I wonder why writers lead tragic lives, as though inspiration were more promising when we stare misery in the face. Great writers recognize it, embrace it, allow it to assume the shape of things to come in penciled words, each letter a stroke with the past. The craft of the writer is embedded with cathartic power. The beauty of black thoughts on white paper reveals tragedy as much as poetry ensconces it, and those who seek solace in words must engage with their meaning in ways never before imagined.
Now imagine where such beauty and tragedy thrive?in the privileged world of expatriates, whose lives Fitzgerald believed "have no second act." While it is true that the climax for plays with a single act arrives quickly, Wilde's prophetic Shakespeare, that the world is a stage and we are badly cast, reminds us that a single life may play more than a single role.
I am arguing for the second act, the life you will lead when you return home from living abroad. Your appearance, like that essence of being which we hide within the warmth of ourselves, will change. And the world you once knew will seamlessly change, though it is wise to remember that you are responsible for what may at first appear drastic.
To reach a decision is to accept consequence, the burden of which you will bear alone. Although no one will offer you tomorrow, many will strive, perhaps unwittingly, to pilfer today. This submission is the one temptation we should resist, for the wonder in consequences is their climax and the stories that inevitably follow. Do not fear decisions. Fear the day you may no longer be able to make them.
For sophomores, February is the cruelest month. The decisions to select a major field of study, a country to call home for a semester or a year, an advisor with whom they will make decisions still unknown to them, are exhilarating as they are exhausting.
Exhaust yourself. Make the second act of your life exhilarating. Study, live, change abroad! The writer who surrenders to the success or failure of his past, the memory of which achieves nothing for his present, condemns the unwritten acts of his life. That some of the most beautiful symphonies are unfinished is full of wonder.
Why do we wander? Why do we return home? We can never return to a place of happiness nor find it again by the same means. The moods of our passion change without notice, like a weary traveler who keeps traveling, unable to create home. We must discover what is missing that was never once there and deny ourselves the comfort in panic or excuse. We learn that life need only go on if we so desire, which we always should.
Regret decisions, if you must, but never lament experience. As Woody Allen warns us to the tune of Gershwin, "the brain is the most overrated organ." It is a tool for writing lives, yet it is not life itself. Life is a thread of exquisite moments that spans the length of unforeseen acts. Spend yourself in ways without considering the tragedy that may follow, because the words, and lines, always will.