 Wow. Hello. I'm sort of overwhelmed by this ceremony. I mean, drums, bagpipes. Just awesome. Really quickly, I want to say something that will serve in an analogy here. When our son, who's in his 30s now, was in kindergarten, I went in from my first parent teacher conference and sat in that little chair. It was incredibly intimidating. I thought that his teacher, Mrs. Segris, would just be tell me about how he was doing at numbers and letters, at nap time, at recess, at snack time. Instead, she turned to me and said, you know, Will is a really good egg. Which I totally treasured. And I want to say we've just heard so much about Suresh's accomplishments which are, you know, just kind of over the top and overwhelming and wonderful. But I think the other thing about Suresh, which I think we've also heard about, but I want to sort of underscore is that he too is just a really good egg. I love that phrase. I hadn't heard that in years and Mrs. Segris said that to me. Okay, well I chose this poem. I was asked to read a poem for this by Suresh and I want to also say that this sort of is very heartening in a general sense for the humanities and the arts here at the University of Vermont. So I just want to throw that in because we're hearing a lot about engineering and so on. I am stand here. I stand here. But I think that's really remarkable and says a lot about Suresh. I chose this poem because it seems to me to have an educational theme, which I sort of hard put defined in my work. But I think it also tells something about the, you know, the old saw that artists like to say is that our job is to make the familiar strange and the strange familiar. And that is the job of art. And therefore it sort of welcomed the world and widened the world. So it's an old idea, but I think it behooves us to remember it about what we do in places like this. This is called Chinese brushwork. It's their silence that pools. Then afterwards students blackening the basins with their inks, washing off all that concentration. It's a matter of walking by nothing in my hands and finding them deliberately touching the paper the ancient way. These kids with their caps on backwards, heritide with a band. In the Woman's John they hardly speak of the water rushing the black stones, the sable brushes. Every Tuesday and Thursday their teacher peering over each hunched shoulder as they do leaves, or they do rivers, or they do the apple beginning to decay. Inc. has its own creature life. One drop of sudden artery. The heart isn't far. I held my brush like this as these young women do. The long line of sinks and standing there above the wide black circling toward the underworld and reaching for the paper towel and thinking nothing but how I felt the hour pass as rock feels light. I mean not feeling at all. Every time now I want to speak to them about this fine and worthless thing they do, Tuesdays and Thursdays, maybe even at home in a kitchen or at a dormitory desk, rivers that go on and vines that take the paper as though it were a place for thought and thought could climb. Deep contrast as if that dream were ever true, the fruit offered again and again the frozen instant. It isn't death I feel walking by their classroom or seeing the young women at the sinks, seeing them and seeing how the mirror gives them back. Something else, though I haven't a name for it, this thing that opens into another thing, a moment or a shape that endlessly repeats itself, the way walking alone, one who never expects to be loved, might say a name to the open air and each time it is hopeless, it is lovely, it is secret.