I am a man who believes in the cultural and spiritual efficacy of art with the same devotion that others offer to a church. I devotedly believe that good dance, music, theater, the visual arts, literature, accumulatively provide for us in the industrialized world something akin to an Aboriginal dreamtime: that is, a blueprint of what it means to be human, and more importantly, a template of how our species might yet evolve. Art is the single endeavor that truly examines our everyday bravery and cowardice, our triumphs and ethical disasters. Art, as it should, prods, questions, dissents and celebrates the human condition.

I believe that that’s the importance of an honest and well-rendered book. I believe that books inspire their readers to reach beyond the merely familiar, or to paraphrase Kafka’s observation: “A novel can be the ax that breaks the frozen sea within.” So, what I’ve wanted to do this morning, hopefully without seeming self-serving or obsequious, is to thank you for staking your lives on books. Certainly, not for me, but for a country that needs to read to become wise, and not merely to be entertained.

I’ve stated that I outgrew the notion that books, that the minds and dreams and prayers of our writers constituted a sort of heaven for me as a boy. I was, after all, a boy very hungry to learn what it meant to be a man, specifically, what it meant to be useful and contributive, but do know that being here in the company of men and women who count on the alchemy of literature makes all the difference for me. You give me hope that I am not wasting my life, and for that I thank you.