After that, Setau had the idea of visiting several schools and asking pupils to write down everything they would like to know about life. He asked for the questions in writing, so that the shyer children would not be afraid of asking too. The results were collected together in a book - L'Enfant qui posait toujours des questions (The Child Who Was Always Asking Questions).
Here are some of those questions:
Where do we go after we die?
Why are we afraid of foreigners?
Do Martians and extraterrestrial beings really exist?
Why do accidents happen even to people who believe in God?
What does God mean?
Why are we born if we all die in the end?
How many stars are there in the sky?
Who invented war and happiness?
Does God also listen to people who don't believe in the same (Catholic) God?
Why are there poor people and ill people?
Why did God create mosquitoes and flies?
Why isn't our guardian angel beside us when we're sad?
Why do we love some people and hate others?
Who named the different colours?
If God is in Heaven and my mother is there too because she died, how come He's alive?
I hope some teachers, if they read this, will be encouraged to do the same thing. Instead of trying to impose our adult understanding of the universe, we might be reminded of some of our own, as yet unanswered, childhood questions.
In a Town in Germany
'Isn't this an interesting monument?' says Robert. The late autumn sun is beginning to set. We are in a town in Germany.
'I can't see anything,' I say. 'Just an empty square.'
'The monument is beneath our feet,' Robert insists.
I look down. I see only plain slabs, all of them the same. I don't want to disappoint my friend, but I can't see anything else in the square.
Robert explains: 'It's called "The Invisible Monument". Carved on the underneath of each of these stones is the name of a place where Jews were killed. Anonymous artists created this square during the Second World War, and continued adding slabs as new places of extermination were discovered. Even if no one could see them, it would remain here as a witness, and the future would end up finding out the truth about the past.'
Meeting in the Dentsu Gallery
Three gentlemen, all immaculately dressed, appeared in my hotel in Tokyo.
'Yesterday you gave a lecture at the Dentsu Gallery,' said one of the men. 'I just happened to go to it and I arrived at the moment when you were saying that no meeting occurs by chance. Perhaps we should introduce ourselves.'
I didn't ask how they had found out where I was staying, I didn't ask anything; people who are capable of overcoming such difficulties deserve our respect. One of the men handed me some books written in Japanese calligraphy. My interpreter became very excited. The gentleman was Kazuhito Aida, the son of a great Japanese poet of whom I had never heard.
And it was precisely the mystery of synchronicity that allowed me to know, read, and to be able to share with my readers a little of the magnificent work of Mitsuo Aida (1924-91), poet and calligrapher, whose poems remind us of the importance of innocence.
Because it has lived its life intensely the parched grass still attracts the gaze of passers-by.