Grace bathes us
Inside and out, most of it passing right through,
Our neuron mesh not fine enough to stop it
Much less deflect its quantum beeline through space.
We are sieves with holes the size of eyes,
Splayed fingers trying to lift a beach. The pulse
Is our built-in Geiger counter and the best gage
We have. It tells us when we get close
To grace in more than trace amounts, to a deposit
Of it glowing deep in the mine. The usual
Blip . . . blip . . . blip . . . of the heart’s casual scanning
Crackles awake for once. It’s the sound of a necklace
Snapped, gray pearls pouring, bouncing, staccato all over
A marble floor. The sound of full blown monsoon on the roof,
A genuine deluge drowning out the faucet that has dripped
Your whole life long. The sound of an epileptic finger endlessly
Double-clicking the icon of its worship
To open a new window on the soul.
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.
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
A Culture of Parricide
I learned a new word the other day: déploration. It’s the French, directly from the Latin, for “lament.”…
Prime Rib of Unicorn
Of all the titles I’ve been tracking this year, the one I am most delighted to have…
The Real World of Francisco de Zurbarán
Throughout the summer, I visited the National Gallery in London at least once a week. This is…
