The little civil wars of the 1960s are an ugly memory. The larger war of that decade abroad is now reduced to a tasteful, if wrenching, monument in Washington. As in Weimar, Canton, and Paris, the volume of activity is so great and so loud that it is difficult to see and hear anything other than what is immediately in front of one. One catches glimpses of disaster, snatches of distant thunder, blurred omens which vanish when you try to focus on them. Cassandra sits in her garden, remembers, and looks for signs of hope.
Economists speak of a new world of unending prosperity.
Scientists speak of and deliver endless new wonders. Lions and lambs try to lie down together. Not nearly enough. Antarctica is melting. Greenland is melting.