For August WilsonNo one quarrels here, no one has learnedthe yell of discontent—instead, here in Sumterwe learn to grow silent, build a stoneof resolve, learn to nod, learn to closein the flame of shame and angerin our hearts, learn to petrify it so,and the more we quiet our ire,the heavier the stone; this alchemyof concrete in the vein, the sludgeof affront, until even that will calcifyand the heart, at last, will stop,unassailable, unmovable, adamant.Find me a man who will standon a blasted hill and shout,find me a woman who will break into shouts, who will let loosea river of lament, find the howlof the spirit, teach us the tonguesof the angry so that our blood,my pulse—our hearts flowwith the warm healing of anger.You, August, have carried in your bellyevery song of affront your charactershave spoken, and maybe you waitedtoo long to howl against the night,but each evening on some woodenstage, these men and women,learn to sing songs lost for centuries,learn the healing of talk, the calmingof quarrel, the music of contention,and in this cacophonic chorus,we find the ritual of living.