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That is no country for old men. The young In one another’s arms, birds in the trees–Those dying generations–at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unageing intellect An extract from WB Yeats,‘Sailing to Byzantium’(1928)

I would like to start this reply to the latest forecast by the Institute of World Economy and International Relations (IMEMO) with a small literary digression. Besides its poetic beauty, YB Yeats’‘Sailing to Byzantium’became one of the poet’s most lauded works for managing to express his acute reflexivity about the problem of aging. Observing the world around him, Yeats’ character understood with astounding clarity that it no longer belonged to him. Moved by this realization, he decided to set off to a different realm, a metaphysical world of …