Chris mailed me three Anna Quindlen articles, two of which are included in QuindlenÃs new book “Loud and Clear.” I read the first “Oh, Godot” to Helen this morning. It reminds me of the speech Malcolm Clarke gave to Charlie’s graduating Deerfield class, because it, too, is a commencement speech. Clarke’s much longer narrative might be summed up as – follow your passion. Quindlen’s might be – find you, be you.
The last two paragraphs:
“Vladimir and Estragon: they just wait and wait for some formless enormous something. And sadly enough, that’s what some of us wind up doing in our lives: waiting for the promotion, or the mate, or the bonus, or the honor, or the children, that will somehow make us real to our own selves. “You see me, didn’t you?” Vladimir asks Godot’s messenger, as though he doesn’t exist unless he registers in other eyes, as though his soul is made of smoke instead of steel.
That is his despair. That is his torment. Learn from him. You are only real if you can see yourself, see yourself clear and true in the mirror of your soul and smile upon the reflection. Samuel Butler once said, “Life is like playing a violin solo in public, and learning the instrument as one goes on.” That sounds terrifying, doesn’t it, and difficult, too. But that way lies music. Look in the mirror. Who is that man? Who is that woman? She is the work of your life; he is its greatest glory, too. Do not dare to dis them by dressing them up in someone’s else’s spiritual clothing. Pick up your violin. Lift your bow. And play. Play your heart out.”
Chris suggested I post the entire article, but I canÃt find it online and I’m not home to scan it. Plus, scanning sucks compared to typed text. IÃÃve decided to post a couple more lines that Helen oohed over:
“…too unformed, too fantastic to understand that you were supposed to take on the protective coloration of the expectations of those around you.”
“Whether you are twenty-four or fifty-four, begin today to say no to the Greek chorus that thinks it knows the parameters of a happy life when all it knows is the homogenization of human experience.”
‘We parents have forgotten our way sometimes, too. When you were first born, each of you, our great glory was in thinking you absolutely distinct from every baby who had ever been born before. You were a miracle of singularity, and we knew it in every fiber of our being. You shouted “Dog.” You lurched across the playground. You put a scrawl of red paint next to a squiggle of green and we put it on the fridge and said, “Ohmigod, ohmigod, you are a painter a poet a prodigy a genius,”
To which Helen said, “My parents did the same thing – went ga ga over the most trivial accomplishment. My grandmother would say to my mother, ‘What did you expect? A moron?”