In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

OCTOBER 20,1983 On a quiet morning in autumn I read the ledgers of a war, as one can any day— any list biased, dishonest, incomplete, and still the numbers are kept. It is true, the papyrus wears thin after forty centuries. For the winter garden roses are pruned and carefully tied, earth banked up over the roots. What if after Antigone, the moment of catharsis, we quarrel in the car going home? If compassion cannot cure us? What if we fail? I look at my hands, my fingernails still black with chosen labors. I know that tomorrow I will go out again to mulch, to bind, to clip, and that no order imposed is free of guilt. The line from a Greek chorus: Sing Sorrow, Sorrow, but Good win out in the end. But who is measuring, what heart would choose this tune? 42 ...

Share