Confessions of a quote whore

The New York Times had a recent article criticizing the context of a quote to be used on the 9/11 memorial site, which will be dedicated on the 10th anniversary of the attacks this September. The author of the opinion piece, Caroline Alexander, argues that the quote from Virgil is being misused. She calls it “out of context”. The words translate to “No day shall erase you from the memory of time”.

I have been thinking about why Ms Alexander’s piece struck a chord with me. At a basic level, and away from their original context, they’re just words. Indeed, as a memorial for the victims of a terrorist attack, they act as a fine tribute, a simple and powerful sentiment that is neither controversial nor too simplistic. The article is not incorrect or contentious, but rather raises a question that I suppose I’ve always wondered about. Do words need to stand in their original context to provide meaning? Or can meaning be derived from the words themselves, much like a painting, for example. Does significance derive from the artist and author’s intention, but also, and perhaps most importantly in artistic endeavors, from our own interpretation? I don’t want to argue the appropriateness or otherwise of this particular quote. Rather, I want to talk about words.

Words, words, words, words. I love them. I remember when words started really meaning something to me, when I devoured quotes and books and committed my favorites to memory. This probably started in high school, this love of words and the poetry of a song lyric or an ancient passage …

“And the poets down here, Don’t write nothing at all, They just stand back and let it all be, And in the quick of the night, They reach for their moment, And try to make an honest stand, But they wind up wounded, Not even dead, Tonight in Jungleland”

“…One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will, To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”

“Well, the deputy walks on hard nails and the preacher rides a mount, But nothing really matters much, it's doom alone that counts, And the one-eyed undertaker, he blows a futile horn. ‘Come in,’ she said, ‘I'll give you shelter from the storm.’”


“Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.”


“As all the Heavens were a Bell, And Being, but an Ear…”


“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars…”

I was a teenager, and looking back at many of my favorite quotes is a little embarrassing, especially the obvious writers I chose, as though I was the first girl in the world to adore Dickinson or find a Dylan or Springsteen lyric that really "spoke" to me. But truth is that these writers are admired because their work is inspired. Inspired, and for a teenager falling in love with words, inspiring. Need I read Macbeth in its entirety to appreciate and understand “Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow..”? I don’t believe so, although of course I had to, in Grade 11.

What do you think? Do your favorite quotes stand without their original context? Or do you believe they have more power within the limits of the author’s original intention? What are some of your favorite early quotes?

The Song; The Memory: "Atlantic City" by Bruce Springsteen

The first time I went to Atlantic City, someone committed suicide by jumping from a 5 storey parking garage and our bus was diverted around the police and ambulance, so we had to run and catch it from a different hotel/casino combo, but my bag got caught in one of those stupid turnstile door things and we nearly got left behind. I didn’t see the suicide, because just as the poor soul was jumping, I was mesmerised by a homeless man digging into the trash can in front of me, where he found the remnants of a cheeseburger and started eating. That was before the screaming and shouting and alarms. It’s hard to know what to do when someone has ended their life as you watch a homeless man eat from a trash can.

I haven’t thought too much about that day, at the end of our two night stay in the place my $2 boardwalk-purchased T-shirt calls “Ultimate Paradise”. I was living in New York City, and my friend (and fellow everythingpopulariswrong.net blogger) Kelly came to stay with me. As a thank you for the free accommodation, Kelly offered to treat me to a weekend away from the city. She chose Atlantic City, based on the terrific experience we’d had in Vegas the previous year. We knew, of course, that Atlantic City was Vegas-lite. We had no expectations beyond some fun gambling, a nice hotel, checking out the ocean, and some good food (and salt water taffy for yours truly). All things being fair, I’d have to admit a trip to Atlantic City was almost like a challenge for Kelly and I. Just how funny will this weekend be? Just how Jersey-trashy and over-the-top? How many big-haired gambling addicts would we encounter? Yay!

The Boardwalk. Giant human stollers

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The song Atlantic City by Bruce Springsteen is one of my favourites. It appears on the 1982 Nebraska album, and is one of those perfect, evocative Springsteen treats. It’s kind of a downer, actually, but I love it. It depicts a young couple's escape to Atlantic City as the man intends to take a job with a mob boss once arriving. The refrain: "Everything dies, baby, that's a fact, but maybe everything that dies someday comes back” pretty much sums up the mood. I love the chorus: “Put your makeup on, fix your hair up pretty, and meet me tonight in Atlantic City”. But the song has a sort of rousing, tragic, inevitability. Things will not end well for this couple.

I should have expected that underneath the beauty of the boardwalk, beach, swish restaurants, and truly excellent outlet shopping, Atlantic City would evoke much of the feeling of Springsteen’s song. He’s a master, and he knows how to capture a mood like no-one else (except perhaps Dylan). Kelly and I had a terrific time in Atlantic City. We ate crab cakes and drank cocktails, spent too much money shopping, wandered the boardwalk, admired the view, and had a giggle at the fun “Jersey-ness” of the place. But always, always, there was something else going on. The gloss of the casinos on the glistening shoreline couldn’t veil the hoards of homeless people asking for change, or the miserable sight of pensioners shoving their money into slot machines, waiting for that one last sign of good luck. We listened to Springsteen sing about this place, and his words could not have been truer; the tragedy of that last day undercutting the light and dark, the incredible mood, of his song. Strange days indeed.