I am writing in the shadow of a midwestern metropolis. It's spring. I look out my portal and see green on the vine. I am fortified with strong coffee. I have opened up a private spot, I am feeling very 'hermit-like.' Last night, I watched Bresson's 'Diary of a Country Priest.' The last line of the movie is my new mantra: 'all is grace.'

The news wires are a-swirl with reports of 'abuse' in the prisons in Iraq, now run by U.S. troops. What do men become when they fight terror with terror?

I have just finished reading Martin Amis' book about Stalin and his war of terror against the Russian people, "Koba the Dread." The saddest story --- he finally died (after 20 million) --- he was loved, he was celebrated.

The echoes are maddening. Living in the belly of the beast, wondering if the beast will consume us all.