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Monday, October 15, 2012
The Wolfish Grinn - Prologue
The rain pours down.
It splashes off the shingled roof, and collects in muddy pools. The walls of inn, though stout well-made, lose none of the grime collected over uncounted years.One of the shutters comes loose in the wind, banging out an Apollonian rhythm. The thunder cracks and the horses are startled, but the grooms have been attentive this evening, and their stables are bolted against the storm. Outside, only the rain moves.
Inside, the patrons huddle together to conserve what little warmth there is. Firewood is expensive, and the inn, though popular, has seen better days.
In the center of the room, the Fat Man holds court. The guests surrounds him as he tells a bawdy tale. It concerns a miller and his wife. The men around him laugh. The Fat Man swallows down another mouthful of brown ale, spilling some onto his tunic. He's had three this night, and is likely to have a few more by the time the rain finally lets up. He wipes his jowls in between guffaws. The men laugh with him. All but one two.
The Innkeeper runs a towel across his bar. He's never been overly fond of the Fat Man's stories, but he's good for business. He can always be counted on for a joke or a laugh, especially on a Stormy Night like this. In times like these, a laugh can have m,ore value than gold. The Innkeeper lets out a sigh. He is tired. His wife is putting out the candles. Candles are even more costly than firewood, and what few they have are spent sparingly, during dinner on crowded nights.
What little light there is comes from the massive fireplace built into the south wall. Of all the things in the inn, the fireplace is by far the most grand. The mantle is dark oak and as tall as a man, carved into the shapes of great beasts. A lion catches a young stag. Wolves howl towards a moonless horizon. Hawks, and Eagles fly between and around serpents, boars, and foxes. The two cornices are carved into the likenesses of great Ravens. They watch the room, with eyes filled with though and memory.
The hearth is warm and dry, but the the guests stay gathered in the center, around the Fat Man. They don't approach the roaring warmth of the fireplace. Not yet. That will come later. For now, the fire is only for the Old Man.
He squats on a stool, facing into the flames. His back is bent and his face is weathered. His gnarled hands wrap around an ashen staff, carved with ancient runes and sigils whose meanings have been long forgotten. He watches the shadows the beasts and birds cast with a single, sunken eye. An eye that has seen many thing, perhaps too many.
The Fat Man laughs one last time and falls silent. The guests murmurs, muttering and chortling at the cleverness of the Fat Man's tale. The Innkeeper's wife blows out the last candle. The only light and warmth left comes form the fireplace, from the Old Man.
The guests move closer to him. What few children there are sit on the floor before the older members of the crowd. The Fat Man, a fourth ale in his hand, takes a seat in the second row. The Innkeepers puts down his cloth and sits next to the him. His wife joins him. They wait. They are silent. The old man closes his eye. It is time for him to decide.
In the great library of his mind, he walks between endless rows of shelves. As he walks slowly down the halls formed from the ancient stands, his hands brush the bindings of ancient tomes, the pages of unbound manuscripts,and the edges of faded scrolls. Which one will be tonight's?
His eyes drifts along the shelves towards one book. It sits alone on the shelf, rough brown leather binding together crisp white pages. Amongst a world of dust and cobwebs, it alone is clean, as if newly made. And of everything here, that book alone belonged to the Old Man.
Would this be the night? No. Not yet. That book would be last,when all other tales had been told He moved on.
He stopped. Yes. This tale has not seen the air for many years. Had it's time come again? The Old Man reaches for the book. Yes, he thinks. This tale would do.
He opened his eye, facing the guests. The fire casts his shadow over the Inn's great room. The light dances across their eager eyes, and they lick their lips.
The Old Man smiles.
"Once Upon a Time..."
The rain pours down.
It splashes off the shingled roof, and collects in muddy pools. The walls of inn, though stout well-made, lose none of the grime collected over uncounted years.One of the shutters comes loose in the wind, banging out an Apollonian rhythm. The thunder cracks and the horses are startled, but the grooms have been attentive this evening, and their stables are bolted against the storm. Outside, only the rain moves.
Inside, the patrons huddle together to conserve what little warmth there is. Firewood is expensive, and the inn, though popular, has seen better days.
In the center of the room, the Fat Man holds court. The guests surrounds him as he tells a bawdy tale. It concerns a miller and his wife. The men around him laugh. The Fat Man swallows down another mouthful of brown ale, spilling some onto his tunic. He's had three this night, and is likely to have a few more by the time the rain finally lets up. He wipes his jowls in between guffaws. The men laugh with him. All but one two.
The Innkeeper runs a towel across his bar. He's never been overly fond of the Fat Man's stories, but he's good for business. He can always be counted on for a joke or a laugh, especially on a Stormy Night like this. In times like these, a laugh can have m,ore value than gold. The Innkeeper lets out a sigh. He is tired. His wife is putting out the candles. Candles are even more costly than firewood, and what few they have are spent sparingly, during dinner on crowded nights.
What little light there is comes from the massive fireplace built into the south wall. Of all the things in the inn, the fireplace is by far the most grand. The mantle is dark oak and as tall as a man, carved into the shapes of great beasts. A lion catches a young stag. Wolves howl towards a moonless horizon. Hawks, and Eagles fly between and around serpents, boars, and foxes. The two cornices are carved into the likenesses of great Ravens. They watch the room, with eyes filled with though and memory.
The hearth is warm and dry, but the the guests stay gathered in the center, around the Fat Man. They don't approach the roaring warmth of the fireplace. Not yet. That will come later. For now, the fire is only for the Old Man.
He squats on a stool, facing into the flames. His back is bent and his face is weathered. His gnarled hands wrap around an ashen staff, carved with ancient runes and sigils whose meanings have been long forgotten. He watches the shadows the beasts and birds cast with a single, sunken eye. An eye that has seen many thing, perhaps too many.
The Fat Man laughs one last time and falls silent. The guests murmurs, muttering and chortling at the cleverness of the Fat Man's tale. The Innkeeper's wife blows out the last candle. The only light and warmth left comes form the fireplace, from the Old Man.
The guests move closer to him. What few children there are sit on the floor before the older members of the crowd. The Fat Man, a fourth ale in his hand, takes a seat in the second row. The Innkeepers puts down his cloth and sits next to the him. His wife joins him. They wait. They are silent. The old man closes his eye. It is time for him to decide.
In the great library of his mind, he walks between endless rows of shelves. As he walks slowly down the halls formed from the ancient stands, his hands brush the bindings of ancient tomes, the pages of unbound manuscripts,and the edges of faded scrolls. Which one will be tonight's?
His eyes drifts along the shelves towards one book. It sits alone on the shelf, rough brown leather binding together crisp white pages. Amongst a world of dust and cobwebs, it alone is clean, as if newly made. And of everything here, that book alone belonged to the Old Man.
Would this be the night? No. Not yet. That book would be last,when all other tales had been told He moved on.
He stopped. Yes. This tale has not seen the air for many years. Had it's time come again? The Old Man reaches for the book. Yes, he thinks. This tale would do.
He opened his eye, facing the guests. The fire casts his shadow over the Inn's great room. The light dances across their eager eyes, and they lick their lips.
The Old Man smiles.
"Once Upon a Time..."
The rain pours down.
Horse Play
I had spent a long night drinking, making friends and enemies of the various people around me. As usual, I was by far the most boisterous person around. Hoover, the closing of the bar was about to bring my tom-foolery to a premature end. I was not yet ready to go home. I still had buckets of energy and the enthusiasm and foolhardy will to apply it. I followed the ebb-and-flow of wavering humanity into the gloomy night, in search of some new and greater mischief. Such mischief materialized in the four-footed form of an equestrian nature.
The horse stood three hands taller than me, brown fur and dark eyes staring mutely amidst a crowd of half-bent and stumbling louts. It stood firm like a butte of sea stone upon which morning waves would break and split themselves. I immediately recognized an opportunity to make, if not a true friend, than at least an amicable acquaintance. The question of why exactly a horse should be standing in the middle of a New York street at three in the morning did not seem all too important to me at the time. I stumbled forward and introduced myself to the beast.
I explained that as I was from Texas, I was familiar with how to properly handle horses, and that the fellow need not be worried about being lost in the large city, as I would gladly see it home. The horse whinnied in acknowledgement.
My comments sparked the interest of several passers by. One fellow exclaimed that he, too, was from Texas. He quickly joined in the discussion and the three of us amicably reminisced about Texas, ranches and the open prairie sky. All in all, we had a most enjoyable conversation.
Our talking was brought up sharply by a gruff cough. I looked around, but could see no one other than myself and my two companions. A second cough drew my gaze upward to the man, who had presumably been sitting astride the friendly horse this entire time. A man, I might add, who looked eerily similar to a a police officer.
The man frowned down at us. He seemed incensed that two drunkards had spent the last ten minutes talking with his mount. A can't imagine exactly why he would find this frustrating. Realizing that I had, technically,, just assaulted a police officer, I sheepishly retreated, chased by the glowers of one of New York's finest.
So, it would behoove one to remember that horses that wander around city neighborhoods at night tend to be attached to people who might not be amused by your attempts at befriending their steeds.
The horse stood three hands taller than me, brown fur and dark eyes staring mutely amidst a crowd of half-bent and stumbling louts. It stood firm like a butte of sea stone upon which morning waves would break and split themselves. I immediately recognized an opportunity to make, if not a true friend, than at least an amicable acquaintance. The question of why exactly a horse should be standing in the middle of a New York street at three in the morning did not seem all too important to me at the time. I stumbled forward and introduced myself to the beast.
I explained that as I was from Texas, I was familiar with how to properly handle horses, and that the fellow need not be worried about being lost in the large city, as I would gladly see it home. The horse whinnied in acknowledgement.
My comments sparked the interest of several passers by. One fellow exclaimed that he, too, was from Texas. He quickly joined in the discussion and the three of us amicably reminisced about Texas, ranches and the open prairie sky. All in all, we had a most enjoyable conversation.
Our talking was brought up sharply by a gruff cough. I looked around, but could see no one other than myself and my two companions. A second cough drew my gaze upward to the man, who had presumably been sitting astride the friendly horse this entire time. A man, I might add, who looked eerily similar to a a police officer.
The man frowned down at us. He seemed incensed that two drunkards had spent the last ten minutes talking with his mount. A can't imagine exactly why he would find this frustrating. Realizing that I had, technically,, just assaulted a police officer, I sheepishly retreated, chased by the glowers of one of New York's finest.
So, it would behoove one to remember that horses that wander around city neighborhoods at night tend to be attached to people who might not be amused by your attempts at befriending their steeds.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
The Queen of Air and Darkness
Her strong enchantments failing, Her towers of fear in wreck, Her limbecks dried of poisons And the knife at her neck, The Queen of air and darkness Begins to shrill and cry, `O young man, O my slayer To-morrow you shall die.' O Queen of air and darkness I think 'tis truth you say, And I shall die to-morrow; But you shall die to-day
From Last Poems by A.E. Housman
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Hostile Suitemates
Among my experiences with sharing a room at a Hostel, two incidents
in particular always come to mind. Both stories involve young couples.
While traveling with a friend, we stayed in a Hostel in Rome that was particularly popular with students and young people. The rooms had two sets of bunk-beds, housing four people in each room. While there, we were housed with a young couple who was traveling through Europe on vacation from the schooling in the city of Chihuahua, Mexico. Now, I call them a couple, but throughout their stay they gave no outward display of affection between the two of them. They were quiet and reserved , keeping to themselves so much that they bordered being downright secretive. We spoke little with the couple, leaving before they awoke and returning after they had already gone to sleep. In fact, most of our interactions consisted of silently tip-toeing around the sleeping pair. Those few times our groups were awake at the same time, they spoke only in Spanish, using hushed tones and shooting furtive glances to either our pair or the door. They never smiled, They never laughed. There was always a somber atmosphere around their serious faces.
Then one morning, my companion and I awoke to an empty room. Evidently, they had departed in the early morning on short notice, surreptitiously gathering there belongings before sunrise. Looking back, I ask myself who these two wayward travelers could have been. Why were they in Rome? Was is something as innocuous as a vacation? They often seemed to be waiting, or watching for some thing. Perhaps some sort of signal? What nefarious business could have brought this humorless couple to the ancient city? I doubt that I shall ever be able to alleviate my doubts entirely.
The second couple was, perhaps, opposite in character to the Mysterious Mexicans. The young couple in question was from Australia. They were friendly and talkative, explaining their journey from Sydney as a quick respite from their university. Unlike the Chihuahuas, this couple had no qualms about displaying their mutual affections. All in all, they seemed amicable tenant; at least, during the day.
After a long day of wandering, my companion and I returned to our room for a much deserved rest. The two young lovers had not yet returned; but being so tired, my friend and I simply decided to go to sleep rather than awaiting their return. We were, as I said, quite weary. We were awoken somewhat later by something horrible. The young man was crying out in pain, in what was half scream and half agonized moan, like some pitiable spirit bound to wander the mortal world until judgement day. Imagine being startled out of your relaxing slumber by such a horrible sound! Imagine the confusion! Imagine the fright!
What's more, one we were fully awake my companion and I had no inkling what our response should be. What, exactly, are the rules of etiquette for midnight screams of terror? In neither of our collective upbringings could we find any manner of ingrained social response to this situation. Should we help? Perhaps give him something to bite on, as if he were having a stroke. Should we wake him? Perhaps rolling him over onto another side, as you would for a particularly loud snorer. We simply had no response. We were utterly flabbergasted. We were left, staring up at the ceiling, enduring the haunting cries of the young man until the small hours of the morning.
In the morning, we convened to discuss our options. Is this a matter to bring to the management? Perhaps complaining would only make things worse. We imagined confronting the management about the issue:
"Excuse me."
"Yes, hello? Are you enjoying your stay?" asks the manager.
"Yes, but..."
"Everything is working out?"
"Yes, but..."
"Excellent!" The manager returns to his ledger with a satisfied air.
"Well yeas, but we've been having some trouble with our suite mates..."
"Pardon," says the manager, returning his gaze to us with a confused look on his face.
"The young Australian couple. They're quite lovely, but the young man has been keeping us up all night"
The manager frowns, furrowing his brow.
"The young man seems....to be...screaming during the night..."
The manager look worried, even disturbed by this comment.
"And well, we've been unable to sleep very well. So would it be possible to move rooms?"
"Umm..." the manager appears to be sweating now.
"Like we said, they're lovely. We just can't sleep."
"Umm...What," the manager's voice is hoarse, almost a whisper. "...Australian couple?"
"Pardon?"
"There's no one else assigned to your room. You have the room to yourselves..."
So, having decided that the young Australian were in fact ghosts, we decided no to anger these two tragic shades. We endured.
So, hostels are excellent ways to save money and meet new people. Even people who might be spies, or people who might be ghosts.
While traveling with a friend, we stayed in a Hostel in Rome that was particularly popular with students and young people. The rooms had two sets of bunk-beds, housing four people in each room. While there, we were housed with a young couple who was traveling through Europe on vacation from the schooling in the city of Chihuahua, Mexico. Now, I call them a couple, but throughout their stay they gave no outward display of affection between the two of them. They were quiet and reserved , keeping to themselves so much that they bordered being downright secretive. We spoke little with the couple, leaving before they awoke and returning after they had already gone to sleep. In fact, most of our interactions consisted of silently tip-toeing around the sleeping pair. Those few times our groups were awake at the same time, they spoke only in Spanish, using hushed tones and shooting furtive glances to either our pair or the door. They never smiled, They never laughed. There was always a somber atmosphere around their serious faces.
Then one morning, my companion and I awoke to an empty room. Evidently, they had departed in the early morning on short notice, surreptitiously gathering there belongings before sunrise. Looking back, I ask myself who these two wayward travelers could have been. Why were they in Rome? Was is something as innocuous as a vacation? They often seemed to be waiting, or watching for some thing. Perhaps some sort of signal? What nefarious business could have brought this humorless couple to the ancient city? I doubt that I shall ever be able to alleviate my doubts entirely.
The second couple was, perhaps, opposite in character to the Mysterious Mexicans. The young couple in question was from Australia. They were friendly and talkative, explaining their journey from Sydney as a quick respite from their university. Unlike the Chihuahuas, this couple had no qualms about displaying their mutual affections. All in all, they seemed amicable tenant; at least, during the day.
After a long day of wandering, my companion and I returned to our room for a much deserved rest. The two young lovers had not yet returned; but being so tired, my friend and I simply decided to go to sleep rather than awaiting their return. We were, as I said, quite weary. We were awoken somewhat later by something horrible. The young man was crying out in pain, in what was half scream and half agonized moan, like some pitiable spirit bound to wander the mortal world until judgement day. Imagine being startled out of your relaxing slumber by such a horrible sound! Imagine the confusion! Imagine the fright!
What's more, one we were fully awake my companion and I had no inkling what our response should be. What, exactly, are the rules of etiquette for midnight screams of terror? In neither of our collective upbringings could we find any manner of ingrained social response to this situation. Should we help? Perhaps give him something to bite on, as if he were having a stroke. Should we wake him? Perhaps rolling him over onto another side, as you would for a particularly loud snorer. We simply had no response. We were utterly flabbergasted. We were left, staring up at the ceiling, enduring the haunting cries of the young man until the small hours of the morning.
In the morning, we convened to discuss our options. Is this a matter to bring to the management? Perhaps complaining would only make things worse. We imagined confronting the management about the issue:
"Excuse me."
"Yes, hello? Are you enjoying your stay?" asks the manager.
"Yes, but..."
"Everything is working out?"
"Yes, but..."
"Excellent!" The manager returns to his ledger with a satisfied air.
"Well yeas, but we've been having some trouble with our suite mates..."
"Pardon," says the manager, returning his gaze to us with a confused look on his face.
"The young Australian couple. They're quite lovely, but the young man has been keeping us up all night"
The manager frowns, furrowing his brow.
"The young man seems....to be...screaming during the night..."
The manager look worried, even disturbed by this comment.
"And well, we've been unable to sleep very well. So would it be possible to move rooms?"
"Umm..." the manager appears to be sweating now.
"Like we said, they're lovely. We just can't sleep."
"Umm...What," the manager's voice is hoarse, almost a whisper. "...Australian couple?"
"Pardon?"
"There's no one else assigned to your room. You have the room to yourselves..."
So, having decided that the young Australian were in fact ghosts, we decided no to anger these two tragic shades. We endured.
So, hostels are excellent ways to save money and meet new people. Even people who might be spies, or people who might be ghosts.
The Curse of the Traveller
I recently ran across an interesting account of something called the Curse of the Traveler.
An old vagabond in his 60s told me about it over a beer in Central America, goes something like this: The more places you see, the more things you see that appeal to you, but no one place has them all. In fact, each place has a smaller and smaller percentage of the things you love, the more things you see. It drives you, even subconsciously, to keep looking, for a place not that's perfect (we all know there's no Shangri-La), but just for a place that's "just right for you." But the curse is that the odds of finding "just right" get smaller, not larger, the more you experience. So you keep looking even more, but it always gets worse the more you see.
At the same time, the more you travel, the more numerous and profoundly varied the relationships you will have. But the more people you meet, the more diffused your time is with any of them. Since all these people can't travel with you, it becomes increasingly difficult to cultivate long term relationships the more you travel. Yet you keep traveling, and keep meeting amazing people, so it feels fulfilling; but eventually, you miss them all, and many have all but forgotten who you are. And then you make up for it by staying put somewhere long enough to develop roots and cultivate stronger relationships. But these people can never know what you know or see what you've seen, and you will always feel a tinge of loneliness. You will want to tell your stories just a little bit more than they will want to hear them. This gets worse the more you travel, yet travel seems to be a cure for a while.
None of this is to suggest that one should ever reduce travel. It's just a warning to young Travelers, to expect, as part of the price, a rich life tinged with a bit of sadness and loneliness, and angst that's like the same nostalgia everyone feels for special parts of their past, except multiplied by a thousand.
This was paired with an excerpt of a letter that Thomas Jefferson wrote to his nephew on August 10, 1787:
Travelling. This makes men wiser, but less happy. When men of sober age travel, they gather knowledge, which they may apply usefully for their country; but they are subject ever after to recollections mixed with regret; their affections are weakened by being extended over more objects; & they learn new habits which cannot be gratified when they return home. Young men, who travel, are exposed to all these inconveniences in a higher degree, to others still more serious, and do not acquire that wisdom for which a previous foundation is requisite, by repeated and just observations at home. The glare of pomp and pleasure is analogous to the motion of the blood; it absorbs all their affection and attention, they are torn from it as from the only good in this world, and return to their home as to a place of exile & condemnation. Their eyes are forever turned back to the object they have lost, & its recollection poisons the residue of their lives. Their first & most delicate passions are hackneyed on unworthy objects here, & they carry home the dregs, insufficient to make themselves or anybody else happy. Add to this, that a habit of idleness, an inability to apply themselves to business is acquired, & renders them useless to themselves & their country. These observations are founded in experience. There is no place where your pursuit of knowledge will be so little obstructed by foreign objects, as in your own country, nor any, wherein the virtues of the heart will be less exposed to be weakened. Be good, be learned, & be industrious, & you will not want the aid of travelling, to render you precious to your country, dear to your friends, happy within yourself. I repeat my advice, to take a great deal of exercise, & on foot. Health is the first requisite after morality. Write to me often, & be assured of the interest I take in your success, as well as the warmth of those sentiments of attachment with which I am, dear Peter, your affectionate friend.
An old vagabond in his 60s told me about it over a beer in Central America, goes something like this: The more places you see, the more things you see that appeal to you, but no one place has them all. In fact, each place has a smaller and smaller percentage of the things you love, the more things you see. It drives you, even subconsciously, to keep looking, for a place not that's perfect (we all know there's no Shangri-La), but just for a place that's "just right for you." But the curse is that the odds of finding "just right" get smaller, not larger, the more you experience. So you keep looking even more, but it always gets worse the more you see.
At the same time, the more you travel, the more numerous and profoundly varied the relationships you will have. But the more people you meet, the more diffused your time is with any of them. Since all these people can't travel with you, it becomes increasingly difficult to cultivate long term relationships the more you travel. Yet you keep traveling, and keep meeting amazing people, so it feels fulfilling; but eventually, you miss them all, and many have all but forgotten who you are. And then you make up for it by staying put somewhere long enough to develop roots and cultivate stronger relationships. But these people can never know what you know or see what you've seen, and you will always feel a tinge of loneliness. You will want to tell your stories just a little bit more than they will want to hear them. This gets worse the more you travel, yet travel seems to be a cure for a while.
None of this is to suggest that one should ever reduce travel. It's just a warning to young Travelers, to expect, as part of the price, a rich life tinged with a bit of sadness and loneliness, and angst that's like the same nostalgia everyone feels for special parts of their past, except multiplied by a thousand.
This was paired with an excerpt of a letter that Thomas Jefferson wrote to his nephew on August 10, 1787:
Travelling. This makes men wiser, but less happy. When men of sober age travel, they gather knowledge, which they may apply usefully for their country; but they are subject ever after to recollections mixed with regret; their affections are weakened by being extended over more objects; & they learn new habits which cannot be gratified when they return home. Young men, who travel, are exposed to all these inconveniences in a higher degree, to others still more serious, and do not acquire that wisdom for which a previous foundation is requisite, by repeated and just observations at home. The glare of pomp and pleasure is analogous to the motion of the blood; it absorbs all their affection and attention, they are torn from it as from the only good in this world, and return to their home as to a place of exile & condemnation. Their eyes are forever turned back to the object they have lost, & its recollection poisons the residue of their lives. Their first & most delicate passions are hackneyed on unworthy objects here, & they carry home the dregs, insufficient to make themselves or anybody else happy. Add to this, that a habit of idleness, an inability to apply themselves to business is acquired, & renders them useless to themselves & their country. These observations are founded in experience. There is no place where your pursuit of knowledge will be so little obstructed by foreign objects, as in your own country, nor any, wherein the virtues of the heart will be less exposed to be weakened. Be good, be learned, & be industrious, & you will not want the aid of travelling, to render you precious to your country, dear to your friends, happy within yourself. I repeat my advice, to take a great deal of exercise, & on foot. Health is the first requisite after morality. Write to me often, & be assured of the interest I take in your success, as well as the warmth of those sentiments of attachment with which I am, dear Peter, your affectionate friend.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Thoughts on Abortion - 1
I think the break-down between Pro-Life and Pro-Choice Advocates is the contention that a fetus constitutes a Person. This represents a fundamental philosophical gap, with no clear way around.
Assuming for a moment that a fetus is actually a Person, I've run into a few interesting thought experiments.
If a fetus is a Person, then it follows that it could most likely be treated as a child. But if it's a child, then it's the parents job to look after it. The parents are responsible and liable for its well-being. If a child is malnourished, then the parents are criminally liable. If a child arrives at school bruised, then the parents are criminally liable. Given the expansive reach of Child Protective Services, parents responsible for almost every aspect of their children's lives (except for raising the damned things, we let our teachers take responsibility for that!)So let's say that the fetus's parents are entirely responsible for its well-being, as if it were a child.
What happens if the mother has a miscarriage?
Is that potential manslaughter? Are the parents criminally responsible for that death?
Assuming for a moment that a fetus is actually a Person, I've run into a few interesting thought experiments.
If a fetus is a Person, then it follows that it could most likely be treated as a child. But if it's a child, then it's the parents job to look after it. The parents are responsible and liable for its well-being. If a child is malnourished, then the parents are criminally liable. If a child arrives at school bruised, then the parents are criminally liable. Given the expansive reach of Child Protective Services, parents responsible for almost every aspect of their children's lives (except for raising the damned things, we let our teachers take responsibility for that!)So let's say that the fetus's parents are entirely responsible for its well-being, as if it were a child.
What happens if the mother has a miscarriage?
Is that potential manslaughter? Are the parents criminally responsible for that death?
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