There may be more poetry than justice in poetic justice.

In the words of George Will, “There may be more poetry than justice in poetic justice.” This statement glimmers with paradox, for it unveils the fragile line between the justice we long for and the justice the world delivers. We, as human beings, often crave endings that feel right—where the wicked are punished, the good are rewarded, and life resolves itself in symmetry. This is the poetry of our imagination. Yet reality often denies us such balance, reminding us that the universe does not always align with human notions of fairness.

Poetic justice is a phrase that promises elegance in fate: the tyrant undone by his own cruelty, the liar trapped by his own lies, the greedy ruined by his own excess. It satisfies the spirit because it is neat, symmetrical, and feels as if the world itself were governed by a storyteller’s hand. But Will’s wisdom reminds us: this is often poetry, not truth. Life does not always grant such clean retribution. In fact, the guilty may thrive, and the virtuous may suffer. And so, what we call poetic justice is more a work of art than a law of life.

History bears witness to this disparity. Consider the fall of Robespierre, the architect of the Reign of Terror during the French Revolution. At first, it seemed poetic that the man who sent so many to the guillotine should meet his own end by the same blade. Here was justice in symmetry! Yet how many innocent lives were extinguished without recompense? How many gentle voices were silenced, never to be avenged? The poetry of Robespierre’s end did not restore the balance for all the suffering he unleashed. The justice remained incomplete.

The ancients too wrestled with this truth. The Greek tragedians often depicted characters destroyed by their own flaws, weaving patterns of fate that felt inevitable. But even in those stories, the audience was reminded that these outcomes were crafted by poets, not by the gods of reality. The human heart longs for coherence, for endings that match beginnings, for consequences that mirror actions. Yet the world is rough-hewn, not polished, more chaos than symmetry. Thus George Will’s words carry weight: poetic justice comforts us, but it may be more poetry than justice.

This is not a counsel of despair, but of clarity. It is dangerous to expect life to conform to storybook justice, for disappointment will corrode the heart. Better is it to understand that justice must be pursued by human hands, through law, compassion, and vigilance, rather than awaited like a divine rhythm in the cosmos. The poetry of justice may inspire us, but it must not deceive us into passivity.

The lesson, then, is this: cherish the beauty of stories, but do not mistake them for life itself. When you see poetic justice—the cruel undone by their own cruelty—take it as a parable, a reminder of the moral order we strive for. But when you see injustice endure, do not retreat into despair. Instead, recognize that it is you, and those beside you, who must labor to bring about justice where poetry alone will not.

In your life, act as a maker of justice. If you see wrongs, do not assume that fate will correct them. If you encounter cruelty, do not wait for the heavens to strike it down. Be the hand that defends, the voice that speaks, the spirit that resists. Let poetry inspire your vision of what justice could be, but let your deeds carve it into reality. For though poetry may weave dreams, it is action that bends the world toward righteousness.

Thus, George Will’s words endure as a caution and a call: there may be more poetry than justice in poetic justice, yet it is within our power to turn poetry into truth. Take up this charge, O listener, and strive to write justice into the living pages of the world.