boundaries remain unknown.
