“Each time I pick something. Beans. Apples. Chard. Garlic. Anything that grows is a miracle in its way. Or a mystery, perhaps.” “Plant genetics,” said Bruce. Jimmy shook his head. “Oh yes, plant genetics. But if you look at plant genetics, you’re only taking it back one level. And then can’t you find yourself saying exactly the same thing? Saying that it’s a miracle?” “I don’t know if that helps,” said Bruce. “Perhaps not,” said Jimmy. “But that’s what I still think. I look up at night – on a clear night – and I see stars that go on and on. And I think of how we’re a tiny, insignificant little dot in a universe that’s only one of millions of universes. And then I look down at the earth we stand upon and think how small it is, and how…how beautiful. And I think: how can we possibly be fighting one another, when we’re just so small and insignificant, and I can find no answer to that, and so I come back here and plant things and make them grow because…because that’s what you have to do if you don’t know any of the answers to the big questions.” He paused. “You ever read Albert Camus? He said something like that, you know. He put it better than I do, of course…” Jimmy laughed. “But then he was French, you see.” He paused again. “Il faut cultiver son jardin.” He looked at Bruce. “Of course, that was Voltaire.” Then he stopped, and looked at Bruce with sudden concern. “You’re crying.” Bruce wiped at his eyes. “I’m sorry.” “It’s onions that make you cry, you know, not garlic.” “I know. I know.”
Alexander McCall Smith, The Enigma of Garlic (44 Scotland Street Series)