The news from the Middle East arrives like a squall across the Atlantic, full of bluster and little rain, yet promising a deluge. This talk of deadlines and demands, and the Strait of Hormuz, reminds me of a stubborn lock on a strongbox. One can rattle it, one can shout at it, but until one finds the proper key, or a sturdy pry bar, it remains shut.

Mr. Trump, it seems, is “not at all worried about possible war crimes.” A curious declaration. Worry, like a good fence, often keeps one from straying into troublesome fields. To dismiss it entirely suggests either a profound confidence in one’s own rectitude, or a profound lack of imagination regarding consequences. I’ve found that even the most well-intentioned actions can lead to unforeseen troubles, much like a kite flown too high can snap its string.

Tehran, for its part, rejects a ceasefire and demands a “permanent end to conflict.” A permanent end to conflict is a grand aspiration, one that has eluded mankind since Cain and Abel. It is a fine thing to wish for, but a poor thing to demand as a precondition for peace. One must first mend the broken fence before one can discuss the planting of a garden. These matters are not settled by pronouncements from afar, but by patient negotiation, by finding the common ground, however small, and building upon it. A house is not built by declaring it finished, but by laying brick upon brick. This is a lesson that seems to be forgotten in the heat of the moment. I fear much energy is being spent on sharpening swords when plows are what is truly needed.