What burned was the very identity of the West

We are better prepared for the intentional hatred of man than for his mere incompetence and stupidity; just as we find more comfort in the rational articulation of deliberate havoc than in the fatal caprice of chance. With the devastation of the Alexandria Library, we prefer to think of the destructive power of a series of conquerors and not the unexpected tsunami of the Cretan earthquake, which won in 365.

Its modern version, the National Library of Sarajevo, was burned in 1992 by Serbian militias: two million books and thousands of documents died there. These murderers of culture did not act like mere machos; They sought to strike a blow to the identity of a people. Our Lady has not burned, as far as we know, by the work and misery of Islamic terrorism or "yellow vests", but probably by the carelessness of a mason or darling. a restaurateur. The idea is simple but unbearable. We need guilty prisoners and perhaps a metaphor that saves us from the mediocrity of the dark accident and the ominous generality of human destiny. As a consolation, a figure appears, whatever its meaning: the very identity of the West burned last night in Paris.

My first personal memories go back to certain pages of Victor Hugo and the emblematic and suffering house of Quasimodo. Still in the oil of Jacques Louis David, who is still waiting for us at the Louvre: the coronation of Bonaparte as emperor in this same cathedral, as was the case on December 2, 1804. Napoleon also crowns his wife, Josephine, and The pope share subtly annoyed in this monumental canvas.

One afternoon last June, I entered Notre Dame with such luck that I was going to start the afternoon ceremony. It looked like a mbad with great fanfare, and yet it was a routine. The imposing organ began to ring, three priests entered the main altar area and a choir of seven voices sang psalms and religious themes. There were more tourists than parishioners, and I felt quivered when I found myself inside this unique and majestic piece of art where many historical events had taken place. Despite my agnosticism, I crossed because I was raised by Salesians and partly because it is still my personal culture.

I walked on my toes not to disturb the Parisians who prayed, but I found with embarrbadment that the tourists screamed screamingly, pushing each other to take a picture at a better angle, stomping on symbolically those who were prostrate and remembered. Many tourists came from countries where such affronts would be paid with a prison or something worse, such as the gallows or the edge of the scimitar. Here, no one even asked them for a good education. They followed a pure squawk, transforming one of the most serious and beautiful temples in the world into a real party and Facebook stamp.

More serene, wandering around the perimeters of the Isle de la Cité, I thought Notre Dame was more than just a mythical scenario, a Gothic church, a monument to architecture. It was a talisman. He emitted a supernatural and benevolent magic, and those who arrived in flocks from all the latitudes did not pretend only to use it with vain pictures; they wanted to touch her so as not to miss one of the most beautiful experiences of life. One night, in the shadow of his gargoyles, I found a sleeping beggar who had an open book beside him. It was a novel. For, incredible as it may seem, the homeless of Paris are great readers. I now think that if it were a fantastic story and not a choice, the beggar's novel would tell the story of a cathedral burning to metaphorise other fires that occur in a convulsive reality . But, of course, this is just an elegy.