Across the generations, the final boundary itself, hands reach out. There's a remarkable painterly quality to this picture. K. Clark, in what seems an age ago now, wrote about Leonardo's hands and how they showed the self-revealing gestures of the soul.
Nothing new here, just the same old sins committed in the newest of ways, just the same old hands lamenting the fate of lost children.
In the mean-time, the old communities of Iraq (Christians and Yazidis) are being driven out. Your first instinct (always the wrong one) is to return to M. Wood's Legacy and Peter Brown's masterly World of Late Antiquity.
How many connections go into the world we see before us, the settled patterns of life, the wood and glass from unknown quarters, the idea of high windows, the lyrical slanting light on the practical and minimalist bookshelves?
The rain descends, the light fades and winter finds its place again in the human heart. In summer, everyone finds their own way, their own singular patch of shade.A small grove of trees is like an island. Little r stands on the tree stump at the centre of it.
"What do you have to say?"
"Nothing. Nothing to say."
Palestinians have a low IQ and "deserve to be dead" (Joan Rivers). And in the Knesset there is talk of "shipping" the Gazans out. Er..in the good old days that used to be called ethnic cleansing.
The art of listening, like the art of looking, is on the wane. The are no iron-clad arguments, just intuitions.
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