The lost art of conversation

They say conversation is an art. And like any other art, it demands of its practitioners a sustained commitment to observe certain informal, yet indispensable, conditions. This in turn requires a relatively considerable measure of self-discipline, for the activity of conversation consists of conditions toward which our inclinations do not readily gravitate. For the conditions of conversation need rules of civility, prescriptions for all who venture to engage in it to act honestly and charitably toward one another.

Ironically, as advances in telecommunications increase , people’s ability to converse or even communicate is rapidly degenerating. This trend is especially true among the vast majority of young people who spend their lives “speaking” to each other through instant messaging, “grammarless” blurbs of text messaging, and short comments on social networking sites, such as Myspace and Facebook.

The rules of conversation are of a formal character, so they are indifferent to the content of the conversation, and if the conversation involves an exchange between contrary views, it is equally indifferent as to which of the two (or more) views is most plausible or correct. There is a difference between a conversation and a debate. 


The value of debate, like the value of war, is derivative or extrinsic: both are a means to the end of victory, a goal believed to be superior to and independent of the activities that bring it to fruition. In contrast, the value of conversation is intrinsic to itself: it has no external end for the sake of which it is undertaken and in which it promises to achieve its culmination. It is its own end. While debate is an inherently adversarial activity in that the principle objective of the participants is to exploit their opponents’ weaknesses so as to reap benefits for themselves, conversation is an act of mutual self-sharing through which the alienation of each interlocutor from the other is overcome. 

Actors in a debate are “opponents,” but in a conversation they are neither “opponents” nor “allies.” but rather colleagues


 For the participants in a conversation are united by their shared commitment to the conversation-- the observance of the rules prescribing honesty and charity. Their goal, if conversation can be said to have a goal at all, is to keep the conversation going. 

There is another consideration that no discussion of conversation can afford to omit. The requirements of honesty and charity are inseparable from a willingness to genuinely listen to one’s interlocutor.

Americans and Indians are a loquacious people. The “information age” has exponentially increased the number of opportunities for communication, opportunities of which they have spared no occasion to avail themselves. We are constantly talking to others, whether in person, on our cell phones, or via e-mail and/or instant messaging. Perhaps it is because talking is at such a premium in our society that it is widely and almost invariably assumed that those who are most “talkative” are the best “conversationalists.” Whatever the reasons for this assumption, it is a misconception of the worst sort. 


While it is impossible for a person who seldom -- if ever -- speaks more than a few words at any given time to practice, let alone master, the art of conversation, an exceptionally talkative person is likely to have no less difficult a time of doing so. A propensity to talk is necessary for conversation, but it is far from sufficient. Unless we show a willingness to listen to what our partners in conversation have to say, conversation rapidly degenerates into an episode of self-aggrandizement. Those who are incessantly chatty love to hear themselves speak, but their excessive self-love comes at the cost of repelling others. We’re talking at each other rather than with each other.

The problem is that all of this talk comes at the expense of conversation. 
Conversations, as they tend to play out in person, are messy—full of pauses and interruptions and topic changes and assorted awkwardness. But the messiness is what allows for true exchange. It gives participants the time—and, just as important, the permission—to think and react and glean insights. “You can’t always tell, in a conversation, when the interesting bit is going to come,” Turkle says. “It’s like dancing: slow, slow, quick-quick, slow. You know? It seems boring, but all of a sudden there’s something, and whoa.” Occasional dullness, in other words, is to be not only expected, but celebrated. Some of the best parts of conversation are, as Turkle puts it, “the boring bits.” In software terms, they’re features rather than bugs.

The logic of conversation as it plays out across the Internet, however—the into-the-ether observations and the never-ending feeds and the many, many selfies—is fundamentally different, favoring showmanship over exchange, flows over ebbs. The Internet is always on. And it’s always judging you, watching you, goading you. True conversation needs us to look into each other’s eyes as we talk. We need to read each other’s movements.

Today it seems that everybody’s talking but  nobody’s is conversing.  For a conversation is a dialogue, not a monologue. 

As usual the Bard said it best: "Conversation should be pleasant without scurrility, witty without affectation, free without indecency, learned without conceitedness, novel without falsehood" 

Do elephants have souls?

A most absorbing article on elephants worth a read !

{http://www.thenewatlantis.com/publications/do-elephants-have-souls}

James Bond -- new research?

The british medical journal decides to research James bonds heroics and his reliance on alcohol. Their conclusions and recommendations.

Excess alcohol consumption is a societal and health problem throughout the world. Around 4% of deaths worldwide are related to alcohol, with 2.5 million deaths a year attributable to its use.. Death is most commonly caused by injury, liver cirrhosis, poisoning, and malignancy. In the entertainment world, however, excess alcohol consumption is often portrayed in a positive, even glamorous, light. Of particular note are the drinking habits of James Bond, the quintessential British spy in the novels of Ian Fleming. He is renowned for enjoying cigarettes, alcohol, and women, with a catchphrase of “vodka martini—shaken, not stirred.”

James Bond has often been seen as a strong role model. He is admired for his performance under pressure and his ability to be master of all situations he encounters. We were struck, while reading the original James Bond books, that his alcohol consumption seemed rather high and wondered whether he would realistically have the capacity to perform (in all aspects of his life ) at his high level of alcohol intake. Previous analyses of Bond’s drinking behaviour have examined the types of alcohol he has drunk and the total number of drinks but have never studied the number of units of alcohol this represents and the potential health effects of this.

Ideally vodka martinis should be stirred, not shaken. That Bond would make such an elementary mistake in his preferences seemed incongruous with his otherwise impeccable mastery of culinary etiquette. We examined Bond’s alcohol consumption to determine whether he might have been unable to stir his drinks because of the persistent shaking of alcohol induced tremor, making it more socially acceptable to ask for his drinks “shaken, not stirred.”

Objective  of research: To quantify James Bond’s consumption of alcohol as detailed in the series of novels by Ian Fleming.

Design Retrospective literature review.

Setting The study authors’ homes, in a comfy chair.

Participants Commander James Bond, 007; Mr Ian Lancaster Fleming.

Main outcome measures Weekly alcohol consumption by Commander Bond.

Methods All 14 James Bond books were read by two of the authors. Contemporaneous notes were taken detailing every alcoholic drink taken. Predefined alcohol unit levels were used to calculate consumption. Days when Bond was unable to consume alcohol (such as through incarceration) were noted.

Results After exclusion of days when Bond was unable to drink, his weekly alcohol consumption was 92 units a week, over four times the recommended amount. His maximum daily consumption was 49.8 units. He had only 12.5 alcohol free days out of 87.5 days on which he was able to drink.

Conclusions James Bond’s level of alcohol intake puts him at high risk of multiple alcohol related diseases and an early death. The level of functioning as displayed in the books is inconsistent with the physical, mental, and indeed sexual functioning expected from someone drinking this much alcohol. We advise an immediate referral for further assessment and treatment, a reduction in alcohol consumption to safe levels, and suspect that the famous catchphrase “shaken, not stirred” could be because of alcohol induced tremor affecting his hands.

The virtues of failure

( the article is by coatica a bradatan)

If there was ever a time to think seriously about failure, it is now.

We are firmly in an era of accelerated progress. We are witness to advancements in science, the arts, technology, medicine and nearly all forms of human achievement at a rate never seen before. We know more about the workings of the human brain and of distant galaxies than our ancestors could imagine. The design of a superior kind of human being – healthier, stronger, smarter, more handsome, more enduring – seems to be in the works. Even immortality may now appear feasible, a possible outcome of better and better biological engineering.

Certainly the promise of continual human progress and improvement is alluring. But there is a danger there, too — that in this more perfect future, failure will become obsolete.

Why should we care? And more specifically, why should philosophy care about failure? Doesn’t it have better things to do? The answer is simple: Philosophy is in the best position to address failure because it knows it intimately. The history of Western philosophy at least is nothing but a long succession of failures, if productive and fascinating ones. 

Any major philosopher typically asserts herself by addressing the “failures,” “errors,” “fallacies” or “naiveties” of other philosophers, only to be, in turn, dismissed by others as yet another failure. Every new philosophical generation takes it as its duty to point out the failures of the previous one; it is as though, no matter what it does, philosophy is doomed to fail. Yet from failure to failure, it has thrived over the centuries. As Emmanuel Levinas memorably put it , “the best thing about philosophy is that it fails.” Failure, it seems, is what philosophy feeds on, what keeps it alive. As it were, philosophy succeeds only in so far as it fails.

Failure is significant for several reasons. 

First, failure allows us to see our existence in its naked condition.

Whenever it occurs, failure reveals just how close our existence is to its opposite. Out of our survival instinct, or plain sightlessness, we tend to see the world as a solid, reliable, even indestructible place. And we find it extremely difficult to conceive of that world existing without us. “It is entirely impossible for a thinking being to think of its own non-existence, of the termination of its thinking and life,” observed Goethe. Self-deceived as we are, we forget how close to not being we always are. The failure of, say, a plane engine could be more than enough to put an end to everything; even a falling rock or a car’s faulty brakes can do the job. And while it may not be always fatal, failure always carries with it a certain degree of existential threat.

Failure is the sudden irruption of nothingness into the midst of existence. To experience failure is to start seeing the cracks in the fabric of being, and that’s precisely the moment when, properly digested, failure turns out to be a blessing in disguise. For it is this lurking, constant threat that should make us aware of the extraordinariness of our being: the miracle that we exist at all when there is no reason that we should. Knowing that gives us some dignity.

In this role, failure also possesses a distinct therapeutic function. Most of us (the most self-aware or enlightened excepted) suffer chronically from a poor adjustment to existence; we compulsively fancy ourselves much more important than we are and behave as though the world exists only for our sake; in our worst moments, we place ourselves like infants at the center of everything and expect the rest of the universe to be always at our service. We insatiably devour other species, denude the planet of life and fill it with trash. Failure could be a medicine against such arrogance and hubris, as it often brings humility.

Our capacity to fail is essential to what we are.

We need to preserve, cultivate, even treasure this capacity. It is crucial that we remain fundamentally imperfect, incomplete, erring creatures; in other words, that there is always a gap left between what we are and what we can be. Whatever human accomplishments there have been in history, they have been possible precisely because of this empty space. It is within this interval that people, individuals as well as communities, can accomplish anything. Not that we’ve turned suddenly into something better; we remain the same weak, faulty material. But the spectacle of our shortcomings can be so unbearable that sometimes it shames us into doing a little good. Ironically, it is the struggle with our own failings that may bring the best in us.

The gap between what we are and what we can be is also the space in which utopias are conceived. Utopian literature, at its best, may document in detail our struggle with personal and societal failure. While often constructed in worlds of excess and plenitude, utopias are a reaction to the deficits and precariousness of existence; they are the best expression of what we lack most. Thomas More’s book is not so much about some imaginary island, but about the England of his time. Utopias may look like celebrations of human perfection, but read in reverse they are just spectacular admissions of failure, imperfection and embarrassment.

And yet it is crucial that we keep dreaming and weaving utopias. If it weren’t for some dreamers, we would live in a much uglier world today. But above all, without dreams and utopias we would dry out as a species. Suppose one day science solves all our problems: We will be perfectly healthy, live indefinitely, and our brains, thanks to some enhancement, will work like a computer. On that day we may be something very interesting, but I am not sure we will have what to live for. We will be virtually perfect and essentially dead.

Ultimately, our capacity to fail makes us what we are; our being as essentially failing creatures lies at the root of any aspiration. Failure, fear of it and learning how to avoid it in the future are all part of a process through which the shape and destiny of humanity are decided. That’s why, as I hinted earlier, the capacity to fail is something that we should absolutely preserve, no matter what the professional optimists say. Such a thing is worth treasuring, even more so than artistic masterpieces, monuments or other accomplishments. For, in a sense, the capacity to fail is much more important than any individual human achievements: It is that which makes them possible.

We are designed to fail.

No matter how successful our lives turn out to be, how smart, industrious or diligent we are, the same end awaits us all: “biological failure.” The “existential threat” of that failure has been with us all along, though in order to survive in a state of relative contentment, most of us have pretended not to see it. Our pretense, however, has never stopped us from moving toward our destination; faster and faster, “in inverse ratio to the square of the distance from death,” as Tolstoy’s Ivan Ilyich expertly describes the process. Yet Tolstoy’s character is not of much help here. The more essential question is rather how to approach the grand failure, how to face it and embrace it and own it — something poor Ivan fails to do.

A better model may be Ingmar Bergman’s Antonius Block, from the film “The Seventh Seal.” A knight returning from the Crusades and plunged into crisis of faith, Block is faced with the grand failure in the form of a man. He does not hesitate to engage Death head-on. He doesn’t flee, doesn’t beg for mercy — he just challenges him to a game of chess. Needless to say, he cannot succeed in such a game — no one can — but victory is not the point. You play against the grand, final failure not to win, but to learn how to fail.

Bergman the philosopher teaches us a great lesson here. We will all end in failure, but that’s not the most important thing. What really matters is how we fail and what we gain in the process. During the brief time of his game with Death, Antonius Block must have experienced more than he did all his life; without that game he would have lived for nothing. In the end, of course, he loses, but accomplishes something rare. He not only turns failure into an art, but manages to make the art of failing an intimate part of the art of living.

Thoughts on mortality

I was fortunate to see mortality in the near distance. Stepping outside that experience, as writers tend to do, it had elements of a physics experiment. As I awaited to learn my fate, I noticed an effect on matter — an odd intensification of physical experience. Things around you offer more friction and hold your attention longer. Commonplace things like the bumps on tree bark. The light filtering through floating dust. The wetness of water. A contrast knob is turned, revealing the vivid pleasures of merely existing.

This heightened awareness applies to strangers in the street, who suddenly have faces. An unsolicited smile, the obvious creases of worry or pain, engage your emotions. There is nothing more democratic than mortality. Even if we are insects, we are insects (said Dickens) on the same leaf.

All of this is a function of a shifting perception of time. When the days seem limited, we more fully inhabit them. The arrow of time makes decay inevitable — and each moment unrecoverable. So we gain in appreciation for things as they are when we realize they will eventually be otherwise.

It was not my time, thank God, to demonstrate such generosity. I’m left, for the moment, to experience some additional moments and to hope there is a plot behind random and witless events. But I’ve gained — along with many given a fatal diagnosis — a greater appreciation for the familiar words of the psalmist: “Teach us to number our days.”

On sadness

Lately I have been in grip of periods of sadness. I don't know where it comes from. Or even what triggers these bouts of infinite sadness? It may be a harsh word, a careless remark or it may be a tragedy a million miles away. Any loss can trigger sadness -- it might even accompany a beautiful sunset that signals the end of the day. We might not always know what makes us feel sad -- it could be a shift in our body chemistry with its changing hormones, blood sugar levels, etc. Or it could be a feeling that life is rushing by leaving you only as a helpless onlooker. But these bouts of sadness do occur. 

You may awake " each morning with the desire to do right, to be a good and meaningful person, to be, as simple as it sounded and as impossible as it actually was, happy." But during the course of each day your heart would descend from the chest into the stomach. By early afternoon you maybe  overcome by the feeling that nothing was right and by the desire to be alone. By evening you maybe fulfilled: alone in the magnitude of your grief, alone in this aimless guilt, alone even in your loneliness. I am not sad, you could repeat to yourself over and over, I am not sad. As if you might one day convince your self. Or convince others--the only thing worse than being sad is for others to know that you are sad. I am not sad. I am not sad. "Because his life had unlimited potential for happiness, insofar as it was an empty white room. He would fall asleep with his heart at the foot of his bed, like some domesticated animal that was no part of him at all. And each morning he would wake with it again in the cupboard of his rib cage, having become a little heavier, a little weaker, but still pumping. And by the midafternoon he was again overcome with the desire to be somewhere else, someone else, someone else somewhere else. I am not sad.” writes Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything Is Illuminated

But these feelings of sadness do periodically engulf one till you make an effort to break through. “Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not said Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Oftentimes all it needs is a period of silent contemplation. Sitting on my terrace looking at the fiery red sunsets in the west, the sounds of whirring medical helicopters on way to the nearest hospital. Just sitting at peace with the world forgetting the painful past and refusing to muse on the future. Just sitting quietly in the present till sadness slowly dissolves and so that I can think of the good fortune god has seen fit to bestow on me.

No one ever has a problem dealing with happiness or feeling good. When joy comes into our life we experience it freely, but when sadness or grief is present, we often struggle with them. We live in a culture that tells us to "put on a happy face," and this can make it very difficult to be comfortable with sadness. Yet sadness and grief are a normal part of everyone's life. Whether they are caused by a major loss such as the death of a loved one, or smaller everyday setbacks, we can learn to live with them with greater ease.

Not only can we become more at ease with these feelings, it is indeed vital to our health and well-being that we handle grief and sadness in a healthy way. For a healthy emotional life, we need to honor all of our emotions and allow them room for expression. When sadness comes, we need to allow ourselves to feel it fully. It helps to understand that it is a normal, natural reaction to loss, and not an indication that there is something wrong with us.

 In addition to accepting our sadness as a normal part of life, and allowing it to be present, there are some other ways we can help ourselves through sad times 

1. Share what you are feeling with a trusted friend or family member, in particular someone who can listen without judging us or trying to change you. The simple experience of being "accompanied" with your feelings can be comforting.

2. Take time to do something that is nourishing and soothing to you. Take a leisurely walk, get a massage, curl up with a good book, do gardening or other favorite hobby. 

3. Find a way to slow down and relax. This will allow the feelings to be released. Meditate, listen to some relaxing music, do some simple stretches.

4. Write in a journal or diary. When we do this, it feels as if we have an ideal listener with whom we can confide. Expressing and exploring your feelings in this way can bring perspective and comfort.

5. Learn to be your own best friend. Step back and view yourself with compassion and love. Notice if you are judging yourself harshly ("you should be over this by now"), and find sympathy for yourself instead.

A tribute to Mandela

A South African chain store has laid on one of the most touching tributes to Nelson Mandela we've seen in the past week – and it was in the form of a flash mob.

Woolworths teamed up with the Soweto Gospel Choir, who posed as shoppers and store workers at the Parkview store in Johannesburg.

The choir then began an "impromtu" rendition of Asimbonanga [We have not seen him], singing:

Asimbonanga [we have not seen him]
Asimbonang' uMandela thina [we have not seen Mandela]
Laph'ekhona [in the place where he is]
Laph'ehleli khona [in the place where he is kept]

Asimbonanga
Asimbonang 'umfowethu thina [we have not seen our brother]
Laph'ekhona [in the place where he is]
Laph'wafela khona [in the place where he died]
Sithi: Hey, wena [We say: hey, you]
Hey, wena nawe [Hey, you and you]
Siyofika nini la' siyakhona [when will we arrive at our destination]

The song was written during Mandela's incarceration as a call for his freedom. 

Watch it here:

Obamas speech at Mandelas funeral

http://www.cnn.com/2013/12/10/politics/mandela-obama-remarks/


To the people of South Africa -- people of every race and walk of life -- the world thanks you for sharing Nelson Mandela with us. His struggle was your struggle. His triumph was your triumph. Your dignity and hope found expression in his life, and your freedom, your democracy is his cherished legacy.

It is hard to eulogize any man -- to capture in words not just the facts and the dates that make a life, but the essential truth of a person -- their private joys and sorrows; the quiet moments and unique qualities that illuminate someone's soul. How much harder to do so for a giant of history, who moved a nation toward justice, and in the process moved billions around the world.

Born during World War I, far from the corridors of power, a boy raised herding cattle and tutored by elders of his Thembu tribe -- Madiba would emerge as the last great liberator of the 20th century.

Photos: Nelson Mandela memorial service

Obama shakes Raul Castro's hand

Obama, Bush families arrive in Johannesburg

Fellow Mandela prisoner praises rain

Like Gandhi, he would lead a resistance movement -- a movement that at its start held little prospect of success. Like King, he would give potent voice to the claims of the oppressed, and the moral necessity of racial justice. He would endure a brutal imprisonment that began in the time of Kennedy and Khrushchev, and reached the final days of the Cold War.

Emerging from prison, without force of arms, he would -- like Lincoln -- hold his country together when it threatened to break apart. Like America's founding fathers, he would erect a constitutional order to preserve freedom for future generations -- a commitment to democracy and rule of law ratified not only by his election, but by his willingness to step down from power.

Given the sweep of his life, and the adoration that he so rightly earned, it is tempting then to remember Nelson Mandela as an icon, smiling and serene, detached from the tawdry affairs of lesser men.

But Madiba himself strongly resisted such a lifeless portrait. Instead, he insisted on sharing with us his doubts and fears; his miscalculations along with his victories. "I'm not a saint," he said, "unless you think of a saint as a sinner who keeps on trying."

It was precisely because he could admit to imperfection, because he could be so full of good humor, even mischief, despite the heavy burdens he carrie, that we loved him so. He was not a bust made of marble; he was a man of flesh and blood -- a son and husband, a father and a friend.

That is why we learned so much from him; that is why we can learn from him still. For nothing he achieved was inevitable. In the arc of his life, we see a man who earned his place in history through struggle and shrewdness; persistence and faith. He tells us what's possible not just in the pages of dusty history books, but in our own lives as well.

Mandela showed us the power of action; of taking risks on behalf of our ideals. Perhaps Madiba was right that he inherited, "a proud rebelliousness, a stubborn sense of fairness" from his father.

Ban Ki-Moon remembers Mandela lessons

Mandela memorial: World leader montage

Certainly he shared with millions of black and colored South Africans the anger born of, "a thousand slights, a thousand indignities, a thousand unremembered moments ... a desire to fight the system that imprisoned my people."

But like other early giants of the ANC -- the Sisulus and Tambos -- Madiba disciplined his anger; and channeled his desire to fight into organization, and platforms, and strategies for action, so men and women could stand up for their dignity. Moreover, he accepted the consequences of his actions, knowing that standing up to powerful interests and injustice carries a price.

"I have fought against white domination and I have fought against black domination," he said at his 1964 trial. "I've cherished the ideal of a democratic and free society in which all persons live together in harmony and with equal opportunities. It is an ideal which I hope to live for and to achieve. But if needs be, it is an ideal for which I am prepared to die."

Mandela taught us the power of action, but also ideas; the importance of reason and arguments; the need to study not only those you agree with, but those who you don't. He understood that ideas cannot be contained by prison walls, or extinguished by a sniper's bullet.

He turned his trial into an indictment of apartheid because of his eloquence and passion, but also his training as an advocate. He used decades in prison to sharpen his arguments, but also to spread his thirst for knowledge to others in the movement. And he learned the language and customs of his oppressor so that one day he might better convey to them how their own freedom depended upon his.

Mandela demonstrated that action and ideas are not enough; no matter how right, they must be chiseled into laws and institutions. He was practical, testing his beliefs against the hard surface of circumstance and history. On core principles he was unyielding, which is why he could rebuff offers of conditional release, reminding the apartheid regime that, "prisoners cannot enter into contracts."

But as he showed in painstaking negotiations to transfer power and draft new laws, he was not afraid to compromise for the sake of a larger goal. And because he was not only a leader of a movement, but a skillful politician, the constitution that emerged was worthy of this multiracial democracy; true to his vision of laws that protect minority as well as majority rights, and the precious freedoms of every South African.

Finally, Mandela understood the ties that bind the human spirit. There is a word in South Africa -- Ubuntu - that describes his greatest gift: his recognition that we are all bound together in ways that can be invisible to the eye; that there is a oneness to humanity; that we achieve ourselves by sharing ourselves with others, and caring for those around us.

We can never know how much of this was innate in him, or how much of was shaped and burnished in a dark, solitary cell. But we remember the gestures, large and small - introducing his jailers as honored guests at his inauguration; taking the pitch in a springbok uniform; turning his family's heartbreak into a call to confront HIV/AIDS - that revealed the depth of his empathy and understanding.

He not only embodied Ubuntu; he taught millions to find that truth within themselves. It took a man like Madiba to free not just the prisoner, but the jailer as well; to show that you must trust others so that they may trust you; to teach that reconciliation is not a matter of ignoring a cruel past, but a means of confronting it with inclusion, generosity and truth. He changed laws, but also hearts.

For the people of South Africa, for those he inspired around the globe, Madiba's passing is rightly a time of mourning, and a time to celebrate his heroic life. But I believe it should also prompt in each of us a time for self-reflection. With honesty, regardless of our station or circumstance, we must ask: how well have I applied his lessons in my own life?

It is a question I ask myself as a man and as a President. We know that like South Africa, the United States had to overcome centuries of racial subjugation. As was true here, it took the sacrifice of countless people -- known and unknown -- to see the dawn of a new day. Michelle and I are the beneficiaries of that struggle.

But in America and South Africa, and countries around the globe, we cannot allow our progress to cloud the fact that our work is not done. The struggles that follow the victory of formal equality and universal franchise may not be as filled with drama and moral clarity as those that came before, but they are no less important.

For around the world today, we still see children suffering from hunger, and disease; run-down schools, and few prospects for the future. Around the world today, men and women are still imprisoned for their political beliefs; and are still persecuted for what they look like, or how they worship, or who they love.

Nelson Mandela reminds us that it always seems impossible until it is donePresident Barack Obama

We, too, must act on behalf of justice. We, too, must act on behalf of peace. There are too many of us who happily embrace Madiba's legacy of racial reconciliation, but passionately resist even modest reforms that would challenge chronic poverty and growing inequality.

There are too many leaders who claim solidarity with Madiba's struggle for freedom, but do not tolerate dissent from their own people. And there are too many of us who stand on the sidelines, comfortable in complacency or cynicism when our voices must be heard.

The questions we face today -- how to promote equality and justice; to uphold freedom and human rights; to end conflict and sectarian war -- do not have easy answers. But there were no easy answers in front of that child in Qunu.

Nelson Mandela reminds us that it always seems impossible until it is done. South Africa shows us that is true. South Africa shows us we can change. We can choose to live in a world defined not by our differences, but by our common hopes. We can choose a world defined not by conflict, but by peace and justice and opportunity.

We will never see the likes of Nelson Mandela again. But let me say to the young people of Africa, and young people around the world -- you can make his life's work your own. Over 30 years ago, while still a student, I learned of Mandela and the struggles in this land. It stirred something in me.

It woke me up to my responsibilities -- to others, and to myself -- and set me on an improbable journey that finds me here today. And while I will always fall short of Madiba's example, he makes me want to be better. He speaks to what is best inside us. After this great liberator is laid to rest; when we have returned to our cities and villages, and rejoined our daily routines, let us search then for his strength -- for his largeness of spirit -- somewhere inside ourselves.

And when the night grows dark, when injustice weighs heavy on our hearts, or our best laid plans seem beyond our reach -- think of Madiba, and the words that brought him comfort within the four walls of a cell:

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

What a great soul it was. We will miss him deeply. May God bless the memory of Nelson Mandela. May God bless the people of South Africa.