On your thirtieth birthday, you find that your clothes
Belong to someone slimmer.
It’s like only your socks haven’t shrunk in the wash.
From then on, you remember
Undressing in front of a lover or mirror
To reach for the dimmer.
You run the same mile, but you run it in sand.
The sweat just wrings a sponge
That refuses to shrink, as puffy as ever.
You climb, you bike, you lunge,
But you cannot escape the body you have,
Your deadweight heart and lungs.
It is summer, you’re out, you’re living this summer
To death—but for some reason
Your body is busily padding itself
With fat, convinced it’s freezing.
It knows of a cold that will be when it gets here
A permanent season.
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
The Politics of Dissidence
In the latest installment of the ongoing interview series with contributing editor Mark Bauerlein, Scott Greer joins…
A Muslim Answer to Muslim Immigration
Modern America worships at the altar of youth and eagerly tracks in polls and market research its…
New Founders Wanted
It’s now 250 years since America declared her independence and embarked on the experiment of fashioning a…
