The writer Martin Mosebach sees the future as a threat, misses the beautiful, sacred, mysterious. A few glasses of wine with one who is attacked by some and adored unconditionally by others.
Anyone who has ever read a novel by Martin Mosebach, perhaps even just listened to his ravings about Venice in the late 15th century, cannot help but imagine this man living in an upper-class, even aristocratic, environment, at least in a rambling old building, with a salon and heavy oil paintings , and if there were an inkwell on the leather pad of his desk, you might find it grotesque, but fitting.