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74 xxxv Windows Who stares into an open window never sees as many things as someone looking at a closed window. There is no object more profound, more mysterious, more fecund, more sinister, more dazzling, than a window candle lit. What can be seen by sunlight is always less interesting than what occurs behind a windowpane. In this dark or illumined gap life lives, life dreams, life suffers. Across waves of rooftops, I catch sight of a woman, mature, already wrinkled, poor, always bent over something, who never goes out. By her face, by her clothes, by her gestures, by practically nothing , I have reconstructed the story of this woman or, rather, her legend , and sometimes I repeat it to myself, weeping. Were it a poor old man, I would have reconstructed his just as easily. And I lay me down, proud to have lived and suffered in other than myself. Perhaps you will ask me, ”Are you sure this legend is true?” What do I care about the reality of things outside me, if it helps me to live, to feel that I am and what I am? ...

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