“Pittakos has stolen from the city...again...I came at him with the facts...I know the truth...many of us know.”
We remained silent a while, my hand in his.
“It’s an old truth—for us,” I said.
“Very old,” he said.
Presently, the madman entered, carrying himself stiffly, chalk faced, chastised. Oblivious of us, appearing more normal than any time I had seen him, he talked with Thasos, regretting the incident.
Soft-talking men, inside an inner room, brought home to me the. innocence of our own lives, how based on impulse, how like kelp, twisting, sinking, headed for shore, dragged to sea: we are mad, we are sane, or between: we exert ourselves and the world seeks revenge; we accept and earn ridicule and belittlement: we affirm ourselves and alter our lives and the lives of others: war is such an affirmation.
Innocence? Why not call all life innocent because dependability can not be assured. And, if life is innocent, then what is there but compassion and patience and kindness and beauty and love?
“It would have been better if they had killed him,” Alcaeus said, rubbing his hands over his face.
I said nothing.
“I could have him murdered,” he said.