Discovering the Buried Life

But often, in the world's most crowded streets,
But often, in the din of strife,
There rises an unspeakable desire
After the knowledge of our buried life;
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
In tracking out our true, original course;                      
A longing to inquire
Into the mystery of this heart which beats
So wild, so deep in us--to know
Whence our lives come and where they go.


When I first encountered Matthew Arnold's poetry, "The Buried Life" struck me--a rather lost-feeling college sophomore at the time--as tremendously apt in its description of man's shallow self-knowledge. A revered professor-turned-provost illuminated Arnold's genius so thoroughly that I couldn't deny his brilliancy of insight.   "How easily influenced we are!" I thought, "How little time  we give to contemplation, to genuine self-discovery. We so rarely delve below the surface. What a SHAME." And, concluding these thoughts as quickly as possible, I hurried off to my next meeting, next class, next tea-time with the girls. 


Now, nearly three years out of college, Arnold's poetry impresses me less. His style feels too cold and correct to contain much sincerity. His imagery seems conventional and uninspired--all the typical critiques of Victorian stylings apply. (Sorry, Dr. Whalen.) "Dover Beach" will always have a special place in my heart, of course. The progression of thought detailed within "The Buried Life" is much more formulaic than that of Dover. But the ideas contained within this poem strike me differently now. 


I still feel a bit lost, though I lack the excuses of a college sophomore. Turning twenty-five last month stung more than I expected. The temptation to compare my life with the lives of my peers was too strong to resist: There's Hans running for State Representative. There's Alyssa writing for a cultural magazine in New York City. There's Amy and Alicia and Marcy and Kjerstin supporting fantastic husbands and bringing new souls into the world. There's Megan finishing up law school.  There's Neal introducing his new line of designer jeans. What am I doing? What have I done?


The litany of questions doesn't end: Why do I teach? Do I even WANT to teach? What else am I fit for? Where else could I go? Can I really start over again? Should I pursue the career I've begun? What will I do when my desire to change the world becomes subservient to my desire for a better salary? How will I pay for grad school? What sort of person have I become? What sort of person do I want to be? 


And my unbearable answer is always: I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.


Arnold's response, though, surprised me this time around.

Only--but this is rare--
When a beloved hand is laid in ours,
When, jaded with the rush and glare
Of the interminable hours,                                            
Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear,
When our world-deafen'd ear
Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd--
A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,
And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again.
The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,
And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.


It seems that knowledge doesn't come from earnest self-analysis and it won't come from comparisons with the success stories of others, or through new year's resolutions.  To know yourself, you have to know and be known by another.  Isolation and independence have no place in this quest for truth. A hand to hold, a face for the eyes to rest on, a heart to discover---having these, I have all the answers I need today.