After a fierce thunderstorm, the second in two days, the sun is setting behind the gnarled clouds in the west. The Mirna valley is sparkling in the pure light. The green of the vineyards is mesmerizing. It is a joy to sit by an open window and sniff the clean air. And then a tiny insect floats into the house. It is so tiny I have mistaken it for a speck of dust at first. “Ha,” I greet the new arrival, “if my life is in vain, how much more is yours?!” But then I check myself almost apologetically: “There can be no difference, needless to say.”