Here is the free man.
We have
“snatched human consciences from
belief”
(René Viviani), extinguished the lights in the sky one by one, broken our attachments, infinitely extended our rights as we reduced our duties.
God is dead.
The homeland ?
An old moon.
Family ?
A perishable contract.
Culture ?
A cumbersome legacy.
The individual reigns over himself, but when the thick pleasure of consumption fades, when, despite everything we do to hide it, death spreads its shadow, there he is seized with anxiety, gripped by nostalgia. .
The buried soul wants the marvelous, the sublime, grandeur, redemption, eternity: the sacred.
It is this inner lament that Sonia Mabrouk expresses with talent and depth in her latest essay.
Read alsoIs God Dead?
Conversation between Pierre Manent and Alain Finkielkraut
From her first book,
The world does not turn round my granddaughter
(Flammarion, 2017), a delicious dialogue with her grandmother, to her charge against the deconstructors (
Insoumission française
, Éditions…
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