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T H E R E WAS A T I M E There was a time when art was but a decoration, when music in the background was the rule. There were times when culture was a way to sweeten days like fine cuisine. We knew times when poetry murmured in a classroom, once the real work had been done, when a book at home was something we might use to put ourselves to sleep. A storm of terror cleared all that—again. And now we live by killing far away. Art is not a weapon but a hand. Is it naive to reach for justice with a poem, a story, or a song? Not so foolish, I say,as promise lasting safety, prosperity, or any shred of true abundance in a child's long life by strikingback. Art must be like breath, catching at the brim of fear to inspire the next epoch of our life together. Can money do that?An army? The greatest power in the world? Be honest: Rivers find each other by seeking the meeting place. Live there. Take up thepen. This page intentionally left blank ...

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