"Give me a voice, girl, I can talk with. Educated, black, with the color of who I am, not slang street jive, not Southern drawl, but educated color, not bookish white, not literary pretense. Give me a voice, girl, I can talk with. What do I sound like when I am on the page? What do I sound like in black and white? A voice. A voice. Girl, give me a voice. Or better yet, listen to the voice talking to you."

My character had rebelled and was talking to me through my pen. Though she was close friends with and shared my third novel with a white female protagonist, she and I were not yet in harmony. We both knew why. I was still in the way. White, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant, Southern, the I of self was struggling with the I of imagination. I had written black characters and white characters before, but Olivia Turner had to go the distance of a novel, on center stage, and she was smarter than I was. How she might transcend me was both of our concerns.

It was a concern which strikes at the central challenge for any writer of fiction who must record experience not only as he or she sees it but also be able to render the world through eyes other than her own, or perhaps more accurately through lenses so well-fitted to one's own inner eye that whole prisms of character come into focus. The clarity of the image produced relates to how well the writer can close the distance between the self and other, between experience and imagination.

Writers mark off this distance. It is their playing field. Writers watch people. They take notes. They imagine the world from the other's point of view. What would the world look like if I were six feet rather than 5'3"? If I'd grown up in a flat in London or on a farm in Kenya rather than in a house in North Dallas? How would the world appear if I were a man rather than a woman, black rather than white? In considering these many points of view, one is considering not only the differences but also what is fixed, what isn't a matter of perspective. The writer seeks the bond between himself and all those who aren't him.

Who am I? Who am I not? How do I relate to that which I am not? According to how well one comes to terms with these questions, marriages are made or dissolved, political policy is formed, war is started or peace is achieved, and good or bad fiction is written. For a writer, closing the distance and building the bridge between the self and the other is a matter of imagination and the ability to listen.

It is also the challenge and the adventure that will face every one of you as you go forward building your lives. Whatever your career — businessman or businesswoman, economist, lawyer, musician, astronaut, accountant, inventor, artist, computer programmer, writer — you all will be moving into a world where people will have backgrounds and points of view different from your own.

As the world shrinks in this process called "globalization," we find ourselves more interrelated than ever. Yet in the closing of the century and the beginning of this new millennium, the most aggressive conflicts are often among the closest neighbors — in Bosnia, Kosovo, Indonesia, the Great Lakes region in Africa, China.

In the years ahead there will be a premium on individuals who can build and walk across bridges between and among people. A Principia education gives you some unique qualifications to be these bridge-builders. I hope you will take what you've learned and go out into the world, not stay only in the community of those who think as you do, but go out to share and to learn.

Because I have a son who graduated from college three days ago, I have a particularly close view of the years in which the Class of 2000 grew up. You are in the first generation completely at home with computers and the Internet. You are probably guiding your parents through cyberspace. You have also most likely traveled significantly more on land and in the air than your parents had by your age. You have seen more of the country and more of the world. Even if you haven't left the borders of the U.S. yet, you have certainly seen the world on television.

This experience is shared by students everywhere in the Class of 2000, but what is perhaps not so widely shared and what Principia specifically offers is an appreciation of what links all of us over the globe — what truly closes the distance between the self and the other. It is an understanding and recognition of the spiritual identity of man. That is the real bond. That is the perspective which allows us to see the oneness of man rather than the divisions between men and women.

Seeking and recognizing this spiritual identity in your fellow man and woman will transform your activity — whether it be on Wall Street, in a courtroom, a classroom, a sports field, in fields of Kosovo or Kansas. It will turn the activity into a healing encounter. To close the distance between the self and the other, you don't have to live and imagine a hundred different lives. You have to look for and listen to the spirituality in everyone.

When I was at Principia, I used to sit on the bluffs, as I'm sure many of you have, and look out at the Mississippi River and try to imagine where my life would take me. I wrote down ideas and thoughts and observations. I tried with words to capture what I felt, what I knew, and what I wanted to know. It was at Principia that I glimpsed the possibilities of what being a writer might mean, first as a journalist, then as a novelist.

As editor of the Pilot, I challenged certain policies at Prin. When I interviewed for my job as a reporter on The Christian Science Monitor, the editor-in-chief confronted me: "I hear you were a thorn in the side of Principia," he said. I took a breath, then I told him the issues I'd written about: civil rights — articles urging Prin to recruit diverse students, labor issues — interviews with workers who went on strike on campus, Vietnam war protests I'd encountered in Europe when I was on Prin Abroad, the radical idea that women should be allowed to wear slacks in the library and that sophomore women should be allowed to single date off campus without special permission. The editor listened, then he nodded and said, "You're hired."

In my American literature class at Prin I felt the first stirrings that I might someday write novels, though at the time the prospect of writing a novel seemed to me as remote as walking on the moon, a walk which in fact occurred the year after I graduated.

In preparing for this talk today, I looked through old journals and files trying to remember the thoughts I was having when I was sitting where you are. A former Prin grad called me out of the blue on another issue. He didn't know I was preparing this address, but he said he'd come across something I'd written as a student. He read my words to me. Neither of us could remember when I'd written them; they were probably from my senior farewell address. But I remembered the sentiments as I contemplated the universe and the wider world back then and longed to connect to grand ideas. I won't read those words today; they were the words of a young writer hoping that lofty language might capture lofty ideas.

In my journey backward, however, I also came across another bit of writing, a few yellowed slips of paper given to me, I think, by my mother. The pages were excerpts from an interview with Brahms about the creative process. At the top of the first page was the name of the author and book, which I have since tracked down. It turns out that Talks with Great Composers has been reissued. I thought you might be interested in Brahms' insight on the creative process, a process which I think applies to all fields of work.

Brahms notes: "...Beethoven declared that his ideas came from God, and I can say the same.... I will now tell you and our young friend here about my method of communicating with the Infinite, for all truly inspired ideas come from God. Beethoven, who was my ideal, was well aware of this.... Not I, 'the Father that dwelleth within me, He doeth the works.' Jesus proclaimed a great truth when he said that, and when I am at my best while composing, I too feel that a higher power is working through me....

"Of course, a composer must have mastered the technique of composition, form, theory, harmony, counterpoint, instrumentation - but any musical person can do that if he has the proper application....

"To realize that we are one with the Creator, as Beethoven did, is a wonderful and awe-inspiring experience. Very few human beings ever come into that realization, and that is why there are so few great composers or creative geniuses in any line of human endeavor. I always contemplate all this before commencing to compose. This is the first step. When I feel the urge, I begin by appealing directly to my Maker, and I first ask Him the three most important questions pertaining to our life here in this world - whence, wherefore, whither?"

These questions reminded me of the journalist's mantra — who, what, when, where, why, and how — questions all journalists try to answer in their stories. It occurred to me that the most important of these questions to focus on in life is who, followed perhaps by how and why.

As you sit here today with your future plans in hand or with vague possibilities in mind or even in a state of confusion, the important question is who you are as you go forward into life. What you do, where you do it, and when, may be influenced, sometimes even dictated, by the actions of others, but no one can dictate who you are. You are responsible for the values and qualities of character you bring to the world, whatever your career may turn out to be. You are also responsible for how you do your work and the motives you bring to the activity.

Mary Baker Eddy summarized this point in the opening verse of her poem Satisfied:

It matters not what be thy lot,
So Love doth guide;
For storm or shine, pure peace is thine,
Whate'er betide.

Over the last decade and a half I've had the privilege to be engaged in working on behalf of writers all over the world who have found themselves threatened or imprisoned, or who have disappeared or even been killed because of their ideas and their writing. The work has involved some heart-breaking stories, but it has also involved stories of real courage. Many of the individuals survived because they refused to yield to the harsh realities they found themselves in. Instead they dwelled in their imaginations, and they held to their inner dignity.

I remember reading and hearing the testimony of those in prison in the Western Sahara in the early 1990's. They lived in cells so small and crowded that prisoners had to alternate sitting and lying down, because there was not room for everyone. They were forced to live on the most meager of rations and were rarely allowed outside to exercise. Many did not survive, but some of those who did spoke about how they used their monthly ration of soap to write poetry on their trousers and used coffee grounds to write on any scrap of paper they could find in the prison yard. They then memorized each other's verses to stay alive and sane.

The prison guards told them they might as well forget the outside world, for they would die in prison. But instead they imagined other worlds, and they lived in their imaginations. At the same time, those outside, around the globe imagined these men and worked on their behalf. Ultimately the men won their freedom. Ultimately, what they thought — their insistence on life — triumphed over what their captors thought about them.

Going forth into life with an understanding of what is fixed and what isn't subject to even the harshest circumstances — that is man's fundamental relationship to God — will sustain, protect and guide you. It will also bridge the distance between you and others.

The spiritual journey ahead will not let you off the hook in your daily life but will require your best efforts in all you do. No matter how grand or modest the activity you're involved in, the qualities of character you bring to that activity will open the way for you.

I recently attended an international conference on human rights in Katmandu, Nepal. On the flight there, the airplane suddenly lost altitude and then dropped again. Outside clouds were so thick that it looked as if we were flying through cotton wool. I could barely see the propeller outside the plane's window as the rain and wind hit and shook the airplane. Around us, though we couldn't see them anymore, rose the ranges of the Himalayas.

The captain ordered all passengers and flight attendants to take their seats immediately and fasten their seat belts. I don't know if others were praying, but I certainly was. I was also hoping that the captain, whom I had never met or even seen — but in whose hands I'd put myself — had been trained well and had taken his training and his subsequent flying very seriously. I hoped that he had studied hard, hadn't cut corners, and didn't perform at 80 percent of capacity when the highest performance was now required of him. I also hoped those on the ground who maintained this plane had taken their tasks — even the smallest — just as seriously.

I found myself also thinking of this commencement address. I thought that is what I want to say. I want to say how important each task is in our lives, how our journeys are formed by the dedication we bring to even the most modest activity, though at the time we may not see how the activity links to a greater plan and purpose.

I'm happy to report that the plane diverted to Delhi, and we waited out the storm on the runway, then finally landed in Katmandu.

Now, let me end this talk with a story, with weather as the connecting element. I apologize in advance if you've heard this one. It was a foggy night on the high seas. The fog was so thick that the ship's captain couldn't even see a few feet in front of him. Then in the not so distance a beam of a light shined directly at him. The captain had his radio operator call: "You are on our course; turn your ship ten degrees to the south."

A voice replied: "Turn your ship ten degrees to the north."

The radio operator repeated, "You must turn immediately ten degrees to the south."

The reply came: "You must immediately turn ten degrees to the north."

Finally the captain grabbed the transmitter: "This is Captain Thomas S. Jones. We are a United States aircraft carrier, and I am ordering you to turn your ship ten degrees to the south."

The voice in the fog replied: "Well, this is Willie Brown. And we are a lighthouse."

So, this is my advice: Go forward with an understanding of what lights you from within; trust that light to illumine and clear your path; look for that light in others; be flexible, changing course when wisdom calls; give to each task your best; and know that you are embarked on a spiritual adventure with many opportunities ahead for you to shine forth.