I can’t cry innocent in any court:
Dogged by enemies, I ran, was caught.
Pitched in a hole, my soul turned waste,
Heart hollow rock not even wind might whistle through.
Did darkness when the universe was torn from you
Into its being, long for nothing?
Hurry. Faces of the long departed, dim and empty
Peer up from the pit. I said, “The sun will rise tomorrow.
I will see it.” Will I? Keep me and my spirits spinning
Level at the rim until the hateful clatter echoless
Down their appointed slot. Then keep me longer:
No good likeness when I am not.
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.
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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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