Looking out the green window I am obsessed with the darkness of Dag
Why did the woman, Freda, of the smooth skin, much smoother than mine, but as old;
Why did the woman, Freda, of the grey hair, darker grey, much longer than mine;
Why did the woman, Freda, with the gentle voice, much gentler, but more insistent than mine;
Why did the woman, Freda, give me "Markings" to read?
I was surprised.
I am always surprised if people, new people in my life, presume to know what I might like to read.
What gave her the idea that I might like to read Hammarskjold's book?
I am interested in Peace, she assumed, because I mentioned Peace Pilgrim's book.
I am interested in spiritual things, she assumed, because -- I remember -- I mentioned a monastery,
a Zen conversation, a spirit that troubles me from time to time.
That, no doubt, prompted her well-meant presumption.
But Dag H's book is so dark, one of the darkest I have read.
If this is spirituality to the West, if these are the musing of an "enlightened" man of the West,
in whom power was vested to help bring peace to the world, to unite nations,
pity the West, pity the West's tiny, nay infinitesimal capacity to think of peace, to bring peace to a world.
I am appalled by Dag's darkness.
It is as if his pages were written on dark blue, light-absorbing velvet.
Yet I remember thinking of him as a good man.
A good man. What does that mean?
Privately, Dag Hammarskjold lived the dark night of the soul.
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