I have watched my sister Mary stir a pot of broth with such steady hands that the steam rises in straight lines to meet the ceiling. When I was a boy, I thought ambition was a ladder made of oak and iron, something one could climb if only one had the strength. Now I see it is merely a fever in the blood, a burning that makes the eyes blind to everything but the one thing that cools them.

I ask you to look at your own hands before you write another line about glory or statecraft. See if there is not some quiet room in your chest where only one name fits, and let that be enough for all your days. Do not chase the slippery places of high praise; sit by the fire with your sister and watch the sparks fly up to the dark.