At the present time, the whole life of our planet, from birth to death, is detailed, day by day, on myriads of sister-stars, with all its crimes and misfortunes. What we call progress is cloistered on every earth, and vanishes with it. Always and everywhere, in the terrestrial camp, the same drama, the same setting, on the same narrow stage, a noisy humanity, infatuated with its greatness, believing itself to be the universe and living in its prison as in an immensity, soon to sink with the globe which has borne in the deepest disdain the burden of its pride. The same monotony, the same immobility in the foreign stars. The universe repeats itself endlessly and claws at the spot. Eternity imperturbably plays the same representations in infinity.