In college, I dated a guy named Hank who was a witty fellow with a gift for language. Although the romance didn’t last, some of his droll observations have lingered. Once he remarked, “I’ve had a lot of one-night stands with truth, but in the morning I can never remember her name.”
It was funny, of course, but I learned it was also accurate when I had encounters of my own, moments of such clarity that I was sure I’d uncovered the meaning of life. Then, the next day, it was gone.
Once while in London, I stood on Westminster Bridge remembering Wordsworth’s sonnet composed in the same place in 1802:
“This city now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning,
“Ne’er saw I, never felt a calm so deep.”
I, too, had a sense of profound well-being—as if I was in the presence of truth. But when I returned to my hotel, I couldn’t describe it to my friends. The feeling remained but the insight had vanished.
And I was reminded of Hank’s throw-away line that I never threw away. A line that he has no doubt forgotten and I am still grateful for. This is how we shape each other’s lives and never know.
Never remember her name.
