Tell me about yourself - your struggles, your dreams, your

When Peter Arno, the satirist and keen observer of human folly, wrote the words—“Tell me about yourself – your struggles, your dreams, your telephone number”—he spoke not only as a humorist but as a philosopher cloaked in wit. In these few playful words lies a mirror to the heart of human desire, where sincerity and self-interest mingle like sunlight and shadow. On the surface, it is the language of flirtation, light and mischievous; but beneath it rests a deeper truth about the way human beings yearn for connection—both emotional and personal, both soul and contact.

Arno, who drew the life of New York in lines of ink and irony, understood the double nature of the human spirit. His quote reveals the tension between what we wish to appear and what we truly are. “Tell me your struggles and your dreams,” he seems to say—open yourself, show me your truth. But then, with a sly smile, comes the worldly addition: “and your telephone number.” It is a jest, yes, but also a parable. For even as we speak of love and meaning, we remain creatures of longing—hungry for closeness, for something tangible, for the bridge that connects dream to desire.

In the ancient tongue of wisdom, this would have been called the paradox of the heart and the flesh. The philosophers of Greece and the poets of Persia alike spoke of it: that man seeks divine beauty, yet his gaze falls upon earthly form. Thus, Arno’s quote captures the eternal dance between idealism and reality, between the lofty confession of the soul and the simple need to be seen, heard, touched. Every human story is written upon this balance—the wish to be understood, and the wish to be desired.

Think of the painter Pablo Picasso, who through his art revealed both his torment and his genius. To his lovers, he spoke of his visions and pains, his struggles and dreams, yet behind every conversation was the very human yearning for companionship, admiration, and love. Like Arno’s speaker, Picasso lived between the spiritual and the sensual, between revelation and pursuit. His art was a confession of the heart, but his life—a chase for warmth and contact. He too sought, in every muse, both the soul and the telephone number.

Yet there is something tender in Arno’s humor, a recognition of our shared frailty. He does not mock desire; he acknowledges it. He teaches, through jest, that we are all mixed beings—creatures of the stars, yet bound to earth. When we ask another to “tell us about themselves,” we seek meaning; when we ask for their number, we seek connection. Both are sacred in their way, for one feeds the mind, and the other feeds the heart. To deny either is to deny part of what it means to be alive.

And thus, his quote becomes a gentle lesson for all who walk the path of love and understanding: do not be ashamed of your humanity. Speak your truth, share your dreams, but do not fear your longing for closeness. The great sages knew this well. Rumi wrote, “You have seen my descent; now watch my rising.” In that rising and falling, in that mingling of spirit and body, lies the whole story of man. We dream, we reach, we fall into laughter and longing—and this, too, is holy.

So, dear listener, when you meet another soul, do not seek to hide behind false virtue or empty wit. Ask of them their struggles and their dreams, for this is how the soul is revealed. But do not forget the last part of Arno’s jest—reach out, bridge the gap, dare to connect. For the human story is not only one of divine contemplation, but of hands reaching toward each other in the dark.

In the end, Peter Arno’s words remind us that life’s greatest truths are often spoken in jest. Beneath the humor lies the pulse of longing—the eternal call for intimacy, understanding, and love. So laugh, yes, but also listen. Behind every smile and clever word is the same ancient desire: to be known, to be loved, and perhaps, if the moment is right—to exchange the telephone number that turns strangers into something more.