There is a story by Edgar Allan Poe—A Descent into the Maelström—that has followed me longer than most of the images I have ever carried in my head. I read it in my twenties—at an age when one still has the impudence to imagine the future as something already decided. It was not…

Recently, for the umpteenth time, I watched The Wall again — Pink Floyd and Alan Parker. Only this time, unlike before, I was watching it with my son. I tried to warn him in advance not to pay attention to me: basically, the electric jolt I get every time I encounter this…

The sound of the footsteps – dragging and slow, like someone shuffling their heels across the floor – was driving him mad. Every time they came from above, he would change rooms: from the living room to the kitchen, then through the dreadfully creaky glazed door into the small…

What awful luck! Just moments ago, the weather had been glorious, but now, as if from nowhere, thick, dark clouds had gathered, swiftly blotting out the sky with an ominous speed. The wind grew stronger and stronger. The trees and bushes in the garden bent and groaned under its…