"Whoever you are, I have always depended on the kindness of strangers," declares Vivien Leigh in that distinctively lingering, alluring style as the tragic Blanche Dubois at the end of A Streetcar Named Desire, just before the doctor leads her gently away. For no matter what physical or mental state we may be in, kindness is something we can all understand. It generates profound experience as both giver and receiver. As Mark Twain put it: "Kindness is the language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see."
We might all have experienced the kindness of strangers at times. These acts can go a very long way. Many years ago, without a job and trying to live on very little, I stepped on a night bus that was a very long, wet and rainy 10 miles from home, but was about to be turfed off by an indifferent driver because I was about 30p short on the fare. Then suddenly, out of the blue, a hand appeared, and a wordless stranger, somewhere behind me, added some coins to make mine up to the correct fare. I didn't see the donor's face, but when I searched the bus to find and thank them, I couldn't. I remember feeling so immensely grateful, but they'd vanished. Who were they? The same disappearing person who several years later pulled me back from a road, just as I tried crossing when an unseen car sped by from the other direction? Did they really exist? Were they a ghost? Or, like the invisible mind-readers who distribute comfort in Wim Wenders' Wings of Desire, a guardian angel?
Kindness is potent in song because it is heavily laden with emotion. It can come in tiny amounts, but bring immense strength. It can be an act of fortitude, but in other circumstances, weakness. It can stimulate or soothe, kill or cure. It could mean almost nothing to the giver, but everything to the receiver, or perhaps tragically, vice versa. It could be a priceless spec of gold, unnoticed. Or a splash of borrowed milk to go in tea, immensely appreciated, a tea served with biscuits and sympathy. Or it might seem like poison, the milk of human kindness feared by the paranoid and ambitious, a Lady Macbeth. Is kindness built in to our psychology? It can be expressed in many colours, from discreet decency to overwhelming altruism, subtle grace to deepest tenderness. Kindness sometimes seems cruel, because it can be a cruel world. And mercy makes an immensely strong showing in song, whether given or pleaded for by mortals or granted by the divine.
So doing the very decent thing this week, and returning for a generous second helping, attwilightlarks is putting himself at the mercy of your many song suggestions, but will no doubt be in equal measure, kind and cruel, merciful and magnanimous as guest guru. Please put in your suggestions in comments and optionally in the Spotify playlist by 11pm BST on Monday 14 July for his results blog on Thursday 17 July.
To increase the likelihood of your nomination being considered, please:
• Tell us why it's a worthy contender.
• Quote lyrics if helpful, but for copyright reasons no more than a third of a song's words.
• Provide a link to the song. We prefer Muzu or YouTube, but Spotify, SoundCloud or Grooveshark are fine.
• Listen to others people's suggestions and add yours to a collaborative Spotify playlist.
• If you have a good theme for Readers recommend, or if you'd like to volunteer to compile a playlist, please email peter.kimpton@theguardian.com or adam.boult@theguardian.com
• There's a wealth of data on RR, including the songs that are "zedded", at the Marconium. It also tells you the meaning of "zedded", "donds" and other strange words used by RR regulars.
• Many RR regulars also congregate at the 'Spill blog.
