Et in pulverem reverteris.
Speeches aside: today is my birthday. I have been aging exponentially, and am turning 62. Still, if you would like to do something nice for me,
“I’ll tell you the story of a woman who I admire,” John offered over breakfast one morning, stirring his tea with the sugar spoon.
“A friend?” I asked.
“No no, we’ve never met. I like to imagine she lived in the 1800s, or sometime around then.”
“You imagine-”
“I know all the necessary facts about her story, Peter. After that, everything is just mood. So, yes, she lived in the 1800s, and with all the general costuming of the time-the top-hats, the croquet hoops, the tea cups, and so on. This woman was lucky enough to count herself among the top strata of this society, where a person could afford standard luxuries such as these.
“A few words must be said about this world of hers. This was at the height of the bourgeois, that comfortable period of early industrialism before the working classes felt the need to distinguish themselves from common serfdom, in a small, self-contained city. For centuries religious sentiment had existed among the upper class only in token whimsical pockets, best marked by the lightweight pewter crucifixes one would often see affixed to the back walls of banks or legal firms whose owners had realized that such additions often proved good for business. Among the rich, then, faith was at most a men’s practice, to be taken prima facie in every respect for a good majority of the city’s history; and outside those well-laid stone walls, it was looked upon as little more than the strange, somewhat irrational fascination of the orphaned and destitute, the widowed and lame, and little sense could be made of it.
“No one knows-or, at least, no one has told me if they do-why it was that, in this particular parish we are discussing, the upper-class women one day decided en masse to take up the practice of Christianity. Possibly they wanted a further prove their wifely devotion to their husbands, taking up the mantle the men had dutifully left sitting in a corner for generations, or maybe they had discovered the comely effect a little golden cross can have when hanging on a chain at one’s breast. In any case, the point remains that, almost overnight, the wealthy female populace in its entirety had found the light of faith.
“These women, however, were not nearly so unenthused about religion as their spouses-strengthened by the petticoat-thick stresses of privileged housewifery, once they had started down that path, they boldly threw the whole of their selves into the practice of their salvation. You must put yourself in their place to understand the course that this phenomenon ran: say you notice one Sunday morning that some Madam A kneeling in the next pew over has been praying more fervently and tithing more plentifully than yourself, and for that reason is gossiped about more admirably in the salons-well, you can see how the only solution is an arms race. It became, with each passing week, a silent contest to see who could show up the earliest to mass, give the most alms, or have the most devout posture (accented cunningly, of course, by the imported lace collar peeking just barely over the well-cut neckline.)
“It was not too long before their faith even found ways to follow them out beyond the church doors, spreading out into the streets, the houses, the bakeries, the dinner parties-and then, on one opportune day, the courtrooms. Indeed, there happened a tremendous stir one morning when, arrayed in the richest silk yet seen in all of the city’s history, a certain madam found such an extremity of goodness and charity within her heart as to publicly forgive a ragged thief of the silverware he stole from her cabinet, releasing him from all charges and sending him back out into the world with blessings on her lips and one emerald-sparkling tear in each eye. The town was astounded. For several evenings afterward, men would smoke cigars together in comfortably upholstered parlors and reflect with minor annoyance at the disruption of their legal system, while down the hall, behind a set of gilt doors, their wives could be found on their knees in the darkness, each praying that some thief would find the window on the ground floor she had left unbolted.”
“And where does your woman fit into all this?” I asked.
“I’m just about to get to her,” John replied, pausing to rewet his tongue with his tea. “There followed a period of several weeks where this practice was so fashionable as to become nearly commonplace: ladies coming from all over the city, dragging surly, unwashed street urchins and petty thieves behind-God knows where they found them-to present and subsequently pardon for all sorts of minor offenses, much to the judge’s exasperation, I’m sure. It went on long enough, in fact, for the act to start becoming a bit dull to the society circles. After a few weeks, the daily number of forgiveness cases was actually starting to dwindle, and would have surely kept on that slow downward trend if a scandal had not struck.
“It was at this time that a young man in the town was murdered. He was rich, so word of it spread quickly among the ears of the citizenry, practically the news of the year. Much to the pride of the city’s police force, the murderer was found the very next day, and promptly arrested. A trial date was set-and that’s when the gossip truly exploded. Imagine! This young man’s mother-a wealthy, well-respected lady-was going to be called forward, as per tradition, and would have the opportunity to do something that all the other women in the town could only salivate at the thought of: forgive the murderer.
“Much as you would imagine, the entire city showed up for the trial-all jostling for seats, then for aisles, then window ledges or nearby tree branches. Everyone wanted to be there to witness this, at once the greatest tragedy and greatest circus the populace would ever hope to remember. The unforeseen density of the crowd caused some delays among the legal practitioners; by the time the judge was ready to call the court to order, several people had already started on their picnic lunches, munching apprehensively with eyes glued forward. The breath of stale bread and coat-pocket whiskey weighed down the air. Several town notables passed the time with a game of suggestive coughing.
“Once begun, the general trial formalities went through with an almost deliberate slowness: the attorneys were introduced, the charges read, and the accused brought forward. He was a slight, dun-haired young man, with dirty cheeks and trembling hands. As he was walked toward the stand, a soft murmur-hardly sounding of hatred or repulsion-ruffled upward through the audience. When asked for his plea, he opened his mouth but made no sound. The defendant answered for him: guilty, but repentant, Your Honor. The evidence was brought forward: a few witness reports and fingerprint samples; a tarnished, blood-specked knife found poorly concealed in a nearby alleyway; a handkerchief and a silver pocket watch, belonging to the rich son, found with the accused at time of the arrest. Standing motionless on his block, the young criminal said nothing, merely staring down with a hollow expression at the iron buckles on his wrists.
“Several speeches were delivered by various lawyers and legal experts, with the conclusion being that the accused was certainly the murderer, beyond almost any doubt. A punishment was then recommended: execution, and hanging preferably. The jury members murmured gravely amongst themselves. The shackled man still didn’t move at all.
“It was here that the judge, after exchanging a long, dark look with the prosecution, finally declared that a representative of the murdered man’s family should come forward to make a statement. People in the audience sat up straighter, stretching their necks and twisting around, trying to see where the mother would appear, though they all knew perfectly well where she would be and how she would look-the tall, angelic beacon, traveling lightly and assuredly down toward the stand, down to face her condemned man, with the very light and breath of heaven trailing in the wake of her cushioned footsteps. People looked to the aisles, whispering.
“She didn’t appear, though. The judge’s summon had been struck on live air, but still, nothing was happening. Some stood up, scanning the courtroom with worried brows. The general rustle among the seats grew louder and more agitated. Finally, someone sitting on one of the higher windowsills let out a small shout, pointing toward the front of the room. There, at the stand, a limp figure in black could be seen being urged carefully toward the witness seat by the defendant and one other man. Hardly more than the silhouette of a person, the figure drifted sideways into the chair, where the two men took a minute to grasp at its hands and whisper into its ears, though eliciting no response. Then they too fell away, leaving only the shrouded form, solitary against the faded paneling of the podium. A quick little gasp escaped from the audience: it was the mother.
“Someone had obviously tried to dress her: the mourning gown she wore was richly-hewn and almost certainly had been fresh an hour before-but after being dragged along through so many stiff chairs and unforgiving footsteps, the fabric was lined with innumerable creases and telling runs, refracting a pattern of crooked black in the harsh early light. One sleeve had half-slipped down her slumped shoulder, revealing a patch of red-raw skin that rubbed uncomfortably against the impulse of decency in the audience. Her hair, surely arranged that morning by hands other than hers, was now coming apart in heavy clumps, weighing down her pale neck with a morbid gloss, and livid paths of saline dug out the trails from her eyes to her jaw. With one rigid hand she was clutching a bone-colored handkerchief with a small embroidered monocle, someone’s initials: one of the court orderlies noticed that the same bit of linen had now disappeared from the evidence table, and walked over to try to coax it from her. At the touch of his fingers, she shuddered violently and uttered some wordless cry resounding with so much pain that he could do nothing but retreat, dumbfounded. After that, if it wasn’t for the erratic jolts of breath occasionally noticed to fly up out of her chest, there would be no easy method to distinguish her from a corpse. And the crowd of witnesses fell silent upon seeing her, as if they truly were in the presence of a body broken from the grave.
“The judge, just as shocked as everyone else, cleared his throat and tried to call the courtroom back to attention. He asked the defendant, somewhat hesitatingly, if this was in fact the mother of the murdered man, receiving an eager answer of yes. Was she, then, prepared to make a statement?-another yes. The defendant was nodding vigorously at the woman, as if hoping to fan life into her. An impregnable silence grasped at the room.
“Still hearing no word from the mother, the judge turned and addressed the same question to her. Her hand, still wrapped tightly around her son’s handkerchief, seemed to twitch slightly, but otherwise no signal betrayed her thoughts. The audience began to shuffle uncomfortably. The judge seemed to lose patience here, and shouted that if she could not be brought to speak, then there was certainly no reason to waste the court’s time waiting on her silence. The defense attorney, hearing this, rushed forward in a rapid flurry and beseeched her in a voice spoken almost from his knees, please, Madam, don’t you see, that’s the man over there, the one that killed your son, don’t you have anything to say for him? The judge had opened his mouth and was about to order the pestering lawyer away, but it was just then that a miracle occurred.
“The woman, as though finally enlivened by some electric spark in the attorney’s plea, began to turn her head toward the accused’s stand. It was a slow rotation, a semicircle drawn with unfocused eyes and a hoarse, croaking spine, but everyone in the room watched, still-hearted, as her gaze met and stopped on the shackled young murderer. He too stirred sideways in his chains, and for a minute their eyes met, and held in that glance.
“Lord only knows what words passed between the two of them across the space of that silence. How could anyone on the outside even hope to hear them? Man’s fall and ultimate grace, mother and murderer, the very cores of those two unfathomable truths buried so deep within us, here separated by nothing more than a few feet of wooden posts. In that moment, something divine had entered the courtroom, I am sure of it. It was in the point where their eyes met, and it was still there when at last the mother stood up from her chair and, with one pale, blind hand outstretched, began to take slow, deliberate steps down from the stand toward the young man.
“A small, sporadic cry of joy fluttered through the seats at the sight of her walk. She was going to the murderer! The two would meet, embrace, forget, spring all sorts of good and holy things from their enjoined hands! The woman, hardly hearing the commotion, kept moving forward, one hand floating pale and palm-down before her, and such was the general excitement that most everyone in the room had stopped watching closely, and there was only one man, seated in the front row, who heard the sound of ripping cloth and was able to leap forward soon enough to intervene, pulling the woman back from the fresh, livid red rays now elongating themselves across the young man’s breast, stretching across skin and fabric, right above the spot where his heart could be found. The mother’s arms were held back, and she sank down like dark, heavy clay to the floor.”
A strange pause closed John’s voice for a moment. He gaze followed some line of wood grain along the table, and a part of him seemed to disconnect, floating for a minute in some invisible wilderness. I heard a faint crack in his next word.
“And that’s it,” he said. “That’s all.”
Somewhere in my thoughts, a plug was pulled too soon. I shook my head. “That can’t be it-what about the murderer? What happened to him?”
“Who can tell? Maybe he was executed. Or maybe the jury, shocked by the mother’s lack of forgiveness, found some long-dormant grain of their own, and gave him just a life sentence. I couldn’t say, though-it’s not part of the story.”
“But-” I stammered at him, tongue clogging up with questions, “you said she was someone you admired.”
John looked at me, silent.
“No way. You talk enough about grace, I know you. Why would it ever be a good thing not to forgive someone? How could doing that-what she did-be something praiseworthy?”
“Would you prefer the other ending, Peter? The one where she runs over to the man and kisses him, washes his feet and invites him to dinner and forgets that whole mess about her son completely?”
“Not like that, no. That’s entirely fake.”
John’s face suddenly lifted up in a wide smile, and he grabbed my hand from across the table, giving it a little shake. “Exactly!” he said. “It’s fake! Nothing about it is true! If she did that, it would be just like what all the other women in the town did, all pomp and show, not even the poorest speck of honesty to redeem it!”
I pulled my hand out. “She should have actually forgiven him, then. Sure, without all the flashy clothes and tears and whatnot, but still, it’s got to be best to forgive people-certainly better that trying to claw them to death, at least.”
John laughed. “Do you know anyone who could forgive like that?”
I thought briefly about responding you would, just to spite him, but instead shook my head.
“I bet you can think of plenty of people who would act like the other town women, though? How often in a day do you yourself face those sugar-coated smiles, all those innocuous little it’s okay, no problem, I’m fine lies? You see, I think this mother was in fact quite extraordinary. She was the only one in the room with enough strength of will to act on what she thought was right for its own sake, regardless of the consequences. And yes, maybe it would be better if people were superhumanly moral, able to move past death and injustice to find grace like that-but show me that person, and I would sooner call him a god. So how, Peter, are we to judge man?”
and tell me where I've screwed up.
“I’ll tell you the story of a woman who I admire,” John offered over breakfast one morning, stirring his tea with the sugar spoon.
“A friend?” I asked.
“No no, we’ve never met. I like to imagine she lived in the 1800s, or sometime around then.”
“You imagine-”
“I know all the necessary facts about her story, Peter. After that, everything is just mood. So, yes, she lived in the 1800s, and with all the general costuming of the time-the top-hats, the croquet hoops, the tea cups, and so on. This woman was lucky enough to count herself among the top strata of this society, where a person could afford standard luxuries such as these.
“A few words must be said about this world of hers. This was at the height of the bourgeois, that comfortable period of early industrialism before the working classes felt the need to distinguish themselves from common serfdom, in a small, self-contained city. For centuries religious sentiment had existed among the upper class only in token whimsical pockets, best marked by the lightweight pewter crucifixes one would often see affixed to the back walls of banks or legal firms whose owners had realized that such additions often proved good for business. Among the rich, then, faith was at most a men’s practice, to be taken prima facie in every respect for a good majority of the city’s history; and outside those well-laid stone walls, it was looked upon as little more than the strange, somewhat irrational fascination of the orphaned and destitute, the widowed and lame, and little sense could be made of it.
“No one knows-or, at least, no one has told me if they do-why it was that, in this particular parish we are discussing, the upper-class women one day decided en masse to take up the practice of Christianity. Possibly they wanted a further prove their wifely devotion to their husbands, taking up the mantle the men had dutifully left sitting in a corner for generations, or maybe they had discovered the comely effect a little golden cross can have when hanging on a chain at one’s breast. In any case, the point remains that, almost overnight, the wealthy female populace in its entirety had found the light of faith.
“These women, however, were not nearly so unenthused about religion as their spouses-strengthened by the petticoat-thick stresses of privileged housewifery, once they had started down that path, they boldly threw the whole of their selves into the practice of their salvation. You must put yourself in their place to understand the course that this phenomenon ran: say you notice one Sunday morning that some Madam A kneeling in the next pew over has been praying more fervently and tithing more plentifully than yourself, and for that reason is gossiped about more admirably in the salons-well, you can see how the only solution is an arms race. It became, with each passing week, a silent contest to see who could show up the earliest to mass, give the most alms, or have the most devout posture (accented cunningly, of course, by the imported lace collar peeking just barely over the well-cut neckline.)
“It was not too long before their faith even found ways to follow them out beyond the church doors, spreading out into the streets, the houses, the bakeries, the dinner parties-and then, on one opportune day, the courtrooms. Indeed, there happened a tremendous stir one morning when, arrayed in the richest silk yet seen in all of the city’s history, a certain madam found such an extremity of goodness and charity within her heart as to publicly forgive a ragged thief of the silverware he stole from her cabinet, releasing him from all charges and sending him back out into the world with blessings on her lips and one emerald-sparkling tear in each eye. The town was astounded. For several evenings afterward, men would smoke cigars together in comfortably upholstered parlors and reflect with minor annoyance at the disruption of their legal system, while down the hall, behind a set of gilt doors, their wives could be found on their knees in the darkness, each praying that some thief would find the window on the ground floor she had left unbolted.”
“And where does your woman fit into all this?” I asked.
“I’m just about to get to her,” John replied, pausing to rewet his tongue with his tea. “There followed a period of several weeks where this practice was so fashionable as to become nearly commonplace: ladies coming from all over the city, dragging surly, unwashed street urchins and petty thieves behind-God knows where they found them-to present and subsequently pardon for all sorts of minor offenses, much to the judge’s exasperation, I’m sure. It went on long enough, in fact, for the act to start becoming a bit dull to the society circles. After a few weeks, the daily number of forgiveness cases was actually starting to dwindle, and would have surely kept on that slow downward trend if a scandal had not struck.
“It was at this time that a young man in the town was murdered. He was rich, so word of it spread quickly among the ears of the citizenry, practically the news of the year. Much to the pride of the city’s police force, the murderer was found the very next day, and promptly arrested. A trial date was set-and that’s when the gossip truly exploded. Imagine! This young man’s mother-a wealthy, well-respected lady-was going to be called forward, as per tradition, and would have the opportunity to do something that all the other women in the town could only salivate at the thought of: forgive the murderer.
“Much as you would imagine, the entire city showed up for the trial-all jostling for seats, then for aisles, then window ledges or nearby tree branches. Everyone wanted to be there to witness this, at once the greatest tragedy and greatest circus the populace would ever hope to remember. The unforeseen density of the crowd caused some delays among the legal practitioners; by the time the judge was ready to call the court to order, several people had already started on their picnic lunches, munching apprehensively with eyes glued forward. The breath of stale bread and coat-pocket whiskey weighed down the air. Several town notables passed the time with a game of suggestive coughing.
“Once begun, the general trial formalities went through with an almost deliberate slowness: the attorneys were introduced, the charges read, and the accused brought forward. He was a slight, dun-haired young man, with dirty cheeks and trembling hands. As he was walked toward the stand, a soft murmur-hardly sounding of hatred or repulsion-ruffled upward through the audience. When asked for his plea, he opened his mouth but made no sound. The defendant answered for him: guilty, but repentant, Your Honor. The evidence was brought forward: a few witness reports and fingerprint samples; a tarnished, blood-specked knife found poorly concealed in a nearby alleyway; a handkerchief and a silver pocket watch, belonging to the rich son, found with the accused at time of the arrest. Standing motionless on his block, the young criminal said nothing, merely staring down with a hollow expression at the iron buckles on his wrists.
“Several speeches were delivered by various lawyers and legal experts, with the conclusion being that the accused was certainly the murderer, beyond almost any doubt. A punishment was then recommended: execution, and hanging preferably. The jury members murmured gravely amongst themselves. The shackled man still didn’t move at all.
“It was here that the judge, after exchanging a long, dark look with the prosecution, finally declared that a representative of the murdered man’s family should come forward to make a statement. People in the audience sat up straighter, stretching their necks and twisting around, trying to see where the mother would appear, though they all knew perfectly well where she would be and how she would look-the tall, angelic beacon, traveling lightly and assuredly down toward the stand, down to face her condemned man, with the very light and breath of heaven trailing in the wake of her cushioned footsteps. People looked to the aisles, whispering.
“She didn’t appear, though. The judge’s summon had been struck on live air, but still, nothing was happening. Some stood up, scanning the courtroom with worried brows. The general rustle among the seats grew louder and more agitated. Finally, someone sitting on one of the higher windowsills let out a small shout, pointing toward the front of the room. There, at the stand, a limp figure in black could be seen being urged carefully toward the witness seat by the defendant and one other man. Hardly more than the silhouette of a person, the figure drifted sideways into the chair, where the two men took a minute to grasp at its hands and whisper into its ears, though eliciting no response. Then they too fell away, leaving only the shrouded form, solitary against the faded paneling of the podium. A quick little gasp escaped from the audience: it was the mother.
“Someone had obviously tried to dress her: the mourning gown she wore was richly-hewn and almost certainly had been fresh an hour before-but after being dragged along through so many stiff chairs and unforgiving footsteps, the fabric was lined with innumerable creases and telling runs, refracting a pattern of crooked black in the harsh early light. One sleeve had half-slipped down her slumped shoulder, revealing a patch of red-raw skin that rubbed uncomfortably against the impulse of decency in the audience. Her hair, surely arranged that morning by hands other than hers, was now coming apart in heavy clumps, weighing down her pale neck with a morbid gloss, and livid paths of saline dug out the trails from her eyes to her jaw. With one rigid hand she was clutching a bone-colored handkerchief with a small embroidered monocle, someone’s initials: one of the court orderlies noticed that the same bit of linen had now disappeared from the evidence table, and walked over to try to coax it from her. At the touch of his fingers, she shuddered violently and uttered some wordless cry resounding with so much pain that he could do nothing but retreat, dumbfounded. After that, if it wasn’t for the erratic jolts of breath occasionally noticed to fly up out of her chest, there would be no easy method to distinguish her from a corpse. And the crowd of witnesses fell silent upon seeing her, as if they truly were in the presence of a body broken from the grave.
“The judge, just as shocked as everyone else, cleared his throat and tried to call the courtroom back to attention. He asked the defendant, somewhat hesitatingly, if this was in fact the mother of the murdered man, receiving an eager answer of yes. Was she, then, prepared to make a statement?-another yes. The defendant was nodding vigorously at the woman, as if hoping to fan life into her. An impregnable silence grasped at the room.
“Still hearing no word from the mother, the judge turned and addressed the same question to her. Her hand, still wrapped tightly around her son’s handkerchief, seemed to twitch slightly, but otherwise no signal betrayed her thoughts. The audience began to shuffle uncomfortably. The judge seemed to lose patience here, and shouted that if she could not be brought to speak, then there was certainly no reason to waste the court’s time waiting on her silence. The defense attorney, hearing this, rushed forward in a rapid flurry and beseeched her in a voice spoken almost from his knees, please, Madam, don’t you see, that’s the man over there, the one that killed your son, don’t you have anything to say for him? The judge had opened his mouth and was about to order the pestering lawyer away, but it was just then that a miracle occurred.
“The woman, as though finally enlivened by some electric spark in the attorney’s plea, began to turn her head toward the accused’s stand. It was a slow rotation, a semicircle drawn with unfocused eyes and a hoarse, croaking spine, but everyone in the room watched, still-hearted, as her gaze met and stopped on the shackled young murderer. He too stirred sideways in his chains, and for a minute their eyes met, and held in that glance.
“Lord only knows what words passed between the two of them across the space of that silence. How could anyone on the outside even hope to hear them? Man’s fall and ultimate grace, mother and murderer, the very cores of those two unfathomable truths buried so deep within us, here separated by nothing more than a few feet of wooden posts. In that moment, something divine had entered the courtroom, I am sure of it. It was in the point where their eyes met, and it was still there when at last the mother stood up from her chair and, with one pale, blind hand outstretched, began to take slow, deliberate steps down from the stand toward the young man.
“A small, sporadic cry of joy fluttered through the seats at the sight of her walk. She was going to the murderer! The two would meet, embrace, forget, spring all sorts of good and holy things from their enjoined hands! The woman, hardly hearing the commotion, kept moving forward, one hand floating pale and palm-down before her, and such was the general excitement that most everyone in the room had stopped watching closely, and there was only one man, seated in the front row, who heard the sound of ripping cloth and was able to leap forward soon enough to intervene, pulling the woman back from the fresh, livid red rays now elongating themselves across the young man’s breast, stretching across skin and fabric, right above the spot where his heart could be found. The mother’s arms were held back, and she sank down like dark, heavy clay to the floor.”
A strange pause closed John’s voice for a moment. He gaze followed some line of wood grain along the table, and a part of him seemed to disconnect, floating for a minute in some invisible wilderness. I heard a faint crack in his next word.
“And that’s it,” he said. “That’s all.”
Somewhere in my thoughts, a plug was pulled too soon. I shook my head. “That can’t be it-what about the murderer? What happened to him?”
“Who can tell? Maybe he was executed. Or maybe the jury, shocked by the mother’s lack of forgiveness, found some long-dormant grain of their own, and gave him just a life sentence. I couldn’t say, though-it’s not part of the story.”
“But-” I stammered at him, tongue clogging up with questions, “you said she was someone you admired.”
John looked at me, silent.
“No way. You talk enough about grace, I know you. Why would it ever be a good thing not to forgive someone? How could doing that-what she did-be something praiseworthy?”
“Would you prefer the other ending, Peter? The one where she runs over to the man and kisses him, washes his feet and invites him to dinner and forgets that whole mess about her son completely?”
“Not like that, no. That’s entirely fake.”
John’s face suddenly lifted up in a wide smile, and he grabbed my hand from across the table, giving it a little shake. “Exactly!” he said. “It’s fake! Nothing about it is true! If she did that, it would be just like what all the other women in the town did, all pomp and show, not even the poorest speck of honesty to redeem it!”
I pulled my hand out. “She should have actually forgiven him, then. Sure, without all the flashy clothes and tears and whatnot, but still, it’s got to be best to forgive people-certainly better that trying to claw them to death, at least.”
John laughed. “Do you know anyone who could forgive like that?”
I thought briefly about responding you would, just to spite him, but instead shook my head.
“I bet you can think of plenty of people who would act like the other town women, though? How often in a day do you yourself face those sugar-coated smiles, all those innocuous little it’s okay, no problem, I’m fine lies? You see, I think this mother was in fact quite extraordinary. She was the only one in the room with enough strength of will to act on what she thought was right for its own sake, regardless of the consequences. And yes, maybe it would be better if people were superhumanly moral, able to move past death and injustice to find grace like that-but show me that person, and I would sooner call him a god. So how, Peter, are we to judge man?”
and tell me where I've screwed up.