The Garden of Forking Paths

I remember it was in Geneva where I first met him. We sat not too far from one another—his assistant, an attractive woman named Maria, was with him and helped make the selection of something to drink through the customary consideration of a menu. While blind, he knew the menu intimately, so the ritual was somewhat meaningless. At the time, I was surprised they were not ordering maté, but rather coffee, which I was also drinking. We fell to discussing books and my immediate post-adolescent appreciation for Schopenhauer. Then as now, much of it had to do with Schopenhauer’s clear style—the more pessimistic aspects also found an appreciative home in my burgeoning cynicism and misanthropy. Continue reading “A visit to the Garden of Forking Paths”