It might be better to be dead. Rodolphe, with confused surprise, felt a sudden muddled uprush of deep love for this place, for this beloved city. His home. This sweet and settled landscape, every humble cobblestone set by someone who had cared for it, someone who had struggled to put meaning and structure into human existence. The buildings around him, the very pavement under his boots, seemed to vibrate suddenly with an essence of civilized purpose.