I've been thinking on paper about the corrosive effect of politics on humanity. Some of those thoughts here and here. Today, while seated on a rock in Central Park as my wife sat next to me absorbing the first few pages of The Westing Game, I read Walt Whitman's "Quicksand years that whirl me I know not wither":
Quicksand years that whirl me I know not whither,
Your schemes, politics, fail – lines give way –substances mock and elude me;
Only the there I sing, the great and strong – posess'd soul, eludes not;
One's-self, must never give way – that is the final substance – that out of all is sure;
Out of politics, triumphs, battles, death – what at last finally remains?
When shows break up, what but one's-self is sure?