Some Further Words

Let me be plain with you, dear reader.

I am an old-fashioned man. I like

the world of nature despite its mortal

dangers. I like the domestic world

of humans, so long as it pays its debts

to the natural world, and keeps its bounds.

I like the promise of Heaven. My purpose

is a language that can repay just thanks

and honor for those gifts, a tongue

set free from fashionable lies.

Neither this world nor any of its places

is an "environment." And a house

for sale is not a "home." Economics

is not "science," nor "information" knowledge.

A knave with a degree is a knave. A fool

in a public office is not a "leader."

A rich thief is a thief. And the ghost

of Arthur Moore, who taught me Chaucer,

returns in the night to say again:

"Let me tell you something, boy.

An intellectual whore is a whore."

The world is babbled to pieces after

the divorce of things from their names.

Ceaseless preparation for war

is not peace. Health is not procured

by sale of medication, or purity

by the addition of poison. Science

at the bidding of the corporations

is knowledge reduced to merchandise;

it is a whoredom of the mind,

and so is the art that calls this "progress."

So is the cowardice that calls it "inevitable."

I think the issues of "identity" mostly

are poppycock. We are what we have done,

which includes our promises, includes

our hopes, but promises first. I know

a "fetus" is a human child.

I loved my children from the time

they were conceived, having loved

their mother, who loved them

from the time they were conceived

and before. Who are we to say

the world did not begin in love?

I would like to die in love as I was born,

and as myself of life impoverished go

into the love all flesh begins

and ends in. I don't like machines,

which are neither mortal nor immortal,

though I am constrained to use them.

(Thus the age perfects its clench.)

Some day they will be gone, and that

will be a glad and a holy day.

I mean the dire machines that run

by burning the world's body and

its breath. When I see an airplane

fuming through the once-pure sky

or a vehicle of the outer space

with its little inner space

imitating a star at night, I say,

"Get out of there!" as I would speak

to a fox or a thief in the henhouse.

When I hear the stock market has fallen,

I say, "Long live gravity! Long live

stupidity, error, and greed in the palaces

of fantasy capitalism!" I think

an economy should be based on thrift,

on taking care of things, not on theft,

usury, seduction, waste, and ruin.

My purpose is a language that can make us whole,

though mortal, ignorant, and small.

The world is whole beyond human knowing.

The body's life is its own, untouched

by the little clockwork of explanation.

I approve of death, when it comes in time

to the old. I don't want to five

on mortal terms forever, or survive

an hour as a cooling stew of pieces

of other people. I don't believe that life

or knowledge can be given by machines.

The machine economy has set afire

the household of the human soul,

and all the creatures are burning within it

"Intellectual property" names

the deed by which the mind is bought

and sold, the world enslaved. We

who do not own ourselves, being free,

own by theft what belongs to God,

to the living world, and equally

to us all. Or how can we own a part

of what we only can possess

entirely? Life is a gift we have

only by giving it back again.

Let us agree: "the laborer is worthy

of his hire," but he cannot own what he knows,

which must be freely told, or labor

dies with the laborer. The farmer

is worthy of the harvest made

in time, but he must leave the light

by which he planted, grew, and reaped,

the seed immortal in mortality,

freely to the time to come. The land

too he keeps by giving it up,

as the thinker receives and gives a thought,

as the singer sings in the common air.

I don't believe that "scientific genius"

in its naive assertions of power

is equal either to nature or

to human culture. Its thoughtless invasions

of the nuclei of atoms and cells

and this world's every habitation

have not brought us to the light

but sent us wandering farther through

the dark. Nor do I believe

.artistic genius" is the possession

of any artist. No one has made

the art by which one makes the works

of art. Each one who speaks speaks

as a convocation. We live as councils

of ghosts. It is not "human genius"

that makes us human, but an old love,

an old intelligence of the heart

we gather to us from the world,

from the creatures, from the angels

of inspiration, from the dead--

an intelligence merely nonexistent

to those who do not have it, but --

to those who have it more dear than life.

And just as tenderly to be known

are the affections that make a woman and a man

their household and their homeland one.

These too, though known, cannot be told

to those who do not know them, and fewer

of us learn them, year by year.

These affections are leaving the world

like the colors of extinct birds,

like the songs of a dead language.

Think of the genius of the animals,

every one truly what it is:

gnat, fox, minnow, swallow, each made

of light and luminous within itself.

They know (better than we do) how

to live in the places where they live.

And so I would like to be a true

human being, dear reader-a choice

not altogether possible now.

But this is what I'm for, the side

I'm on. And this is what you should

expect of me, as I expect it of

myself, though for realization we

may wait a thousand or a million years.

~ Wendell Berry

from the American Poetry Review (May/June 2002)