On Second Chances: In the Manner of Montaigne

After publishing his late-in-life, uber-successful memoir Angela’s Ashes, Frank McCourt took issue with Scott Fitzgerald’s claim that “there are no second

acts in American lives.” After five years of purgatory, setbacks, false starts, wasted chances, and heartache, I’ve finally come around to taking issue with

it, too. It’s only true if you believe it to be true, I think. And perhaps once in the depth of my melancholy I did believe it, did believe that I was out of chances, out of love, out of time. But I’m beginning to believe that maybe, just maybe, that I was wrong.

I had too much success too early in life. I know that; I admit it. Everything was so easy then; my facility with words and whatever intelligence I possess opened doors closed to talented people with much more experience than me. But I had passion, purpose, youth, and more than a little ambition. I enjoyed being the youngest person in the room, and fooling myself into thinking that I was also the smartest. But I had…secrets…basically a marriage which looked good at the ballfield and out in the neighborhood but behind closed doors was a endless nightmare. So all the strength I had went toward maintaining the illusion. But strength is finite, no matter what your motivation might be. And after the divorce, after the post-divorce party, suddenly I had no strength left.

I don’t usually write this way, this direct. Allusion and hints and a bit of mystery is more my thing. But although I’ve had a wonderful time today, at the end of the day I’m sitting here alone in a temporary apartment in a new city, with nothing but music and memories for company. Oh, sure, I know that I’ll love it here in State College. I already do; this is where I’ll enjoy my second act, whatever that may be. It is entirely possible that I will spend the remainder of my life here, however long that may be. And if that’s not a sobering thought, then nothing is.

“The world breaks everyone,” Hemingway said, “and afterward many are stronger at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too, but there will be no special hurry.”

Well, okay, I’ve been broken. More than once. But perhaps now I’m stronger at the broken places. And the things I’ve endured haven’t killed me yet. What’s more, I now believe they never will…

After publishing his late-in-life, uber-successful memoir Angela’s Ashes, Frank McCourt took issue with Scott Fitzgerald’s claim that “there are no second acts in American lives.” After five years of purgatory, setbacks, false starts, wasted chances, and heartache, I’ve finally come around to taking issue with it, too. It’s only true if you believe it to be true, I think. And perhaps once in the depth of my melancholy I did believe it, did believe that I was out of chances, out of love, out of time. But I’m beginning to believe that maybe, just maybe, that I was wrong.

I had too much success too early in life. I know that; I admit it. Everything was so easy then; my facility with words and whatever intelligence I possess opened doors closed to talented people with much more experience than me. But I had passion, purpose, youth, and more than a little ambition. I enjoyed being the youngest person in the room, and fooling myself into thinking that I was also the smartest. But I had…secrets…basically a marriage which looked good at the ballfield and out in the neighborhood but behind closed doors was a endless nightmare. So all the strength I had went toward maintaining the illusion. But strength is finite, no matter what your motivation might be. And after the divorce, after the post-divorce party, suddenly I had no strength left.

I don’t usually write this way, this direct. Allusion and hints and games and a bit of mystery is more my thing. But although I’ve had a wonderful time today, at the end of the day I’m sitting here alone in a temporary apartment in a new city, with nothing but music and memories for company. Oh, sure, I know that I’ll love it here in State College. I already do; this is where I’ll enjoy my second act, whatever that may be. It is entirely possible that I will spend the remainder of my life here, however long that may be. And if that’s not a sobering thought, then nothing is.

“The world breaks everyone,” Hemingway said, “and afterward many are stronger at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too, but there will be no special hurry.”

Well, okay, I’ve been broken. More than once. But perhaps now I’m stronger at the broken places. And the things I’ve endured haven’t killed me yet. What’s more, I now believe they never will…

a sort of homecoming

Aaron and I raided the bookstores yesterday morning in Lexington, and had, I think, a nice time (at least I think he had a nice time). He bought some German textbooks and dictionaries at Barnes and Noble (just think, I was the one originally studying German because of my fascination with Rilke) and that evil bookstore across the way at Hamburg; I picked up U2′s new No Line On The Horizon (and yes, Lanois and Eno still have the good mojo as producers) and a first edition of Kenneth Lynn’s Hemingway biography. Supposed to hook up with Adam, too, but it didn’t work out this time. I miss them both in a way that no one who isn’t a parent could ever understand; my eyes still tear up thinking about it.

U2 No Line On The Horizon

I’m hoping for good news from Pennsylvania this week that will mean I’m close to getting my career back on track. I either get the invite to fly up or find myself out of the running; not difficult to figure out which one I prefer. The position would be in State College: I have visions of cool bookstores and cafes, restaurants and shops. College town. I like college towns. 

The U2 album is rather strong, although I don’t believe it has the joy and the surprise of the “back to basics” approach of All That You Can’t Leave Behind. I especially seem to like the title track (which is basically irresistable), “Unknown Caller,” (reminds me of something from side two of War…and yeah, I’m thinking of vinyl) and “Magnificent.”

Only love, only love can leave such a mark
But only love, only love can heal such a scar

And browsing around just now, I found out that Dylan has a new album coming out in April. The man is amazing in every possible way: historically, melodically, lyrically, musically. What’s that old saying, slightly twisted for the occasion? If we didn’t have Bob Dylan, we’d have to invent him (so God bless Jack Frost–and if you don’t know who Jack Frost is, you got no biz reading this blog). But we do have Dylan, or should I say, he’s the one who has us. And something tells me he likes it just the way it is.