Here’s the text of a speech Bill Watterson gave at Kenyon College, Gambier
Ohio, to the 1990 graduating class. He says in his speech he was in their
shoes 10 years ago, that makes him a 1980 grad, and about 38 yrs old
Thanks a million to Kenyon College Graduate Scott Mabry for providing it.
SOME THOUGHTS ON THE REAL WORLD BY ONE WHO GLIMPSED IT AND FLED
Kenyon College Commencement
May 20, 1990
I have a recurring dream about Kenyon. In it, I’m walking to the post
office on the way to my first class at the start of the school year.
Suddenly it occurs to me that I don’t have my schedule memorized, and I’m
not sure which classes I’m taking, or where exactly I’m supposed to be
going. As I walk up the steps to the postoffice, I realize I don’t have
my box key, and in fact, I can’t remember what my box number is. I’m
certain that everyone I know has written me a letter, but I can’t get
them. I get more flustered and annoyed by the minute. I head back to
Middle Path, racking my brains and asking myself, “How many more years
until I graduate? …Wait, didn’t I graduate already?? How old AM I?” Then
I wake up.
Experience is food for the brain. And four years at Kenyon is a rich meal.
I suppose it should be no surprise that your brains will probably burp up
Kenyon for a long time. And I think the reason I keep having the dream is
because its central image is a metaphor for a good part of life: that is,
not knowing where you’re going or what you’re doing. I graduated exactly
ten years ago. That doesn’t give me a great deal of experience to speak
from, but I’m emboldened by the fact that I can’t remember a bit of MY
commencement, and I trust that in half an hour, you won’t remember of
In the middle of my sophomore year at Kenyon, I decided to paint a copy of
Michelangelo’s “Creation of Adam” from the Sistine Chapel on the ceiling
of my dorm room. By standing on a chair, I could reach the ceiling, and I
taped off a section, made a grid, and started to copy the picture from my
art history book. Working with your arm over your head is hard work, so a
few of my more ingenious friends rigged up a scaffold for me by stacking
two chairs on my bed, and laying the table from the hall lounge across the
chairs and over to the top of my closet. By climbing up onto my bed and up
the chairs, I could hoist myself onto the table, and lie in relative
comfort two feet under my painting. My roommate would then hand up my
paints, and I could work for several hours at a stretch.
The picture took me months to do, and in fact, I didn’t finish the work
until very near the end of the school year. I wasn’t much of a painter
then, but what the work lacked in color sense and technical flourish, it
gained in the incongruity of having a High Renaissance masterpiece in a
college dorm that had the unmistakable odor of old beer cans and older
laundry. The painting lent an air of cosmic grandeur to my room, and it
seemed to put life into a larger perspective. Those boring, flowery
English poets didn’t seem quite so important, when right above my head God
was transmitting the spark of life to man. My friends and I liked the
finished painting so much in fact, that we decided I should ask permission
to do it. As you might expect, the housing director was curious to know
why I wanted to paint this elaborate picture on my ceiling a few weeks
before school let out. Well, you don’t get to be a sophomore at Kenyon
without learning how to fabricate ideas you never had, but I guess it was
obvious that my idea was being proposed retroactively. It ended up that I
was allowed to paint the picture, so long as I painted over it and
returned the ceiling to normal at the end of the year. And that’s what I
Despite the futility of the whole episode, my fondest memories of college
are times like these, where things were done out of some inexplicable
inner imperative, rather than because the work was demanded. Clearly, I
never spent as much time or work on any authorized art project, or any
poli sci paper, as I spent on this one act of vandalism.
It’s surprising how hard we’ll work when the work is done just for
ourselves. And with all due respect to John Stuart Mill, maybe
utilitarianism is overrated. If I’ve learned one thing from being a
cartoonist, it’s how important playing is to creativity and happiness. My
job is essentially to come up with 365 ideas a year. If you ever want to
find out just how uninteresting you really are, get a job where the
quality and frequency of your thoughts determine your livelihood. I’ve
found that the only way I can keep writing every day, year after year, is
to let my mind wander into new territories. To do that, I’ve had to
cultivate a kind of mental playfulness.
We’re not really taught how to recreate constructively. We need to do more
than find diversions; we need to restore and expand ourselves. Our idea of
relaxing is all too often to plop down in front of the television set and
let its pandering idiocy liquefy our brains. Shutting off the thought
process is not rejuvenating; the mind is like a car battery-it recharges
by running. You may be surprised to find how quickly daily routine and
the demands of “just getting by: absorb your waking hours. You may be
surprised to find how quickly you start to see your politics and religion
become matters of habit rather than thought and inquiry. You may be
surprised to find how quickly you start to see your life in terms of other
people’s expectations rather than issues. You may be surprised to find out
how quickly reading a good book sounds like a luxury.
At school, new ideas are thrust at you every day. Out in the world, you’ll
have to find the inner motivation to search for new ideas on your own.
With any luck at all, you’ll never need to take an idea and squeeze a
punchline out of it, but as bright, creative people, you’ll be called upon
to generate ideas and solutions all your lives. Letting your mind play is
the best way to solve problems. For me, it’s been liberating to put
myself in the mind of a fictitious six year-old each day, and rediscover
my own curiosity. I’ve been amazed at how one ideas leads to others if I
allow my mind to play and wander. I know a lot about dinosaurs now, and
the information has helped me out of quite a few deadlines. A playful
mind is inquisitive, and learning is fun. If you indulge your natural
curiosity and retain a sense of fun in new experience, I think you’ll find
it functions as a sort of shock absorber for the bumpy road ahead.
So, what’s it like in the real world? Well, the food is better, but beyond
that, I don’t recommend it.
I don’t look back on my first few years out of school with much affection,
and if I could have talked to you six months ago, I’d have encouraged you
all to flunk some classes and postpone this moment as long as possible.
But now it’s too late. Unfortunately, that was all the advice I really
had. When I was sitting where you are, I was one of the lucky few who had
a cushy job waiting for me. I’d drawn political cartoons for the Collegian
for four years, and the Cincinnati Post had hired me as an editorial
cartoonist. All my friends were either dreading the infamous first year of
law school, or despondent about their chances of convincing anyone that a
history degree had any real application outside of academia.
Boy, was I smug.
As it turned out, my editor instantly regretted his decision to hire me.
By the end of the summer, I’d been given notice; by the beginning of
winter, I was in an unemployment line; and by the end of my first year
away from Kenyon, I was broke and living with my parents again. You can
imagine how upset my dad was when he learned that Kenyon doesn’t give
refunds. Watching my career explode on the lauchpad caused some soul
searching. I eventually admitted that I didn’t have what it takes to be a
good political cartoonist, that is, an interest in politics, and I
returned to my firs love, comic strips. For years I got nothing but
rejection letters, and I was forced to accept a real job.
A REAL job is a job you hate. I designed car ads and grocery ads in the
windowless basement of a convenience store, and I hated every single
minute of the 4-1/2 million minutes I worked there. My fellow prisoners at
work were basically concerned about how to punch the time clock at the
perfect second where they would earn another 20 cents without doing any
work for it. It was incredible: after every break, the entire staff would
stand around in the garage where the time clock was, and wait for that
last click. And after my used car needed the head gasket replaced twice, I
waited in the garage too.
It’s funny how at Kenyon, you take for granted that the people around you
think about more than the last episode of Dynasty. I guess that’s what it
means to be in an ivory tower.
Anyway, after a few months at this job, I was starved for some life of the
mind that, during my lunch break, I used to read those poli sci books that
I’d somehow never quite finished when I was here. Some of those books were
actually kind of interesting. It was a rude shock to see just how empty
and robotic life can be when you don’t care about what you’re doing, and
the only reason you’re there is to pay the bills. Thoreau said,
“the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.”
That’s one of those dumb cocktail quotations that will strike fear in your
heart as you get older. Actually, I was leading a life of loud
When it seemed I would be writing about “Midnite Madness Sale-abrations”
for the rest of my life, a friend used to console me that cream always
rises to the top. I used to think, so do people who throw themselves into
I tell you all this because it’s worth recognizing that there is no such
thing as an overnight success. You will do well to cultivate the resources
in yourself that bring you happiness outside of success or failure. The
truth is, most of us discover where we are headed when we arrive. At that
time, we turn around and say, yes, this is obviously where I was going all
along. It’s a good idea to try to enjoy the scenery on the detours,
because you’ll probably take a few.
I still haven’t drawn the strip as long as it took me to get the job. To
endure five years of rejection to get a job requires either a faith in
oneself that borders on delusion, or a love of the work. I loved the work.
Drawing comic strips for five years without pay drove home the point that
the fun of cartooning wasn’t in the money; it was in the work. This turned
out to be an important realization when my break finally came.
Like many people, I found that what I was chasing wasn’t what I caught.
I’ve wanted to be a cartoonist since I was old enough to read cartoons,
and I never really thought about cartoons as being a business. It never
occurred to me that a comic strip I created would be at the mercy of a
bloodsucking corporate parasite called a syndicate, and that I’d be faced
with countless ethical decisions masquerading as simple business
decisions. To make a business decision, you don’t need much philosophy;
all you need is greed, and maybe a little knowledge of how the game works.
As my comic strip became popular, the pressure to capitalize on that
popularity increased to the point where I was spending almost as much time
screaming at executives as drawing. Cartoon merchandising is a $12 billion
dollar a year industry and the syndicate understandably wanted a piece of
that pie. But the more I though about what they wanted to do with my
creation, the more inconsistent it seemed with the reasons I draw
cartoons. Selling out is usually more a matter of buying in. Sell out,
and you’re really buying into someone else’s system of values, rules and
rewards. The so-called “opportunity” I faced would have meant giving up
my individual voice for that of a money-grubbing corporation. It would
have meant my purpose in writing was to sell things, not say things. My
pride in craft would be sacrificed to the efficiency of mass production
and the work of assistants. Authorship would become committee decision.
Creativity would become work for pay. Art would turn into commerce. In
short, money was supposed to supply all the meaning I’d need. What the
syndicate wanted to do, in other words, was turn my comic strip into
everything calculated, empty and robotic that I hated about my old job.
They would turn my characters into television hucksters and T-shirt
sloganeers and deprive me of characters that actually expressed my own
On those terms, I found the offer easy to refuse. Unfortunately, the
syndicate also found my refusal easy to refuse, and we’ve been fighting
for over three years now. Such is American business, I guess, where the
desire for obscene profit mutes any discussion of conscience.
You will find your own ethical dilemmas in all parts of your lives, both
personal and professional. We all have different desires and needs, but if
we don’t discover what we want from ourselves and what we stand for, we
will live passively and unfulfilled. Sooner or later, we are all asked to
compromise ourselves and the things we care about. We define ourselves by
our actions. With each decision, we tell ourselves and the world who we
are. Think about what you want out of this life, and recognize that there
are many kinds of success. Many of you will be going on to law school,
business school, medical school, or other graduate work, and you can
expect the kind of starting salary that, with luck, will allow you to pay
off your own tuition debts within your own lifetime.
But having an enviable career is one thing, and being a happy person is
Creating a life that reflects your values and satisfies your soul is a
rare achievement. In a culture that relentlessly promotes avarice and
excess as the good life, a person happy doing his own work is usually
considered an eccentric, if not a subversive. Ambition is only understood
if it’s to rise to the top of some imaginary ladder of success. Someone
who takes an undemanding job because it affords him the time to pursue
other interests and activities is considered a flake. A person who
abandons a career in order to stay home and raise children is considered
not to be living up to his potential-as if a job title and salary are the
sole measure of human worth. You’ll be told in a hundred ways, some
subtle and some not, to keep climbing, and never be satisfied with where
you are, who you are, and what you’re doing. There are a million ways to
sell yourself out, and I guarantee you’ll hear about them.
To invent your own life’s meaning is not easy, but it’s still allowed, and
I think you’ll be happier for the trouble. Reading those turgid
philosophers here in these remote stone buildings may not get you a job,
but if those books have forced you to ask yourself questions about what
makes life truthful, purposeful, meaningful, and redeeming, you have the
Swiss Army Knife of mental tools, and it’s going to come in handy all the
I think you’ll find that Kenyon touched a deep part of you. These have
been formative years. Chances are, at least of your roommates has taught
you everything ugly about human nature you ever wanted to know. With
luck, you’ve also had a class that transmitted a spark of insight or
interest you’d never had before. Cultivate that interest, and you may find
a deeper meaning in your life that feeds your soul and spirit. Your
preparation for the real world is not in the answers you’ve learned, but
in the questions you’ve learned how to ask yourself. Graduating from
Kenyon, I suspect you’ll find yourselves quite well prepared indeed.
I wish you all fulfillment and happiness. Congratulations on your