Class of 2025, congratulations! Schoolchildren no more. Let that sink in. It’s official - from this moment on, that status is denied you. That door clicks shut behind you. You can carry on being students all you like - good luck with that and more power to your collective elbows - but you’ll never be a schoolgirl or a schoolboy again. Like it or not, for better or worse, you’re done with school. You’ve moved on, never to return; unless, of course, it’s to return as teachers. No, don’t scoff; I caution you, there is precedent. 

Anyhow, whatever the future holds, right now you’re feeling justifiably proud of your efforts - efforts expended over not just the last six weeks of revision and examinations, but over the entirety of your careers as schoolchildren. The efforts of fifteen years, from kindergarten to graduation, from toddler through teen to tyro, some twenty thousand hours, dedicated to becoming who you are now, ICHK’s latest stories of success. 

It befalls me to say a few words. Words that might stick in your minds as you journey out into the world. Words that stand a chance of being remembered when so much else is forgotten; words that endure in your memory, and which set off vibrations that wax almost as often as they wane. 

With that intention, I invoke the wisdom of pearls. 

What is the wisdom of pearls? Well, I’ve already alluded to it: the wisdom of pearls is the simple fact that, as a standard issue human being, most of what you learn, you will forget. In fact, research suggests that 90% of what you learn will be wholly lost to you within a fortnight. Which sounds rather drastic and demoralising, until you consider the alternative. Imagine what it would be like to remember everything. Everything that happened to you. Every slight, every disappointment, every pratfall, every misstep and stumble. There could be few things more dispiriting. 

So, the wisdom of pearls reminds us that the fate of information is to be forgotten. Unless, that is, like a piece of grit lodged in an oyster, the information irritates. Or, to provide for optimism, not irritates, but resonates. 

Resonance qua irritation: that is the wisdom of pearls; and in line with this mortal insight, I am going to offer three pieces of grit to stick in your minds. First, a habit. Second, a cartoon. Third, a quotation. 

So, to begin: the habit. Read. Read books. Not comment sections, not websites, not magazines, not even journals or learned papers. No. Eschew screens; veto abbreviation. Go long-form. Sit down with a book, set aside an hour, maybe two, get comfortable, and read. I won’t say that it doesn’t matter what, but it almost doesn’t matter what. The habit comes first; get that straight and the good books will arrive in time. But, to make it happen, be a reader. 

Now, the second piece of grit: the cartoon.

Long-serving teachers in the audience will remember that I have commended this cartoon to a graduating class on a previous occasion. And if they do recall, after all these years, it will prove my point: it has resonated as a piece of grit in their oyster-like minds. In any case, I’ll not apologise for the repeat performance, because this is my all-time favourite cartoon. I employ the next phrase very carefully: it is a work of genius. I’m not sure whether Will McPhail, the cartoon’s creator is himself a genius (although knowing his work well, I suspect he may be), but if he’s not, I say confidently, he was touched by genius when devising this piece. 

I invite you to keep this cartoon always - literally, always - in your mind’s eye. Have it installed there, because it will remind you - and, who knows, perhaps, with luck, just in time - remind you of a tragic dimension of the human condition. A dimension that sees us drawn back time and time again to clunky, awkward, rudimentary technologies of human connivance - spurred on by motivations we cannot fathom, animated by forces we cannot control, haunted by desires whose sources we cannot trace - drawn back to catch the eel that we’ll never catch, and that, on reflection, we never wanted in the first place. For a contented life, I enjoin you: spot eels; unmask them; steer clear of the claw machine. 

And, at last, the ultimate grain: the quotation. These are the words of Eugene Gendlin, a thoughtful and a seasoned man. A man who’s been around the block a few times, kept company with some interesting folks, and who kept his ears and eyes open as he journeyed. I’m not exaggerating when I say that these may be the wisest twenty-six words I have encountered in a now longish life of encountering words. Taken seriously, dwelled with, gloried in, abided by, succumbed to, they might change the person you allow yourself to be: 

“We think more than we can say; we feel more than we can think; we live more than we can feel; and there’s much else besides.”

Class of 2025, what will you do besides live? It’s up to you to wonder in earnest. The time has come to picture the next steps. I hope your imaginations are kind and forgiving; and I wish you all the best of luck in making the most excellent bits come true.