I have received hostile voice mail messages and e-mails. They are

Hear the sharp and sorrowful cry of Ben Brantley: “I have received hostile voice mail messages and e-mails. They are often anonymous, I'm sad to say, as anonymous messages are delivered only by very low forms of human life, in my opinion.” These words reveal the wound inflicted not by swords, but by tongues—those hidden daggers of the unseen. For in every age, there have been cowards who strike from the shadows, too fearful to reveal their names, yet eager to poison the hearts of others. Brantley, a critic whose craft was to speak boldly, faced the venom of those who, lacking the courage of the open field, hurled their stones from behind the wall of anonymity.

The ancients knew well the dishonor of such attacks. In Homer’s Iliad, warriors announced their names before they fought, so that glory or defeat might be owned in truth. To conceal one’s name was to admit unworthiness, to confess weakness of spirit. The shield may guard the body, but the name guards the soul. To strike without it is to live as shadow, unrecognized and unworthy of remembrance. Thus Brantley speaks not only of personal hurt, but of the degradation of character that anonymity breeds, for it gives license to cruelty without consequence, malice without honor.

Consider, then, a tale from our more recent times. In the dark heart of the twentieth century, men in white hoods gathered under the banner of the Ku Klux Klan, cloaking their faces so their hatred could flourish unseen. They spread terror under the veil of secrecy, burning crosses and threatening lives. Their power was not in courage, but in the mask of anonymity, which allowed the weak-hearted to seem strong. But history has judged them as Brantley judges the anonymous attacker: not as warriors, but as “low forms of human life,” cowards who hid from the responsibility of their deeds.

And yet, there is something deeper in Brantley’s lament. To receive hostile messages is not only to be wounded by words, but to feel the cold presence of humanity’s darker instincts. Envy, resentment, and bitterness lie at the root of such attacks. Those who cannot build often choose to destroy. Those who fear their own insignificance reach for cruelty to feel power. But when their cruelty is nameless, their power is hollow, for they stand apart from the ancient law of accountability, where every word spoken bore the weight of one’s honor.

What, then, shall we learn? First, to guard our hearts from the poison of the anonymous. The words of the nameless are but smoke—let them drift and vanish. One must not tie the dignity of the soul to the judgment of cowards. Secondly, let us remember that courage is always tied to identity. To speak truth, whether in praise or in criticism, requires that one stand behind it, saying, “These are my words, and I own them.” The ancients called this integrity; we may call it the foundation of human worth.

Practically, let each of us live by this law: never send a message you would not sign with your own name. If you must criticize, let it be done openly, honestly, with the spirit of building rather than destroying. If you receive hostile words, weigh them not by their sting, but by the courage—or lack thereof—of their source. Silence the whispers of the nameless, but heed the voices that dare to stand in the light. For even harsh truth, when spoken openly, is more noble than flattery whispered from the shadows.

And so, the teaching endures: anonymity may hide the face, but it strips away the soul. To live with honor is to speak with your name upon your words, to stand by them as a warrior stands by his blade. Let us not be deceived by the cowards who whisper from the dark. Let us, instead, walk in the sun, our voices clear, our words accountable, and our hearts unafraid. For only then do we rise above the low and claim the true dignity of human life.