so so many names there is barely room on the walls of the heart
At the Commemorative Joint Meeting of the Congress of the United States, In Remembrance of the Victims and Heroes of September 11, 2001 at Federal Hall, New York, NY on Friday, September 6, 2002, Billy Collins, Poet Laureate of the United States of America read his poem, The Names, dedicated to the victims of September 11, and to their survivors.
The Names
Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night. A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze, And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows, I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened, Then Baxter and Calabro, Davis and Eberling, names falling into place As droplets fell through the dark.
Names printed on the ceiling of the night. Names slipping around a watery bend. Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream. In the morning, I walked out barefoot Among thousands of flowers Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears, And each had a name — Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins.
Names written in the air And stitched into the cloth of the day. A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox. Monogram on a torn shirt, I see you spelled out on storefront windows And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city. I say the syllables as I turn a corner — Kelly and Lee, Medina, Nardella, and O’Connor.
When I peer into the woods, I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden As in a puzzle concocted for children. Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash, Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton, Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.
Names written in the pale sky. Names rising in the updraft amid buildings. Names silent in stone Or cried out behind a door. Names blown over the earth and out to sea.
In the evening — weakening light, the last swallows. A boy on a lake lifts his oars. A woman by a window puts a match to a candle, And the names are outlined on the rose clouds — Vanacore and Wallace, (let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound) Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.
Names etched on the head of a pin. One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel. A blue name needled into the skin. Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers, The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son. Alphabet of names in a green field. Names in the small tracks of birds. Names lifted from a hat Or balanced on the tip of the tongue. Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory. So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.
According to Wikipedia, “As U.S. Poet Laureate, Collins read his poem The Names at a special joint session of the United States Congress on September 6, 2002, held to remember the victims of the 9/11 attacks.
Though, unlike their British counterparts, U.S. poets laureate are not asked or expected to write occasional poetry, Collins was asked by the Librarian of Congress to write a poem especially for that event.
Collins initially refused to read “The Names” in public, though he has read it two times in public since 2002.
He vowed not to include it in any of his books, refusing to capitalize on the 9/11 attacks.
However, “The Names” was included in The Poets Laureate Anthology put out by the Library of Congress, for which Collins wrote the foreword.
At the time the only book-published version of “The Names”, it contained a number of typographical errors.
The poem also appeared in the New York Times, September 6, 2002. Collins finally agreed to include “The Names” in his new and selected volume Aimless Love in 2013.”
Sunrise, 9/11/2026 – Hilton Head Island
I thought the image of the sunrise today was appropriate.
It came up, probably looking a lot like this on 9/11/2001.
But the time it set, the world had changed a lot.
In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye.
Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.
So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.
life is difficult found it hard to make my own complete and rounded
Adapted from the short story, The Happy Man as published in Here And There: Short Stories by W. Somerset Maugham (William Heinemann Ltd.: Toronto, 1948).
The Happy Man
IT is a dangerous thing to order the lives of others and I have often wondered at the self-confidence of politicians, reformers and such like who are prepared to force upon their fellows measures that must alter their manners, habits and points of view. I have always hesitated to give advice, for how can one advise another how to act unless one knows that other as well as one knows oneself? Heaven knows, I know little enough of myself: I know nothing of others. We can only guess at the thoughts and emotions of our neighbours. Each one of us is a prisoner in a solitary tower and he communicates with the other prisoners, who form mankind, by conventional signs that have not quite the same meaning for them as for himself. And life, unfortunately, is something that you can lead but once; mistakes are often irreparable, and who am I that I should tell this one and that how he should lead it? Life is a difficult business and I have found it hard enough to make my own a complete and rounded thing; I have not been tempted to teach my neighbour what he should do with his. But there are men who flounder at the journey’s start, the way before them is confused and hazardous, and on occasion, however unwillingly, I have been forced to point the finger of fate. Sometimes men have said to me, what shall I do with my life? and I have seen myself for a moment wrapped in the dark cloak of Destiny.
Once I know that I advised well.
I was a young man and I lived in a modest apartment in London near Victoria Station. Late one afternoon, when I was beginning to think that I had worked enough for that day, I heard a ring at the bell. I opened the door to a total stranger. He asked me my name; I told him. He asked if he might come in.
“Certainly.”
I led him into my sitting-room and begged him to sit down. He seemed a trifle embarrassed. I offered him a cigarette and he had some difficulty in lighting it without letting go of his hat. When he had satisfactorily achieved this feat I asked him if I should not put it on a chair for him. He quickly did this and while doing it dropped his umbrella.
“I hope you don’t mind my coming to see you like this,” he said. “My name is Stephens and I am a doctor. You’re in the medical, I believe?”
“Yes, but I don’t practise.”
“No, I know. I’ve read a book of yours about Spain and I wanted to ask you about it.”
“It’s not a very good book, I’m afraid.”
“The fact remains that you know something about Spain and there’s no one else I know who does. And I thought perhaps you wouldn’t mind giving me some information.”
“I shall be very glad.”
He was silent for a moment. He reached out for his hat and holding it in one hand absent-mindedly stroked it with the other. I surmised that it gave him confidence.
“I hope you won’t think it very odd for a perfect stranger to talk to you like this.” He gave an apologetic laugh. “I’m not going to tell you the story of my life.”
When people say this to me I always know that it is precisely what they are going to do. I do not mind. In fact I rather like it.
“I was brought up by two old aunts. I’ve never been anywhere. I’ve never done anything. I’ve been married for six years. I have no children. I’m medical officer at the Camberwell Infirmary. I can’t stick it any more.”
There was something very striking in the short, sharp sentences he used. They had a forcible ring. I had not given him more than a cursory glance, but now I looked at him with curiosity. He was a little man, thick-set and stout, of thirty perhaps, with a round red face from which shone small, dark and very bright eyes. His black hair was cropped close to a bullet-shaped head. He was dressed in a blue suit a good deal the worse for wear. It was baggy at the knees and the pockets bulged untidily.
“You know what the duties are of a medical officer in an infirmary. One day is pretty much like another. And that’s all I’ve got to look forward to for the rest of my life. Do you think it’s worth it?”
“It’s a means of livelihood,” I answered.
“Yes, I know. The money’s pretty good.”
“I don’t exactly know why you’ve come to me.”
“Well, I wanted to know whether you thought there would be any chance for an English doctor in Spain?”
“Why Spain?”
“I don’t know, I just have a fancy for it.”
“It’s not like Carmen, you know,” I smiled.
“But there’s sunshine there, and there’s good wine, and there’s colour, and there’s air you can breathe. Let me say what I have to say straight out. I heard by accident that there was no English doctor in Seville. Do you think I could earn a living there? Is it madness to give up a good safe job for an uncertainty?”
“What does your wife think about it?”
“She’s willing.”
“It’s a great risk.”
“I know. But if you say take it, I will: if you say stay where you are, I’ll stay.”
He was looking at me intently with those bright dark eyes of his and I knew that he meant what he said. I reflected for a moment.
“Your whole future is concerned: you must decide for yourself. But this I can tell you: if you don’t want money but are content to earn just enough to keep body and soul together, then go. For you will lead a wonderful life.”
He left me, I thought about him for a day or two, and then forgot. The episode passed completely from my memory.
Many years later, fifteen at least, I happened to be in Seville and having some trifling indisposition asked the hotel porter whether there was an English doctor in the town. He said there was and gave me the address. I took a cab and as I drove up to the house a little fat man came out of it. He hesitated when he caught sight of me.
“Have you come to see me?” he said. “I’m the English doctor.”
I explained my errand and he asked me to come in. He lived in an ordinary Spanish house, with a patio, and his consulting-room which led out of it was littered with papers, books, medical appliances, and lumber. The sight of it would have startled a squeamish patient. We did our business and then I asked the doctor what his fee was. He shook his head and smiled.
“There’s no fee.”
“Why on earth not?”
“Don’t you remember me? Why, I’m here because of something you said to me. You changed my whole life for me. I’m Stephens.”
I had not the least notion what he was talking about. He reminded me of our interview, he repeated to me what we had said, and gradually, out of the night, a dim recollection of the incident came back to me.
“I was wondering if I’d ever see you again,” he said, “I was wondering if ever I’d have a chance of thanking you for all you’ve done for me.”
“It’s been a success then?”
I looked at him. He was very fat now and bald, but his eyes twinkled gaily and his fleshy, red face bore an expression of perfect good-humour. The clothes he wore, terribly shabby they were, had been made obviously by a Spanish tailor and his hat was the wide-brimmed sombrero of the Spaniard. He looked to me as though he knew a good bottle of wine when he saw it. He had a dissipated, though entirely sympathetic, appearance. You might have hesitated to let him remove your appendix, but you could not have imagined a more delightful creature to drink a glass of wine with.
“Surely you were married?” I said.
“Yes. My wife didn’t like Spain, she went back to Camberwell, she was more at home there.”
“Oh, I’m sorry for that.”
His black eyes flashed a bacchanalian smile. He really had somewhat the look of a young Silenus.
“Life is full of compensations,” he murmured.
The words were hardly out of his mouth when a Spanish woman, no longer in her first youth, but still boldly and voluptuously beautiful, appeared at the door. She spoke to him in Spanish, and I could not fail to perceive that she was the mistress of the house.
As he stood at the door to let me out he said to me:
“You told me when last I saw you that if I came here I should earn just enough money to keep body and soul together, but that I should lead a wonderful life. Well, I want to tell you that you were right. Poor I have been and poor I shall always be, but by heaven I’ve enjoyed myself. I wouldn’t exchange the life I’ve had with that of any king in the world.”
Life is full of compensations.
You told me when last I saw you that if I came here I should earn just enough money to keep body and soul together, but that I should lead a wonderful life.
Well, I want to tell you that you were right.
Poor I have been and poor I shall always be, but by heaven I’ve enjoyed myself. I wouldn’t exchange the life I’ve had with that of any king in the world.”
The rich world is currently in thrall to tech-enabled self-optimisation.
Or as some people (people you do not want to end up seated next to at a dinner party) call it: humanmaxxing.
We’re told we should track our biomarkers and optimise every second of our days, often in complicated and joyless ways.
If that works for you, great.
But, personally, I’m a big fan of lazymaxxing and finding low-effort ways to improve my life.
Weekend lie-ins are obviously one, drinking coffee is another.
A 2025 study found that morning coffee drinkers were 16% less likely to die early of any cause.
Swearing is also surprisingly good for you: uttering a profanity can decrease physical pain and increase focus.
And while I can’t go so far as to say that bingeing Love is Blind has health-giving properties,I did unearth research concluding that enjoying trashy films is a sign you’re a well-educated cultural omnivore.
I still haven’t found a study proving that lying on the couch, eating crisps, reading thrillers and ignoring your obligations is good for you, but I live in hope.
I tell people that I wake up ready to leap out of bed, start off my day with some calisthenics and then a quick 5 mile bike ride … but if I lie real still … the feeling goes away.
I tell people I like to avoid anything that makes me sweat which is why, of all activities, I prefer swimming as I can’t tell if I am sweating.
Nothing gets me going like a free afternoon and a rocking chair and a stack of books within reach.
When talking about things to do and see I embrace Dr. Johnson’s. “Worth seeing. Not worth going to see.” (He of ‘a sea voyage is all the fun of jail with the chance of drowning thrown in’ fame).
One time at work, I had to go to this employee workshop where everyone was handed a deck of cards.
There was one word on each card.
Eager.
Helpful.
Dynamic.
Words like that.
We had to take the stack of cards and seperate them in half and keep the words that best described ourselves.
Then do it again.
Then do it again.
Then do it again until we had one card left.
Then we had to stand up and read our card outloud.
In a way I was kind of proud that I ended up with … lazy!
Years ago my brother Paul and I found ourselves going out to eat with a brother in law who told us all the many things he had on his plate that needed his attention.
After a few minutes, he paused and sighed and said, “I guess it’s better to have too much to do than not enough.”
Paul stared out the window for a moment and said, “I can get by without having too much do.”
For some reason, Paul and I have always got along.
I’m a big fan of lazymaxxing and finding low-effort ways to improve my life.
People have been complaining about the volume of the New York crowd for decades. But this year the noise at the US Open feels different. This year noise at the noisy slam has become A Problem.
How bad are things really, though? It’s true that the grounds at the US Open this year have felt at times oppressively crowded. But the shoving obliviousness of the fans – the constant staring at phones, the almost universal lack of spatial awareness, the inconsiderate jostling in the interminable lines for the courts and the drinks and the $38 French dip sandwiches and the tiny free canisters of Dove deodorant – reflects nothing more than the poisonous effect of tech and commerce on culture at large. The tournament is drenched in commercial influence: more than it is a series of tennis matches, the US Open is a showcase for brands shilling everything from yogurt to $100,000 cars.
Changing the crowds at the US Open would mean changing society – throwing away the phones and the chatbots and the Bluetooth microphones, rejecting the delusions of the attention economy, saying once and for all that no, in fact, you will not “get ready with me”. It would mean embracing a life of community and human contact and non-screen-mediated concern for each other. But until the distant day when that happens, we’re stuck, I fear, with more of the same – and the US Open will continue to reflect our profoundly stupid and ugly cultural present.
It would mean throwing away the phones and the chatbots and the Bluetooth microphones.
It would mean rejecting the delusions of the attention economy.
It would mean saying once and for all that no, in fact, you will not “get ready with me”.
It would mean embracing a life of community and human contact and non-screen-mediated concern for each other.
But until the distant day when that happens, we’re stuck, I fear, with more of the same.
It means US Open will continue to reflect our profoundly stupid and ugly cultural present.
In church yesterday, the sermon was about Jonah and God given second chances.
Jonah got a second chance and followed God’s commands to go to Nineveh.
Ninevah?
The Bible refers to it as a Great City.
A city great in wickedness.
A city, according to what God says as recorded in the Book of Jonah, where there are more than a hundred and twenty thousand people who cannot tell their right hand from their left.
Profoundly stupid.
People who cannot tell their right hand from their left.
