The second edition was published in July 2021 and is now available here (pdf) and Amazon (paperback, kindle)
​
We make many decisions by drawing on scientific evidence. Many others are shaped by cost–benefit analysis and market considerations. History shows that turning our backs on science and market instruments—as has often happened—has led only to various kinds of disaster.
​
That said, a significant share of our choices remains inherently subjective. These are decisions made simply because we prefer them, with no theory to justify our preference. Would I rather spend my money on a summer vacation or on a new car? There is no scientific rationale behind any possible answer to such a question. It is a matter of pure, subjective choice.
​
In the Western world, the range of available choices is constantly expanding. Many see this rapidly increasing and diversifying spectrum as a sign of prosperity, if not happiness. But what happens at the collective level, in societies? Should we support the poor or fund a new bridge? How do we navigate an ever-growing set of subjective, and often conflicting, preferences?
​
The central argument of this book is that for those who value individualism, yet do not wish to live in isolation outside society, there exists a tool with unique potential to moderate the delicate balance between personal freedom and citizenship.
​
That tool is democracy.
​
Democracy is unique in its capacity to regulate the relationship between individuals within a collective. It is unique precisely in this sense—and in no other. It is not a measure of a people’s wisdom, nor does it necessarily lead to greater justice. These are among the many myths often attached to it—myths that, like most myths, do not truly exist.
Democracy is a pragmatic instrument for managing collective decisions in an optimal way, just as markets are pragmatic instruments for setting prices and managing economic transactions. Neither carries an inherent ethical dimension. They are simply the most effective tools we have devised to manage our choices and our economic interactions—nothing more, and nothing less.
​
There are several reasons, which this book seeks to explore, to rediscover democracy and make better use of it—especially for those, like myself, who identify as European and fervently support the unfolding project of the European Union.
Mandelbrot himself once summarized fractals as: “Beautiful, damn hard, increasingly useful. That’s fractals.” He later expanded the definition: “A fractal is a shape made of parts similar to the whole in some way.”
​
Fractals stand at the meeting point of mathematics (Mandelbrot) and art (fractal art, Julia art). At the intersection of the anarchy of art and the order of science. Of the predictable and the outlier. Of the simple and the complex.
Fractals are just like life. They can be simple or ornate, short or long. They come, without doubt, in endless variety. And yet, in one essential way, they are all the same: you get lost in them; you are dazzled by them. You may languish or despond within them, feel tortured by their whirls—until, at some moment, you realize you have returned to the initial shapes. To the first moments. Of them. Of you.
​
And then you smile, at how short distances truly are.
​
DOUBLE BLACK GREEK COFFEE is a short story—a true fractal, transposed only into time and space. A story about the grand illusion: that something can be lost, when in fact it is merely waiting to appear again at the very next turn of time.
​
I feel grateful to all its actors. To Anne. To George. To Charis. To all of them. To those I still see today, and to the others—those lost in the fractal, without ever being truly lost.
Stray light!
You breathe unchecked in the dim, buried memories of our brighter days. Days long past—days of childhood serenity, of innocence and teenage romance. Our seditious reserve in the never-ending struggle against darkness.
​
And Ileana’s and Orestes’ last hope.
​
They live in darkness, each in their own. Sometimes—though only rarely—a ray of light penetrates it, stirring an indistinct aura around them. But only briefly; it soon fades, and they are returned, blind, to the vast dark kingdom. To the sublime mercy of the king of darkness who rules there. Invincible, vicious, and mean.
​
One day he lost his temper, scowled, glowered, and admitted: “I don’t know when it appears. If I did, it wouldn’t—I’d blot it out too. I don’t know when that light will appear any more than you know why you ended up here.”
​
That is what he told Orestes one day, as he suffered and wondered where he had gone wrong, what mistake had cast him—blind—into this dark kingdom. And then the king, cruel and glum, determined to extinguish the faint hope born of his own confession, added:
​
“That light lasts but a fraction. Don’t get your hopes up. It lasts very little, and it’s called… it’s called… stray light.”
​
This myth is moulded around the fraction of time that strange light lasts. It culminates in the encounter of two vast, dark constellations—Ileana and Orestes—and in the tectonic collision between them. Their ascent upon the cross. Until they descend from it and finally behold the great light, following a course akin to Christ’s Resurrection.
Ileana was just a friend. I never met her in person; we only corresponded. She was tragically lost during her struggle for freedom and light.
​
I deliberately imagined this Ileana differently. Different only on the outside—which matters little, even if a rough sketch inevitably strikes the eye as shabby. At her core, I preserved the same passion the other one had. And I made her a winner, walking the crimson and luminous path of the sun.
​
Let her tell the other Ileana that,
if she ever runs into her.
A fierce encounter, at a single point in time, between Orestes, who is returning, and Thaleia, who is departing. The unavoidable and traumatic separation of two mythically strong human beings—whom life, and perhaps the gods themselves, seem to drive in opposite directions.
​
Between them stands their common friend: the uncertain yet wise and compassionate Harry—the chorus. He finds himself in the vortex between the great return of the latter-day Ulysses (Orestes) and the eternal pilgrimage of Alexander (Thaleia). Harry attempts to mediate, to temper, and to reconcile the cosmic vehemence of their orbits. And he alone succeeds in solving the riddle of the rain.
​
We come and we go.
We depart and we return.
Like the gods—
within the cycle of life,
in the shadow of the sun.
Every year, the European Union commits around €12 billion to fund the so-called Framework Programmes (FPs), aimed at supporting research and innovation (R&I) activities across Europe. The first question is straightforward: do we really need this investment? My answer is an unequivocal yes—and I will argue this point briefly, focusing solely on the rationale for publicly funded research and innovation.
​
A second question then arises: does this investment deliver the maximum possible return—and if not, what would be required to optimise it? Addressing this question is the principal aim of this book.
​
I conceive R&I as a ladder composed of four rungs. At the top are definitions, where the cognitive building blocks of R&I are established. Next come strategies, where overarching directions and objectives are set. Below that are operations, where the key tools for implementing those strategies are designed. At the bottom lie measurements, where the overall performance of R&I activities is assessed. There are strong and consequential links between all four rungs; any reform introduced at one level must be reflected and followed through at all those below it. In line with this principle, I begin the discussion at the top rung—definitions—and descend step by step to the bottom of the ladder.
​
Will the reforms I propose along this innovation ladder be sufficient to overcome the EU’s current innovation deficit relative to the United States and the Far East? I doubt it. My focus here is on publicly funded R&I, which represents only a fraction of overall innovation activity in the EU. While I am confident that several of the book’s conclusions are more broadly relevant, the scope of this work is deliberately limited: it addresses innovation not as a whole, but specifically its publicly funded component—particularly that supported through EU Framework Programmes.
​
I believe innovation benefits both private and public stakeholders alike. Although conflicts of interest may arise between them, I see no inherent antagonism. This does not imply, however, that public and private interests are automatically aligned. For this reason, all four rungs of the publicly funded R&I ladder must be designed so as to maximise the public value they generate within the EU. This principle underpins the entire approach of the book.
​
Finally, I argue that in the era of globalisation and the unfolding fourth phase of the Industrial Revolution, this public value may extend well beyond Europe, reaching the global community at large. In doing so, it creates a wealth of opportunities—as well as challenges—yet to be fully recognised and harnessed. This broader potential, which may have so far escaped sufficient attention and scrutiny, is something I will consistently explore and emphasise throughout the book.
