Thornton Wilder, where are you?

Wilder's plays are filled with the glory of the human spirit, which gives him an unbridled optimism that our species can survive any threat, self-induced or not, by "the skin of our teeth." It's a comforting thought and by the gods, I hope he's right. But certainly the challenge ahead is as formidable as any Wilder's optimism has faced. Nature is one tough customer, and when you piss her off, well, all hell can break loose.

I don't know how the hell young people put together their lives today. With faith and blinders, I suppose. I don't know what the hell I'd do if young today. Probably imbibe in a continuous wake for the planet.

No wonder people are angry and no wonder their anger can be chaotic and not serving their best interests. Once you understand what the hell is going on, much of normal routine doesn't make much sense.

There's a book I read in the sixties, can't remember title or author, but it argued that we lock up the wrong folks in the mental hospitals. We lock up the best among us, the ones that don't have filters to hide the horrors of the world, the ones that can't live "normal lives" with such atrocities surrounding us, the ones who -- if left free -- might actually do something about it. The old Soviet Union was always locking up its dissidents for mental problems. In a more sophisticated way, we do the same. The argument has stayed with me this long.

My protagonist is wrestling with this argument. I'm not sure yet how it will turn out.