Like the Flowing River

'That woman is in the service of Satan!' cried a preacher angrily.

From then on, the boy decided to seek the Devil out, and when he found him, he said: 'They say you can make people powerful, rich, and beautiful.'

'Not really,' replied the Devil. 'You've just been listening to the views of those who are trying to promote me.'

How Do We Survive?

I receive through the post three litres of a product intended to provide a substitute for milk. A Norwegian company wants to know if I'm interested in investing in the production of this new kind of food because, in the opinion of the expert David Rietz: 'ALL [his capitals] cow's milk contains 59 active hormones, a great deal of fat, cholesterol, dioxins, bacteria and viruses.'

I think of the calcium that, when I was a child, my mother said was so good for my bones; but the expert is ahead of me: 'Calcium? Where do cows get calcium for their big bones? Yes, from plants!' Naturally, this new product is plant-based, and milk is condemned on the basis of innumerable studies carried out by various institutes dotted around the world.

And protein? David Rietz is implacable: 'Milk can be thought of as "liquid meat" [I never have, but he must know what he's talking about] because of its high protein content. But it is the protein which may actually leach calcium from the body. Countries that consume high protein diets also have the highest rates of osteoporosis.'

That same afternoon, my wife e-mails me an article she has found on the internet:

People who are now aged between 40 and 60 years old used to drive around in cars with no seatbelts, no head support and no airbag. Children sat in the back, making a tremendous racket and having a great time.

Baby cribs were painted with brightly coloured paints, all highly suspect, since they might have contained lead or some other dangerous substance.

I, for example, am of the generation that used to make their own 'go-karts' (I don't know quite how to explain this to today's generation - let's just say they were made with ball bearings fixed inside two iron hoops) and we would race down the hills in Botafogo, using our feet as brakes, falling off, hurting ourselves, but very proud of our high-speed adventures.

The article continues:

There were no mobile phones, and so our parents had no way of knowing where we were - how was that possible? As children, we were never right, we were occasionally punished, but we never had any psychological problems about feeling rejected or unloved. At school, there were good pupils and there were bad pupils: the good pupils moved up to the next year, the bad ones flunked. Psychotherapists were not called in to study the case - the bad pupils simply had to repeat the year.

And even so, we managed to survive with a few grazed knees and a few traumas. We not only survived, we look back nostalgically to the days when milk was not a poison, when a child was expected to resolve any problems without outside help, getting into fights if necessary, and spending much of the day without any electronic toys, and, instead, inventing games with friends.

But let's go back to my initial topic. I decided to try the miraculous new product that could replace murderous milk.

I got no further than the first mouthful.

I asked my wife and my maid to try it, without telling them what it was. They both said they had never tasted anything so disgusting in their life.

I'm worried about tomorrow's children, with their computer games, their parents with mobile phones, psychotherapists helping them through every failure, and - above all - being forced to drink this 'magic potion', which will keep them free of cholesterol, osteoporosis, and safe from those 59 active hormones and from toxins.

They will be very healthy and well balanced; and when they grow up, they will discover milk (by then, it may well be illegal). Perhaps some scientist in 2050 will take it upon himself to rescue something that people have been drinking since the beginning of t

ime? Or will milk only be available from drug traffickers?

Marked Out to Die

I possibly should have died at 22:30 on 22 August 2004, less than forty-eight hours after my birthday. In order for the scene of my near-death to be set, a series of factors came into play: (a) In interviews to promote his latest film, the actor Will Smith kept mentioning my book The Alchemist.

(b) His latest film was based on a book I had read years ago and very much enjoyed: I, Robot. I decided to go and see it, in homage to Smith and Asimov.

(c) The film opened in a small town in the south-west of France in the first week of August. However, for a series of entirely trivial reasons, I had to postpone going to the cinema until that Sunday.

I ate supper early and drank half a bottle of wine with my wife. We invited our maid to come with us (she resisted at first, but finally accepted); we got there in plenty of time, bought some popcorn, saw the film, and enjoyed it.

I got into the car to make the ten-minute drive back to the old converted mill that is my home. I put a CD of Brazilian music on and decided to drive fairly slowly so that, during those ten minutes, I could listen to at least three songs.

On the road, passing through small, sleepy villages, I see - appearing out of nowhere - a pair of headlights in the driver's side mirror. Before us lies a crossroads, clearly marked by posts.

I try to brake, because I know that the other car won't be able to overtake - the posts at the crossroads make that impossible. All this takes a fraction of a second. I remember thinking, 'The guy must be mad!', but I don't have time to say anything. The driver of the other car (the image engraved on my memory is that of a Mercedes, but I can't be sure), sees the posts, accelerates, pulls over in front of me, and when he tries to correct his position, ends up slewed across the road.

From then on, everything seems to happen in slowmotion. His car turns over on its side once, twice, three times. It hits the hard shoulder and continues rolling over and over, forward this time, with the front and back bumpers hitting the ground.

My headlights illuminate the whole thing, but I can't brake suddenly - I'm driving right alongside this car performing somersaults. It's like a scene from the film I've just seen; but that was fiction, and this is real life!