>"They dance so languorously, the women of Syria. I knew then in Jerusalem a Jewess who, in a hovel, by the light of a small smoky lamp, on a bad carpet, danced raising her arms to clash her cymbals. Her back arched, her head thrown back and as if dragged down by her heavy auburn hair, her eyes drowned in voluptuousness, ardent and languishing, supple, she'd have made Cleopatra herself pale with envy. I loved her barbaric dances, her slightly husky and yet so sweet singing, the smell of her incense, the semi-sleeping state she seemed to live in. I followed her everywhere. I mixed in with the vile crowd of soldiers, boatmen and publicans she was surrounded with. One day she disappeared and I never saw her again. I looked for a long time for her in doubtful alleyways and taverns. She was harder for me to do without than Greek wine. A few months after I had lost track of her, I learned, quite by chance, that she had joined a small group of men and women who were followers of a young Galilean miracle worker. He was called Jesus, came from Nazareth, and was crucified, for what crime I don't know. Do you remember that man, Pontius?">Pontius Pilate frowned, bringing his hand to his forehead like someone who is trying to remember. Then, after a few moments of silence, he murmured:>"Jesus. Jesus. From Nazareth? No. I can't bring him to mind.">The Procurator of Judea, by Anatole France
