I got an email from my father recently that further explained why he was captured by a particular ideological movement through much of his twenties. He explained that it provided answers to many nagging questions about how he ought to treat people, why certain atrocities had taken place, and much of who he hoped to be.

It never ceases to fascinate me the way that ideas and beliefs can bring peace and resolution (or the exact opposite) to so many situations. Lately I must confess that I’ve been fairly far from philosophy, but I do believe that literature, articles, poetry, speeches, or even simple quotes can prove just as influential. To spare you from too many drawn out ideas, I want to mention a few quotes with meanings that have left a mark.

My father always used to tell me, “you can’t burn the candle at both ends.” Then at some point early in college I read the related poem:

My candle burns at both ends:
It will not last the night;
But, ah, my foes, and, oh, my friends–
It gives a lovely light
(Edna Saint Vincent Millay)

Now I realize just how much I enjoy late nights and full mornings…and will continue to enjoy that light.

In college my sister was teased by her then-boyfriend about the way she held a spoon. Soon after she and I realized that we both held silverware differently, and that it traced back to my dad (my mom’s etiquette was A-OK). This became a common family discussion, and my sister and I separately purchased the same greeting card with this quote:

If you don’t like someone, the way he holds his spoon will make you furious;
If you do like him, he can turn his plate over into your lap and you won’t mind.
(Irving Becker)

At first the quote merely served as a leitmotif in our conversations…but eventually it took on a much more powerful meaning for me. In the times when I’ve been dating and not so sure about someone, I realized just how much more powerful my little reactions related to how much I cared. I recognized just how much more telling my actions were than anything I intellectualized…and this quote gave a lot of coherence to that idea.

Last year I read Alain de Botton’s Kiss & Tell as a follow-up to his painstakingly introspective On Love (as recommended by Andrew, and later discussed in Book Club); I couldn’t help but fall head over heels for this line:

“It is not ignorance which damages the clarity of our portraits, but the accumulation of knowledge.”

This succinctly put to words what I couldn’t explain in all of Bob & Jared’s Camp Girl Philosophy–about how getting to know people damaged how well we (think we) know people. Maybe it was all the dating going on when it all hit me, but there was something about this idea (in a book that examines the biography-worthy nature of the common person) that helped me to recognize immediately both the naivete of first impressions and the depth that all people have to offer as you get to know them. That also makes me think of the Ursula Le Guin quote:

If you see a whole thing – it seems that it’s always beautiful. Planets, lives… But up close a world’s all dirt and rocks. And day to day, life’s a hard job, you get tired, you lose the pattern.

I guess I’ll leave you with that thought, and see if some other quote can help to keep the pattern going…

In England there are a remarkable number of ice-blue-eyed people. At my desk I look to two photos with incredibly welcoming glances. I can’t resist the urge to write about the most captivating trait of all (yes, I wrote this):

Eyes:

longing,
penetrating,
glowing
true windows.

cashmere caftans,
dazzling diadems,
crêpes de Chine:
liners and shadows.

calming posture,
caressing hand,
warming smile,
all told in a glance.

words are wasted;
won’t you stare for a while?

Press my buttons
And you’re mine
As long as you want.

But you
In shades of gray
Are hardly black and white:

Unclear,
Out of context,
A facade.

So hit another button:
Step a little closer
Or disappear.

There are more like you;
But who’s in focus
When my energy runs out?

I remember when we sat by the fire
quietly watching the rope swing
I kissed your pineapple lips
sipping their first colada
beneath the old willow
where we met.

Please never forget that evening
where the rope dangled alone
I couldn’t resist calling
missing your swinging
under the old willow
where we met.

So just don’t bring him to that rope
that hangs at just about our height
supporting our exact weight
swinging back and forth
from the old willow
where we met.

Because then it might snap
for us never to return
to that sacred rope
where we had swung
by the old willow
where we met.

Smudges too trodden to write over
stain through the paper,
through my skin.

Graphite too pure for its purpose
poisons every concept,
every syllable.

A contagion too short for a poem
palliates its own contents,
its own reader.

Tickets, exams, stomach pains — no more than
Trivialities, pangs, frustrations.

Still they mount.

Summer draws near;
Can’t draw the line between need and want,
Lacking a steady hand and trained eye.

Her words resonate.
Uplifted by their presence,
But helpless by their meaning
Am I.

“Just friends,”
“No longer”
Are they.
Still their years echo from his name.

Comrades? Colleagues?
Conspirators
Are they,
As the syllables reverberate

Through the phone,
Again,
Away…
Am I.