Justice? You get justice in the next world, in this world you

The words of William Gaddis, “Justice? You get justice in the next world, in this world you have the law,” fall like a hammer upon the illusions of men. They reveal the sharp divide between what humanity yearns for and what it actually creates: between justice, pure and eternal, and the law, flawed, earthly, and bound by compromise. Gaddis, a writer who dissected the complexities of modern life with ruthless clarity, here speaks a bitter truth: that while we seek fairness, truth, and balance in this life, what we often receive instead is the cold machinery of courts and statutes, where power and procedure outweigh the soul’s cry for righteousness.

The origin of this saying is rooted in Gaddis’s novel A Frolic of His Own, where satire and tragedy expose the absurdities of the legal system. The phrase is given voice in a world where lawsuits multiply endlessly, where truth is obscured by arguments, and where the pursuit of fairness often dissolves into a contest of technicalities. Gaddis saw the law not as the embodiment of justice, but as a pale shadow of it—necessary, but inadequate. His words echo the ancient lament that human institutions, no matter how noble in design, are too frail to carry the full weight of divine justice.

History itself gives us countless mirrors of this truth. Consider the trial of Socrates in Athens. The law condemned him to death for corrupting the youth and challenging the gods of the city. Yet no honest man would say that justice was served. The law, bound by the fear of the powerful and the rigidity of custom, crushed a man whose only crime was truth-seeking. Here, in Gaddis’s sense, Socrates found no justice in the world of men, only law. True justice belonged to a higher realm, beyond the reach of flawed courts.

The deeper meaning of Gaddis’s words is both sobering and instructive: we must not confuse the law with justice. Law is the structure men create to keep order, to punish wrongdoing, to settle disputes. It is an imperfect tool, shaped by politics, by culture, by the biases of those who write and enforce it. Justice, however, is eternal and transcendent—it is fairness untainted, balance without corruption, truth unmarred by selfishness. To expect perfect justice from human law is to expect the finite to embody the infinite. The disappointment of such hope is what Gaddis captures in his sharp irony.

Yet his saying also carries a challenge. If justice belongs to the next world, does that mean we should abandon its pursuit here? By no means. Rather, it calls us to recognize the imperfection of human systems and to labor continually to bring them closer to the ideal. Though perfect justice may elude us, we can refine the law to serve it more faithfully. Every reform, every defense of the weak, every act of truth-telling pushes the law a little nearer to justice. The task is endless, but it is noble.

The lesson for us is clear: do not be naïve in expecting the courts of men to hand down perfect justice. But do not despair, either. Understand the limits of law, and work tirelessly to improve it. When you see injustice masquerading as legality, speak out. When you encounter cruelty hidden behind rules, resist it. When the law fails to deliver fairness, let your own life be a testimony to what justice should be. In this way, even though full justice may belong to the next world, we may draw fragments of it into this one.

Therefore, let us live with both humility and courage. Humility, knowing that our systems will always fall short; courage, knowing that our efforts are still worthy and necessary. Remember the wisdom of Gaddis: “In this world you have the law.” It is flawed, it is fragile, but it is also the tool we possess. Let us wield it wisely, shape it justly, and never cease striving to make it a truer reflection of the justice we yearn for. For though eternal justice may dwell beyond this life, it is our sacred duty to carry its light as far as our mortal hands can bear.