Intimacy

"Acquainted With the Night” – 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,
A luminary clock against the sky

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


It is unusual to be alone in the city. During the day you flow with the tide of humanity that goes down into the subways and buses and rushes back in the evening. At virtually any hour of the night, you can walk down most streets and see at least a few people here and there, heading out or heading home, or just sitting on the stoop of a building, unwilling for the night to end just yet. And even in what would seem to be the deadest time, when the pale light of the early morning is just beginning to appear, you can see two different worlds of people passing by one another: the bouncy gait of a jogger starting her day, loping past the man who has almost made it home, still wearing last night’s clothes.

But it is not unusual to be lonely in the city. One of the great ironies of city life is how easy it is to be so physically close to people without having any real interaction with them. On a crowded subway car, our hands come together on the same pole, our bodies and faces press closer together than a couple engaged in a slow dance; yet there is a distance between us in which we often do not even acknowledge the other’s presence. And so we can be as completely isolated in the heart of the city, in a crowd of people, as we can by “outwalking the furthest city light.”

Proximity and intimacy are two different things; in fact, proximity without intimacy actually highlights our loneliness. And while the city may magnify that paradox, it is true of human relationships wherever they take place. It is it in the awkward silence of two people who don’t know each other recognizing the essential emptiness between them after the initial thrill of a one-night stand. It is in the awkward silence of two people who know each other too well eating dinner together, recognizing the essential emptiness between them in the hollowed-out shell of what was once a living relationship.

The conventional interpretation of this poem says it is about Frost’s struggles with depression. And that makes sense. But on a more basic and universal level, it is about the elusiveness of intimacy. It is never hard to be close to someone in the city; but true intimacy with someone is another matter. We spend a lot of time wandering in search of it, though when others seem to question what we’re doing or why, we drop our eyes, unwilling to suffer the embarrassment of explaining. We stop short in our steps when it seems that someone might be calling us back to them or even just saying goodbye, only to realize that they’re not talking to us. Walking at night, under the moon, is supposed to be a time of intimacy, we’re often told by more sentimental poets. But the reality is that it is usually is a time that is “neither wrong nor right”; it is simply another night.

And yet most of us keep wandering. The question, then, is why we wander: is it inertia, or is it with a purpose? Frost’s vision is of aimless wandering, of looking without searching, of being acquainted with the night but nothing else. But most of us are doing more than that. Intimacy, a true and deep connection with another, may be elusive, but we are actively searching for it. And no matter how time or circumstance seems to be conspiring against us, we expect that one day, we will find it. One day, we will be acquainted with more than the night. One day, the moon will not just be a silent clock telling us another lonely night has come, but will be a fruit to be picked and savored with an intimate companion over and over again, “till time and times are done”:


“The Song of Wandering Aengus” – William Butler Yeats


I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.