When John and Paul were heavy-handedly questioning radicalism in “Revolution,” George was quietly reflective: “I look at the world, and I notice it’s turning, while my guitar gently weeps.” While Lennon read a book on Marx and loudly professed his doubts about capitalism and private property in “Imagine,” George had already written a better, more incisive, more believable song about what ails us: “All through the years, I me mine, I me mine, I me mine. Even those tears, I me mine, I me mine, I me mine.”
And then there is his gentle, hopeful reminder: “All things must pass.” The unimaginable thought of George and his toothy grin shuffling off this mortal coil seems a rich irony in light of these soothing words, as we realize that there are statutes of limitations on everything—whether we can tell what they are ahead of time or not. And so we get a few minutes to nurse a warm pint of stout, a couple of days to view graffiti before it’s painted over, six days to take a vacation. Four years for a college education, eight for a rock band, three score and ten for a life.
I am awed, humbled and frightened at how fragile the whole damn thing is. But at the same time, I rest a bit easier knowing that George is still angling for the dozen more years we assume he’s due. But what if he dies tomorrow, or next month, or next year?
George remembers Abbey Road as a place of discord, where he and Paul screamed at one another and the Beatles fell apart. But does he know how millions of others will see it for decades after he and his old cohorts—Paul and Ringo, Patti and Eric Clapton, Dylan and Petty—are gone? Perhaps George saw bitterness and regret. Does he know what I saw there?
How do stones acquire the hearts of men? At the risk of misinterpreting the famously incomprehensible Rav Kook, it seems to me that there is only one way: if men leave in stones their own hearts. Unlike the gorgeous mosques next door, the Western Wall is nothing to look at—it’s only holy because millions have wept there. And Abbey Road is just another tree-lined avenue in St. John’s Wood—cherished because thousands have had their picture taken in the crosswalk, because millions have looked into someone else’s eyes and seen George’s “Something,” and because the world entire has been converted to the gospel of the album’s penultimate song: In the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.
David C. Newman ’03, a Crimson editor, is a government concentrator in Quincy House. He would like to apologize to David M. DeBartolo ’03, a Crimson executive and devoted Rolling Stones fan, for having dragged him out into Zone 2 for this cheesy photo op. Cheers.