Lissa Carter

I am seated on my bed, which is presently a mattress on the floor of a large room. I am surrounded by piles of books. This is the center of my life right now; every one of these books needs to be read through, with notes made in the margins and neat lists compiled of each main argument. The mattress faces a window that takes up nearly a full wall: outside is spring, and a mockingbird, and a neglected garden. Here in the center of my life, surrounded by concentric rings of need and obligation, I think I want to write an essay about politics.

It begins with a story that was related to me recently: Gandhi had organized a very large march, and thousands of people came. After a while he noticed that it had the potential to become violent, so he gathered the people together and told them that he was calling the march off. There was anger; many people had sacrificed a great deal to be there. Gandhi addressed them: " I am human, and I make mistakes. Therefore my commitment must be to truth and not to consistency."