Alan Lightman

Pick One: Perfect Work, or Work That Doesn’t Fail

November 14, 2025 by John Leave a Comment

[Image: “Lose It In the Trees,” by John E. Simpson. (Photo shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page at RAMH.)]

From whiskey river’s commonplace book:

Tune: “Thinking of Maiden Chin”

I ascend high on the storied pavilion,
Below, mountains scatter in disorder;
The uncultivated plain extends
Far in the light mist.
In the light mist,
Crows have returned to their nests;
The evening horn is heard in the dusk.

Burnt-out incense, left-over wine —
My melancholy heart!
The evening wind hastens
The wu t’ung leaves fall.

The wu t’ung leaves fall,
Again the autumn becomes beautiful,
Again the heart is lonesome.

(Li Qingzhao, translated by Lucy Chow Ho [source; alternative translation by Kenneth Rexroth here])

…and:

How do we learn? I’ve heard it a thousand times, without yet fully applying it to my own experience, that it is axiomatically the height of delusion to think of one meditation object as superior to any other. Phenomena are all the same in being fleeting, unsatisfying, and ungovernable–a true meditator notices whatever is happening and lets it go its own way without preferences.

Let come whatever comes. Let go of all that goes. I’m still working on that one.

(Kate Wheeler [source])

…and:

During his sermon a monk asked him, “In whom does Buddha cause passion?” Chao-chou said, “Buddha causes passion in all of us.” The monk asked, “How do we get rid of it?” Chao-chou said, “Why should we get rid of it?”

(Chang Chung-yuan [source])

…and (italicized portion):

It is not possible to overthrow pride. It is not possible because we ourselves are pride; Pride the Dragon and Pride the Deceiver as it is called in Mythology. But we can witness the defeat of pride because pride can not hold out. Pride is not real so sooner or later it must go down…

We cannot and do not slay the Dragon, that is a medieval idea, I guess. We have to become completely familiar with him and hope that he sleeps. The way things are most of the time, is that he is awake and we are asleep. What we hope is the opposite.

I have known some very young artists who are familiar with the Dragon and know many of his ways. They also recognize fear and are independent of judgement. They recognize themselves as mere shadows in reality. They like to be alone and seem to have had plenty of practice of being alone since early childhood. All that is a tremendous head start in art work and these artists are correctly recognized as geniuses.

We will all get there someday however and do the work that we are supposed to do. Of all the pitfalls in our paths and the tremendous delays and wanderings off the track I want to say that they are not what they seem to be. I want to say that all that seems like fantastic mistakes are not mistakes and all that seems like error is not error; and it all has to be done. That which seems like a false step is the next step…

What was the reaction of the person who first made a symmetrical house. He felt new contentment in the house. He could see that it reflected himself. He felt a satisfaction in having built it and perhaps an awareness of clarity in his mind as the means. (A contentment with oneself that is success. Do not stop short of real contentment. You may as well never have been born if you remain discontented.)

Perfection is not necessary. Perfection you can not have. If you do what you want to do and what you can do and if you can then recognize it you will be contented. You cannot possibly know what it will be but looking back you will not be surprised at what you have done.

(Agnes Martin [source])

From elsewhere:

The first thing to do is to lift your foot. Breathe in. Put your foot down in front of you, first your heel and then your toes. Feel your feet solid on the Earth. You have already arrived.

(Thich Nhat Hanh [source])

…and:

On the subject of rules and patterns, I think we are absolutely schizophrenic. We are drawn to the symmetry of a snowflake, and we are also drawn to the amorphous shape of a cloud floating high in the sky. We appreciate the regular features of animals of a pure breed, and we are also fascinated by hybrids and mongrels that do not fit into any classification scheme. We honor those people who have lived upright and sensible lives, and we also esteem the mavericks who have broken the mold. In some perplexing and ill-understood manner, we human beings with our oversized craniums seem to have a fondness both for the predictable and the unpredictable, the rational and the irrational, regularity and irregularity. Yes, we are certainly a difficult mess of self-contradictions…

We like order, but we also like surprises. We like the predictable. But we also like the unpredictable. Every once in a while, we demand a fly in the ointment.

(Alan Lightman [source])

…and:

Description

Humans: beings directional,
symmetrical.

With left and right hands,
left and right feet,
ears that hear lullabies
from one side or the other,
nostrils that know fear or food
from one side or the other.

Beings who sneeze
while following a trail
through wet woods
to whose asters and mosses
two eyes bring stereoscopic depth.

Sometimes, it’s true, the ears mishear:
death.

Sometimes the feet’s direction is only away.

Sometimes the hands misunderstand their task.
They tremble.
They ask their wrists: This?

Fingers with such sensitive nerve ends,
such solicitude holding a chisel or cello,
they thought they were meant to inflict only beauty and kindness.

(Jane Hirshfield [source])

Pausing Each Day at the Gateless Gate… Then Stepping Through

May 30, 2025 by John Leave a Comment

[Image: “Tallulah Falls” (1841), by George Cooke. Why this? See the excerpt from Alan Lightman’s essay, below.]

From whiskey river’s commonplace book:

To Waiting

You spend so much of your time
expecting to become
someone else
always someone
who will be different
someone to whom a moment
whatever moment it may be
at last has come
and who has been
met and transformed
into no longer being you
and so has forgotten you

meanwhile in your life
you hardly notice
the world around you
lights changing
sirens dying along the buildings
your eyes intent
on a sight you do not see yet
not yet there
as long as you
are only yourself

with whom as you
recall you were
never happy
to be left alone for long

(W. S. Merwin [source])

…and:

Wonder begins with the element of surprise. The now almost obsolete word “wonderstruck” suggests that wonder breaks into consciousness with a dramatic suddenness that produces amazement or astonishment. We can no more create a state of wonderment than we can plan a surprise for ourselves. Consider, for example, how strange it would be to say, “I’m going out for a walk and wonder at the dogwoods in bloom.” It may, indeed, happen that the dogwoods will evoke wonder, but we cannot be assured of it prior to the experience.

Because of the suddenness with which it appears, wonder reduces us momentarily to silence. We associate gaping, breathlessness, bewilderment, and even stupor with wonder, because it jolts us out of the world of common sense in which our language is at home. The language and categories we customarily use to deal with experience are inadequate to the encounter, and hence we are initially immobilized and dumbfounded. We are silent before some new dimension of meaning which is being revealed.

(Sam Keen [source])

…and:

This is my living faith, an active faith, a faith of verbs: to question, explore, experiment, experience, walk, run, dance, play, eat, love, learn, dare, taste, touch, smell, listen, argue, speak, write, read, draw, provoke, emote, scream, sin, repent, cry, kneel, pray, bow, rise, stand, look, laugh, cajole, create, confront, confound, walk back, walk forward, circle, hide, and seek.

To seek: to embrace the questions, be wary of answers.

(Terry Tempest Williams [source])

…and:

Anyone can see that if grasping and aversion were with us all day and night without ceasing, who could ever stand them? Under that condition, living things would either die or become insane. Instead, we survive because there are natural periods of coolness, of wholeness, and ease. In fact, they last longer than the fires of our grasping and fear. It is this that sustains us. We have periods of rest making us refreshed, alive, well. Why don’t we feel thankful for this everyday Nirvana?

We already know how to let go—we do it every night when we go to sleep, and that letting go, like a good night’s sleep, is delicious. Opening in this way, we can live in the reality of our wholeness. A little letting go brings us a little peace, a greater letting go brings us a greater peace. Entering the gateless gate, we begin to treasure the moments of wholeness. We begin to trust the natural rhythm of the world, just as we trust our own sleep and how our own breath breathes itself.

(Jack Kornfield [source])

From elsewhere:

Wonders

In a wide hoop of lamplight, two children—
a girl and her younger brother—jump marbles
on a star-shaped playboard. Beside them,
in a chair near a window, their father
thinks of his mother, her recent death

and the grief he is trying to gather.
It is late October. The hooplight spreads
from the family, through the window,
to the edge of a small orchard, where
a sudden frost has stripped the fruit leaves
and only apples hang, heavy and still
on the branches.

The man looks from the window, down
to a scrapbook of facts he is reading.
The spider is proven to have memory, he says,
and his son, once again, cocks his small face
to the side, speaks a guttural oh, as if
this is some riddle he is slowly approaching,
as if this long hour, troubled with phrases
and the queer turn in his father’s voice,
is offered as a riddle.

There is the sound of marbles
in their suck-hole journeys, and the skittery
jump of the girl’s shoe
as she waits, embarrassed, for her father
to stop, to return to his known self, thick
and consistent as a family bread.
But still he continues,

plucking scraps from his old book, old
diary of wonders: the vanishing borders
of mourning paper, the ghostly shape
in the candled egg, beak and eye
etched clearly, a pin-scratch of claw.

A little sleet scrapes at the window.
The man blinks, sees his hand on the page
as a boy’s hand, sees his children bent over
the playboard, with the careful pattern
of their lives dropping softly away, like
leaves in a sudden frost—how the marbles
have stalled, heavy and still on their fingers,
and after each phrase the guttural
oh, and the left shoe jumping.

(Linda Bierds [source])

…and:

…many had a lingering feeling that human beings were somehow separated from the rest of nature. Such a view is nowhere better illustrated than in the painting Tallulah Falls (1841) by American painter George Cooke, an artist associated with the Hudson River School. Although this group of artists celebrated nature, they also believed that human beings were set apart from the natural world. Cooke’s painting depicts tiny human figures standing on a small promontory above a deep canyon. The people are dwarfed by tree-covered mountains, massive rocky ledges, and a waterfall pouring down to the canyon below. Not only insignificant in size compared with their surroundings, the human beings are mere witnesses to a scene they are not part of and never could be.

(Alan Lightman [source])

[back to top]

When I Walked onto the Strand, I Recognized Nothing

May 23, 2025 by John Leave a Comment

[Image: “The Strand at Carmel-by-the-Sea,” by John E. Simpson. (Photo shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page at RAMH.)]

From whiskey river’s commonplace book (the third stanza included there; this is the complete poem):

On Living

I

Living is no laughing matter:
        you must live with great seriousness
                like a squirrel, for example—
        I mean without looking for something beyond and above living,
                I mean living must be your whole occupation.
Living is no laughing matter:
        you must take it seriously,
        so much so and to such a degree
      that, for example, your hands tied behind your back,
                                your back to the wall,
        or else in a laboratory
                in your white coat and safety glasses,
                you can die for people—
             even for people whose faces you’ve never seen,
             even though you know living
                is the most real, the most beautiful thing.
        I mean, you must take living so seriously
             that even at seventy, for example, you’ll plant olive trees—
             and not for your children, either,
             but because although you fear death you don’t believe it,
             because living, I mean, weighs heavier.

II

Let’s say you’re seriously ill, need surgery—
which is to say we might not get
    from the white table.
Even though it’s impossible not to feel sad
    about going a little too soon,
we’ll still laugh at the jokes being told,
we’ll look out the window to see it’s raining,
or still wait anxiously
    for the latest newscast…
Let’s say we’re at the front—
  for something worth fighting for, say.
There, in the first offensive, on that very day,
  we might fall on our face, dead.
We’ll know this with a curious anger,
    but we’ll still worry ourselves to death
    about the outcome of the war, which could last years.
Let’s say we’re in prison
and close to fifty,
and we have eighteen more years, say,
   before the iron doors will open.
We’ll still live with the outside,
with its people and animals, struggle and wind—
      I mean with the outside beyond the walls.
I mean, however and wherever we are,
    we must live as if we will never die.

III

This earth will grow cold,
a star among stars
               and one of the smallest,
a gilded mote on blue velvet—
  I mean this, our great earth.
This earth will grow cold one day,
not like a block of ice
or a dead cloud even
but like an empty walnut it will roll along
  in pitch-black space…
You must grieve for this right now
—you have to feel this sorrow now—
for the world must be loved this much
                               if you’re going to say “I lived”…

(Nâzim Hikmet, translated by Randy Blasing and Mutlu Konuk [source])

…and (in slightly different form):

Our purpose is to consciously, deliberately evolve toward a wiser, more liberated and luminous state of being, to return to Eden, make friends with the snake, and set up our computers among the wild apple trees.

Deep down, all of us are probably aware that some kind of mystical evolution—a melding into the godhead, into love—is our true task. Yet we suppress the notion with considerable force be-cause to admit it is to acknowledge that most of our political gyrations, religious dogmas, social ambitions, and financial ploys are not merely counterproductive but trivial. Our mission is to jettison those pointless preoccupations and take on once again the primordial cargo of inexhaustible ecstasy. Or, barring that, to turn out a good thin-crust pizza and a strong glass of beer.

(Tom Robbins [source])

From elsewhere:

The history of science can, in fact, be viewed as the recasting of phenomena that were once accepted as “givens” as phenomena that can now be understood in terms of fundamental causes and principles. One can add to the list of the fully explained: the hue of the sky, the orbits of planets, the angle of the wake of a boat moving through a lake, the six-sided patterns of snowflakes, the weight of a flying bustard, the temperature of boiling water, the size of raindrops, the circular shape of the sun. All of these phenomena and many more, once thought to have been fixed at the beginning of time or the result of random events thereafter, have ultimately been explained as necessary consequences of the fundamental laws of nature—laws found by us human beings.

(Alan Lightman [source])

…and:

The Doctor Sighs

as he removes the otoscope
It’s not just the hammer,

anvil, and stirrup, he says.
It’s the blacksmith, too.
And the dry goods store
with the weaselly clerk,
not to mention the saloon
rife with cowboys and
a prostitute with humble
cleavage. And I’m afraid
it’s also the calibrated hearts
in that freezing ten-room
hotel, the mayor’s daughter
weeping into well water,
the moon spreading its
anxious light over everything

In short, Ronald, I’m not
surprised you called
for an appointment today.

(Ron Koertge [source])

…and:

# 28 (“I See What You Did There”): The history of art and philosophy can, in fact, be viewed as the recasting of phenomena that have never been accepted as “givens” as real phenomena that cannot be understood entirely, if at all, in terms of fundamental causes and principles. One can add to the list of the inadequately explained: the circular shape of the sky, the six-sided patterns of planets, the hue of the wake of a bustard moving through a lake, the angle of snowflakes, the temperature of a flying boat, the orbits of water, the size of raindrops, the boiling weight of the sun. None of these phenomena, and many more, are explicable as necessary consequences of the fundamental laws of nature–laws found by us human beings. But there they are: comprehensible, apparently meaningful, even profound, but defying explanation.

(JES, Maxims for Nostalgists)

…and:

The human body is the most resistant thing there is to magic, ’cause it’s a vessel of will.

(T.L. Huchu [source])

Time Passes. This Could Be the Start of Something Big, and/or of Something Small…

January 5, 2024 by John Leave a Comment

[I recently came across a small, grimy tin box which had originally contained cough drops; folded up inside were several sheets of lined “notebook paper,” as we called it, obviously stashed there for safekeeping (if not posterity). That’s my “handwriting,” of course. To the best of my recollection, therefore, this would have been from around 60 years ago; by sometime in 1966, I’d switched to block printing. This is thus — as far as I know, barring any other treasure buried in the sundry cardboard boxes around me — the only remaining scrap of evidence from childhood of my aspirations to write fiction: a “parody” of The Wizard of Oz. (My cartoonist friend Dean was illustrating the book-to-be… I wonder if he still has those drawings???) Looking back on it now, I’m kinda impressed that I seem to have already grasped the idea we now refer to as “meta-[whatever].”]

From whiskey river (first stanza):

January First

The year’s doors open
like those of language,
toward the unknown.
Last night you told me:
tomorrow
we shall have to think up signs,
sketch a landscape, fabricate a plan
on the double page
of day and paper.
Tomorrow, we shall have to invent,
once more,
the reality of this world.

I opened my eyes late.
For a second of a second
I felt what the Aztec felt,
on the crest of the promontory,
lying in wait
for the time’s uncertain return
through cracks in the horizon.

But no, the year had returned.
It filled all the room
and my look almost touched it.
Time, with no help from us,
had placed
in exactly the same order as yesterday
houses in the empty street,
snow on the houses,
silence on the snow.

You were beside me,
still asleep.
The day had invented you
but you hadn’t yet accepted
being invented by the day.
–—Nor possibly by being invented, either.
You were in another day.

You were beside me
and I saw you, like the snow,
asleep among appearances.
Time, with no help from us,
invents houses, streets, trees
and sleeping women.

When you open your eyes
we’ll walk, once more,
among the hours and their inventions.
We’ll walk among appearances
and bear witness to time and its conjugations.
Perhaps we’ll open the day’s doors.
And then we shall enter the unknown.

(Octavio Paz, translated by Elizabeth Bishop [source])

Not from whiskey river:

January in Paris

A poem is never finished, only abandoned.
—Paul Valéry

That winter I had nothing to do
but tend the kettle in my shuttered room
on the top floor of a pensione near a cemetery,

but I would sometimes descend the stairs,
unlock my bicycle, and pedal along the cold city streets

often turning from a wide boulevard
down a narrow side street
bearing the name of an obscure patriot.

I followed a few private rules,
never crossing a bridge without stopping
mid-point to lean my bike on the railing
and observe the flow of the river below
as I tried to better understand the French.

In my pale coat and my Basque cap
I pedaled past the windows of a patisserie
or sat up tall in the seat, arms folded,
and clicked downhill filling my nose with winter air.

I would see beggars and street cleaners
in their bright uniforms, and sometimes
I would see the poems of Valéry,
the ones he never finished but abandoned,
wandering the streets of the city half-clothed.

Most of them needed only a final line
or two, a little verbal flourish at the end,
but whenever I approached,
they would retreat from their ashcan fires
into the shadows—thin specters of incompletion,

forsaken for so many long decades
how could they ever trust another man with a pen?

I came across the one I wanted to tell you about
sitting with a glass of rosé at a café table—
beautiful, emaciated, unfinished,
cruelly abandoned with a flick of panache

by Monsieur Paul Valéry himself,
big fish in the school of Symbolism
and for a time, president of the Committee of Arts and Letters
of the League of Nations if you please.

Never mind how I got her out of the café,
past the concierge and up the flights of stairs—
remember that Paris is the capital of public kissing.

And never mind the holding and the pressing.
It is enough to know that I moved my pen
in such a way as to bring her to completion,

a simple, final stanza, which ended,
as this poem will, with the image
of a gorgeous orphan lying on a rumpled bed,
her large eyes closed,
a painting of cows in a valley over her head,

and off to the side, me in a window seat
blowing smoke from a cigarette at dawn.

(Billy Collins [source])

…and:

They imagined. But they could not imagine where all of it started. For all of their intelligence, there were limits to their imagination. They could not know of things that were not of their essence. They could not know of the Void. But the mystery of such things they did seem to feel, and it tingled in them and opened them up…

Time fluttered and spun and wound itself up. Time stretched and compressed and dilated and dissolved… Although time could be measured and sliced by the beats of the hydrogen atoms, now that other minds existed time did not move on its own. Or rather, even if it moved on its own, its movement was relevant only to how it was witnessed. Time was partly conception. Time was partly a thing in the mind. Just as events. Since the universe began, nearly 1033 ticks of the hydrogen clocks had transpired. Stars had been born. Stars had aged, then exploded or dwindled to dim and cold ashes. Galaxies had collided. Living cells had formed. Then minds. Cities had risen on deserts. Cities had fallen. Civilizations had flourished, then ended. Then new civilizations emerged. Nothing was lasting, nothing was permanent. Living creatures, beings with minds, were the most fleeting of all. They came and went, came and went, came and went, billions upon billions of lives, each quick as one breath. Atoms converged in their special arrangements to make each precious life, held together for moments, then scattered to dull lifeless matter again…

Only one-millionth of one-billionth of 1 percent of the mass of the universe abided in living form.

(Alan Lightman [source])

To Craft (Pretty Much) Anything from (More or Less) Nothing

September 18, 2020 by John Leave a Comment

[Image: “Circuit Breaker,” by Daniel Friedman. (Found on Flickr, and used here under a Creative Commons license — thank you!) This is the second of Friedman’s creations I’ve used here at RAMH; the first was just this past April. It doesn’t really depict a circuit breaker — it just (apparently, and not implausibly) suggested one to Friedman. Among the quotations he chose to caption the drawing is this, from Montaigne: “Quintessence is no other than a quality which we cannot by our reason find out the cause.”]

From whiskey river:

Mirror Image
Tonight I saw myself in the dark window as
the image of my father, whose life
was spent like this,
thinking of death, to the exclusion
of other sensual matters,
so in the end that life
was easy to give up, since
it contained nothing: even
my mother’s voice couldn’t make him
change or turn back
as he believed
that once you can’t love another human being
you have no place in the world.

(Louise Glück [source])

…and:

History has the cruel reality of a nightmare, and the grandeur of man consists in his making beautiful and lasting works out of the real substance of that nightmare. Or, to put it another way, it consists in transforming the nightmare into vision; in freeing ourselves from the shapeless horror of reality — if only for an instant — by means of creation.

(Octavio Paz [source])

…and:

I loved the quiet places in Kyoto, the places that held the world within a windless moment. Inside the temples, Nature held her breath. All longing was put to sleep in the stillness, and all was distilled into a clean simplicity. The smell of woodsmoke, the drift of incense; a procession of monks in black-and-gold robes, one of them giggling in a voice yet unbroken; a touch of autumn in the air, a sense of gathering rain.

(Pico Iyer [source])

…and, from whiskey river’s commonplace book:

We are born with nothing outside ourselves, and so we leave the world as we proceed to the unknown, yet dimly remembered, realms that lie ahead of us. As we have conducted ourselves here, so will the realm be that awaits us and the souls with whom we can communicate most easily. While we are alive on the earth, we have to encounter much darkness as part of the greater unfolding of our personality, but the end of all this suffering is our identification with the inner lives of our fellow creatures. Our experience of the polarities of darkness and light, of evil and good, is a part of the pageant of universal growth. If there were no temptation of evil, there would be no awareness of goodness. In a society where hatred was not countenanced there would be little love (of the type that will sacrifice itself), but only a safe, detached benevolence that effected no relationship with anything. Out of the terrible events of our tortured century much potential good has emerged.

(Martin Israel [source])

[Read more…]

Whence, Whither, and How One Becomes the Other

January 17, 2020 by John 1 Comment

[Image: “Down & Out,” by user “Alberto_VO5” on Flickr; used here under a Creative Commons license. (Thank you!) I really liked this photo, but I’m actually not sure why it struck me as apt for this post… perhaps because Gumby seems so clearly headed in one direction or another?]

From whiskey river:

I would like to visit the factory that makes train horns, and ask them how they are able to arrive at that chord of eternal mournfulness. Is it deliberately sad? Are the horns saying, Be careful, stay away from this train or it will run you over and then people will grieve, and their grief will be as the inconsolable wail of this horn through the night? The out-of-tuneness of the triad is part of its beauty.

(Nicholson Baker [source])

…and:

Sunlight
After days of darkness I didn’t understand
a second of yellow sunlight
here and gone through a hole in clouds
as quickly as a flashbulb, an immense
memory of a moment of grace withdrawn.
It is said that we are here but seconds in cosmic
time, twelve and a half billion years,
but who is saying this and why?
In the Salt Lake City airport eight out of ten
were fiddling relentlessly with cell phones.
The world is too grand to reshape with babble.
Outside the hot sun beat down on clumsy metal
birds and an actual ten-million-year-old
crow flew by squawking in bemusement.
We’re doubtless as old as our mothers, thousands
of generations waiting for the sunlight.

(Jim Harrison [source])

…and:

We know that we come from the winds, and that we shall return to them; that all of life is perhaps a knot, a tangle, a blemish in the eternal smoothness. But why should this make us unhappy? Let us rather love one another, and work and rejoice. I don’t believe in this world sorrow.

(E. M. Forster [source])

…and:

Your problem is how you are going to spend this one and precious life you have been issued. Whether you’re going to spend it trying to look good and creating the illusion that you have power over circumstances, or whether you are going to taste it, enjoy it and find out the truth about who you are.

(Anne Lamott [source])

[Read more…]

A Moment, a Place, a Story, a World

August 26, 2016 by John 2 Comments

[Image: “Ghost Card,” by Ross Griff (user “rossaroni”); found it on Flickr, and used here under a Creative Commons license. For more about the image, see the note at the foot of this post.

From whiskey river:

August

August rushes by like desert rainfall;
A flood of frenzied upheaval,
Expected,
But still catching me unprepared.
Like a matchflame,
Bursting on the scene,
Heat and haze of crimson sunsets.
Like a dream
Of moon and dark barely recalled,
A moment,
Shadows caught in a blink.
Like a quick kiss;
One wishes for more
But it suddenly turns to leave,
Dragging summer away.

(Elizabeth Maua Taylor [source])

…and:

I wanted to ask you about your vision of perfection in an imperfect world, or what side of the earth calls out to you when you touch a physical globe, or maybe about your greatest heartache and how you still go on as your world continues turning, or what you do with a memory once lodged inside your bones that’s still breathing, and burning.

But you’re still a stranger, and I’m overly polite, so I’ll ask all about your day when I’d rather know about your life.

(Victoria Erickson [source])

…and:

Cavalleria Rusticana

All the fireflies in the world
are gathered in our yard tonight,
flickering in the shrubs
like an ostentatious display
of Christmas lights out of season.
But the music in the air
is the music of heat, of August—
cicadas scraping out
their thin, harsh treble
like country fiddlers settling in
for a long night. I feel at home
with their relentless tune
minimalist, like the eighties.

Events repeat themselves,
but with a difference that makes all
the difference. As a child,
one summer night in Verona
at my first opera,
I watched a swarm of matches
light up the Roman arena
until we were silent. It was as if
music were a night-blooming flower
that would not open
until we held our breath.
Then the full-blown sound,
the single-minded combat
of passion: voices sharpening
their glittering blades on one another,
electing to live or die.
It was that simple. The story was
of no importance, the motive lost
in the sufficient, breathing dark.
If there was a moon I don’t remember.

(Lisel Mueller [source])

Like the quotations above? All credit, then, to the anonymous (and unknown to me) whiskey river blogger — who served them up this past week, and who has been inspiring me for over ten years. Below, some relevant (?) discoveries of my own, along the same lines. (More info here.)

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All the Directions of Time

February 20, 2015 by John Leave a Comment

[Image: Clock with Blue Wing, by Marc Chagall (1949, oil on canvas). Translator Susanna Nied identifies this painting as the source or inspiration for Inger Christensen’s poem, below.]

From whiskey river:

A mysterious thing, this branching structure of life: one senses in every past instant a parting of ways, a “thus” and an “otherwise”, with innumerable dazzling zigzags bifurcating and trifurcating against the dark background of the past.

(Vladimir Nabokov [source])

…and:

One advantage in keeping a diary is that you become aware with reassuring clarity of the changes which you constantly suffer and which in a general way are naturally believed, surmised, and admitted by you, but which you’ll unconsciously deny when it comes to the point of gaining hope or peace from such an admission. In the diary you find proof that in situations which today would seem unbearable, you lived, looked around and wrote down observations, that this right hand moved then as it does today, when we may be wiser because we are able to look back upon our former condition, and for that very reason have got to admit the courage of our earlier striving in which we persisted even in sheer ignorance.

(Franz Kafka [source])

…and:

If I Stand

If I stand
alone in the snow
it is clear
that I am a clock

how else would eternity
find its way around

(Inger Christensen [source])

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All Those Pasts of Yours

September 19, 2014 by John Leave a Comment

[Image: “lost in time,” by Alice Popkorn. Found on Flickr; used under a Creative Commons license.]

From whiskey river:

While it’s true you’re haunted by your past, it’s truer that you’ve traveled spectacularly far away from it. You swam across a wide and wild sea and you made it all the way to the other side. That it feels different here on this shore than you thought it would does not negate the enormity of the distance you traversed and the strength it took you to do it.

(Cheryl Strayed [source])

…and:

But what is the past? Could it be, the firmness of the past is just illusion? Could the past be a kaleidoscope, a pattern of images that shift with each disturbance of a sudden breeze, a laugh, a thought? And if the shift is everywhere, how would we know?

(Alan Lightman [source])

…and:

Listen: you are not yourself, you are crowds of others, you are as leaky a vessel as was ever made, you have spent vast amounts of your life as someone else, as people who died long ago, as people who never lived, as strangers you never met. The usual I we are given has all the tidy containment of the kind of character the realist novel specializes in and none of the porousness of our every waking moment, the loose threads, the strange dreams, the forgettings and misrememberings, the portions of a life lived through others’ stories, the incoherence and inconsistency, the pantheon of dei ex machina and the companionability of ghosts. There are other ways of telling.

(Rebecca Solnit [source])

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Pssst! Hey, You. Yes — You. The One with the Brain.

July 18, 2014 by John Leave a Comment

[Video: “7 Myths About The Brain You Thought Were True”]

From whiskey river (italicized lines):

Is there a single thing in nature
that can approach in mystery
the absolute uniqueness of any human face, first, then
its transformation from childhood to old age—

We are surrounded at every instant
by sights that ought to strike the sane
unbenumbed person tongue-tied, mute
with gratitude and terror. However,

there may be three sane people on earth
at any given time: and if
you got the chance to ask them how they do it,
they would not understand.

I think they might just stare at you
with the embarrassment of pity. Maybe smile
the way you do when children suddenly reveal a secret
preoccupation with their origins, careful not to cause them shame,

on the contrary, to evince the great congratulating pleasure
one feels in the presence of a superior talent and intelligence;
or simply as one smiles to greet a friend who’s waking up,
to prove no harm awaits him, you’ve dealt with and banished all harm.

(Franz Wright [source])

…and:

Something else gets under your skin, keeps you working days and nights at the sacrifice of your sleeping and eating and attention to your family and friends, something beyond the love of puzzle solving. And that other force is the anticipation of understanding something about the world that no one has ever understood before you.

I have experienced that pleasure of discovering something new. It is an exquisite sensation, a feeling of power, a rush of the blood, a sense of living forever. To be the first vessel to hold this new thing.

All of the scientists I’ve known have at least one more quality in common: they do what they do because they love it, and because they cannot imagine doing anything else. In a sense, this is the real reason a scientist does science. Because the scientist must. Such a compulsion is both blessing and burden. A blessing because the creative life, in any endeavor, is a gift filled with beauty and not given to everyone, a burden because the call is unrelenting and can drown out the rest of life.

This mixed blessing and burden must be why the astrophysicist Chandrasekhar continued working until his mid-80’s, why a visitor to Einstein’s apartment in Bern found the young physicist rocking his infant with one hand while doing mathematical calculations with the other. This mixed blessing and burden must have been the “sweet hell” that Walt Whitman referred to when he realized at a young age that he was destined to be a poet. “Never more,” he wrote, “shall I escape.”

(Alan Lightman [source])
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