After Homer

As I write, early this June morning, the sun has risen over the hill in the eastern sky to light up this study window, that I thought faces north. But no, it faces north-north-east, as the map tells me.

I’ve been trying to write a piece on “Universal Innocence”: for the other site, naturally. But I find it harder every time to write on that site.

I don’t believe in evil. My own innocence is a painful nakedness. I see everyone in this world as—just like any animal, just like a bird—feathering its own nest. You can’t say an animal is evil, so why a human animal? As I write this, a large pigeon is sitting on the fence, frustrated that it can’t get birdseed from the bird table, which I had designed for smaller birds. I must sprinkle some wheat on the ground, for it comes hungry each morning. Every human is following its own nature, except that being human is more complicated; strongly influenced in its behaviour by upbringing, circumstance and—we are told—by genetics.

I couldn’t bear to see the poor bird searching so pitifully: went down and threw a handful of wheat into the grass, my intervention scaring it away of course, for it’s not a city-square pigeon with nerves of steel, but a fat ring-dove used to country ways. Oh, it’ll be back!

So how come others find “evil” such a handy word and I don’t? We all have to be wary of course, even in this innocent valley in which I dwell, where neighbours are friendly, and everyone knows your face, if not your name. I don’t deny bad behaviour both in action and intention; but the real harm comes from excessive power, which technology has found myriad ways to multiply. When horses and oared ships were the swiftest transport and spears the deadliest weapons, the only power was to be a military leader. Homer would glorify you in an epic. I wonder what power Homer had?

Things have changed since then.