At the end of last year I decided to take a break from writing, burned out from my routine of crawling out of bed at 5 a.m., commuting for forty-five minutes, spending six hours performing menial tasks — cleaning floors, emptying trash cans, unclogging drain pipes, all in a day’s work — heading back home, and spending the rest of the day trying to extract words from my brain. The groove that had given me a lot of stability ever since I decided to settle here in Hamburg was finally turning on me, wearing me down little by little until the simple act of changing out of my work clothes became almost unmanageable.
When your body speaks, it’s important to listen. I’ve had to learn this through three decades of trial and error, failed relationships, prematurely quit jobs — I’ve somehow managed to never get fired — and countless missed opportunities at making a better life for myself. In August 2025 my body was more or less screaming at me, begging me to take a break but it still took me another six months to start listening. Given my financial situation as well as the fact that I had just started my current job, putting my writing on hold seemed like the only sound course of action so that ended up being the choice I made.
Writing has come to occupy a strange position in my life because it is essentially a compulsion for which I also happen to get paid occasionally. For a variety of reasons, most writers prefer not to discuss their economic circumstances, the ways in which they navigate their lives in order to make room for writing. A lot of it, I assume, has to do with shame; shame at one’s privilege, the rich, well-connected parents that paid for a liberal arts degree and subsequently made some calls to secure their kid a cushy job (or at least an interview) that affords them enough free time for a not-so-lucrative writing career or shame at one’s lack of such resources, shame at having to get one’s hands and knees and face dirty, shame at having to bend over toilets every day, shame at not advancing in life all because one refuses to give up this low-paying, time-consuming side hustle.
It’s worth noting that the tide is changing somewhat. The Baffler published a piece in April wherein seven writers talk about the challenges they face while trying to eke out a living. The piece opens like this:
In the fall of 1971, Wallace Stegner, who was running his eponymous fellowship at Stanford, offered the writers in his program some financial advice. The Stegner Fellowship, which included a $3,500 annual stipend—the equivalent today of about $28,000—was one of the most prestigious an early-career writer could receive. […] Now, the fellows—looking forward to completing the program, publishing their novels, and maybe even earning a bit more money—asked Stegner what to expect. In the twenty years the program had been operating, one fellow asked, how many were now making a living as writers? “Young man,” Stegner replied, “you don’t understand. You’ve chosen a profession that doesn’t exist.”
Back in 2022 I did not understand that last part. I wasn’t blind, things were very clearly in decline but I foolishly believed that there was a way for me to bootstrap and elbow-grease myself into a life mostly occupied and paid for by writing. Writing can of course mean many things and for a while my compromise was freelance copywriting with the occasional spell of window-cleaning thrown in for extra cash. As time wore on, however, I realized that working ten-hour days, six days a week for what amounted to peanuts wasn’t sustainable so when I moved to Germany, I decided a regular, low-pressure day job would be the best way forward. And well…
Anyway, what I really ended up taking a break from wasn’t writing but rather writing for money as I still scribbled in my journal (only once or twice but still) and fed my Letterboxd diary film reviews on a regular basis. In February I decided to work my way through Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s filmography, a project I only recently completed (he has made a lot of pictures) and wrote a few hundred words on most of them. (Not to get ahead of myself but I have also begun writing an essay on his work which will most likely end up on here as well.) I even ended up saying yes to one paid gig: writing the booklet essay for an upcoming Blu-ray release of a widely-panned, barely-seen film from one of America’s finest genre filmmakers.
What my time away from writing was really marked by though, was a slow slide into depression. The new job which was supposed to provide me with more money and more flexibility to structure my life around turned out to be even more rigid and demanding. I showed up every morning and poured whatever energy I had into making it through the workday. Coming home I would usually either fall asleep or just sit at the kitchen table for hours, staring out the balcony door, wondering how I was going to get through the next day. Writing became a struggle, reading became a struggle, watching movies became a struggle, listening to music, meeting friends, going to the store, the museum, a show, all of it. I felt like giving up and sometimes I still do.
In March I saw that Arte, the French-German public service channel, added all three seasons of Twin Peaks to their media library. On a lazy afternoon I was tempted to watch the pilot again but I knew — I said it out loud, in fact — that if I started I’d feel compelled to watch the entire thing. I sat down to watch it anyway and, predictably, ended up watching all of it. (Yes, this was a big reason for why it took me so long to watch all of Kurosawa’s films.)
I assume most people reading this have at least a passing familiarity with both Twin Peaks and David Lynch, who co-created the series with writer Mark Frost, but in case you aren’t, here’s the premise in brief: in 1989, the body of a young woman, Laura Palmer (Sheryl Lee), is found on a river bank just outside the fictional town of Twin Peaks, Washington. FBI Special Agent Dale Cooper (Kyle MacLachlan) is called in to head the investigation, aided by local law enforcement. It sounds simple enough but there is a lot more to the end result that this premise lets on.
It’s a show you will often hear described as “weird,” “quirky,” and “scary” and those descriptors are unquestionably accurate. However, it is the interplay between those tones that make it so unique and frankly inimitable. What Twin Peaks did was take elements of police procedurals and fuse them with comedy, drama, and horror. It wasn’t uncommon for a scene of characters killing time by engaging in small-town gossip to be followed by a character having terrifying visions of bloodstained carpets or being attacked by a supernatural nighttime intruder. Even the happy-go-lucky Cooper is regularly beset by bizarre nightmares that take place in what is later revealed to be a place called the Red Room, dreams he believes will help him solve the case of the murdered homecoming queen.
I have seen the entirety of Twin Peaks a few times throughout my life. There aren’t a great many TV shows I’ve watched and even fewer I’ve actually enjoyed but as far as the realm of television is concerned, Lynch and Frost’s creation forms a kind of best case scenario, one where even the format’s ostensible weaknesses are transformed into strengths by twisting the whole into something even more unwieldy and complicated.
Initially the show was built around the question of “Who killed Laura Palmer?” and this gave the (often digressive) series its dramatic momentum. When the series answers this question halfway through the second season, there is a noticeable dip in quality as well as a tangible feeling of aimlessness as the people behind it scrambled to find their footing again after losing both its central mystery and one of its main creative forces (Lynch stepped back from the show during its second season, unhappy about having been pressured by the network to reveal the killer’s identity and the direction the show took after the reveal, though he did return to direct the season’s finale.)
Twin Peaks, for all its eccentric charm and soap opera intrigue, can be harrowing: “Episode 14” (also referred to as “Lonely Souls”) culminates with not only the revelation that Leland Palmer (Ray Wise), Laura’s grief-stricken father, has been inhabited by the demonic entity BOB (Frank Silva) but also a long, drawn-out scene of him brutally murdering Laura’s cousin Maddy (also played by Sheryl Lee). What at first glance feels like a jarring reminder of just how high the stakes are turns out to be as emotionally overwhelming and upsetting as it is precisely because of the series’ general inclination toward the heightened, hysterical emotional register of melodrama.
In Twin Peaks, good cherry pie and a cup of coffee can turn a bad day great, an encounter with a beautiful woman can return a man’s hearing, and a single heartfelt speech can mend a broken father–son relationship. But if the beauty and love in Twin Peaks seem capable of moving mountains, the same is true of their opposites. Leland talks about BOB “visiting” him as a child and that trauma turns him into a vessel which in turn allows BOB to perpetuate abuse against Leland’s own daughter and niece. When Cooper gets trapped in the Black Lodge during the season two finale, his evil doppelgänger — a shadow-self that sprung from the Black Lodge, itself a shadow of the White Lodge — wreaks havoc on the world for the next twenty-five years.
The show never shied away from confronting the evil that humans and men in particular are capable of but there was a sense of cosmic balance when the series was first unveiled to the world at the beginning of the 1990s. The forces of evil were real and they sat smack-dab in the middle of our cities, towns, and homes but so were the forces of good, always busy and self-less in their pursuit of justice and the righting of wrongs. However, Cooper’s doppelgänger and Leland are the foremost examples of how those lines regularly got blurred as well: both the scene of Leland gleefully assaulting and murdering Maddy and the scene of him raping Laura in the 1992 film Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me cut back and forth between him and BOB committing these heinous acts, resisting easy interpretations of either demonic possession or a psychopathic male desire to exert dominance over women.
Even thornier is the case of Cooper’s doppelgänger. Whereas Special Agent Cooper came to represent the show’s light, my latest rewatch revealed something a little thoughtless and cruel about him as well. Think of how easily he slips into the role of drug financier in “Episode 7,” big wiry glasses magnifying his giddy and hungry eyes. The same goes for his relationship to 18-year-old Audrey Horne (Sherilyn Fenn); although he rejects her advances, he does so in the name of propriety rather than a genuine lack of attraction. Subsequently, the show’s third season, commonly referred to as Twing Peaks: The Return (2017), shows us that his doppelgänger has become a major figure in the world of organized crime and also raped and impregnated a comatose Audrey.
For me, every Twin Peaks rewatch is an inevitable journey toward The Return, the finest work of American television that I’m aware of and a massive feat of filmmaking. (I’d rather not rehash the tedious “television vs. film” debate here.) It explodes the established scale of the first two seasons which took place exclusively in and around Twin Peaks by ping-ponging between Twin Peaks, South Dakota, Las Vegas, New York, Philadelphia, and even Buenos Aires.
In “Episode 3” Sheriff Harry S. Truman (Michael Ontkean) says this to Cooper:
“There’s a sort of evil out there. Something very, very strange in these old woods. Call it what you want. A darkness, a presence. It takes many forms but… it’s been out there for as long as anyone can remember and we’ve always been here to fight it.”
But by the third season this darkness has spread far beyond the appropriately named Ghostwood National Forest that surrounds Twin Peaks. What felt very of-the-moment almost a decade ago — an uglier, more violent show for uglier, more violent times — felt concussive in its naked emotional barbarism in 2026. The uneasy equilibrium of the first two seasons has all but broken down in The Return and the world it presents is cold, barren, unpleasant, and brutal. The third season is full of bashed faces, exploded and severed heads, open sores, gunshot wounds, drug abuse, suicide, and all manner of moaning, screaming, crying, and agony.
In a piece for n+1, film critic A. S. Hamrah wrote that “Twin Peaks foregrounds a kind of American emptiness of the soul that is filled by violence,” something that’s easy to agree with — the 2017 piece was mostly concerned with the Trump presidency, something that just so happens to also be a reality in 2026 — but has also begun to feel somewhat incomplete. If the last few years have shown anything, it’s that this emptiness sits at the heart of the entire world order. And as this order crumbles and deteriorates, the violence must be ramped up.
It’s a logic The Return follows as well, perhaps best illustrated by Cooper’s doppelgänger having apparently lived a life of luxury — the show offers a quick glimpse of a rather ridiculous photograph of him in front of a large mansion in Buenos Aires that his criminal activities have afforded him — but nonetheless spending the majority of the show either dealing with and occasionally disposing of small-time crooks (he even arm wrestles the leader of a gang before viciously killing him), covered in dust, dirt, and blood, or violently vomiting. The image of him in Buenos Aires is not only ridiculous for how obviously photoshopped it is — something The Return does throughout, one can assume intentionally — but also for how far removed the person in the photo, dressed in a slick white suit, is from the sweaty, dirty, black leather-clad goon we follow.
In reality, the world, like the show, wasn’t any more brutal than it had been in the past, certainly not more so than the blood-soaked twentieth century. What had changed was its visibility. The first Trump term wasn’t a break with the political order or with what Trump himself referred to as the deep state but rather a shift in rhetoric and decorum, a shift that exposed the violence, greed, and arrogance that was always at the heart of postwar liberal consensus and its institutions. The rest of the Western world was scandalized by his election victory, conveniently ignoring its own thriving right-wing populist parties and leaders and its role in maintaining (or at least playing lapdog to) the United States’ role as global hegemon.
Regardless of how much Trump’s first presidency shattered any delusions regarding the West’s civility or superiority, it was nothing compared to what his second term has done. When Hamrah wrote that “[Trump] has grafted his head onto our collective body,” he meant the American collective but again this specification feels too narrow. The collective body of the world has had several heads grafted on it shoulders, sewn on its arms, stapled to its back. A massive, hideous shambling god of death, a vulgar counterfeit of the Hindu goddess Kali in her cosmic Mahakali form, bearing the faces of Donald Trump, JD Vance, Benjamin Netanyahu, Friedrich Merz, Giorgia Meloni, Keir Starmer, Ursula von der Leyen, Mark Rutte, Alex Karp, Peter Thiel, Elon Musk, and countless others; dozens of lolling tongues, hundreds of thousands of severed heads and arms dangling from its pale, decaying body.
Cooper’s doppelgänger fits this new world perfectly, for his extraordinary cruelty and disregard for the people around him but also because he is simultaneously a product of this world as well as one of its architects. He, like the multi-headed god turning entire societies into what political theorist Achille Mbembe calls “deathworlds,” moves through the world while leaving a trail of death and misery in his wake. His black eyes are the eyes we all stare into when we get out of bed, unlock our phones, read newspaper headlines, turn on our TVs, open our laptops, talk to digital assistants, apply for job openings that turn out to not be real, and subject ourselves to five rounds of interviews for the ones that are.
His eyes are also what we stare into when we’re depressed. While going through depression it can feel like all life, goodness, and color has been drained from our existence, that we’re nothing more than empty husks, vulnerable to be overtaken by our darkest impulses. But is there a difference between being depressed and merely being alive in 2026? Life, goodness, and color are being drained from our existence because the people in charge, the people whose heads are grafted on our collective body, detest life and worship death. In his 1973 book The Anatomy of Human Destructiveness, psychoanalyst Erich Fromm used the term “necrophilia” and defined it as the “passionate attraction to all that is dead, decayed, putrid, sickly; it is the passion to transform that which is alive into something unalive; to destroy for the sake of destruction; the exclusive interest in all that is purely mechanical.”
Long before Israel began its genocidal campaign in the Gaza Strip, the Palestinian territory was already a laboratory for Israel-aligned governments, weapons manufacturers, and tech companies to test and develop tools for human surveillance and annihilation. To the people involved this was never just about foreign policy; the end goal is not only mass death but the replacement of all that is human with its mechanical shadow, one that doesn’t feel, doesn’t celebrate, doesn’t oversleep, doesn’t struggle, doesn’t complain, doesn’t dream. (Note how eerily this description fits Keir Starmer.)
This mechanical shadow is incapable of reading a book or listening to a song. When prompted, it will no doubt call the final lines of The Great Gatsby “beautiful” and “deeply moving” but it can’t find consolation in Fitzgerald’s words. It can’t think about the “the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us” as it grows older. If I had asked ChatGPT to generate an essay about me resuming work on the newsletter, would it have thought to talk about depression and what it felt like to rewatch three seasons and a film about a murder in a fictional small town while going through it? Had Neil Young been in a position to let an LLM write “Cortez the Killer,” a track about Hernán Cortés’ battles with the Aztecs, would it have thought to include a verse that makes reference to his then-recent breakup with Carrie Snodgress? Would it have included lines about brains falling out through teeth in a song about Anne Frank and her family hiding in an attic in the 1940s the way Neutral Milk Hotel’s “Two-Headed Boy, Pt. Two” does?
Twin Peaks and its convoluted plot, clash of tones, contradictory emotions, deliberate pace, occasionally messy production history, and frequently contentious relationship with critics and the viewing public is the kind of thing that has no place in this new world. Engaging with it requires more than solving a puzzle or looking for simple life lessons — the show isn’t “about” one thing, characters and places don’t “represent” the picayune concepts and ideas so popular in the age of the ideas industry. Like its characters, Twin Peaks is interesting because it manages to be two or more things at once, a trademark of Lynch’s oeuvre. This tendency reaches its apex with The Return, a work that thrives on contradiction, duality, and ambiguity.
A big part of watching the third season is waiting for the inevitable (and perhaps titular) return of Dale Cooper and though Cooper escapes the Black Lodge early on, he isn’t all there and spends the overwhelming majority of the season as the bumbling, barely-verbal Dougie Jones. Jones is Cooper stripped of his competence and wit, a toddler in a man’s body who can only repeat other people’s words back at them and occasionally mutter his own name. He’s a hero with next to no agency who still somehow stumbles into heroics, constantly praised for turning people’s lives around, for the kindness of his heart, as he himself stares into the middle distance, unable to comprehend his circumstances.
It’s a rejection of people’s conception of Cooper’s character as a beacon of puppy-dog goodness, a Boy Scout simply trying to do right in a corrupted world. But even this rejection comes with its own duality for the simple fact that Dougie is, in fact, exceptionally likable. His movements echo those of another pitiful Lynch dope, Eraserhead Henry Spencer (Jack Nance), as well as silent-era legends like Buster Keaton. As is the case with those two, there is a melancholic quality to Dougie’s character as well, one that comes through when we see him staring at the bronze statue of a cowboy outside of his office building, completely transfixed as day slowly turns into night and even more so when he sheds a tear while looking at his son, Sonny Jim (Pierce Gagnon).
Lynch has always had a penchant for slapstick but it it particularly pronounced during Dougie’s scenes. As film critic Lawrence Garcia put it in his 2021 piece on The Return, slapstick comedy is “a genre explicitly based on assaulting the hero’s dignity […] Charted out over the course of roughly 14 episodes, the Dougie Jones scenes constitute nothing less than a protracted assault on Cooper’s heroic dignity.” Assaulting his most beloved character’s dignity in this way is perhaps the ultimate gesture of anti-nostalgia in a show that, at the very least, has conflicting feelings toward it.
When Cooper’s memory is restored in “Part 16” and he leaves Las Vegas for Twin Peaks, there is a sense that all the disparate plot threads strewn throughout the previous fifteen episodes will finally converge, for a coherent whole to emerge, for every question to be answered, for all the pieces to fall into place at last. Indeed there is a big, hokey final showdown in the Twin Peaks Sheriff’s Department between the forces of good and the forces of evil that involves Cooper’s doppelgänger being shot by the station’s ditsy receptionist Lucy Brennan (Kimmy Robertson) and an orb containing BOB being smashed to pieces by Freddie Sykes (Jake Wardle) with his gardening glove-covered right hand.
But as things play out and the characters begin their post-battle celebration there is a sense that things aren’t quite right, something seemingly confirmed when Cooper’s blank face appears superimposed over the scene, saying nothing aside from one line: “We live inside a dream.” Lynch has said that “endings are terrible things,” a quote that perhaps explains his career-long (and often thankless) fascination with television and The Return is, in part, about his, and indeed our complicated relationship to them. The Return came after not one but two endings — Twin Peaks in 1991, Fire Walk with Me a year later — and the rupture of “Part 17,” one of a great many Lynchian ruptures, answers the question of what lies beyond by throwing the narrative into the realm of dreams for good; “the other side of the mirror,” as Chris Marker described the second half of Vertigo (1958) in his 1994 essay on the film.
“See you at the curtain call,” says Cooper as he leaves the sheriff’s station, his boyish charm momentarily allowing him to travel back in time and offer a glimpse of the young man he was during the events of the first two seasons. It’s a very small bit of audience reassurance; before long he does actually end up traveling in time to prevent Laura’s murder by leading her through the woods and away from the cabin where she will meet her grisly fate. It’s hard to think of a more definite end to the Twin Peaks mythos than the prevention of the inciting incident — the episode even replays the series’ famous first scene of Pete Martell (Jack Nance) discovering Laura’s body, only this time there is no body to be found and he ends up fishing in peace — but of course the question of what comes after inevitably arises once more.
What’s most tragic is that for all of his illusions of being in control and doing good, Cooper is trapped within the confines of what is ultimately a television program, continually succumbing to the exact way of thinking that keeps the audience coming back time and time again: there must always be more, one more case to solve, one more mystery to unravel, one more beautiful woman to be yearned for, to be lusted after, one more helpless girl in need of saving, one more girl to be victimized. It’s a logic we’ve become so intimately familiar with that we don’t even bother asking ourselves what actually happens to the women Cooper becomes fixated on or infatuated with, why they all end up dead, comatose, or traumatized.
“Cooper’s great crime is [his] refusal to notice, to acknowledge,” writes Garcia. “It is a refusal born of an infantile fantasy of omnipotence, the idea that one can master time and space, and bend it to one’s will.” But Cooper’s failure is also a failure of imagination; he does the same things again and again hoping for a different result because he can’t fathom that things could ever be different. In his mind, cycles can never be broken. He believes the world needs and always will need him or at least people like him. When the tulpa of Dougie he has MIKE (Al Strobel) create finally unites with Jayne-E (Naomi Watts) and Sonny Jim in “Part 18,” the moment is less heart-warming than it is revealing of Cooper’s pathology, one of his endless attempts to solve problems with the same thinking that caused them in the first place.
“Part 18,” the show’s final episode, has been noted for its opacity but it is actually the one that fully lays bare The Return’s underlying belief that the old ways and its figureheads can’t save us. As we slide further into dystopia it can be tempting to look to the past, ignoring the ugly realities that nostalgia has a way of concealing. This tendency toward collective amnesia finds its clearest (and most troubling) expression in the continued whitewashing and rehabilitation of rancid political actors like Henry Kissinger or George W. Bush by the media apparatus but also comes through in our culture’s general refusal to let go of the past, to finally let the old ways die. Until we do, we will be stuck in an endless loop, doomed to repeat the same mistakes over and over again.
There is something profoundly sad and mournful about The Return. Many prominent characters have disappeared completely (Pete, Joan Chen’s Josie Packard), have been relegated to off-screen appearances (Ontkean’s Sheriff Truman), appear only through archival footage (BOB, Don Davis’ Major Garland Briggs), or in some kind of altered or “evolved” form (David Bowie’s Special Agent Phillip Jeffries, Michael J. Anderson’s Man from Another Place). The reason behind many of these decisions was the death of the actors, something that puts the passage of time in perspective in an unflinching way.
But there is real sadness in the return of familiar faces as well. Everyone we see has aged visibly since their last appearance but the first sight of Laura in the Red Room, wearing her black dress, her face older, wrinklier, and wearier is particularly overwhelming. The person whose angelic face hid so many dark secrets, the abuse victim whose likeness dangles from keychains and is emblazoned on t-shirts and stickers and glows on countless computer screens from digital pinboards, looking back at us, still sitting in the same chair in the same room, talking to the man she first saw in her dreams twenty-five years ago, only allowed to grow old in her role as the eternal murder victim.
Throughout The Return, Deputy Chief Hawk (Michael Horse) receives regular phone calls from Margaret Lanterman (Catherine E. Coulson), better known as the Log Lady, relaying messages from her log. Coulson, like her character, was dying of lung cancer when she shot these scenes and they are among some of the show’s most devastating. Lanterman is old and frail, hooked to an oxygen tank and has lost most of her hair. During her last conversation with Hawk she faces her fate head-on, tearfully telling him, “You know about death, that it’s just a change not an end. Hawk, it’s time. There is some fear. Fear in letting go […] I’m dying,” before bidding farewell one last time. “Good night, Hawk.”
Lanterman’s popularity was such that when the first two seasons of Twin Peaks were picked up to be rebroadcast by Bravo in 1993, Lynch shot brief monologues with Coulson, in character as Lanterman, to introduce each episode. For the most part they are classic Lynch nonsense clues — remember the insert that came with the Mulholland Drive (2001) DVD release? — but her introduction for “Episode 3” has resonated with me as I struggle to come to terms with the world and my place in it, with the fact that depression always lurks around the corner, the fact that everything we do and work for, life itself, seems so incredibly fragile: “We ask, ‘Will the sadness which makes me cry, will the sadness that makes me cry my heart out, will it ever end?’ The answer, of course, is yes. One day, the sadness will end.”














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