Never has a World Cup started so badly. Offered in Qatar, with Zinédine Zidane as ambassador, in a suspicious climate of corruption. Everything has been said about this country, as big as half of Brittany, managing to change the season of the World Cup for the first time since its existence, air-conditioning its stadiums, and killing workers on the job so that all stadiums are ready on time. About the change of date: playing in the summer after the club season, allowed to prepare the players and to form a group, which is always difficult with national teams, the chemistry has to happen in a short time and the results must be immediate; playing in winter guarantees having players who have not played an entire season, who are therefore less mentally and physically worn out and who benefit from their pre-season preparation… Regarding the workforce, have we ever heard of the low-cost labor that has been used systematically for decades at every High Mass organization around the world? Similarly, the argument of gossiping about the health of players at risk in this climate was laughable. Who cared about the health of players at the 1986 World Cup in Mexico, for example, where impossible heat and humidity reigned, this organization did not move the world at the time. The choice of Qatar should have been denounced as soon as the name of this country rustled, afterwards, it was too late and decency should have prevailed. In terms of play, this World Cup marked the end of an extraordinary generation: Cristiano Ronaldo and Lionel Messi played their last World Cup. This World Cup was announced as the advent of Mbappé. The young French prodigy was about to bury the old glories without firing a shot.
There is a nostalgia for a lost paradise. We all feel it, more or less; it connects us to original sin and to the fall. This disease torments pure souls. She heels and waves. Illness of youth if ever there was one, romantic madness, this nostalgia is at the heart of Sébastien de Courtois' novel, L'ami des beaux jours . 
In ancient Greece, men know each other and recognize each other in the eyes of their family, their loved ones, their community. Women reserve the mirror for themselves, which is about beauty, femininity and seduction. Reflection is everywhere. "There is no place that does not see you" summarizes Rilke. Can we exist without worrying about our reflection? Can we be aware of ourselves without knowing ourselves? Can one be aware of oneself without being recognized? One can have a self-image, but it can be very far from oneself. Thus man should not see himself in the mirror for fear of being absorbed by his image. This image that manages to make us forget that we are there. If we think what we see, if it resonates with us, we dream it too. Our image escapes us as soon as we see it. Thus the woman adjusts herself in the mirror when the man could get lost there, drown there. The dream, binomial of memory, conceals time and numbs it. What did we see and when? The gaze and the imagination interpenetrate and cannot be dissociated. To see and to know oneself merges among the Greeks. To see, to know oneself... but not too much, because if man is a marvel, in the sense of an incident, of a fascinating fracture within the living as the chorus of Antigone says, he also conceals his own terror, he exterminates and tortures himself, and he is indeed the only "animal" in this case. 
