Week after week, I churn out quite a few letters to the editor of The Economist. Rare is the week since my move to Motovun when I have not written two or three of them. After so many years, these letters have become one of the features of my Residua. As well as one of my anchors to this bewildering world of ours. But this week threatens to be different. The last issue of the mighty newspaper, which I bought in Zagreb as soon as I arrived, leaves me entirely cold. No matter how hard I try, I cannot wrap my mind around anything I read. Puzzled, the best I can do is to leave a trace of my puzzlement by way of a short note. I can only hope the trick will work once again, as it usually does. And my serenity will return as if by magic.