The news that American researchers, in the 1940s, infected the mentally ill and confined in Guatemala with syphilis (that was later treated though not necessarily cured) demanded a high-level apology, such as Clinton and Obama have since proffered. So far so good - except very troubling thoughts linger: how, after the atrocities of Nazi and Japanese WW2 medical research, could Americans involve themselves in such cold-blooded work? More to the point, does such untrammeled science still operate? Whenever scientists like Dawkins wax lyrical about the pure rational spirit of the scientist, it is right to recall such crimes against humanity; for science, unmoored from morality, even (say it!) faith, can grow monstrous very easily; for the human mind's forensic curiosity, still in its moral infancy, will pull wings from a fly to see it struggle. And call that knowledge.
A poem for my mother, July 15 When she was dying And I was in a different country I dreamt I was there with her Flying over the ocean very quickly, And arriving in the room like a dream And I was a dream, but the meaning was more Than a dream has – it was a moving over time And land, over water, to get love across Fast enough, to be there, before she died, To lean over the small, huddled figure, In the dark, and without bothering her Even with apologies, and be a kiss in the air, A dream of a kiss, or even less, the thought of one, And when I woke, none of this had happened, She was still far distant, and we had not spoken.

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