Yes, I remember Bourbon Street:
The pulse of jazz; the girls (and boys
Done up as girls) in clubs outside
Which barkers make their ribald noise;
The tourists slurping Hurricanes,
That steel-toed boot kick of a drink
That prettifies a brutal dose
Of alcohol in whorehouse pink;
The tacky souvenir shops where
T-shirts emblazoned with obscene
Cartoons and slogans crowd the shelves
(Just walking past, you feel unclean);
And always jazz, sacred syncopation
Both steeped in and transcending sin—
Hell has no hotter sound, and Heaven
Swings as the saints go marching in.
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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