Dante’s Beach, Ravenna
It is strange how events elide and create a pattern whose significance remains elusive. I had just returned from a raid under the cover of the night on a huge field near our house a mile from the sea. I had about 50kg of ripe tomatoes in plastic bags in the back of my battered old seven-seater Land Rover Defender and was wondering if, as an impoverished father of six, I could use the Thomist defence: ‘It is not theft, properly speaking, to take secretly and use another’s property in a case of extreme need: because that which he takes for the support of his life becomes his own property by reason of that need’ (Aquinas, Summa Theologica).
‘Not until you flog the Defender you can’t,’ I heard the chorus of faces in the ancient gallery chant. But then as I parked outside our house, I saw through the windscreen the most amazing shooting star to the north, which obviously settled the matter in my favour.
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