Words Make Wonders: The Quiet Alchemy of Understanding

What is this?

In France, writers don’t disappear after death - they live on as ideas and ideals, in street names, in museums, and even in abandoned villas. Of course, this happens in other countries too, but in France, the presence of literature feels especially enduring, woven into daily life with quiet permanence.

There are no fewer than 1,621 streets named after Victor Hugo - a striking testament to his cultural impact. Hugo and others aren’t just writers here; they are part of the landscape. More than once, we’ve petted a dog named either Victor or Hugo in his honor. The most recent was just over a week ago - a lovely brown Labrador puppy, still a little too small for his own skin.

Literature in France is not just respected - it’s cherished. It may well be the most deeply rooted part of the nation’s cultural identity. It’s regarded not merely as entertainment, but as a vital form of intellectual, social, and artistic expression. If painting is France’s outer surface, then literature is its voice and its soul.

We’ve come across French writers on dusty bookshelves in forgotten mansions - for instance, a complete set of Proust’s volumes waiting quietly in a deserted library. The tangible presence of literature here has deepened my curiosity and strengthened my connection to both culture and language.

Guy de Maupassant (b. 1850), one of France’s most well-known authors, was somewhat familiar to me already. But it wasn’t until a couple of years ago, when I stepped into an abandoned villa in Normandy and our French friends told me the house had once belonged to him, that the connection became real.

They could just as easily have said nothing. Or perhaps I wouldn’t have understood, or even recognized the name. We happened to share a common language, but if that hadn’t been the case, the moment would have been lost.

Instead, that knowledge changed everything. The villa became something far more powerful than a museum. It felt almost as if I had met the writer himself.

Maupassant had purchased the villa in 1882 and spent his summers there. His life ended tragically: he contracted syphilis, and the resulting psychological symptoms worsened over time. He died in a mental institution in 1893, at just 42 years old. Later, while living in Paris, we visited his grave at Montparnasse Cemetery.

Living in a foreign linguistic environment has made me reflect on how easily meaning can slip past us. The world often speaks in languages we do not understand - and many important ideas go unheard.

Sometimes it’s about language in the literal sense. But more often, it’s about context: without an understanding of culture, history, or background, we may not truly grasp what we’re seeing. And when that happens, we miss something essential - usually without even realizing it.

To move beyond the surface, we must actively seek depth. That means deepening our knowledge, exploring unfamiliar places, reading writers from different eras and backgrounds, and listening to voices outside our own culture. Only then can we begin to see the world more clearly - and challenge the boundaries of our own perspective.

But understanding the world also requires us to turn inward. We must repeatedly question ourselves, recognize our fears and assumptions, and examine how they shape our view of reality. Curiosity, humility, and a willingness to listen will always carry us forward. Holding on to our certainties, on the other hand, keeps us firmly in place.

I come from a very small and remote country. My native language is Finnish - a language spoken and understood by very few. It’s a humbling fact.

When only a handful of people share your language, your collective worldview becomes narrow by default. That filter shapes everything you see, read, and believe - whether you realize it or not.

My access to information is limited simply because I speak Finnish - a language with just 5.5 million speakers. I’m fortunate to speak fluent English, which opens more doors, of course. But even then, the worldview shaped by a global language is inherently broader than one formed in linguistic isolation.

If I were French, I would have access to far more thoughts, conversations, and information - directly and unfiltered. I’m convinced I would understand the world more deeply and more broadly, simply because I’d be part of a linguistic network of 274 million people.

But perhaps an even bigger issue today is this: entertainment value has become the main currency of information. What we’re shown - and how it’s framed - is increasingly shaped by what’s clickable, not by what’s meaningful.

And in a country as small as Finland, that trend becomes dangerous fast. When content is driven by algorithms and short attention spans - and the audience is small and not especially interested in engaging with complexity - the result is predictably thin.

Even now, I dread the moment I return to Finland and open a browser - only to watch the information funnel narrow again, filtered down to what Finnish media decides to offer. And that’s not much.

By contrast, browsing French digital newspapers gives me the sense that broader ideas still matter. That context and complexity still have value. That readers haven’t yet been reduced entirely to consumers.

A society shrinks when its thinking does. And thinking shrinks when all it’s fed is noise.

Understanding takes effort. Living in a foreign country - especially when moving frequently - means nearly every day brings new encounters that challenge your ability to understand.

In France, where everything is written in French, you often have to work harder to access meaning. This might apply to something as simple as interpreting a street sign - or as complex as grasping an unfamiliar concept.

Visual art can sometimes transcend language barriers. But more often than not, to go deeper, you need some kind of explanation - or simply a different point of view.

You might not find English translations - even in some of the most prominent museums. And that presents a choice: You can “just look at the pictures,” relying solely on your own context - often missing the point entirely. Or you can make the effort. Translate. Ask. Listen. And in doing so, gain access to perspectives that would otherwise remain hidden.

Not everything can be translated into every language - and it never will be. Speaking English offers access to some understanding, but real comprehension still takes work.

That’s really what I’m thinking about: what happens when understanding fails. It’s not always dramatic - more often, it’s subtle. A word missed here, a reference not understood there. But the effect accumulates. Like water dripping on stone, each small gap in comprehension shapes the way we see the world - and over time, it can carve deep channels of misunderstanding.

These days, tools like Google Translate make understanding easier than ever - but even then, it requires intent. It’s always easier not to make the effort.

One reason these reflections have felt especially present is that we’re now living in Nantes - yet another unexpected literary encounter. But this time, what’s most inspiring is how deeply one author is woven into the city’s identity.

Nantes is the birthplace of Jules Verne, one of France’s great literary minds. His legacy is everywhere - not just in statues or street names, but in the imagination that shapes the city itself.

It’s no coincidence Nantes is often called the steampunk capital of Europe. The city celebrates creativity, invention, and the spirit of exploration - core elements of Verne’s work. This ethos is visible not only in architecture and public art, but also in city planning and cultural events.

Naturally, Nantes is home to the Jules Verne Museum. I was especially moved by the various artists’ illustrations for Extraordinary Voyages. They brought the stories to life and paid tribute to Verne’s limitless imagination.

I’ve been reading Verne’s work while here - at least the titles available in Finnish. Again, I found myself wishing I could read them in the original French. Still, the spirit of adventure remains.

By chance, I had already visited Verne’s grave at the Madeleine Cemetery in Amiens a year earlier. I found it while photographing the overgrown, almost magical cemetery—not knowing then that we’d later move to the city shaped by his mind.

Nantes’ most extraordinary attraction is Les Machines de l’île - a fantastical fusion of art and engineering, clearly inspired by Verne’s imaginary worlds.

Currently under construction is L’Arbre aux Hérons (The Heron Tree), a massive mechanical structure that will stretch its branches over the Loire. Its limbs will host exotic plants, mechanical birds, and insects - a living, moving ecosystem. We’re already planning to return when it’s complete.

At first, we didn’t grasp the full scope. We watched the mechanical animals with mild amusement, unsure of what exactly we were seeing. It wasn’t until we came across an English-language video - and bit later saw the workshop itself - that everything clicked into place. There we could watch the machines being built - not from plastic, but with extraordinary skill in wood and metal - they were true works of craftsmanship. Only then did we understand: all those insects and creatures were part of the larger Heron Tree project, and every single piece was being handcrafted on-site.

We had first approached it like a visit to an amusement park. That was a mistake. Without the video, we might have missed the deeper meaning entirely. Once we saw the full picture, I was completely won over by the scale, vision, and ambition behind it all.

Steampunk aesthetics appeal to me. I’m drawn to antique mechanisms, the elegance of wood and metal, the sense of precision and permanence. These creations feel like the opposite of today’s mass-produced disposability.

That’s also why I’m especially drawn to natural science and medical museums, and to cabinets of curiosities - all of which are abundant in France. Sometimes, all these passions - science, history, craftsmanship, and even literature - intersect in one place. One such place is in Rouen.

Gustave Flaubert was born there, and the city hosts the Flaubert and History of Medicine Museum. Best known for Madame Bovary (1857), Flaubert was also the mentor of Maupassant - a fitting coincidence, given how often their names have crossed our path here.

The museum is a fascinating blend of Flaubert’s birthplace, medical history, and curiosity cabinet. It holds old surgical tools, medical artifacts, and bizarre oddities - all housed in an atmospheric former hospital. The setting explains how the museum so naturally merges medicine and literature.

After encountering writers in unexpected places across France - and spending time thinking about the French lifestyle, their cultural values, artistic sensibilities, and the way they embrace both tradition and creative contrasts—I’ve come to a few personal conclusions.

We need to slow down. Step away from the culture of speed and disposability. Value quality over quantity.

We need thoughtful writers and strong journalism to help us see beyond what is familiar, filtered, or fed to us by algorithms.

We need more of those strange and fascinating combinations - the kind that challenge our thinking and open new ways of seeing. They offer context, curiosity, and unexpected connections.

We need spaces that nurture imagination, independent thought, and openness to difference - not just to reflect the world, but to reshape it.

We need more cities like Nantes, more minds like Verne - and a stronger connection to both history and the present, if we hope to shape a better future.

What we truly need is lasting knowledge - and fewer things made to be thrown away.

And a little bit of anarchy is always healthy!