The other day I had a snippet of a quote running through my brain, and I couldn’t nail it down. Something about a man’s life being like a book . . . something about “he hoped to make of it.” I Googled quotations, I Googled diary, I Googled everything I could think of, but no dice.
Then, last night, I could hear the voice speaking the quote . . . and I remembered that I’d heard the quote on a tape. A tape I used to listen to in my car–when I had a car with a tape player. So I went out to the garage and, wonder of wonders, found the tape in a basket of tapes I’d pulled out of my old car. And I found THE tape, which had been recorded by the late Gary Provost in his distinctive Boston accent.
That accent, in fact, is probably why I got the quote wrong–I couldn’t understand Gary! So here it is, the profound quote that’s been haunting me for a couple of weeks:
“The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another; and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it.”
Know who said it? J. M. Barrie, the man who wrote Peter Pan.
I think that quote is very appropriate for a book set in a funeral home . . .