When I was a child, I used to hear rustling from time to time: the silent sound of craftsmen cutting, bending and filing their piece of the world’s hill. Yes, my great-uncle was a cabinet-maker. A young man who leaned upright against the trunk of an oak tree, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his hand as he caressed the marquetry. He watched his work in progress, always asking himself the question: could my hand have been even more perfect?