One of my favorite philosophers was named at birth “John McTaggart Ellis”, but his great-uncle, also named “John McTaggart”, died and willed his money to young John McTaggart Ellis on the condition that his family assumed the surname “McTaggart.” So he became J. McT. E. McTaggart . He was a logician who was full of contradictions, an athiest, for example, who believed in immortality. And he made an argument for the unreality of time which is both respected and generally ignored by other philosophers. I used to think I understood it, but have come to realize I never did. However Mr. McT. E. McTaggaart also wrote extensively on love, another subject contemporary philosophers ignore. McT has a lot of very good things to say about it and they are easier to understand than the things he says about time. The question that ends the following poem was posed by McTaggart.

Mother and child, George Romney


Tiny cells that don’t know what they’re doing
create my heart and liver, lungs and mind,
and we, who also don’t know what we’re doing,
create from deeds and dreams and memories
a greater person called mankind.

I know no more of how that person thinks
than I do of the way my body works.
I see though there are links I cannot see
connecting you to me and us to them
and what was once to what is going to be

We’re not as separate as we suppose.
And where’s the line between what’s still possessed
and what is lost? Are we to count as lost
the love and friendship that we gave and got
but have, before we’ve even died, forgot?



Some people encourage us to compete. Competition, they say, is what leads to excellence. Others encourage us not to compete. They say competition leads to worry, fret, and strife—and ultimately to destruction. Both are right—and also wrong. It doesn’t matter what we compete for—money, fame, social position. What matters is who we choose to compete with, because that is the person we will come to resemble. Who are more alike than two boxers?

George Bellows. “The Stag at Sharkey’s”—detail


I try to be just like this guy I like,
I dress like him; I drive his kind of car.
And when I wish, I wish upon his star.

The more I’m like him, though, the less I like
hearing people say we are alike.
And so to show them I’m not him, 

I pick a fight. I fight a match with him.
We match each other blow for blow.
He runs! I’ve won! I watch him go

Sometimes though I dream that wasn’t him.
I dream that I am who he has become.
Okay, what’s left of me? I can’t be sure.

What do I call what I am suffering from?
Is there a cure?



Edward Hopper, The Automat, De MoinesArt Center


I am a gathered church of odds and ends—
a father’s dream, a mother’s looks,
clips from movies, passages from books,
snippets of conversations with my friends.

My doctrine’s nebulous, but I 
am held together by
ritual responses and routines
that get me through familiar scenes. 

So is this it? The same old hymns each week?
I sit without a paddle up a creek,
knowing I must do . . . I-don’t-know-what,
splicing “Yes” and “No,” to “If” and “But.”

My friends say natural selection
determines our directions and our ends.
Is that what’s telling me I need new friends?



Renoir’s portriat of Monet reading a newspaper


Discover as you scan the newspaper
the murderer du jour’s
name’s the same as yours.

But he’s from Minneapolis
so it’s ridiculous to think
that there’s a link.

But you keep looking for a trace
of some resemblance in the face
above your name,

knowing in your heart,
that people dance together
far apart,

and words and deeds inweave and blend,
contend and ramify in ways that go
far beyond what we intend or know,

and that in devious and crooked ways
you’re linked
to the murderer in Minneapolis.

Jonathan Edwards thought a family is “one complex moral person.” and that for some purposes God might regard the whole of humanity as a single person. “And so some particular persons may by their actions injure, not only great part of the world that are contemporary with them, but injure and undo all future generations. So that men that live now on the earth may have an action against those that lived a thousand years ago.”



Edward Hopper, “Sunlight on Brownstones”


My story isn’t something I can write
to suit myself
but neither is it written out for me
by someone else.

It can’t be labeled either truth or fiction.
My story’s me—
all common sense and contradiction. 

Oh, I have patterns to me like the weather—
but who is ever absolutely sure
about tomorrow’s temperature? 

And though my life is interlaced with yours
our separate lives are all our own,
which means that we are both 
together and alone



Scientists reduce our identities to fingerprints, to voiceprints, or to genes. All that misses everything important about us. We aren’t just bundles of verifiable facts. We are stories—and stories vanish in the light of laboratories. Scientists study what we share—the objective truth about us. But only stories—which belong to us as individuals—reveal our unique, contradictory selves. As Lambert Strether says of himself in Henry James’ novel The Ambassadors: “I’m true, but I’m incredible.”

Norman Rockwell, “Girl At Mirror”


The body you lay down in yesterday
is not the one you woke up in today.

And so we must conclude there’s more to you
than scientists can certify is true.

Nevertheless, when you reflect, you see
that who you are is who you used to be.



The Boyhood of Raleigh 1870 Sir John Everett Millais, Bt 1829-1896 Presented by Amy, Lady Tate in memory of Sir Henry Tate 1900 http://www.tate.org.uk/art/work/N01691

I’m not sure any of us know much of anything anymore, but everyone used to know: that boys are made of snips and snails and puppy-dog tails while girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice. I don’t disagree with that, but step back a bit and you will see that both boys and girls alike are made of stories. The comedian Fred Allen . . . Remember him? No, of course not, but he wisely observed in his autobiography, All About Me, that “A human being is nothing but a story with a skin around it.”


I can’t rely on who I was
to keep me who I am because
who I was is gone, so he
can’t be of any use to me.

Nor can I rely on who I am
to make me who I’d rather be
because there’s no way I can stand
beside myself and take myself in hand.

And so my character depends
on family, strangers, enemies, and friends.
We spin the stories of each other’s lives
in ways we only rarely realize,

Of what? Don’t ask. Stories aren’t made of stuff.
We’re made of them and they are made of us.