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JUSTICE WITHOUT PASSION My neighbor's son, learning piano, moves his fingers through the passages a single note at a time, each lasting an equal interval, each of them loud, distinct, deliberate as a camel's walk through sand. For him now, all is dispassion, a simple putting in place; and so, giving equal weight to each mark in his folded-back book, bending his head towards the difficult task, he is like a soldier or a saint: blank-faced, and given wholly to an obedience he does not need to understand. He is even-handed, I think to myself, and so, just. But in what we think of as music there is no justice, nor in the evasive beauty of this boy, glimpsed through his window across the lawn, nor in what he will become, years from now, whatever he will become. For now though, it is the same to him: right note or wrong, he plays only for playing's sake through the late afternoon, through stumbling and error, through children's songs, Brahms, long-rehearsed, steady progressions as he learns the ancient laws—that human action is judgment, each note struggling with the rest. That justice lacking passion fails, betrays. 8 ...

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