Twice I have been given the oxymoronic task of empirically judging a comedy, and twice I was told to prepare by reading “Laughter: An Essay on the Meaning of the Comic,” by Henri Bergson. A turn-of-the-century French philosopher, Bergson trafficked mostly in the fields of metaphysics and epistemology; he was exactly as funny as you think he was. Upon each reading, I fell back on a favorite quote by E.B. White:

“Analyzing humor is like dissecting a frog. Few people are interested and the frog dies of it.”

I was six or seven the first time I saw a Marx Brothers film; I can’t remember exactly. It was definitely “A Day at the Races,” though; Chico calling out “Get your tootsie-frootsie ice cream!” has been tattooed in my mind for as long as I can recall. The VHS brought a bygone wonder to the 24-inch analog TV, which was the size of an IMAX screen, as I recall it. Years later, I got the movies on DVD, and though they’d aged like wine, they had changed.

Now I watch in awe of the Marx Brothers, the way they blend crudeness and camp to make sexual innuendo fun for the whole family. Amazing and peculiar how these three quirky pervs delighted me so much way back when, but that just speaks to their mastery as performers. Years of vaudeville experience allowed them to sell their jokes with the crack of a smile and the raise of an eyebrow. But when I finally understood the wit and bawdiness, I still fell into hysterics at the same cues: Groucho does his silly walk! Chico doesn’t know words! Harpo does Harpo things! The belly laughs never changed, a consistent link between all times in my life.

There’s a familiar warmth to the fuzzy memory, the coziness of Friday nights at my grandparents’ house. Meem would go off to temple to sing at Shabbat services, but Papa would stay home with my brother, the Marx Brothers, and me. To my knowledge, there has never been a more satisfying game of hooky than skipping out on synagogue to watch “Horse Feathers.” Missing services was part of the thrill for Alec and me, though Meem never gave Papa a hard time about it. I imagine she got that out of her system back when Papa was first establishing the Friday night Marx Brothers routine with my cousin Matthew. I suppose she realized it wasn’t stunting my development of faith or values. To this day, my most cherished principles of Judaism are tradition and family, taught to me by three menschen of comedy with my grandpa’s arm around my shoulder.

The Marx Brothers viewings decreased around age 10, when I stopped sleeping over at Meem and Papa’s regularly. “Seinfeld” filled the void, though. My parents introduced me to the show when I hit double digits, as I was already self-deprecating at an eighth-grade level. The first episode I saw was definitely “The Bubble Boy”; cries of ‘“Moops!’ ‘Moors!’ ‘Moops!’ ‘Moors!’” stick with me to this day, a precious memento of the time George Costanza strangled a sick child over a Trivial Pursuit misprint.

I began really appreciating “Seinfeld” on Monday, Dec. 1, 2003, at about 6:33 p.m. I remember it vividly.

Earlier that evening, I’d returned home from Hebrew school. My mom had been waiting in the kitchen. In the calmest voice she could manage, she had explained to me that, as I knew, Papa had been sick for a long time, and earlier that day, he had died. The shock only lasted a split second, the time it takes between getting cut and beginning to bleed. My mom couldn’t stop her tears from flowing any longer, and not knowing myself how to respond to death, I began to cry, too.

Searching for comfort, my mom, dad, brother, and I sat down at 6:30 p.m. to watch a “Seinfeld” rerun, same as usual. It was “The Foundation,” the episode following the sudden death of George’s fiancée, Susan. Right after the first commercial break, Jerry recounts to George how he consoled her grieving parents.

“She’s not really dead if we find a way to remember her,” he says, and my shock returned. Only a year or so later, when I saw the episode again, did I hear what Jerry said next, that he was quoting “The Wrath of Khan.” The vapid origin of the line was evidently a running gag, one that I did not internalize at all upon first viewing. In my shaken state, it sounded like the most profound thing in the world. It became my Mourner’s Kaddish.

Comedy was given to me, and comedy continues to give. Under no circumstances, though, do I consider these comedic memories with a critical mind. I will not analyze what they mean; I just let the emotions wash over me. They’re hazy upon first reflection, but once I start hearing the lines and seeing the people again, they’re clear as day.