The most extensive list under the "info" section of my Facebook profile is, by far, that of my favourite quotes.
Yes, even above the "about me" section! Even I can't talk about myself extensively enough to surpass the length of my quotations list.
And "lengthy" is probably a gross understatement for this list. Keep scrolling for a few days and my fascination and reverence for quotations will become more than apparent--believe me when I say that my growing number of quotes is increasingly difficult to keep track of.
So... why do I fall in love with the words of people I haven't met?
I'll affirm that this is because I love writing. As James Michener would say, "I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions," and I wholeheartedly subscribe to the idea that my writing shouldn't have to come solely from my own brain.
Thus, I borrow my words.
Or, more correctly, I steal.
I'd like to think that this is the writer's greatest secret and guiltiest pleasure. With thousands of permutations of possible combinations of words, we'd like to think that finding the right words to successfully convey whatever feeling we're trying to acheive is something we're capable of. We assume that stringing together a few words or sentences that hit the reader in just the right way is anything but a hefty challenge. And most often, we're wrong. But chances are that someone out there has already said it, and said it better than you ever could. So why not borrow?
It's a shameless form of plagiarism, but also a beautiful and perfectly acceptable one.
This is why I like to keep my favourite quotes at hand. There's a comfort in knowing that in whatever situation I'm in which puts me at a loss for words, somebody else, from Nietzsche to Gandhi to Paul McCartney, will be willing (or not willing, like I'd care to ask) to lend me a phrase.
John Green once said that “Maybe our favorite quotations say more about us than about the stories and people we're quoting.” This I will never know, given that I'll never have tea with Shakespeare or Jane Austen, but my favourite quotes, to me, are invaluable.
There are possibly a million things I could let you know through my Facebook profile. You might learn that I'm a fan of Batman, of T. S. Eliot, of Stephen Fry. But you know nothing if you do not know my take on heroes, on isolation, on even language itself through the lense of another person.
I don't see that as sad; I don't see that as an anomaly.
I hope that to everyone I know, I am judged solely by our personal interaction.
But to those of you who base your judgement of me on my online personality, you'd best read my quotations.
04 May 2012
First Delving Inside My Brain
When I was six, I knew a few things: my best friend's telephone number, the fact that I did not like chocolate ice cream, that Hey Arnold! was the most tear-jerking television series in existence (still is), and that I'd always prefer Crayola to RoseArt. I think I must have known that there was more to life than this, but at that point, I don't suppose I really cared. I knew everything there was to know, right?
But as I got older, it got a little more complicated.
I knew a few more things further into primary school. As a book-obsessed 3rd-grader, I was adamant about reading every novel in existence (surely, after perusing the dusty shelves of my K-6 school's modest--you know, closet-sized--library and finding nothing new, I would have accomplished this goal). In fact, at this age, I had all my bases covered--I was going to "grow up" to become a part-time neurosurgeon/teacher/author, possibly vacationing on weekends in Iceland or maybe Peru. Maybe I knew that I didn't know everything, but I doubt that... Then, at least, I knew that I had the capacity to know everything. Yes, everything. And I would have defended that position for anything.
Probably a year or two later I realised that I wouldn't be able to read ALL the books (insert Hyperbole-and-a-Half meme here). I gave up any notion of this achievement after coming to see that to complete the task I'd have to become slightly (slightly?) delusional, and both the speediest and most motivated reader the world had ever seen, not excluding the fact that I'd have to read more than one Nicolas Sparks book (Okay, okay, maybe I didn't find bad romance novels abhorrent AT THE TIME, but you get the picture). At the time I probably didn't know that there are at least 129,864,880 books in existence, either (Thank you Google). I rejected the notion out of unwillingness rather than knowledge of impossibility, which tells you one thing.
When the number of times I'd spun around the sun reached double-digits (the ultimate breakthrough!), I knew everything just as my parents "knew everything," though I probably wouldn't have admitted that my opinions stemmed directly from theirs (I'm smart enough to be self-aware, now! Please, I'm ten.)
The age of fifteen brought an onslaught of "salvation," as I would have called it. Think vivacious rejection of every "misconception" previously believed to an... unfortunately great extent. Embarassingly so. This point in time was also an unfortunate spell of narcissism and misanthropy (and fortunately, a brief one).
Sadly, sometimes when you discover that you're wrong you immediately think the opposite is correct. To me, this is relevant. But perhaps the most curious stage of growing up is the moment when we realise we can "think for ourselves," and with a spoonful of naivete and no grain of salt, that's exactly what we do.
As Oscar Wilde once said, "I am not young enough to know everything," and I both resent and sorely miss that beautiful yet naive delusion. Though seventeen is slightly (ahem, greatly) short of wisdom, awareness of the breadth of information I will never be able to acheive takes me one step closer to... not wisdom, but a greater maturity in understanding the world. And I won't consider myself well-read until my GoodReads account tallies 129,864,880.
I hope that I never know everything.
But that's not really something I'll have to worry about.
-Now don't ask for my opinion on "ignorance is bliss," because that's a whole nother novel that I have no intention on writing.
But as I got older, it got a little more complicated.
I knew a few more things further into primary school. As a book-obsessed 3rd-grader, I was adamant about reading every novel in existence (surely, after perusing the dusty shelves of my K-6 school's modest--you know, closet-sized--library and finding nothing new, I would have accomplished this goal). In fact, at this age, I had all my bases covered--I was going to "grow up" to become a part-time neurosurgeon/teacher/author, possibly vacationing on weekends in Iceland or maybe Peru. Maybe I knew that I didn't know everything, but I doubt that... Then, at least, I knew that I had the capacity to know everything. Yes, everything. And I would have defended that position for anything.
Probably a year or two later I realised that I wouldn't be able to read ALL the books (insert Hyperbole-and-a-Half meme here). I gave up any notion of this achievement after coming to see that to complete the task I'd have to become slightly (slightly?) delusional, and both the speediest and most motivated reader the world had ever seen, not excluding the fact that I'd have to read more than one Nicolas Sparks book (Okay, okay, maybe I didn't find bad romance novels abhorrent AT THE TIME, but you get the picture). At the time I probably didn't know that there are at least 129,864,880 books in existence, either (Thank you Google). I rejected the notion out of unwillingness rather than knowledge of impossibility, which tells you one thing.
When the number of times I'd spun around the sun reached double-digits (the ultimate breakthrough!), I knew everything just as my parents "knew everything," though I probably wouldn't have admitted that my opinions stemmed directly from theirs (I'm smart enough to be self-aware, now! Please, I'm ten.)
The age of fifteen brought an onslaught of "salvation," as I would have called it. Think vivacious rejection of every "misconception" previously believed to an... unfortunately great extent. Embarassingly so. This point in time was also an unfortunate spell of narcissism and misanthropy (and fortunately, a brief one).
Sadly, sometimes when you discover that you're wrong you immediately think the opposite is correct. To me, this is relevant. But perhaps the most curious stage of growing up is the moment when we realise we can "think for ourselves," and with a spoonful of naivete and no grain of salt, that's exactly what we do.
As Oscar Wilde once said, "I am not young enough to know everything," and I both resent and sorely miss that beautiful yet naive delusion. Though seventeen is slightly (ahem, greatly) short of wisdom, awareness of the breadth of information I will never be able to acheive takes me one step closer to... not wisdom, but a greater maturity in understanding the world. And I won't consider myself well-read until my GoodReads account tallies 129,864,880.
I hope that I never know everything.
But that's not really something I'll have to worry about.
-Now don't ask for my opinion on "ignorance is bliss," because that's a whole nother novel that I have no intention on writing.
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