Samuel grows up without an origin story and learns early how to live inside what is incomplete. That silent formation turns him, unintentionally, into an available body for a memory that has nowhere to rest. In Paris, among cafés and writers shaped by war, prestige, and fatigue, he discovers that lucidity without protection can be lethal, and that culture often celebrates the work while abandoning the body that produces it. Over time, Samuel stops seeing tragedies as individual destinies and begins to recognize a structure: the exception that becomes normalized, the harm that is delegated, the operator who absorbs guilt in order to protect the center.
When he confronts archives and historical cases, the logic becomes impossible to ignore. This is not only about isolated monsters, but about systems that learn to use vulnerable bodies without directly touching violence. Silence no longer appears as omission, but as engineering: fragmenting evidence, managing ambiguity, exhausting the public, moralizing doubt. In the final section, Samuel understands that the real dilemma is not discovering a definitive version of events, but deciding what to do with the fact of knowing. And there, the book crosses its most uncomfortable threshold: the place where each reader stops being a spectator and becomes an ethical subject.
