By Charles Wheelan
Modeled on Charles Wheelan’s 2011 type Day Speech at Dartmouth university, this selection of refreshingly sincere recommendation and observations is the antidote to these cotton-candy platitudes which are all too widely used to an individual who’s ever worn a mortarboard. Armed with a PhD in public coverage, decades of expertise in social technological know-how learn, and—perhaps such a lot important—good-natured humor, Wheelan deals up 10½ head-turning aphorisms on happiness and good fortune that any one staring down the barrel of commencement must pay attention yet most likely hasn’t heard but. Celebrated New Yorker cartoonist Peter Steiner provides a slightly of caprice together with his irreverent illustrations sprinkled all through.
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Additional resources for 10 ½ Things No Commencement Speaker Has Ever Said
I no longer read, like my relatives, to simplify a disorderly world; I started reading instead to confirm that people were as complicated and weird as I’d always suspected, and to try to figure out why. Today, my relatives take in stride my attempts to debunk our myths, although I suspect that among themselves they shake their heads in fond amusement at my eccentricity. And, if she were still alive, I suspect that Aunt Shirley would be shaking her head right along with them. Still, I couldn’t restrain myself from spreading the rumor among my relatives that Louisa May Alcott scorned Little Women as sentimental and moralistic, that she was far more independent and unconventional than we’d been led to believe.
For the amnesiac, the time traveler, the feral child, the world becomes a minefield requiring constant negotiation to heal the rifts between The One that Got Away familiarity and strangeness. That tension of identity is especially compelling for those of us who always saw ourselves as outsiders: a larger-than-life representation of that experience, but with the startling freshness of a poet’s vision. Now I wandered through my own interval between the past and present, memory and forgetting, the intimate and the unfamiliar.
I think, absurdly. Who will remember me before I remember myself? My mother’s eyes are nearly as empty as my dad’s, as if thirty years of marriage have turned my parents so symbiotic that she will be permanently disoriented by his confusion. m. illuminated the contents of my brain as if bringing to light all of my secrets. I think of all the darkened spaces my mind has created to cover those secrets again, to hide his muttered words. It’s as if that flashlight not only rearranged my life, but reached into the minds of my loved ones, too, scrambling us all.