lacks the literary prestige of other diseases. Even with the appreciation of science, which does not seem to consider it an enemy to its height. Doctors and patients are treated with a mixture of impatience and contempt, as an unwelcome guest who, however, is tolerated because it is known that your stay is short. And yet, every winter visit us and makes us a little more humble, a little more aware of the fragile stuff of which we are made. Shy metaphysical, cold does not prepare us for death, or at least not for Death with a capital (especially in the cold is, as most of our lives, condemned to be written in lowercase), but, between cynical and stoic teaches us to get used to the routine of daily wear, melancholy uncertain vague but decisive defeats.
The existence of the cold is a devastating argument against the theory of intelligent design, divine Mind for what could have created a nuisance as insidious as banal, a disease so sloppy, so far from the grandiose staging of a biblical plague? However, it is not hard to imagine the cold is the result of a hoax of some god in lower case, one of these gods mocking and somewhat tacky displayed on many mythologies.
The cold takes bad with the tragedy and epic. It is more fond of comedy, but comedy tinged with some sadness. For a few days ago we live with our body as a stranger. We discover in the flesh that we are mysteries that seem almost trivial, but they never condescend to teach these two teachers who call sex and death.
The heroes never get colds, and so are often cruel and insolent. If Helena had been to Paris with his handkerchief in his hand or Achilles had a cold when his August mother dipped him in the Styx, the story of Troy might have discoursed in many different ways. By the way, some advice: better a bad cold in time to fall into the temptation of believing himself immortal.
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