It is known that when Boabdil, the last of the Abencerrages, left Granada definitively, driven out by the reconquest, he gave a final look at his admirable city and, at that precise moment, sighed deeply. That sigh—el suspiro del Moro—has come down to us through history and after us will no doubt touch and disturb the sensibility of our descendants until the end of time. However, is it really a matter of Boabdil‘s sigh only, or is it the one, coming from Adam, of those who have lost Paradise? Here, Boabdil seems to be one relay among others of that lament issuing from the depths of the species and rising, as regret and never-ceasing nostalgia, to the easily-agitated surface of our ocean of domesticity. Since that first garden, we have been the unloved children of this regret and this nostalgia. The angel with the fiery sword changes nothing: he does not have our memory that, alone, makes us every day a little less original and, in doing so, expels us, making us a little more defenseless than we were when we came out of the void. To remember is obviously to lose oneself, and we are at every moment in this vertiginous situation. As Heidegger said, to remember is to contemplate oblivion.