u/Playful_Parsnip_1029

-          You’re a hell of a good driver.

-          Thanks.

He was wearing a black suit and you could see through the way he wore it that he was all about driving. This thought was surprising at first - he must have been in his late 60s. Then it felt smooth and natural as you watched him drive his black Mercedes on and on through the dark silence. He was very focused on the driving but he wasn’t cautious. He was focused like a lion is focused on prey, with pleasure and superiority, knowing he’s the predator and nothing else was. He was the driver and no one else was. He overtook fast and slow cars from the left lane and from the right lane too and there were no jolts or engine roars but only stealthy gliding. Soon the skyscrapers came steel-black and darkened the night still.

We finally got into traffic he couldn’t surmount.

-          You really are one of the best drivers out there.

-          Thanks.

Silence.

-          Where are you from? - he asked.

I answered.

-          Do you drive fast there?

-          At times, but not in this way.

We were silent again for a while. I watched the great buildings rise like rugged totems in the dark. I felt very young being aware of us arriving in such a sleek way, immutable like a new generation of warriors coming to replace the old and the broken ones. It was a void city. The engine of the car was the only sound there was and it hummed monotonously with determination and secret purpose.

We were in traffic again.

-          I’ve driven in twenty-eight countries, - he said.

-          Exactly twenty-eight?

-          Twenty-eight, - he said. - I left my country when I was your age and first drove out in Germany. No speed limits. I once got to 380 km per hour with a Mercedes. It was the time of my life. Since then I’ve driven in 28 countries.

-          Why don’t you go back to drive in Germany again? -  I asked.

-          I drive fast here too. Once did 260 from here to M., the whole route.

-          And the police?

-          It’s bad if they catch me.

-          Do you think they’ll catch you?

-          Someday maybe.

We drove slower through traffic and now thoughts emerged in my mind for the first time in the car. I thought of my past reluctance with some unease. I didn’t like us getting into traffic.

-          Only went back home once, when my father died, - he suddenly said by himself. - Never going back again.

I didn’t say anything. We had reached the address. My English colleague was waiting for me by the doorway. I hated to see him. He was always very polite.

-          It’s heavy, - the driver said as he took off my suitcase.

-          Books, - I said.

The idea of a decision pleased me in the smooth barbaric night.

 

I just finished Sebald's 'The Rings of Saturn', and to say that I'm disappointed would be an understatement. Let me try and point out a few reasons:

• I didn't see a single original idea or a new poetic vision. The entire thing was very predictable once you understood his main preoccupation, which in itself is not particularly exciting. Relatedly, the writing is extremely formulaic, even if the formula is his own. 'I do this random thing, then I see this random object X, which reminds me of Y, who usually is a famous person or event in the past'. Boring as hell, and not realistic.
• In his attempt to support that main preoccupation (simply put, the pervasiveness of decay), much was exaggerated in a truly forced and brutish way and much was blatantly omitted lest it may expose the cracks in the author's one-sided perception.
• The writing lacks vitality to such a degree that I ended up feeling a mixture of repulsion and pity for the author. Inspiring pity for the author (not the narrator/hero) is in my mind the mark of very poor writing and, worse, of an imagination deprived of that artistic spark that's necessary for great creation.
• The whole book relied on a sort of nerdy cataloguing of others' original works and/or lives. I guess the sole value in the piece for me was that I learned some interesting facts.

Am I missing something? I can accept that there are of course differences in tastes. What I cannot understand is how can writing so sterile be considered 'great'. My point isn't against pessimism per se. I can love pessimist writers, when they're good. But even a pessimistic outlook needs some burning within, perhaps the burning of disappointment or lingering hope. Reading Sebald felt to me like dissecting a corpse.

I just finished Sebald's 'The Rings of Saturn', and to say that I'm disappointed would be an understatement. Let me try and point out a few reasons:

• I didn't see a single original idea or a new poetic vision. The entire thing was very predictable once you understood his main preoccupation, which in itself is not particularly exciting. Relatedly, the writing is extremely formulaic, even if the formula is his own. 'I do this random thing, then I see this random object X, which reminds me of Y, who usually is a famous person or event in the past'. Boring as hell, and not realistic.
• In his attempt to support that main preoccupation (simply put, the pervasiveness of decay), much was exaggerated in a truly forced and brutish way and much was blatantly omitted lest it may expose the cracks in the author's one-sided perception.
• The writing lacks vitality to such a degree that I ended up feeling a mixture of repulsion and pity for the author. Inspiring pity for the author (not the narrator/hero) is in my mind the mark of very poor writing and, worse, of an imagination deprived of that artistic spark that's necessary for great creation.
• The whole book relied on a sort of nerdy cataloguing of others' original works and/or lives. I guess the sole value in the piece for me was that I learned some interesting facts.

Am I missing something? I can accept that there are of course differences in tastes. What I cannot understand is how can writing so sterile be considered 'great'. My point isn't against pessimism per se. I can love pessimist writers, when they're good. But even a pessimistic outlook needs some burning within, perhaps the burning of disappointment or lingering hope. Reading Sebald felt to me like dissecting a corpse.

Driver

-          You’re a hell of a good driver.

-          Thanks.

He was wearing a black suit and you could see through the way he wore it that he was all about driving. This thought was surprising at first - he must have been in his late 60s. Then it felt smooth and natural as you watched him drive his black Mercedes on and on through the dark silence. He was very focused on the driving but he wasn’t cautious. He was focused like a lion is focused on prey, with pleasure and superiority, knowing he’s the predator and nothing else was. He was the driver and no one else was. He overtook fast and slow cars from the left lane and from the right lane too and there were no jolts or engine roars but only stealthy gliding. Soon the skyscrapers came steel-black and darkened the night still.

We finally got into traffic he couldn’t surmount.

-          You really are one of the best drivers out there.

-          Thanks.

Silence.

-          Where are you from? - he asked.

I answered.

-          Do you drive fast there?

-          At times, but not in this way.

We were silent again for a while. I watched the great buildings rise like rugged totems in the dark. I felt very young being aware of us arriving in such a sleek way, immutable like a new generation of warriors coming to replace the old and the broken ones. It was a void city. The engine of the car was the only sound there was and it hummed monotonously with determination and secret purpose.

We were in traffic again.

-          I’ve driven in twenty-eight countries, - he said.

-          Exactly twenty-eight?

-          Twenty-eight, - he said. - I left my country when I was your age and first drove out in Germany. No speed limits. I once got to 380 km per hour with a Mercedes. It was the time of my life. Since then I’ve driven in 28 countries.

-          Why don’t you go back to drive in Germany again? -  I asked.

-          I drive fast here too. Once did 260 from here to M., the whole route.

-          And the police?

-          It’s bad if they catch me.

-          Do you think they’ll catch you?

-          Someday maybe.

We drove slower through traffic and now I started thinking and I thought of my reluctance with some unease.

-          Only went back home once, when my father died, - he said by himself. - Never going back again.

I didn’t say anything. We had reached the address. My English colleague was waiting for me by the doorway. I hated to see him. He was always very polite.

-          It’s heavy, - the driver said as he took off my suitcase.

-          Books, - I said.

The idea of a decision pleased me in the smooth barbaric night.

 

 

I am a guy, 29, will be 30 in 8 months. I am considered an intelligent man, yet I notice I keep refusing to become mature.

I can’t stop going out to clubs and bars on weekends, like to be surrounded by younger guys, like to binge drink, simultaneously have started being obsessive about slowly losing my looks, etc. in some respects, I think my youth obsession has made me more childish these days than I was in my early 20s. I even dyed my hair the other day (since I started having some silvers) and added highlights. I’ve also started comparing myself to guys who are 20 and that causes me to be jealous etc.

I realise that’s ridiculous perhaps, but can’t seem to help it. It nearly feels as if there’s not point in life beyond being young. I’d appreciate your thoughts

Chapter 1

I often think about my time in Paris. In Paris there are many cafes and beautifully blooming chestnut trees in spring and one gets carried away…

I loved, in Paris, going to work. The work itself was dull and pointless, but I loved going to my workplace. I wore a suit every time I went to the delegation. It wasn't required of us, but I did it anyway. It was during the pandemic and they allowed us to be physically present at work two or three days a week. On the remaining days I stayed locked in my small room at Cité U and went out only at lunch to get a sandwich from the grocery store by the metro station and stretch my legs a little. I didn't like working from home. There was no point wearing a suit then.

On fine days I walked the entire way on foot. In the beginning it was slightly awkward, still in the area of Alésia, with its kebab shops and the worn look of the passersby walking between them. Though I perhaps felt a slight pride here, this incongruity mostly irritated me. Further along, past Montparnasse, things changed. On Avenue Duquesne there were beautiful people and mirrors on some of the facades, as there are in the better parts of Paris, and I often stopped to look at myself — young and well-built — and smooth my hair. If someone saw me like that, gazing narcissistically in the middle of the street, I didn't feel embarrassed. "Why shouldn't I look at myself?" I wanted to turn and tell them most impudently. Further up, a little before Saint-Cyr, there was a bakery with wonderful almond croissants and I always stopped there for a croissant and coffee. And in the bakery too there was a mirror, and I liked to steal a glance at myself while they prepared the coffee. Here I always thought of Saint-Cyr and of all the masculine elegance that had issued from that Institution. Then I came out onto the Champ de Mars and admired the slender plane trees and the facades behind them, and felt the great feeling of a young man in the spring of Paris.

The work itself, as I said, was prosaic. The delegation was located behind the Trocadéro palace, on the second floor of an old Haussmann building. The interns were crammed into a small dark room at the back — the former servants' quarters. I would sit in front of my computer and transcribe the long DAC sessions. It was amusing that it fell to me specifically to be responsible for the Development Committee. I had no interest whatsoever in the development of the Global South or in any development. For hours these holograms, with their hazy names, deliberated on the scale of the North's handouts. Some large woman named Taralinda always took the floor and spoke throatily with that terrible English accent of a worn-out snob. I was always glad when she finally fell silent and afterwards, editing the transcription, I amused myself by inserting complex bureaucratic words into her speeches. If she had said "to use," I wrote "to utilize." I had taken that word from Hemingway. I enjoyed it greatly in those days and tried to work it into the most inappropriate places. "Can I utilize your pen?" I once said to Greg with a completely straight face. He looked at me suspiciously but gave it to me anyway. Greg was a peacock from Ireland whose dream was a job at the Commission. He had a pronounced square jaw and it was certain he would achieve his goal. He too, like the other interns, came to work with a face mask and spoke enthusiastically about his tasks.

[ Removed by Reddit on account of violating the content policy. ]

Take a look at the stock of Immunic Therapeutics (IMUX). They just got a new CEO (who was at Roche and who's a commercialization guy). Phase 3 results this year, but clearly expectations are growing.

Thoughts?

Magnificence

He never forgot the black marble staircases. It was a bright day outside when he saw them for the first time. Many people around him held bouquets and smiled sincerely. It troubled him, all this incongruous gaiety. His premonition was different. Then suddenly, imperceptibly almost, came the moment of heaviness. Someone took his small hand and led him out of the bright courtyard and into the penumbra of the black colonnade. He felt the first chill now and turned to glance back at the receding brightness. The smiling faces acquired a grave aspect now with the new perspective. He searched for his mother in the foreign crowd and, for an instant, caught her infinite expression. He knew that expression first in his stomach, and later he would know it in paintings and in moments of silent parting. Now the current drew him inward and the somber smell of old marble engulfed him. He felt strangely light as he walked up the staircases. They had a great heaviness to them and, one day, he'd come to long for their immense bearing.

***

He was often struck by a structure over the years. The Palace of Justice in Brussels, the station in Milan, or that high-school hidden in a November forest in Stockholm. Something in their cold presence troubled him. Statues of magnificence, they settled in his dreams and filled him with melancholy. He would often see his adolescent figure wandering among shapes of marble in a deserted square. Vague memories of half-lived moments of youth would wake him at dawn. Under the influence of such a mood he watched a film about Val Kilmer one evening. He liked his face, his air of romantic discipline. He stopped the frame to study him closely. He paused it many times and looked from different angles. The film told the story of Kilmer's transformation into Jim Morrison. "Kilmer absorbed the singer's life to such a degree that, after filming ended, he fell into depression," the narrator said. He watched the movie over and over. It was a name-totem. "Val Kilmer," he would repeat to himself at night.

***

When a close friend of his died, an old memory surfaced in his mind. Very young, they were traveling by train to the south. They sat in the compartment and talked and talked. They talked about the Spanish Civil War and the origins of art and about the great mountains. In the morning they drank a great deal of coffee, and after noon they began to drink wine. Ahead of them was a beautiful holiday. There would be much wine and romance and everything written about in books. At one point his friend took an old video camera out of his luggage and began to film. The camera gave off a measured, mechanical sound. The sound was like that of the train, but with a much denser rhythm. They passed the camera to each other, drank wine, and filmed. They filmed all sorts of details through the window — a farm after rain, or dried-out cypresses. They filmed their own figures too, their faces, and the great mountains outside. It was a beautiful day. He took great pleasure in listening to the sound of the camera, mechanical and steady like the train heading south.