The Bequest: Coincidences never are

 

Out of pure coincidence (or maybe not, who knows?), I met Joanna Margaret in Florence, actually two times in two weeks, when her first novel "The Bequest" came out. And, more or less at the same time, my first novel The Etruscan Quest. They say that coincidences never are; and it seems to be confirmed by these these two novels appearing at the same time. They both explore the same theme: an American academic searching for an ancient mystery in Europe, in both case involving Florence. Both novels involve ancient murders, a treasure (which eventually is not found), and a love story in modern times. And both have the term "quest" in the title!

It may be our times that favor this kind of theme, think of "The Da Vinci Code" by Dan Brown. It may be that it is because our world is going the way it is going that we need to find refuge in some different and not-so-mad world. It is not just because of wars; everything is becoming so uniform everywhere. With Florence having become little more than a sophisticated food court, complete with McDonald's and other fast food joints, it is normal that we search for the exotic and the different in ancient times. 

This said, let me try a critical evaluation of The Bequest. It is a complex story involving several narrative levels: one is modern Europe in Scotland, Italy, and France, and the other is an old mystery that goes back to Renaissance times. In "The Bequest" the author does what all good novelists should do: inject fantastic elements into something they know well. She knows well the life and the habits of international graduate students in Europe, having been one herself. Then, the story is carefully crafted around the search for a mysterious emerald that was owned by a rich Genoese family, the Falcone. It is another subject that Margaret knows well, having a Ph.D. in history. The story moves from one place to another in Europe, again telling of things the author knows and places where she probably traveled in person.

The novel doesn't lack fascination in its weaving of exotic places and ancient history. It is at its best when the modern and the ancient settings overlap, that is, when the protagonist, Isabel, travels to Genoa, in Italy, to meet the descendants of the ancient Falcones who were engaged in a complicated story of love, wars, and treasures during the heyday of the family, in Renaissance times. 

It has a problem, though. It has to do with having been written in the first person. There is nothing wrong with that, and some of the best novels in history were written in the first person: just as an example, think of "The Great Gatsby" by Scott Fitzgerald. Or, if you like an even more high-sounding example, the Comedy by Dante Alighieri. 

Yet, writing a novel in the first person is challenging, and "The Bequest" suffers from the need to report a complex and intricate plot only from the viewpoint of a single person. One consequence is that the Renaissance story, with all its twists and mysteries, can only be told through the letters that the ancient characters exchanged with each other. And that makes it difficult to blend it with the main story, that of the protagonist in contemporary times. Sometimes, the ancient protagonists seem to be appearing out of the blue as if they had just landed with their flying saucers, and then disappearing again, leaving little traces, except maybe some crop circles. 

The result is that the novel is somewhat uneven. It has moments in which it is fast pacing and exciting, with the protagonist going through the intricate plot, sometimes awed, sometimes risking her life, and sometimes falling in love with characters whose true intentions are mysterious. But there are moments where the novel becomes slow, bogged down by a certain lack of motivation of the protagonist, surely a competent professional, but never deeply involved with the ancient story she is investigating. 

I would also say that some elements are over-detailed, including the descriptions of food. Not that there is any problem with telling details in a story. Details are important in novels, and food is one. Do you remember how Melville tells us about what Ishmael and Queequeg ate at the "Try Pots" inn in Nantucket? In my opinion, it is one of the best moments of the novel. But note that we are told very little about food in the rest of it, except when Stubb has his supper of whale steak, another wonderful moment in a wonderful novel. But, in The Bequest" I had the impression that some details about European food were a bit too detailed. But that may be because I am European myself, and I am familiar with the theme. American readers may have the opposite impression.  

Eventually, all novels have a life of their own, they are like sons and daughters of their authors, and they never are exactly what their parents would like them to be. This is the case of "The Bequest," a novel with some problems but with a life of its own that clearly reflects the mind and the ideas of a real human being, Joanna Margaret, who projects herself in her narrative universe as Isabel Henley. As Walt Whitman said, "In this book there is a man" (in this case, a woman):

Now that I wrote this, I realize that the criticism I made to "The Bequest" could also apply to my novel, "The Etruscan Quest" -- it is also written in the first person and in many places it describes food eaten by the protagonist. One thing I can say is that it is shorter: some 200 pages (against the 300 pages of "The Bequest"). But I am sure it also suffers from a similar problem, the difficulty of managing an intricate plot taking place on two different temporal settings. In my case, I tried to enliven the past mystery by having the ancient characters appear as ghosts to the protagonist. I am not sure I succeeded but, as I said, novels have a life of their own. In this case, I am told that the protagonist of "The Etruscan Quest", the "non-professor" Samuel Heppler looks very much like me. In any case, the author is the least qualified person to judge a novel, and I leave that to the readers, if there will be any! 

 

 

Does the state have the right to plunge a needle into your arm? An Answer from Luna City

Manuel, "Mannie" O'Kelly, Wyoming "Wyoh" Knott, and Professor Bernardo de La Paz discuss how to start a revolution in front of a bottle of Vodka in a secret meeting at the Luna City Hilton. (image created using Dezgo.com)

... the state has the power to literally take you to a doctor's office and plunge a needle into your arm. Alan Dershowitz, May 2020.

It is eventually all about whether you see humans as "good" or "bad." If you think humans are basically bad, then you need a government to force them to behave as they should. And if they don't want to be vaccinated, well, you nudge them first, and if they don't comply, you force them. The opposite holds if you think people are good. 

These two attitudes approximately define the current polarization between libertarians and authoritarians. These two categories used to separate right-wingers from left-winger, but the Covid crisis blurred the boundary, with leftists showing an authoritarian streak that was consistently superior to that of the rightists. 

The two views have been discussed in a prophetic novel written by Robert Anson Heinlein in 1966, "The Moon is a Harsh Mistress." Much of what happened in the world during the Pandemic can be understood in the story told in the novel that starts with three different characters collecting in a hotel room to plot a revolution. Among other things, the dialog below is a masterpiece of virtuosity on the part of a great writer: light and deep at the same time, note how it manages to describe the dialog of three people in a readable way, rarely having to use the clumsy sentences that normal novelists need to use ("he said," or "she quipped,"). And, more than 50 years after it was written, it is still remarkably actual. 

From The Moon is a Harsh Mistress -- 1966, by Robert A. Heinlein

"Now," I said, after we toasted, "Prof, what you think of pennant race? Got money says Yankees can't do it again?" 

"Manuel, what is your political philosophy?" 

"With that new boy from Milwaukee I feel like investing." 

"Sometimes a man doesn't have it defined but, under Socratic inquiry, knows where he stands and why."

 "I'll back 'em against field, three to two." 

"What? You young idiot! How much?" 

"Three hundred. Hong Kong." 

"Done. For example, under what circumstances may the State justly place its welfare above that of a citizen?" 

"Mannie," Wyoh asked, "do you have any more foolish money? I think well of the Phillies." 

I looked her over. "Just what were you thinking of betting?" 

"You go to hell! Rapist." 

"Prof, as I see, are no circumstances under which State is justified in placing its welfare ahead of mine." 

"Good. We have a starting point." 

"Mannie," said Wyoh, "that's a most self-centered evaluation." 

"I'm a most self-centered person." 

"Oh, nonsense. Who rescued me? Me, a stranger. And didn't try to exploit it. Professor, I was cracking not facking. Mannie was a perfect knight." 

"Sans peur et sans reproche. I knew, I've known him for years. Which is not inconsistent with evaluation he expressed." 

"Oh, but it is! Not the way things are but under the ideal toward which we aim. Mannie, the 'State' is Luna. Even though not sovereign yet and we hold citizenships elsewhere. But I am part of the Lunar State and so is your family. Would you die for your family?" 

"Two questions not related." 

"Oh, but they are! That's the point." 

"Nyet. I know my family, opted long ago." 

"Dear Lady, I must come to Manuel's defense. He has a correct evaluation even though he may not be able to state it. May I ask this? Under what circumstances is it moral for a group to do that which is not moral for a member of that group to do alone?" 

"Uh... that's a trick question." 

"It is the key question, dear Wyoming. A radical question that strikes to the root of the whole dilemma of government. Anyone who answers honestly and abides by all consequences knows where he stands-- and what he will die for." 

Wyoh frowned. "'Not moral for a member of the group--'" she said. 

"Professor... what are your political principles?" 

"May I first ask yours? If you can state them?" 

"Certainly I can! I'm a Fifth Internationalist, most of the Organization is. Oh, we don't rule out anyone going our way; it's a united front. We have Communists and Fourths and Ruddyites and Societians and Single-Taxers and you name it. But I'm no Marxist; we Fifths have a practical program. Private where private belongs, public where it's needed, and an admission that circumstances alter cases. Nothing doctrinaire." 

"Capital punishment?" 

"For what?" 

"Let's say for treason. Against Luna after you've freed Luna." 

"Treason how? Unless I knew the circumstances I could not decide." 

"Nor could I, dear Wyoming. But I believe in capital punishment under some circumstances... with this difference. I would not ask a court; I would try, condemn, execute sentence myself, and accept full responsibility." 

"But--Professor, what are your political beliefs?" 

"I'm a rational anarchist." 

"I don't know that brand. Anarchist individualist, anarchist Communist, Christian anarchist, philosophical anarchist, syndicalist, libertarian--those I know. But what's this? Randite?" 

"I can get along with a Randite. A rational anarchist believes that concepts such as 'state' and 'society' and 'government' have no existence save as physically exemplified in the acts of self-responsible individuals. He believes that it is impossible to shift blame, share blame, distribute blame... as blame, guilt, responsibility are matters taking place inside human beings singly and nowhere else. But being rational, he knows that not all individuals hold his evaluations, so he tries to live perfectly in an imperfect world... aware that his effort will be less than perfect yet undismayed by self-knowledge of self failure." 

"Hear, hear!" I said. "'Less than perfect.' What I've been aiming for all my life." 

"You've achieved it," said Wyoh. "Professor, your words sound good but there is something slippery about them. Too much power in the hands of individuals--surely you would not want... well, H-missiles for example--to be controlled by one irresponsible person?" 

"My point is that one person is responsible. Always. If H-bombs exist--and they do--some man controls them. In tern of morals there is no such thing as 'state.' Just men. Individuals. Each responsible for his own acts." 

...

Wyoh plowed doggedly into Prof, certain she had all answers. But Prof was interested in questions rather than answers, which baffled her. Finally she said, "Professor, I can't understand you. I don't insist that you call it 'government'--I just want you to state what rules you think are necessary to insure equal freedom for all." 

"Dear lady, I'll happily accept your rules." 

"But you don't seem to want any rules!" 

"True. But I will accept any rules that you feel necessary to your freedom. I am free, no matter what rules surround me. If I find them tolerable, I tolerate them; if I find them too obnoxious, I break them. I am free because I know that I alone am morally responsible for everything I do." 

"You would not abide by a law that the majority felt was necessary?" 

"Tell me what law, dear lady, and I will tell you whether I will obey it." 

"You wiggled out. Every time I state a general principle, you wiggle out." 

Prof clasped hands on chest. "Forgive me. Believe me, lovely Wyoming, I am most anxious to please you. You spoke of willingness to unite the front with anyone going your way. Is it enough that I want to see the Authority thrown off Luna and would die to serve that end?" 

Wyoh beamed. "It certainly is!" She fisted his ribs--gently--then put arm around him and kissed cheek. "Comrade! Let's get on with it!" 

"Cheers!" I said. 

Renzo's Capons: how to go down bickering with each other

 

Here is an article published on May 20th by Tyler Durden on "Zero Hedge"

https://www.zerohedge.com/geopolitical/club-rome-how-climate-hysteria-being-used-create-global-governance

It is, actually, a repost of an article by Brandon Smith on "Alt-Market" the day before.

https://alt-market.us/the-club-of-rome-how-climate-hysteria-is-being-used-to-create-global-governance/

The unfortunate thing is that "Zero Hedge" is a widely read publication and it is dismaying that it publishes this kind of.... - well, you know what the correct word is to describe it - it is the desperate search for someone to blame that's taking over the discussion, even though it involves all kinds of old legends and conspiracy theories. 

In Italy, we have an image to describe this kind of situation, it is called "I Capponi di Renzo" (Renzo's capons), which refers to Manzoni's novel "The Betrothed" where we read how the protagonist (Renzo) was carrying four live capons in a sac to be slaughtered, and the stupid beasts find no better pastime than pecking at each other. We are doing the same, blaming others for the situation in which we all are. 

After 50 years of Catastrophism, we are now facing the cliff. What would Seneca do?

 The Raft of the Medusa, a painting by Theodore Géricault (1818). It seems to illustrate how some people feel in the current situation: survival implies throwing other people out of the raft. 

Lucius Annaeus Seneca, the Roman Philosopher, was never a catastrophist, but he understood that in life, you have to expect ups and downs. And that when things go bad, they go bad fast (festinantur in damnum). This is what I called the "Seneca Effect." 

Seneca was a stoic, a person steeped in the views of his times. It was an age when people understood that their control of the vagaries of life was limited. Sickness, ruin, pain, and death were facts of life for people who had no aspirin, no life insurance, and no dentists. In the stoics' view, bad moments had to be accepted and lived as a test of your moral fortitude, not as an excuse to forget one's duties in life. Seneca, just like all of us, had his defects. But when the final moment came, he accepted his destiny with dignity and serenity. 

And here we are, what holds for a single person holds for humankind. We are facing a serious downturn, a decline that could be so rapid to call it a cliff. Half a century after the serious warning of "The Limits to Growth," we not yet falling, but we are on the edge. We start seeing the chasm ahead while the fog of time clears. 

Is this becoming a test of moral fortitude for humankind? If it is, humans are failing it, badly. Humans are dividing themselves into tribes that fight each other, so far only verbally. Some just refuse to look ahead. Others think that, when jumping from the cliff, they'll be able to fly. Others search for someone to blame. 

A mixture of ignorance and aggressivity generates a tremendous wave of hate, at least from what I can see in the comments to another post of mine. These people seem to think they are already on the raft of the Medusa, the French ship wrecked at sea in 1816. Only 15 out of the 146 people stranded on the raft survived. And they did that by throwing the others into the sea and recurring to cannibalism. 

But we are not there yet. There is still space for avoiding the sandbanks. We still can do our duty to live and help others live. Be a good stoic; do not lose hope, and do not fall into cruelty. 

The Creation of a Monster: Mussolini seen by his former mistress

 

Margherita Sarfatti (1880-1961), Jewish Intellectual and longtime mistress of Benito Mussolini, the Duce, wrote a book titled "My Fault" about her experience as his confident and counselor. By Sarfatti's explicit wish, the book was never published but excerpts from it are reported by Roberto Festorazzi in his book titled "The Woman Who Invented Mussolini" (2022). The following paragraph from the book gives us a damning portrait of the intellectual, human, and moral decay of a man whom circumstances had put in charge of a country of 44 million inhabitants. How was it possible that most Italians followed him in the many disastrous choices of his late years in power? It is one of the mysteries of the human mind, but it happened. Could it happen again? Fortunately, right now, we don't see in the world these larger-than-life monsters in charge of entire countries, but that does not mean they could become fashionable again. In the meantime, we tend to follow abstract ideas: progress, growth, science, and more with the same mindless devotion and lack of moral concerns that once were reserved to dictators. 

From "Margherita Sarfatti, the Woman Who Invented Mussolini," By Roberto Festorazzi, 2022

That Mussolini of the early years was now more than dead to me. I do not even consider him the same man of the later years: A different spiritual being, bound to his original identity only in the physical aspect. But even this one, as in The Portrait of Dorian Gray, had become weighed down and distorted under the influence of such a profound spiritual change. So I can think back, sadly but without hatred, to the man who once was, as one thinks back to someone long dead. The man who was shot by cruel and indignant patriots in April 1945 was only the degenerate shell of the first Mussolini, like cancer compared to the previously healthy flesh and limbs. Perhaps the disease was darkly at work even then. Sometimes, I had vague suspicions, and in my 1924 book on Mussolini, I hinted at some such danger looming over him. But who is ever completely healthy, physically and morally? Perhaps the saints may have been spiritually whole in their earthly lives, but one does not expect holy perfection from a man of action. In the early days, however, the good in him kept evil at bay and kept in check the growth of arrogant conceit and morbid cruelty. Mussolini was then a man who could honestly be looked upon with faith and respect.

Quel Mussolini dei primi anni era per me ormai più che morto. Non lo considero nemmeno lo stesso uomo degli anni seguenti: Un essere spirituale diverso, legato alla sua identità originale solo nel fisico. Ma perfino questo, come nel Ritratto di Dorian Gray, si era appesantito e involgarito sotto l'influsso di un così profondo cambiamento spirituale. Così posso ripensare, tristemente, ma senza odio, all'uomo che fu una volta come si ripensa a una persona morta da tempo. L'uomo che venne fucilato da patrioti crudeli e indignati nell'aprile 1945 era solo il guscio degenerato del primo Mussolini, come un cancro rispetto alla carne e alle membra in precedenza sane. Forse la malattia era oscuramente all'opera già allora. A volte avevo dei vaghi sospetti, e nel mio libro del 1924 su Mussolin,i accennai a qualche pericolo del genere che incombeva su di lui. Ma chi mai è completamente sano, fisicamente e moralmente? Forse i santi saranno stati spiritualmente integri nella loro vita terrena, ma non ci si aspetta una santa perfezione da un uomo d'azione. Nei primi tempi, comunque, il buono in lui teneva a bada il male, e manteneva sotto controllo la crescita di una superba presunzione e di una crudeltà morbosa. Mussolini era allora un uomo a cui onestamente si poteva guardare con fede e rispetto. e manteneva sotto controllo la crescita di una superba presunzione e di una crudeltà morbosa.

Novels and Novels: Leon Tolstoy vs. Larry Names

 

You know that I have been discussing the very concept of "novel" in this blog. It is a fascinating story because, right now, we are seeing the death of a form of expression that has been among the commonest ones up to about 50 years ago. Then, it declined with the development of more visual expression forms: the TV killed the novel. 

But novels are part of us; they are not dead. They are still being written and read. But they are changing in many ways and we still don't know how they will evolve. So, as part of my journey into the novel world, let me compare two novels that I happened to read during the past few months. 

I cultivate the haphazard as an investigation method and, because of haphazardness, I am comparing the uncomparable: Tolstoy's "Father Sergius" (written around 1890) and Larry Names "A two Reel Murder" (ca. 2020). It is the trick I use, comparing widely different things to understand what the things have in common -- just like when I compared the story of an American waitress who found God in her job, to a science fiction novel telling the story of a Plutonian woman. 

So, let's start with "Father Sergey." It is one of the last pieces by Tolstoy, more a short story than a novel. And I think it is good that it is not a full novel, because it is so dense, dark, and unforgiving, that it would not be possible to maintain the level of tension over the length of a whole novel. It is the story of someone who becomes an Orthodox Priest after that he discovers that he had been betrayed by his fiancée. Then it is all a fight against his internal demons. In a particularly tense scene, he is visited in his cell by a woman called Marovkina, who tries to seduce him. So, he cuts off one of his fingers to resist the temptation. It is a theme that was revisited in a tense Russian movie called "The Island" in 2006. 

About Larry Names' "A Two Reel Murder," we have a story that sees the character of "Maisy Malone" investigating a murder that took place in Los Angeles in 1912. It is light, solar; there is not a single evil character in the whole plot, they are all good people. Even the murderer turns out to be more clumsy than evil. Ms. Malone is a little too perfect for an 18 years old girl, even able to pick a lock without problems, but she is likeable and always consistent with her role as the main character of the novel. The main strength of the novel is its background. Names reconstructed every detail of Los Angeles of the early 1910s, the time of the start of Hollywood as a major movie-making center. As you read, you learn which houses were already standing, and which ones were being built, which restaurants were operating, what was their menu, the itineraries of the lines of public transportation, and even the color of the electric cars! 

You see the difference. Names' novel is pure entertainment, Tolstoy's one is pure philosophical soul-searching. It would make no sense to say that one of the novels is "better" than another. It would be like comparing a seagull with a codfish. They are both animals but living in very different environments. So, what is the point I want to make? Mainly, to show how different two entities that belong to the same category ("novels") can be. The very concept of "novel" is still evolving, and we will see what it will become. 

Then, it is up to you to decide which novel of these two you would like to read, if you still read novels. What I can tell you is that I found it difficult to read Tolstoy's novel. It was so intense that it upset me. Instead, I liked Names' novel enough that I offered to the author to translate it into Italian, and it will soon appear in that language on Amazon. In the meantime, you can buy "A two reel murder" on Larry Names's site

  

 

The Black Trains of the Dead

 

Image by Wallace Chuck

This text is based on Italian trains ("Red Arrows") and Italian mortality statistics that tell us that, every day, about 2000 Italians leave this world for the Elysian Fields. If you want to adapt it to the US, you have to multiply the numbers by about a factor of five. And the "Black Arrow" trains would have to become "Blackhound Buses" 

It is said that there are trains called "Black Arrows." They are similar to the usual red, silver, and white arrows, but they are all black, with gold edging around the windows. They travel on tracks made just for them; no one ever sees them. Those who see one of them by chance get a ticket and a reservation in the mail the next day. And they can't change it.

The black arrows are said to have platforms dedicated to them in large stations. They are said to stop on platform zero, but no one knows exactly where it is. At the Bologna station, in the large underground station where the Red Arrows stop, there is an escalator that leads to an even lower floor. No one can see it unless they have a reservation for the Black Arrow trains. 

Four Black Arrows pass through the station every day. In winter, they are packed, about 500 passengers on each train. In summer, there are a few vacant seats. In recent years, the Heavenly Railway authorities added special trains, about one extra Black Arrow every other day. It is not known if they will become regular trains. It is said that there will be more and more of them in the future.

On the platforms, the passengers are waiting. Hundreds are getting on, and no one is getting off. They are mostly elderly people, some on crutches or in wheelchairs. Some still wear masks, but almost all have taken them off -- they know they no longer need them assuming they ever did. Young people are few, looking around, seeming surprised to be there. There are also children, alone and afraid. Some are crying. Elderly people approach them, comfort them, and pretend that they are their grandparents. Taken by the hand, or in their arms, the children smile, reassured. Then, all together, they board the train that has arrived.

The black arrows are fast and silent. They travel in the evening, during the night, whizzing between mountains and plains. They never stop, but it is told that once one of the trains had a mechanical failure near a town whose name is not mentioned. Passengers got off, were welcomed, ate in local restaurants, some danced in discos, and it is said that, although a bit elderly, some made love in the town's hotel rooms. The next morning, another black arrow train appeared on the tracks. Everyone boarded the train and it left for good.

It is not known where the black arrows go. All that is known is that they go far, far away. The trains all go in the same direction, full, and come back in the opposite direction, empty. They say it has been that way for a long time. Once, it was steam trains that carried away the elderly. Before that, it was carriages, and even before that, it was a boat pushed by a bearded old man. The road to the Elysian Fields is always the same.

____________________________________________________________

Si dice che ci siano dei treni chiamati "Frecce Nere." Sono simili ai freccia rossa, argento, e bianca, ma tutti neri, con delle bordature oro intorno ai finestrini. Viaggiano su dei binari solo per loro, nessuno mai li vede. Pare che quelli che per caso li vedono ricevono il giorno dopo per posta un biglietto e una prenotazione. E non possono cambiarla. Si dice che le frecce nere abbiano dei binari a loro dedicati nelle grandi stazioni. Si racconta che sia il binario zero, ma nessuno sa esattamente dove sia. 

Alla stazione di Bologna, nei grandi sotterranei dove si fermano i Freccia Rossa, c'è una scala mobile che porta a un piano ancora più basso. Nessuno la può vedere a meno che non abbia una prenotazione per il Freccia Nera che si ferma là sotto. Passano dalla stazione quattro Frecce Nere al giorno. In inverno, sono strapieni, circa 500 passeggeri ogni treno. In estate, c'è qualche posto libero. Negli ultimi anni, le autorità delle ferrovie celestiali, hanno dovuto aggiungere dei treni speciali, circa una Freccia Nera in più ogni due giorni. Non si sa se diventeranno treni regolari. Si dice che ce ne saranno sempre di più. 

Sulle banchine, i passeggeri delle Frecce Nere sono in attesa. Sono centinaia quelli che salgono, nessuno scende. Sono più che altro persone anziane, alcune con stampelle o in sedia a rotelle. Alcuni portano ancora la mascherina, ma quasi tutti se la sono tolta -- sanno che non gli serve più, posto che gli sia mai servita. I giovani sono pochi, si guardano intorno, sembrano sorpresi di trovarsi lì. Ci sono anche bambini, soli e impauriti. Alcuni piangono. Gli anziani li avvicinano, li consolano, gli fanno da nonni. Presi per mano, o in braccio, i bambini sorridono, rassicurati. Poi, tutti insieme salgono sul treno che è arrivato. 

 Le frecce nere sono veloci e silenziose. Viaggiano di sera, durante la notte, sfrecciano fra montagne e pianure. Non si fermano mai, ma si racconta che una volta uno dei treni ha avuto un guasto meccanico vicino a una cittadina il cui nome non viene detto. I passeggeri sono scesi, sono stati accolti, hanno mangiato nei ristoranti del luogo, alcuni hanno ballato nelle discoteche, si dice che, anche se un po' anziani, alcuni abbiano fatto all'amore nelle stanze dell'albergo del paese. La mattina dopo, un altra freccia nera è comparsa sui binari. Tutti sono snoo saliti a bordo e sono andati via per sempre. 

 Non si sa dove vadano le frecce nere. Si sa solo che vanno lontano, molto lontano. I treni vanno tutti nella stessa direzione, pieni, e tornano indietro nella direzione opposta, vuoti. Si dice che è stato così per tanto tempo. Che una volta erano treni a vapore a portare via gli anziani. Che ancora prima erano carrozze, e prima ancora era una barca spinta da un vecchio barbuto. La strada per i Campi Elisi è sempre la stessa.