The last time I saw him he was walking down lover's lane holding

“The last time I saw him he was walking down lover’s lane holding his own hand.” — Fred Allen

In this clever and piercing line, Fred Allen, one of the great wits of early American radio, delivers what seems at first to be a joke — a simple jab at vanity. Yet beneath its humor lies an eternal lesson about self-love carried to excess, about the blindness that comes when admiration turns inward and affection finds no room beyond the self. Through laughter, Allen reveals a truth as old as human pride: that when love no longer reaches outward, it ceases to be love at all. His humor, though playful, is the laughter of wisdom — the kind that sees through folly while smiling at it.

The origin of this quote rests in the golden age of radio, a time when Allen’s satire was known for exposing the foolishness of fame and ego. His humor targeted not the small weaknesses of men, but the grand pretenses — the vanity of those who mistook admiration for virtue. When he speaks of a man “holding his own hand,” he paints a picture at once comic and tragic: a soul so infatuated with himself that he has no need for another. This image — absurd yet haunting — is the mirror of narcissism, a condition not of pride alone, but of spiritual loneliness. It is a warning to every age that the heart which closes upon itself will one day find itself empty.

The ancients knew this truth well. They told of Narcissus, the youth who, seeing his reflection in a still pool, fell in love with his own image. Unable to turn away, he perished by the water’s edge, consumed by the beauty that could give nothing back. Fred Allen’s modern version of this myth replaces the still pool with “lover’s lane,” that symbolic path of shared affection — but in his tale, the lover walks alone. This, then, is the heart of the humor: a parody of love that exposes its opposite. What is meant to be the road of two hearts becomes the echo of one. Love, stripped of humility, becomes self-adoration — and self-adoration, in turn, becomes loneliness disguised as confidence.

There is, in this jest, not only laughter but compassion. For Allen’s humor, like that of the wise jesters of old, does not mock to destroy but to awaken. He laughs at the man “holding his own hand” not because the man is evil, but because he is lost — trapped in the mirror of his own making. It is a reminder that vanity is not strength, but fragility in disguise. The one who must adore himself has not yet learned to find worth in others. True love — whether of others, of art, or of life itself — requires the courage to step outside oneself, to risk rejection, to be seen not as perfect but as human.

History offers many such figures who walked “lover’s lane” alone. One might recall Napoleon Bonaparte, whose brilliance and ambition burned so brightly that in time, his love for conquest replaced his love for people. He reached for crowns but lost companions, built empires but destroyed trust. In the end, exiled and alone on the island of Saint Helena, he held only the hand of his own legend. Like Allen’s unnamed man, he became a monument to the peril of self-worship — proof that pride may carry a man far, but it cannot accompany him home.

Yet, Allen’s saying is not without hope. It suggests, through its humor, that awareness is the cure for vanity. To laugh at the image of a man holding his own hand is to glimpse the absurdity of self-centeredness, to be freed from it by recognition. For laughter, rightly used, humbles without humiliating. It is the gentle mirror that shows us our folly without condemnation. The wise laugh at their own pride before life forces them to. In this way, Allen’s wit becomes a kind of moral therapy, reminding us that humility is not weakness but the soil in which all real love grows.

So, my child, take this teaching to heart: beware the loneliness of self-love. It is easy to fall in love with one’s reflection — with one’s image, reputation, or cleverness — but such love, like Narcissus’s pool, offers no warmth, no growth, no return. Walk not alone in the garden of affection, admiring your own shadow, but seek instead the company of others. Learn to listen, to serve, to care. True joy is found not in holding your own hand, but in holding another’s — not in worshiping yourself, but in giving yourself.

And remember this: when the heart grows proud, let laughter be your guide. Laugh kindly at your own vanity, as Fred Allen did at his fellow man. For laughter that humbles the self is the beginning of wisdom. It reminds us that the greatest love is not self-directed, but shared — and that even the cleverest among us must step out of their own reflection if they are to see the world as it truly is.