 And we've got a little bit of a change in our herd this evening. Frankie Wilmer, MSU Professor and University of the State Legislature. It's going to be from the florist's eye by Tony Marshall. And I think that's been challenged recently, hasn't it? In 2005, that's just all right. You know, I teach political science, but a lot of politics is emotional. And one of the things that's very emotional in politics is prejudice. And one of the wonderful things about literature is it helps us bridge that gap, the lack of compassion, between the prejudice person and the person they're prejudiced against. So I've actually used Tony Morrison's florist's eye in class. And that's why I wanted to read from it. Do you ever try a paper one? No. I have one, the paper one. Oh, there it is. Please God, she whispered into the palm of her hand. Please make me disappear. She squeezed her eyes shut. Little parts of her body faded away. Now slowly, now with a rush, her fingers went one by one. And her arms disappeared all the way to the elbow. Her feet now, yes, that was good. The legs all at once. It was hardest above the thighs. She had to be real still in the palm. Her stomach would not go, but finally it too went away. And her chest and her neck. The face was hard too. Almost done. Only her tight, tight eyes were left. They were always left. Try as she might, she could never get her eyes to disappear. So what was the point? They were everything. Everything was there in them. All of those pictures, all of those faces. She had long ago given up the idea of running away to see new pictures and new faces as Sandy had so often done. As long as she looked the way she did, as long as she was ugly, she would have to stay with these people. Somehow she belonged to them. Long hours, she sat looking in the mirror, trying to discover the secret of the ugliness. The ugliness that made her ignored or despised at school by teachers and classmates alike. She was the only member of her class who sat alone at a double desk. The first letter of her name forced her to sit in the front of the class. What about Marie Apollinaire? Marie was in front of her, but she shared the desk with Luke Angelino. Her teachers had always treated her this way. They tried never to glance at her and called on her only when everyone was required to respond. She also knew that when one of the girls at school wanted to particularly be insulting to a boy and wanted to get an immediate response from him, she could say, Bobby loves to call it real love. Bobby loves to call it real love and never failed to get peels of laughter from those in your shot and mock and anger from the accused. It had occurred to Apollinaire some time ago that if her eyes, those eyes that held the pictures and knew the sights, if those eyes at hers were different, that is to say, beautiful, she would herself be different. Teeth were good, or at least her nose was not so big and flat like some of those who were thought to be cute. If she looked different, beautiful, maybe Collie, that was her father who abused her, would be different. And Mrs. Breedlove, too. Maybe they'd say, well, I look at that pretty eye in the cold, we mustn't do bad things in front of those pretty eyes. Pretty eyes, pretty blue eyes, big blue pretty eyes, run, jib, run, jib, runs, Alice runs, Alice has blue eyes, Jerry has blue eyes, Jerry runs, Alice runs. They run with their blue eyes, four blue eyes, four pretty blue eyes, blue sky eyes, like Mrs. Forrest's blue sky blouse. Morning, morning, blue eyes, Alice and Jerry blue sky blue eyes. Each night without fail, she prayed for blue eyes. Fervently for a year, she had prayed. Although somewhat discouraged, she was not without hope. And if something as wonderful as that happened would take a long, long time. Thank you. Thank you.