Acquainted with the Night

Not that it's been that long since I graduated from college (1 1/2 years, to be exact--okay, a year and 5 months), but I often wish that I had taken better advantage of being an English major. Library science is nice and all, but it's, well, not English. When else do you get to read books and poetry nonstop with very little pressure to "do something with your life"?

My favorite thing about majoring in English was that it "opened my eyes," you might say, to how beautiful some thoughts can be and how much they can mean. I actually cried while reading some of the stories and poetry I was assigned to read (crying because it was 4 a.m. and I was never going to get the paper done isn't what I mean, although that happened too). Or if I didn't cry, I often said to myself, "Wow, I can really identify with this" or "Wow, that's sad" or "Wow, I never thought of it that way," etc. etc.

I always liked short stories and poetry the best; I'm a fan of the pithy, though you wouldn't know it from this blog. I'd still rather read a book of short stories or poetry than a novel, although I like novels too.

There aren't that many "practical" things to do with this degree that are directly related to literature itself. Certainly not when you compare English to the sciences, math, obvious, obvious, etc. But its value to me is that the classes I took, professors I met, authors and poets I learned about, etc., while not especially teaching me concrete skills, really sort of shaped me. The way I think, listen, etc.

You know, the emphasis on symbolism, communication, understanding, history, human connection. Dissecting things to the point that you're really just ready for a lobotomy. Okay, maybe that was just me, and mostly just toward the beginning of my college career, but that's the flip side of the English major. Obsessiveness tends to set in from time to time.

I'm sort of stating the obvious here, but the point of this post, actually, was to post a poem by Robert Frost that I happened to read today, which in turn got me thinking, "I need to read more Robert Frost," and then I started thinking about all that other stuff, about majoring in English, and how much better--and maybe worse too?--I am for the experience. I think I'm probably more obsessive than I was before college. But I'm also more thoughtful, maybe? I guess that's what college does in general. haha.

I guess what I really mean is, what I think (I hope) I learn from reading really good stuff, especially in this vein, is empathy. I think really good writers are really good at empathy--or, perhaps more realistically (and cynically), just good at creating empathy in their readers! Empathy and charity are two things I'm really trying to work on right now in my own life--taking my own sad or bad experiences and instead of becoming fearful and selfish from them, becoming a better friend because "I have been one acquainted with the night." Instead of thinking, "No one understands my problems," trying to be the one who understands someone else's.

Does that make sense?

I never said I'm good at that yet. haha. Just that I'm trying. A lot.

So anyhow, here's the poem. It's so sad, but so great.

Acquainted with the Night
by Robert Frost

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain--and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.