Commencement Closing Remarks, 2003

Timothy J. Sullivan
May 11, 2003

Let me read you a poem. It is very short. Its title: Nothing Gold can Stay. It was written by Robert Frost.

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Surely—some of you must be thinking that I chose that poem solely because two of the five words in the first line are green and gold. You would be justified in that thought—but in this case—you would be wrong. I chose it partly because of its beauty, but mostly because of its message. The lesson it teaches is hard but true. The poem’s concision gives it a stunning eloquence. Its effect—once its meaning sinks in—is more than a little bit shocking. I know that—and because I do—there is some risk in using it as the text for these commencement remarks. But it is a risk I do not hesitate to take.

There is a cycle in life beyond man’s power to alter. There is an implacable rhythm in the natural world—it begins with birth—continues through maturity—and ends with death. That cycle—those rhythms—shape the story of our days. They define the pattern of our lives. They place limits—against all our wishing—on what it can mean to be human—and what as human beings we can aspire to achieve.

Mine is not a message of darkness or of doubt. But it is an argument—addressed specifically to those of you who want a great life—an argument that—if you are serious about your ambition—you must summon first the courage to see without illusion how unyielding are life’s limits. And once you see—to calibrate your ambitions and to define your dreams accordingly.

No one here is immortal. If we didn’t know that before this year—this year has taught us beyond forgetting. The toughest test of human greatness is measured by with what grace we bear the burdens of our grief—how well we stand up to tragedy—how strong is our resolution to push on when failure seems to dog our every step.

I tell you these things because what happens to you matters—deeply to me. I tell you these things because I know how many are your gifts—how beautiful are your ambitions—how powerful are your aspirations to do good.

In the poem’s vocabulary—you are living still in that golden moment. Treasure it—exult in it—fight to make it last. But know—that in the end—you will lose the fight. Gold will become green—green will assume a darker hue—and that darker hue will deepen and ramify into colors even more somber and more subtle.

Strong women and men do not shrink from these realities. They do not feel the shiver of timidity. Despite occasional failure, despite confounding adversity, despite the false counsel of those dark demons that have the power to blacken every heart—they fight fiercely to win the day and to reach the destination of their dreams. Such scars earned in such fights are worn proudly as marks of honor.

As you prepare to leave this place—this place that you have loved—and which loves you—and always will—there are a few quite simple thoughts I want to share. They have helped me in my life’s fight. I have faith that they will help you too.

Try always to be your best self. You know what I mean—because—better than anyone—you know who you are. That sacred place of your special gifts—that sunlit spot where are gathered your most powerful virtues—that is the place which holds the secrets most likely to bring you happiness and to make you great. And happiness I define as did the ancient Greeks: “the exercise of vital powers along lines of excellence in a life affording them scope.”

We tend to believe that our life’s choices are more complicated than they really are. Quite often—this contrived complexity is the product of human vanity, an escape route from the commands of conscience that permits us to do what is convenient rather than what is right. It is pure delusion—of course—to believe that we can somehow hoodwink our own conscience—but that doesn’t stop most of us from continuing to try. In sixty years of living, it is not often that I have found it hard to know what is the right thing to do. What is hard—believe me—is finding courage to do the right thing. Which is why C. S. Lewis called courage “every other virtue at its testing point.”

Finally, take care to guard against the onset of moral numbness. It is an invariably fatal disease. What it kills is your humanity—and it does so by degrees. The risk comes in two ways—too much success or too much failure.

If you aim high—and please do—the scope of your ambition stretches your expectations. Should you succeed—the scent of that success can be intoxicating. It induces feelings of entitlement. It can create something close to contempt for the multitude of lesser mortals who—unlike you—have failed to win any of life’s most “glittering prizes.”

Success can raise you too high. Failure can bring you too low. Cumulative hurts create a peculiarly tough kind of scar tissue—scars that protect the most vulnerable part of us—the part of us that cannot be seen—but which defines in fundamental ways—how we see the world and how we judge how the world judges us.

So success and failure—however different—present— in part-—an identical danger. Both sap our capacity to feel—to feel what in our bones we know—that we are a part of the great march of humanity—and as members of that throng—we owe debts to all who share our common fate—and inescapable duties to do our part—small or large—to diminish the sum of human suffering and add—something—to the fund of human happiness.

Live for the gold. But when it goes—as it must—be ready for the green. Keep the green alive by all the wit and all the will at your command. But when it fades—as it will—be ready for what remains. And make of what remains a proud statement of the power of your love—for all humanity, for the beauty of knowledge and for all those things eternal which need no name.

You came here for different reasons—expecting different things. You found here a means to intellectual and moral growth more powerful than any you could have dreamed. That power has made you what you are. That power gives you the right to a strong faith in a fine destiny. Yours is a joyful and a precious inheritance—use it always—to purposes worthy of its integrity—and to ends consistent with the inescapable obligation owed by the uniquely blessed to make this suffering world— somehow—someway—more beautiful and more just.

Good luck and God speed.