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Summary
Summary
NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER * This inspiring meditation on kindness from the author of Lincoln in the Bardo is based on his popular commencement address.
Three months after George Saunders gave a graduation address at Syracuse University, a transcript of that speech was posted on the website of The New York Times, where its simple, uplifting message struck a deep chord. Within days, it had been shared more than one million times. Why? Because Saunders's words tap into a desire in all of us to lead kinder, more fulfilling lives. Powerful, funny, and wise, Congratulations, by the way is an inspiring message from one of today's most influential and original writers.
Praise for Congratulations, by the way
"As slender as a psalm, and as heavy." -- The New York Times
"The graduating college senior in your life probably just wants money. But if you want to impart some heartfelt, plainspoken wisdom in addition to a check, you can't do much better than [ Congratulations, by the way ]." -- Entertainment Weekly
"The loving selflessness that [George Saunders] advises and the interconnectedness that he recognizes couldn't be purer or simpler--or more challenging." -- Kirkus Reviews
"Warm and tender." -- Publishers Weekly
Author Notes
George Saunders is the author of CivilWarLand in Bad Decline and Pastoralia.
(Publisher Provided)
Reviews (2)
Publisher's Weekly Review
An expansion of a commencement speech passed around the web, this essay hits warm and tender notes without straying from safety zone of feel-good advice. In a tone by turns grandfatherly and fun-loving, renowned fiction writer Saunders (Tenth of December) identifies his main regrets in life as what he calls "failures of kindness." While his exploration of kindness initially promises to pull from science and history, it falls back on the maligning of certain self-focused beliefs already widely maligned: the belief that one is indispensable to yet distinct from the universe, and the idea that humans are eternal. Portraying common major life goals (raising children, succeeding in one's career) as part of a never-ending, accomplishment-based cycle, Saunders impugns the cycle for distracting individuals from the important questions, yet he does not adequately establish why pursuing these should hamper an investigation of the meaning of life. Nor does he address obvious counterpoints-that children constitute a personal value of parents and that their pride is therefore an expression of personal joy. As life advice, the speech contains standard contradictions: seek the life that is most fulfilling to you individually, yet follow pursuits that will ultimately diminish your sense of self. His wording is genteel and his examples vivid, but the overall impression is that of a standard-issue secular sermon on loving one another. Agent: Esther Newberg, ICM. (Apr.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Kirkus Review
Another example of an author who might well reach a wider audience through a graduation speech than through anything else he has written. Long revered among fans and fellow writers, Saunders saw his popular profile elevated through even greater attentions paid to (and accolades earned by) his most recent story collection, Tenth of December. In contrast to the playful postmodernism that often characterizes the work of the New Yorker writer and recipient of a MacArthur Fellowship, this meditation on kindness that he delivered in 2013 at Syracuse (where he teaches creative writing) is transparent in its message, which, he admits, is "a little facile, maybe, and certainly hard to implement, but I'd say, as a goal in life, you could do worse than: Try to be kinder." His address took him eight minutes to deliverit subsequently went viral, like that of a similar address by the late David Foster Wallaceand takes less time to read. But its self-deprecating tone is as pitch perfect as one would expect from Saunders, and the advice it imparts seems sincere and ultimately more helpful than the usual platitudes, as he explains how "most people, as they age, become less selfish and more loving" and as they mature, perhaps become parents, begin to see how soul-deadening selfishness can be and how the struggles of ambition can put one on a seemingly endless cycle. There's plainly a spiritual underpinning here, as the author writes in favor of "establishing ourselves in some kind of spiritual traditionrecognizing that there have been countless really smart people before us who have asked these same questions and left behind answers for us." The loving selflessness that he advises and the interconnectedness that he recognizes couldn't be purer or simpleror more challenging. A slim volume appropriate as a graduation gift.]] Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Excerpts
Excerpts
DOWN THROUGH THE AGES, a traditional form has evolved for this type of speech, which is: Some old fart, his best years behind him, who over the course of his life has made a series of dreadful mistakes (that would be me), gives heartfelt advice to a group of shining, energetic young people with all of their best years ahead of them (that would be you). And I intend to respect that tradition. Now, one useful thing you can do with old people, in addition to borrowing money from them or getting them to do one of their old-time "dances," so you can watch while laughing, is ask, "Looking back, what do you regret?" And they'll tell you. Sometimes, as you know, they'll tell you even if you haven't asked. Sometimes, even when you've specifically requested that they not tell you, they'll tell you. So: What do I regret? Being poor from time to time? Not really. Working terrible jobs, like "knuckle-puller in a slaughterhouse"? (And don't even ask what that entails.) No. I don't regret that. Skinny-dipping in a river in Sumatra, a little buzzed, and looking up and seeing like three hundred monkeys sitting on a pipeline, pooping down into the river, the river in which I was swimming, with my mouth open, naked? And getting deathly ill afterward, and staying sick for the next seven months? Honestly, no. Do I regret the occasional humiliation? Like once, playing hockey in front of a big crowd, including this girl I really liked, I somehow managed, while falling and emitting this weird whooping noise, to score on my own goalie, while also sending my stick flying into the crowd, nearly hitting that girl? No. I don't even regret that. But here's something I do regret: In seventh grade, this new kid joined our class. In the interest of confidentiality, her Convocation Speech name will be "ELLEN." ELLEN was small, shy. She wore these blue cat's-eye glasses that, at the time, only old ladies wore. When nervous, which was pretty much always, she had a habit of taking a strand of hair into her mouth and chewing on it. So she came to our school and our neighborhood and was mostly ignored, occasionally teased. ("Your hair taste good?"--that sort of thing.) I could see this hurt her. I still remember the way she'd look after such an insult: eyes cast down, a little gut-kicked, as if, having just been reminded of her place in things, she was trying, as much as possible, to disappear. After a while she'd drift away, hair strand still in her mouth. At home, I imagined, after school, her mother would say, you know, "How was your day, sweetie?" and she'd say, "Oh, fine." And her mother would say, "Making any friends?" and she'd go, "Sure, lots." Sometimes I'd see her hanging around alone in her front yard, as if afraid to leave it. And then--they moved. That was it. No tragedy, no big final hazing. One day she was there, next day she wasn't. End of story. Now, why do I regret that? Why, forty-two years later, am I still thinking about it? Relative to most of the other kids, I was actually pretty nice to her. I never said an unkind word to her. In fact, I sometimes even (mildly) defended her. But still. It bothers me. Excerpted from Congratulations, by the Way: Some Thoughts on Kindness by George Saunders All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.