Anthony Esolen on the Divine Music of an Autistic Son
The vain imagination of man, that factory of idols, hums along. Somewhere in its shabby basement stands the laboratory wherein parents will soon select their children, pasting their chromosomes together, falling before the nothingness of “choice.” What sorrow for the world will be bred, the Lord knows. For there it will not be a matter of choosing up sides at the sandlot, with the last little ones waiting until someone says, to their relief, “I pick you.”
There the choice is for existence itself. And, if I may press the metaphor, many a poor fellow like the one young man I love most in the w . . .