July 22, 2012

Blaze of sun at barely 9 AM. Kevin’s song is already lethargic. I sat on the terrace of Edna’s and wrote a poem–a good poem, I thought in the writing of it– and finished the re-read of The Iliad. Wept with Priam and Achilles weeping over the brutal futility of war. Behind me an excellent father tended to his two little girls, keeping them happy amid their conflicting desires.

Coach Paterno’s statue is removed from the Penn State Stadium. I think, all in all, that is a misstep. History does not change because you were hurt, and you should probably not expect the world to tip-toe around your hurt forever. Though Hamlet rambles and Lear rages and all the drop-scenes drop at once upon a hundred thousand stages, it cannot grow by an inch or an ounce. I wonder if this sounds cruel? I do think I live it in my own life, though, not expecting others particularly to honor my sensitivities, and being a little embarrassed when they do. Paterno’s error was an error in retrospect; nothing else he did changes because of it. I say this, not caring the least bit about football one way or the other. My supposition is that he did not believe the accusations concerning Sandusky, and did not want to smirch the reputation of one he thought honorable. Direct personal experience assures me that accusations of moral turpitude are at least sometimes false. They weren’t this time. How would one, in the moment, judge?  The motivations of the dead are unknowable. Balancing the good of a good man’s (I suppose) long life against an error in judgment which must have seemed negligible at the time, how do we come to fair measure? Indignation is over-indulged in these times. Like faith in former times, it is allowed to subvert both compassion and reason.