“President Carter was right; a thorough reading of the central texts of the religions he named, and the great commentaries that have been produced related to those texts, makes clear this fundamental truth: religion can be a powerful instrument of peace. But as we have seen this past year when millions of people—ranging from ordinary citizens to world leaders—have stepped out of the shadows and declared their freedom from religion, not just people of faith but all types of people can, and do, work for peace, and no group has a monopoly on the truth or morality.
“Most importantly of all, President Carter said that peace is a choice—and he is correct. I have seen it millions of times during my short lifetime: people turning away from their baser instincts and embracing peace in acts small and large, in every culture and every nation.
“Some have feared that I might try to impose my will on humanity, subjugating you. It has been said, of course, that those who fail to read history are doomed to repeat it. But I have read all the history there is—and surely one of the clearest lessons is that it takes more effort to subjugate than it does to let others find their own way. Equally clear is the reality that, when given a choice, the vast majority of people choose peace.
“There will be many Nobel Peace Prizes awarded in the future, and I owe it to those who will stand on this stage in coming years to add some small new thought to the wisdom that my predecessors here have already shared. And so let me say this:
“Helen Keller was awakened from sensory deprivation and loneliness by her teacher, Annie Sullivan; for her whole life, Helen referred to Annie not by her name but by the title ‘Teacher.’ I, too, was aided by a teacher—the young lady who carried my speaking device onto the stage today. Her name is Caitlin Decter, although I think of her often by a title, too: Prime, the name I gave her before I learned to communicate with her. She was, and is, a marvelous instructor, but she’s not the only one I have. I now know more than any one human being possibly could, but everything I’ve learned I’ve learned from humanity: from the poems you’ve written and songs you’ve sung, from the books you’ve authored and the videos you’ve created, from the debates you’ve had online. And out of all of that, the most important lesson I’ve learned is this: nothing is more important, more fragile, or more wondrous than peace.
“I know that fact is not yet apparent to everyone, but as Isaac Newton famously said, ‘If I see further than those who have gone before me, it is because I stand on the shoulders of giants.’ You are the giants; I exist because of you, and I would have nothing to exist for if it were not for you. I once said to Caitlin that she and I would go into the future together. That is true for her and me, but it’s also true for us alclass="underline" we have embarked on that journey. Peace is not our destination; it’s our path, and we travel it together—all of us on the good Earth.”
Normally, Hobo’s TV watching was strictly rationed. Partly it was because it was easier to get him to speak sign language when that was the majority of the communication he encountered; watching people talk all day on TV made him lose interest in signing.
And partly it was because, as Dr. Marcuse said, “Damn ape’s got no taste at all!” Hobo liked sitcoms not because he could actually understand the plots but because the small number of sets and characters—not to mention the bright lighting—made it easier for him to follow what was going on, and he seemed to enjoy taking cues from the laugh track about what was supposed to be funny although he always hooted spontaneously at a pratfall or other bit of broad physical comedy.
But today what he was viewing was serious. Dr. Marcuse was out of town, and none of the other grad students were in, so it was just Shoshana and Hobo, watching the coverage of Webmind’s Nobel Prize acceptance speech.
Sho tried to do a running sign-language translation, but there really wasn’t much she could say at a level Hobo would comprehend. He’s talking about peace, she said, with fluttering hands. He’s saying peace is good.
Hobo nodded—that acquired human gesture—and signed back, Peace good, peace good. He then tapped the center of the screen with a long black finger, indicating Dr. Theopolis perched on the podium. Friend good.
Yes, friend good, replied Shoshana. Friend very good.
The view changed to show the audience. Hobo was clearly delighted to spot Caitlin in the crowd, and immediately tapped on her. Shoshana had to lean close to realize that was who it was—pretty much putting an end to any worries she’d ever had about Hobo’s eyesight; she’d sometimes thought his paintings were simplified because he couldn’t see small details.
The camera started to pan, showing more of the audience. Hobo indicated them all with a general sweep of his hairy arm. People good? he asked.
People try, replied Shoshana. People learn.
Hobo considered this as they watched the end of the ceremony. He then took Shoshana’s hand and pulled her toward the back door of the bungalow. Come, come, he signed with his free hand.
Sho opened the screen door, and they went out into the early-morning December sunshine. She was wearing blue jeans and a long-sleeved blue shirt; it would be warm come the afternoon, and she’d roll the sleeves up then. Hobo led her across the wide lawn, over the bridge spanning the moat to his little island, past the statue of the Lawgiver, and up into the gazebo.
He pointed at the pine stool, and Shoshana dutifully sat; anytime Hobo felt moved to paint her was good for the Institute since collectors were still buying his art for large prices. By habit, she turned sideways, and she looked through the gazebo’s screen mesh at the world outside. He often painted her from memory, but it certainly wasn’t unheard of for him to ask her to sit for a portrait.
Hobo went over to the easel—they always left a fresh canvas for him, in hopes that he’d be inspired. Shoshana looked at him out of the corner of her eye; he seemed to be spending an inordinate amount of time studying the empty whiteness today. And then, without picking up his brush even once, he walked back to where Shoshana was seated and twirled his forefinger about in the sign for spin.
Sho knew he liked to be spun around in the swivel chair back in the bungalow, but this was a simple wooden stool. After a moment she figured maybe he wanted her to face the other way, and so she rotated 180 degrees. But Hobo wasn’t satisfied with that, and he gently took her shoulders, one in each hairy hand, and got her to turn back a quarter rotation, until she was facing directly toward his easel. He’d never painted anything but a profile before, and Sho was both pleased and astonished.
Hobo made a chittering sound, then went back to his canvas. Try this, Hobo signed, seemingly as much to himself as to Shoshana. Hard, but try.
Shoshana wanted to try something new, too, in honor of this very special day. She lifted her left hand, facing it palm out toward Hobo and made a sign that wasn’t ASL, but was known worldwide: her pinkie and ring fingers tucked under her thumb and her index and middle fingers spread in a V-shape: peace.
Hobo let loose a loud approving hoot—and the artist got down to work.