First the soft stuff, like stir fry on the lawn
Or a drummer brushing his snare.
Then the pellets rapping the roof,
Punctuated by rim shots, metallic in the gutters.
After that, lightning mapping the rivers of the sky,
Searing them to the eye sockets in photogravure.
And thunder, like barrels on a wooden floor
Rolling, rolling to a distant storage.
Finally: wind, shaking loose the trees,
Airing out their hidden leaves,
And a chestful of oxygen drawn in,
The first breath, it would seem, in years.
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
War abroad. Socialists on the rise. AI upending human life. Endless uproar online. The modern attention economy doesn’t want readers — it wants users enslaved to the tyranny of the present.
First Things is the antidote: literary excellence, timeless truths, and a fixed point of reference in a culture that has lost its bearings.
But we can’t do it without readers like you.
Our goal: Raise $150,000 by November 1 to sustain First Things in the year ahead.
Your gift anchors readers in the permanent things.
Make your Fall Campaign gift now using the button below.
If you have any questions or would like more information, please contact Giovanni Del Piero, Director of the Editor’s Circle, at gdelpiero@firstthings.com or 212-627-1985.
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