“I had no idea what they sang. I guessed it was all in Latin, but some words could have been French. I didn’t need to understand the words to have them touch me. I don’t know whether it was the acoustics, the song, the beauty of the singing or the conviction behind it, but there was grandeur and hope in every note. The frescos flickered in candlelight and stained-glass men looked down upon me benevolently as the monks’ singing brought pieces of me apart. Maybe this was why I had come, why I was meant to be here. I saw tears running down Fabiana’s cheeks. Brother Rocher asked in French and English for those wishing to be blessed to come forward. I sat and watched the three Brazilians and half a dozen others move forward in turn. There was a final chant and everyone filed out. Except me.Centuries of singing, service to others and dedication to something bigger than twenty-first-century materialism had created a peace that permeated the walls. Whatever issues I had with religion were not relevant here. The stillness and austerity gave me a strange sense of comfort, and I seemed to be moving toward some sort of clarity.”

− Graeme Simsion −