Eleven souls extinguished. A sky-diving plane, its cargo of thrill-seekers and their pilot, plummets into the French countryside. It is a ghastly spectacle, a collision of human ambition and the unforgiving laws of physics.
And now, British aviation safety officials, ever the eager internationalists, step forward to offer assistance. One might ask: is this not a peculiarly British reflex, to volunteer expertise in the wake of foreign catastrophe? It speaks to a curious faith in regulation, a belief that the right set of rules can tame the feral forces of gravity and machinery.
Yet the French authorities, who have their own storied traditions of investigation, will likely handle the matter with their customary rigour. The gesture, however well-meant, smells faintly of the old colonial impulse to instruct. But let us not be churlish.
The dead are dead, their lives cut short in a horrid instant, and for them and their families, our thoughts are a hollow currency. The real question is whether this tragedy will provoke any deeper reflection on our addiction to risk. We live in an age that fetishises danger, from extreme sports to daredevil stunts, all in the service of a fleeting thrill.
The plane, a marvel of engineering, is reduced to a twisted heap. Perhaps we should pause before we next applaud the reckless pursuit of adrenaline. The skies, after all, are not our natural domain, and every flight is a wager against the void.
