An ES 350, especially a loaded ES 350, is a very nice car. But I’m reminded of James Joyce’s short story “The Dead.” In it, a man’s wife reveals that as a teenager, she had a boyfriend named Michael Furey who died of pneumonia after trying to visit her during a terrible storm. The husband dejectedly realizes that compared with this crazy dead guy, he hasn’t brought much to the table in the way of passion. He’s just going through the motions.Or maybe his or her head would just explode from the pressure of an over-extended metaphor.
I wonder if an ES 350 owner wouldn’t eventually have a similar epiphany. Maybe he or she would be driving along one day and suddenly remember a ride from the past, some rascal of a sports car that was fast and exciting but blew its final head gasket long before its time.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
You wouldn't want to get caught between the NYT's auto writer and his Joycean epiphany
When the automative muse draws near at the New York Times, stand back. The result can be explosive.