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AH February 2024

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The ticking clock, the

tolling bell

hey say time is the fire in which we burn.”

I’ve always loved that line from the 1994 movie “Star Trek: Generations”

where Malcolm McDowell’s character Soran chastises Patrick Stewart’s

Capt. Picard for not allowing him to do something he wants to do. I’ve

recently learned that it’s a shortened version of a line from the poem

"Calmly We Walk through This April’s Day" by Delmore Schwartz.

The complete four-line excerpt from the poem goes like this:

“What will become of you and me / (This is the school in which we learn ...)

Besides the photo and the memory? / (... that time is the fire in which we burn.)”

As of this month, I’ve burned 56 years in the fire. As birthdays do for many over

50, I find myself turning contemplative. Mostly, I’ve been thinking about all the

ways we talk about marking the passage of time and the inevitable approach of that

moment when our time is up.

Capt. Hook heard the telltale ticking of the clock in the stomach of the giant

crocodile that pursued him to his destiny. In another poem, John Donne instructs

us not to ask for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for us all.

In their song “Time,” Pink Floyd talks about running and running to catch up

with the sinking sun. When that sun comes back around, the song goes, it’s “the

same in a relative way, but you’re older, shorter of breath and one day closer to

death.”

Like the sands in an hourglass, so are the days of our lives. Dali shows us clocks

melting in a nightmare desert, representing … something. Then there’s “kala,”

the Indian concept of time that I’m only recently familiar with but which seem

incredibly diverse.

The overarching theme of all these time references is that we appreciate time

because we know it’s limited. Sure, the sound of the tolling bell is still pretty distant

for me, but it’s also a fair bit closer than 24 years ago when I was a little more

than halfway to this point, and I am well aware that that urgent clanging can grow

suddenly louder at a moment’s notice.

So, to close, let’s return to Schwartz’s work:

“What am I now that I was then? / May memory restore again and again

The smallest color of the smallest day: / Time is the school in which we learn,

Time is the fire in which we burn.”

Edward J. Brock, Senior Editor

[email protected]

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4 ASIAN HOSPITALITY FEBRUARY 2024

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