There were always babies at the bus station and they were always crying. And these were not mild complaints. I couldnt understand how the least discomfort could take the form of agony. No other creature was so sensitive. The more I thought about it the clearer it became to me that what I was hearing was rage…
The rage of children seemed inexplicable other than as a breach of some deep and innate covenant having to do with how the world should be and wasnt. I understood that their raw exposure to the world was the world.
You dont think this is all a bit fanciful?
I do think.
How would a child know how the world should be?
A child would have to be born so. A sense of justice is common to the world. All mammals certainly. A dog knows perfectly well what is fair and what is not. He didnt learn it. He came with it.
—from Stella Maris by Cormac McCarthy
You're gonna wonder why
As you wander on your way
The unfairness of the world
Will make a body rage
Don't be scared of words
Watch out for stones and sticks
You won't get blown away
When you build your thoughts with bricks
Perpetual injustice
Is an insult to the soul
Evil is eternal
Resistance makes us whole
A thousand paths before us
So many ways to live
It's a wicked wicked world
When we forget how to forgive
by Richard W. Bray
Tags: Banksy, Cormac McCarthy, Poetry, Rage the Flower Thrower
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