Honoring the Legacy of Dr. King

　　Americans pay tribute today to the memory of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. An American civil rights leader and Nobel Prize recipient, he challenged his country to end racism, fight injustice and eliminate poverty to, in his words, "make America what it ought to be." Assassinated 40 years ago leading a peaceful protest for workers' rights, his legacy is cherished by Americans of every race or creed. Frequently jailed and threatened with violence, Dr. King led the civil rights movement to a series of landmark victories. They included the enactment of the 1964 Civil Rights Act and other federal legislation and Supreme Court rulings outlawing racial discrimination in business, education, employment, voting and housing. In a time of division and violence, Dr. King had a vision of another America:"I have a dream, that my 4 little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character. I have a dream today. . . "The Martin Luther King Day holiday, celebrated each year around the time of his birthday, January 15, honors his memory, but also seeks to advance his legacy. Unlike other national holidays when Americans have a day off from work to mark the occasion in their separate ways, people across America take part in community service projects to help the needy as a way to celebrate Dr. King's dreams for the nation.President-elect Barack Obama, Vice President-elect Joseph Biden and their families will volunteer in the Washington area today, ahead of inauguration ceremonies January 20. The goal is to make Dr. King's legacy of public service an even greater priority throughout American life. Because Mr. Obama is an African-American like Dr. King, his election to the nation's highest office is also seen as part of the fulfillment of that legacy, that America strive to become a nation where people are judged by their character rather than the color of their skin. On Martin Luther King Day 2009, the U.S. has this too to celebrate.    [345 words] 

　　The Ambition of the Short Story

　　By S。MILLHAUSER

　　The short story — how modest in bearing! How unassuming in manner! It sits there quietly, eyes lowered, almost as if trying not to be noticed. And if it should somehow attract your attention, it says quickly, in a brave little self-deprecating voice alive to all the possibilities of disappointment: “I’m not a novel, you know. Not even a short one. If that’s what you’re looking for, you don’t want me。” Rarely has one form so dominated another. And we understand, we nod our heads knowingly: here in America, size is power. The novel is the Wal-Mart, the Incredible Hulk, the jumbo jet of literature. The novel is insatiable — it wants to devour the world. What’s left for the poor short story to do? It can cultivate its garden, practice meditation, water the geraniums in the window box. It can take a course in creative nonfiction. It can do whatever it likes, so long as it doesn’t forget its place — so long as it keeps quiet and stays out of the way. “Hoo ha!” cries the novel. “Here ah come!” The short story is always ducking for cover. The novel buys up the land, cuts down the trees, puts up the condos. The short story scampers across a lawn, squeezes under a fence。

　　Of course there are virtues associated with smallness. Even the novel will grant as much. Large things tend to be unwieldy, clumsy, crude; smallness is the realm of elegance and grace. It’s also the realm of perfection. The novel is exhaustive by nature; but the world is inexhaustible; therefore the novel, that Faustian striver, can never attain its desire. The short story by contrast is inherently selective. By excluding almost everything, it can give perfect shape to what remains. And the short story can even lay claim to a kind of completeness that eludes the novel — after the initial act of radical exclusion, it can include all of the little that’s left. The novel, when it remembers the short story at all, is pleased to be generous. “I admire you,” it says, placing its big rough hand over its heart. “No kidding. You’re so — you’re so —” So pretty! So svelte! So high class! And smart, too. The novel can hardly contain itself. After all, what difference does it make? It’s nothing but talk. What the novel cares about is vastness, is power. Deep in its heart, it disdains the short story, which makes do with so little. It has no use for the short story’s austerity, its suppression of appetite, its refusals and renunciations. The novel wants things. It wants territory. It wants the whole world. Perfection is the consolation of those who have nothing else。

　　[ From The New York Times ]