For a scholar, a job in finance is tantamount to an Ovidian exile. At least this is how I’ve recently thought of my self-imposed banishment to the financial centre of Canary Wharf in London, this hic sunt leones of the humanist’s modern cartography.
Non hic librorum, per quos inviter alarque
copia; pro libris arcae et tributa sonant.
In the world of silky suits and crashing drums, there is hardly any room left for letters, save those neatly folded in sad envelopes that will never make the world any better.
Cui nunc haec cura laborat?
A question as unanswered as it is forgotten every morning.