Every sea-born whale is born to drown,
Save those lost few who crush their final breath
On shore, amid the gawkers come from town
To grieve, perhaps, that helpless creature’s death.
And deep below, invertebrates abound
In silent darkness on the ocean floor
To slowly moulder those already drowned,
And silently await the fall of more.
I wonder if they know, he stops to think,
And leans across the bulwark to regret
The death of whales. He finishes his drink
On deck. The deep grants one last cigarette.
So great a creature barely makes a splash.
Thus overboard he flicks away an ash.
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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