"We ought to first tell the delight we have to find on the scene neither Micro nor Megas, but two characters whose appearance and relations are enough to make the 18th century present: although they belong to another (great) playwright, we are reminded of Jacques and his Master, but also (a little) of Candide and Pangloss, even if all that "is not yet that". In any case, a Master and his disciple. One who speaks and teaches, the other who listens and asks, with two very different backgrounds, ages and bodies. Here, unlike Voltaire's two giants who travel from comet to comet, it's the words that take us on a journey. And the image. This is indeed theatre.

Immobile (but rather agitated), the two men benefit a little from Sirius's point of view: at their fingertips, the world (the universe?) is offered up to their tricks (at least to the Master's) as if on a conjuring tray: apples appear, white worms advance and then disappear, a little puppet absorbed in its reading delicately turns the pages of a newspaper, others, later, will serve drinks. There are two worlds. That of the grown-ups (our two characters), and that of the little people (the others, who emerge from the trap doors and enter in silence). The one above and the one below. One world, the theatre. A black tulle curtain veils the stage, and sometimes uncovers it: like a bandstand in a public garden, or a large aviary; a galaxy too, where the stars revolve around the planets that are our two characters, and that we in turn watch. Interlocking. Theatre in the abstract. Relativity.

- Jean-Luc Matteoli, April 2003.