The salty Peloponnese flood
Of minerals and Trojan blood
Is in this oily, briny fruit,
Savored by Milton to salute
The poets of antiquity.
It is the flavor of the sea
And ink squirtings of cephalopods;
Mortality plucked from a god’s
Martini at the end of time,
When guilt squares up with every crime,
And joy has run its fi-nal course,
And nothing but divine remorse
Attends the last aperitif:
It is the very taste of grief.
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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