“The World is Full of Lost Light” – We grieve for the lost children of Uvalde

City-of-BonesChild cases haunted you. They hollowed you out and scarred you. There was no bulletproof vest thick enough to stop you from being pierced. Child cases left you knowing the world was full of lost light.

Michael Connelly, City of Bones (a Harry Bosch novel)


I can’t stop thinking about the children lost, and the families grieving, in Uvalde.

The sadness is overwhelming.  The senselessness of it all is so …painful; so…wrong.

Along with many others, I can’t do my normal work, or go about my normal life, with focus and energy.

I have no thoughts to add to the countless articles being written and the numerous interviews with families and loved ones.

The stories of these children are more than any of us can bear.

I feel for those families.

I feel for that community.

I grieve for our country, where these types of mass, senseless, evil deaths keep happening.

In City of Bones, Bosch has been called in because the bones of a child have been discovered.

There will be so many children buried in Uvalde.

The world is just full of lost light.


As I always do at such moments, I re-read a poem or two:

John Donne, For Whom the Bell Tolls

No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend’s were.
Each man’s death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.

And also this, this week:

W. H. Auden, ‘Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone’ 

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,

Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;

For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *