“Who said that?” I asked in utter confusion.
“Me, the Aventador S.”
“No way! You can talk?”
“Only to a very select few.”
“Because our little tribe has known you for many years. I’m the twelfth Lamborghini that you now have the pleasure of sitting in. We know all about your boundless love for our kind.”
“That’s right. And now please repeat what you said earlier. I didn’t quite catch . . .”
The Aventador S spoke: “I said: As you wish. But remember: The more we rush through space and time, the less we see and call to mind.”
“Admit it,” I said, dumbfounded, “those aren’t your words.”
“Did I say they were? It’s from Erich Limpach.”
“Never heard of him.”
“A German poet. I thought you were more well-read.”
“Don’t get sassy with me! And now tell me, epitome of speed: Why do you of all things quote something like that?”
To which the Aventador S said, “Look, we’re both getting on in years. I’ll soon have half a dozen under my belt, and I’ve been kicked around enough. And you, you old fart, could be my grandfather. Aren’t you bored yet of thundering down the highway at three hundred kilometers and hour? Any chump can do that.”
“It doesn’t bore me a bit. Because nothing in life stands still, and what is fastest is most beautiful.” So, who’s that from, you smart-ass dago?”
“Wilhelm Heinse,” the Aventador S answered without delay, “1746 to 1803.” And the hyperintelligent hypercar added: “But what good is speed if your brain has oozed out along the way? So, and who is the author of these words, hmm? Speak, you spawn of a backwoods mountain people!”
Humbly, I had to admit, “I don’t know.”
“How embarrassing! That was Karl Kraus, an Austrian like yourself!”
“What kind of strange creature are you? A Lamborghini that disdains speed? That’s like a vegetarian lion.”
“There is only one tempo: the right one. Wilhelm Furtwängler,” the car lectured me again.
“Can’t we just get along?” I begged.