One Sunday night, the baker on the Palace de l’Eglise was just going to bed when he heard a violent blow against the barred window of his shop. He got down in time to see an arm thrust through the aperture made by the blow of a fist on the glass. The arm seized a loaf of bread and took it out. (The baker) rushed out; the thief used his leg valiantly; (The baker) pursued him and caught him. The thief had thrown away the bread, but his arm was still bleeding. It was Jean Valjean.

As I watched the news that other night I couldn’t take my eyes off of the looters.

I went to my bookshelves and pulled out my old ratty copy of Victor Hugo’s Les Miserbles. I began to read it again. This time with new eyes. Desperation on the pages matched by the desperation in the streets on my screen. It isn’t hard to understand bread, water, food, even candy. Take. Eat. Be well.

I just can’t understand the TVs. I cannot comprhend that kind of lawlessness.