Reading this felt like an intervention — one I desperately needed but didn’t realise I was due for. A sharp, elegantly cynical critique of the cult of busyness, laced with just the right amount of irreverence. Your wit slices through modern absurdities with the precision of a scalpel, and I can’t help but admire the defiant nonchalance running through it all. The irony of needing to be efficient even in our leisure, of optimising joy until it’s stripped of spontaneity, is both tragic and hilarious. And that bit about incompetence saving Transylvania’s soul? Pure gem.
Slow living, for me, is rebellion — against the cult of urgency, against the modern disease of mistaking busyness for meaning. It’s drinking my tea slowly enough that it actually has time to cool, reading a book without the itch to check my phone, walking with no destination in my beautiful Paris just to hear my own thoughts stretch their legs. The other day, I spent 20 whole minutes peeling an orange, just to see if I could do it in one perfect spiral. Spoiler: I failed. But for those 20 minutes, I was nowhere else but there, completely absorbed in something beautifully, uselessly human.
And maybe that’s the point. Slowness isn’t about efficiency, nor is it about some aestheticised version of mindfulness, it’s about reclaiming time as something to inhabit rather than conquer. It’s about refusing to live life as a series of productivity hacks. Your words felt like a call to arms (or rather, a call to put our arms down) and simply BE — because if we can’t even take the time to peel an orange, what exactly are we rushing toward?
Your comments feel like scholia; you may want to use them to write new articles/essays! I read this three times: “It’s drinking my tea slowly enough that it actually has time to cool, reading a book without the itch to check my phone, walking with no destination in my beautiful Paris just to hear my own thoughts stretch their legs.” A bit envious that you live in Paris :) I am glad you *love* it; I was getting tired of people online complaining about it (don’t ask what the city can do for you but what you can do for your city)
It’s easy to romanticise from afar, but a city is like any relationship. You have to give as much as you get. It’s not just about the cinematic Parisian views and perfect croissants. It’s about embracing the quirks — the metro delays, the moody baristas, and yes, even dodging the occasional ‘crotte de chien’ on the sidewalk. But that’s what makes it real, right? Like loving someone not just for their charm but for their stubbornness too.
I fell in love with this city in 1994 and told myself it was my first and last love — that this is where I belong. Life tested that claim, bringing me here several times, and each time I left, it felt like unfinished business. But Paris has a way of calling you back, and eventually, I stopped resisting and made it my home forever. Because when a place feels like both your beginning and your destination, you don’t let it go.
Emil Cioran complained in his letters to his brother about Paris all the time, yet after leaving Romania, he spent the rest of his life there (facta, non verba)
Ah, Cioran… the original master of elegant despair! I guess I’m cut from the same Romanian cloth: I’ll grumble about many things, don’t get me started on what doesn’t work here — but leave? NEVER. Some of us just thrive on a little existential friction. After all, what’s more Parisian than loving the city because of its flaws, not in spite of them?
Where is everyone rushing to? I remember feeling this when I lived in NYC and everyone would be running to make the train as if another train wouldn't arrive shortly after. That was one of my first signals to realize New York wasn't for me long term. It only took me a decade to do something about it :)
Wonderful arficle. I'll have to check out Transylvania. My mother has great memories of visiting there as a child.
Reading this felt like an intervention — one I desperately needed but didn’t realise I was due for. A sharp, elegantly cynical critique of the cult of busyness, laced with just the right amount of irreverence. Your wit slices through modern absurdities with the precision of a scalpel, and I can’t help but admire the defiant nonchalance running through it all. The irony of needing to be efficient even in our leisure, of optimising joy until it’s stripped of spontaneity, is both tragic and hilarious. And that bit about incompetence saving Transylvania’s soul? Pure gem.
Slow living, for me, is rebellion — against the cult of urgency, against the modern disease of mistaking busyness for meaning. It’s drinking my tea slowly enough that it actually has time to cool, reading a book without the itch to check my phone, walking with no destination in my beautiful Paris just to hear my own thoughts stretch their legs. The other day, I spent 20 whole minutes peeling an orange, just to see if I could do it in one perfect spiral. Spoiler: I failed. But for those 20 minutes, I was nowhere else but there, completely absorbed in something beautifully, uselessly human.
And maybe that’s the point. Slowness isn’t about efficiency, nor is it about some aestheticised version of mindfulness, it’s about reclaiming time as something to inhabit rather than conquer. It’s about refusing to live life as a series of productivity hacks. Your words felt like a call to arms (or rather, a call to put our arms down) and simply BE — because if we can’t even take the time to peel an orange, what exactly are we rushing toward?
Your comments feel like scholia; you may want to use them to write new articles/essays! I read this three times: “It’s drinking my tea slowly enough that it actually has time to cool, reading a book without the itch to check my phone, walking with no destination in my beautiful Paris just to hear my own thoughts stretch their legs.” A bit envious that you live in Paris :) I am glad you *love* it; I was getting tired of people online complaining about it (don’t ask what the city can do for you but what you can do for your city)
It’s easy to romanticise from afar, but a city is like any relationship. You have to give as much as you get. It’s not just about the cinematic Parisian views and perfect croissants. It’s about embracing the quirks — the metro delays, the moody baristas, and yes, even dodging the occasional ‘crotte de chien’ on the sidewalk. But that’s what makes it real, right? Like loving someone not just for their charm but for their stubbornness too.
I fell in love with this city in 1994 and told myself it was my first and last love — that this is where I belong. Life tested that claim, bringing me here several times, and each time I left, it felt like unfinished business. But Paris has a way of calling you back, and eventually, I stopped resisting and made it my home forever. Because when a place feels like both your beginning and your destination, you don’t let it go.
Emil Cioran complained in his letters to his brother about Paris all the time, yet after leaving Romania, he spent the rest of his life there (facta, non verba)
Ah, Cioran… the original master of elegant despair! I guess I’m cut from the same Romanian cloth: I’ll grumble about many things, don’t get me started on what doesn’t work here — but leave? NEVER. Some of us just thrive on a little existential friction. After all, what’s more Parisian than loving the city because of its flaws, not in spite of them?
Compress what needs to be compressed - work.
And decompress life.
You get it :)
Lovely article sir
Where is everyone rushing to? I remember feeling this when I lived in NYC and everyone would be running to make the train as if another train wouldn't arrive shortly after. That was one of my first signals to realize New York wasn't for me long term. It only took me a decade to do something about it :)
Wonderful arficle. I'll have to check out Transylvania. My mother has great memories of visiting there as a child.
Well said. That village looks wonderful. Stop rushing and start living.