Each afternoon at six o’clock, I used to go from the calm of the countryside to that of the city, exchanging not one form of fatigue for another, but rather one form of repose for another. Thus did I do my “tourism of repose”.
When the bell is struck, its sounds descend harmonically and overflow into the garden-like square where, in people and in things, the very resonance of times gone by is found.
There the past has not grown musty, nor has the present gone mad nor the future become frightened. There, one is content in every day life.
