That luminous part of you
"Do all the other things, the ambitious things – travel, get rich, get
famous, innovate, lead, fall in love, make and lose fortunes, swim naked
in wild jungle rivers (after first having it tested for monkey poop) –
but as you do, to the extent that you can, err in the direction of kindness.
Do those things that incline you toward the big questions, and avoid
the things that would reduce you and make you trivial.
That luminous
part of you that exists beyond personality – your soul, if you will – is
as bright and shining as any that has ever been. Bright as
Shakespeare's, bright as Gandhi's, bright as Mother Theresa's. Clear
away everything that keeps you separate from this secret luminous
place. Believe it exists, come to know it better, nurture it, share its
fruits tirelessly."
-- From George Saunders' pitch-perfect commencement speech to Syracuse University's class of 2013.
Quit this crazy scene
In re-listening certain songs from Blue these past few days, I found on YouTube this rendition of River by James Taylor, which was performed back in 2001 at some concert honoring Joni. Turns out he actually played the guitar in A Case Of You, among other songs.
Anyway, I liked when James sang this line from River at around 0:50 in the video (he changed the words a bit):
"I'm going to make a lot of money, and then I'm going to quit this crazy scene."
Joni had written that 30 years ago as an earnest young folk singer spending her first seemingly soulless Christmas in Southern California. It looked to me like James sang this part with a bit of a wink to her, as it's pretty clear that neither of them managed to quit the scene after all, despite their youthful intentions.
What I want to know is: Why? Is it that what people think would be "enough money" to quit the scene is never enough once they get it -- they always need more? Or is it that it turns out the scene is really what they love after all?
On deep sworn vows, and time
Others because you did not keep
That deep-sworn vow have been friends of mine;Yet always when I look death in the face,
When I clamber to the heights of sleep,
Or when I grow excited with wine,
Suddenly I meet your face.
Or when I grow excited with wine,
Suddenly I meet your face.
When I first read W.B Yeats' poem A Deep-sworn Vow back in my late teens, I loved it straightaway -- and re-read it so often that it became committed to my memory.
Back then, I was probably most attracted to the author's solid position in the glamorous state of unrequited love. He is clearly still pining for this person, but he's sticking to his principles and cutting off contact after having been wronged in some way.
But reading the poem today -- at an age that's a few years past those fervent dig-in-your-heels beliefs often held in the heat of youth -- all I can think is that I hope Yeats eventually did reconnect with the subject of A Deep-sworn Vow. The people who affect you that deeply, those who occur to you in vino and in dreams, are often the ones worth forgiving (or at least being on speaking terms with) in this short life.
On politesse
- From a good "get off my lawn" style critique of the current cult of informality in restaurants in the June/July issue of Town and Country.
During my most recent visit to New York City last month, I finally went to La Grenouille, the classic French restaurant in Manhattan pictured above (it has the most flattering rosy lighting that's apparently a point of obsession for the owner.) The T&C author holds up La Grenouille as one of the last paragons of really elegant service, and I have to say that classic style of etiquette can be really nice once in a while. It turns out that when manners are done right, the effect is not snooty at all -- it's actually very welcoming.
