>> Good afternoon. I'm Peggy Pearlstein head of the Hebraic section here in the African Middle Eastern division of the Library of Congress. Welcome to today's program in which Yermiyahu Ahron Taub will read from his newest book of poetry, "Uncle Feygele." Almost two years ago on June 4th I introduced Ahron as we know him here at the Library, at a program of poetry reading when he read from his book "What Stillness Illuminated." [Inaudible] That program like today's was Webcast and now appears on the library's Web site. Ahron is also the author of, "The Insatiable Psalm." Which explored the love between an ultra orthodox Jewish mother and her increasing less orthodox observant son. Ahron is Yiddish and English language poems, one of which was nominated for a Pushcart prize have appeared in numerous publications including that Adirondack Review, the Forward and Prairie Schooner. "Jewish Spring" a poem from Uncle Feygele appeared in the Jewish Foreword in its April 18th addition this year to commemorate National Poetry Month in which a different poem was published each day during the month. Born and raised in and ultra orthodox community in Philadelphia Ahron studied at [inaudible] there and in Baltimore. Ahron is a Phi Beta Kappa summa cum-laud graduate of Temple University in Philadelphia. He has an MA in history from Emory University in Atlanta and an MLS in Library Science from Queens College in New York. Active in the Association for Jewish Libraries, Ahron is a senior cataloguing specialist in the Israel Judaic section of the Asian and Middle East division of the Acquisitions and Bibliographic Access division of the Library. He is currently serving as acting section head and spearheading the sections physical move over the next two weeks while its quarters undergo renovations. Ahron's new book will be for sale and autographing following the reading and now, Ahron. >> Thank you Peggy for that warm introduction. Can you hear me? Thank you all for coming, it's great to see so many friends and I look forward to meeting some of you I don't know so please stop by and say hello afterwards. I want to thank Peggy and Anne Brenner for their invitation to share my work, for organizing this program and for providing such a lively forum for artists, scholars and writers. I honor the life and work of Susan Bright, the founder of Plainview Press, the publisher of my book. Herself a poet and a force for literature and social justice in Austin Texas for many years. I am deeply grateful to Susan for the support of my poetry and for her work on this book. Tragically Susan died suddenly at the end of 2010 shortly before its publication. I thank Pam Night [assumed spelling] for helping to bring the book out and both Pam and Sherry Palisco [assumed spelling] for carrying on Susan's legacy by continuing the work of the Press. Uncle Feygele brings together poems written over a period of approximately 17 years. It includes some of my earliest to some of my very latest poems. Unlike my first book, and Peggy mentioned them both, the "Insatiable Psalm" which focused on one relationship, that of an ultra Orthodox mother and her gay son. And my second book, "Stillness Illuminated." [Inaudible] in which all of the poems were untitled and five lines and in English and Yiddish. Uncle Feygele is broad in scope and varied in form. The title character is poised between the deeply religious world of his youth and his queer present. Many of the poems deal with his role as the unmarried uncle. A single gay man who has not reproduced. Grappling with the unfulfilled commandment that thou shall be fruitful and multiply and the struggle to maintain familial connections in a world in which children, family and Jewish continuity are paramount. Despite his lack of offspring, Uncle Feygele refuses to retreat. Instead, engaging passionately with questions of identity, language and community among others. Along the way he encounters recluse's figures from history such as the social democrat Rosa Luxemburg, the anarchist Emma Goldman, the Hebrew poet Raphael and contemporary life such as MPR reporter Sylvia Portjolie [assumed spelling] If I pronounced that right as well as imagined characters who provide inspiration and fellowship. And thus as you can already tell, and as you will soon hear, many of the poems are not about the uncle at all. The book is framed by two passages and is organized around the second one. I would like to read these two passages in English translation now. And the first one is from [inaudible] "said that a man without a wife is not a man. As it is stated, male and female he created them and he called them by the name of man." And the second one from Deuteronomy. "Assemble the nation. The men and the women and the children and the stranger within your gates so that they may hear and that they may fear the Lord your God and take care to perform all the words of this Torah." The movement between these two epigraphs then, encapsulates the movement of the uncle himself, from negation to participation in the affairs of the nation. Those categories of the assembled listed in the Deuteronomy passages, men women children and the stranger within your gates are used as the forward section of the book although men and women are inverted and the book begins with women. So you ask, what does the word Feygele mean? Feygele is derived from the Yiddish word feyge and the Yiddish diminutive marker le and it means a man who is or is thought to be gay. Although widely used in contemporary [inaudible] including incidentally the incomparable Tracy Ulman's television show State of the Union. And in 2008 film, "You don't mess with the Zohan" staring Adam Sandler. This meaning of the word is not given in a real [inaudible] classic modern English, Yiddish, Yiddish English dictionary where feygele is in fact defined as a check mark. Although he provided a definition and a pronunciation guide at the end of the book I was fully aware of the challenges it would pose to many. So why did I use it in the title? First, it was a matter of reclamation of a word that's often seen as pejorative. I also relish its linguistic [inaudible] that is, it's existence between English and Yiddish. Or put another way it's [inaudible] a word quite widespread in usage but not officially sanctioned by dictionaries. Finally I found the troth of a little bird with it's connotations of flight and movements between visibility and invisibility suggestive and appealing. For all of these reasons I couldn't let it go. So here are some poems from Uncle Feygele. The first poem is called, "A Word's Night Aberration." "Below the palms trembling against the confectionary buildings the whispering climbing into exclamation the [inaudible] assembled to celebrate themselves. The curiosity over shade and flare and form, who was wearing what by whom? After all the stakes couldn't be more elusive so that the carpet seemed bloody rather than red. And the poses, not struck, but entered embodied. So effortless unstudied all this had to seem. For there was little time, so impatient for the camera's clicks when she appeared in her tatters, mousy, no, dunned colored unscented, hunched over but also swelling outward looking upward. Her hair tangled, her eyes bulging and her nostrils shivering. And no one could ascertain her objectives. Was she in costume? If not, then what's she protesting and if so, should they mention her cause in their acceptance speeches? Several gladly volunteered to do so. Once they learned more or course. Only her cane shook wildly so they had to duck. With care paid, however gingerly [inaudible] and her speech was unintelligible, garbled. What language was this, if any? And they began to move outward until security, thank goodness, arrived and surrounded to whisk her away. Only it was not so easy. There was tenacity in her frame and enduring power. An eerie pattern to her movement and words almost beginning to be recognizable. Stirring something familiar, dimly remembered. Only finally she really was off the carpet. Now somehow soiled and the screams beaming into the infinite. And everyone shook their heads uneasily hoping this wasn't some kind of foreshadowing or terrorism or warning of retribution from the un-amused gods of the netherworld." [ background noise ] "Spinsters lament." "The painting of the rabbi purchased from the homeless man on Sixth Avenue for ten bucks, his prayer shawl framing eyes, frowning upon my barrenness. The pea green vase purchased on the streets of Columbus circle with it's made in Italy stamp on the bottom, thinking probably it wasn't. But savoring still its roundness, its squat insistence. The stained China cup with its pattern of irises and once delicate and modernist from which I sift and struggle to master the Edicts of my fathers. That copy of Kenneth Clark's The Nude that I spotted as a four o'clock light poured in through the trees of Tomkins's square shadowing your shoulders, arched over turrets of military history tomes. The Jenny Lind bed rescued from that barn in the Finger Lakes nearly asphyxiated by rat droppings and dust. Where you left me with such focus that one November night. The psalms I clutched as I slithered into the Ukrainian church from the downpour after our last pierogi lunch and murmured feverishly to foreign equally indifferent gods. The quilt, never littered with cat hair, wrapped around my sensible frame those decades of Decembers. Even as I prepared for the arrival of the chariot drawn by bejeweled stallions. Who will cherish the providence of these objects? Who will say cottage remains when I'm gone?" [ background noise] This poem is called "Border crossing, Carter 7:35 PM" "Hours after works close I stumble from lights drone. From navigating processing information jigsaw, the disappointment of volumes yet to be added and author name adding's still reconciled. As the cleaning lady in the hall, furrowed over the cart of industrial hygiene, bleach, mops, cleaners, suds, powders, soaps, toilet paper, paper towel, all things familiar yet rendered other on this epic scale. Her ankles, thickened from long standing, her hands gloveless, swollen from scrubbing. Her wrists free of ornament, her body wrapped in sack and apron. Her hair caged in netting. And I remember college jobs of housecleaning, how I relished the solitude, the absence of overseer. The peering into the nooks of strangers secrets. The money for books, once even an early [inaudible] first edition. The deliverance, however fleeting, from my father's mounting consternation. And think how different this is for her. These hours, days, years stretching into endless of scouring and wiping and rinsing the waste of these bookish authors of mine. This life in not quite shadow. But still the satisfaction of perhaps something like it, the dignity resisting heroic, in task completed. In the sparkle of these post happy hour toilets. And the clean of this federal marble and I wonder about origins. Cracked earth, crowded rooms, the likelihood of instruction and the terror of leaving love and language, being nearly buried alive in [inaudible] And hope for the kiss of a child, the embrace of a man or woman, a dance. Cavorting a tiger lily in kitchen window. A chorus of cricket on the green and the cheer of souls clapping in communion. As I sound my evening adieu and I'm gladdened by her looking up at me, by her smile suddenly so radiant, by her clarity and think I've been all wrong, all wrong, maybe. And step on yet unwashed tiles into elevators arms." [ background noise ] This next poem is called "To the Poet." "No longer young, introverted by nature and it's that the title is a play on [inaudible] "Letters to a young poet." "If literature despite Oprah, thrives at the margins yours is surely the most marginal of the literary arts. You provide no Power Point, no slide show. You resist props and elucidation. You claim no expertise, no decades and archives, no power to foam or [inaudible] on talk radio or cable television and even among your peers you will never work a room. You will never master the between poem patter. The strategically placed joke. Awkward at gatherings where such skills are honed. Never having undergone the camps and factories, yours will be a path of stone and struggle. The example of Emily Dickenson is no option either. The life of seclusion rarified in the rarified home and forever in legend cannot be yours. You know this. Even if after these many years your audiences grow no larger and the solitary chamber seems increasingly seductive. Speak your words with precision, without adornment. As they foray into the room let the quiet be their guide. The bob of the head, the intake of breath will sustain their navigation. Cherish the frail woman sitting in the back. Eyes wide until the end. And afterwards the dry hands clasped around your damp ones. As you descend the stairs toward the streetlamp lit, bus ride home." [ background noise ] this poem, explorers for relationship that gets all too little attention and the poem is called "Fag Hag "Her mouth, slack, arms paused in mid flail, curls sprawled on the embroidery bordered pillow without perspiration in this bedroom without relief of air movement. Breath rising evenly having returned somewhat early from walking [inaudible] or perhaps Salsa [inaudible] between shifting nations of desire, he sits in quiet, jarred from fragile somnia. On the chair by her mirror the lull of the black and white photos and the shrine of East European guidebooks and maps. The old country tapestries invigorated in the receding nocturne. And gazes upon her, oh, how well, he knows outline. Within bends to trace his fingers on her skin, electrified by its smoothness, softness. Uninterrupted by thoughts of experience, their thrift shopping expeditions, their world music concertizing, art films, travel, phone calls, the talk, always the talk. Hours passing fast. It ends false. The Friday night dinners surrounded by hipsters and slobs. This love that can't be depicted by lists of activities were measured by the quivering of landmarks but only by pleasure deepening, joy expanding, loyalty unflagging. Over the years the good times and the hard times, as they say, yes, those too. Tricky to put decades into words, these few but also the men, hers, excitement, determination. Trying to be open but still with etiquette observed, upheld. The feminist thrilled by chivalry. Oh how I would love to be a fly on the wall. There's just no other way to say it on those days. Or an undercover agent in black a few tables away. His head lowered, craving some noxious brew to hear willing, her, their conversation while she and this new man, attraction to be mutual, urgent, rising into transcendence into enduring. Never mind whether she can bring him home to Totty, to father. May this man be the one for her. And yes, hoping too, there will still be a place for him. Not a threesome but the proverbial share of the table or somewhere in the house, in any case. He can't not think about that. How could he not? Only in stead he's here. Stroking a lock from her [inaudible] as she murmurs, tosses to the other side as he returns to her bed, neither maidenly or nuptial. Grateful for the sanctuary between dreams and his resting angel." One poem from part two and this poem is called "Ideal." "Cherish this banality my love, the day unfurling into splendor. Coffee from below drifts into our reading lairs. A lawn mower hums in the distance. Earth and words intoxicating us from dreams. Your footsteps powder down the corridor, your night clothes gleam where the sun does not pierce. A vision so fleeting yet glimpsed these countless times. Today I won't rise to catch it. I'll know you're there simply by the measure of my reverie, carved and calm, unmoved by the neighbor dog's yapping. The weekend section spreads amply around the dining room table marked by circles of varying urgency. Perhaps we will forage for treasure abandoned. Perhaps we will sample the fruit of vineyards coaxed into perfection. Before we go to wherever we go I want to lift your hair, nestle your nape. Whisper my tender, grateful nothings. Whatever these hours shall hold, this is good, this it plenty." [ background noise ] Okay, some poems from part three. And this poem is called "Mythic Origins." There are four lines, two in the beginning and two in the end that are Yiddish and they are immediately translated in the poem. "Mythic Origins. [ inaudible Yiddish.] "Where does your language come from? They used to ask me. I tried to retrace my steps to locate the route of the sugar free rock candy. Winking in the thicket. The footpath to the moment of original knowing. I grope for narratives, epic and narrow. Vistas of mass migration, societal upheaval. Great and edgy. Vomiting overboard the creaking vessel. Demographics tenement dispersal to the outer rim but also the tempo of domestic discipline. Father foraging through the weekly Torah portion. Grandmother recounting the ingredients of ancient apple crisp delight. I pontificated in tones I imagined to be measured. On words possessed, forgotten, regained. Though I aim for phrases readily understood but still vivid with the personal jolt. I did it all, really, but understand this, no one was convinced. So now I'm up no longer just simple. I recount a myth of progress. Steeped in the fabulous. I speak to you of groves, leafy and light speckled where I wander about unshackled or critiqued or concerned. My prancing through peach orchards is welcomed by nightingale choirs. Here my grammar is without mistake. While still sound to be sure. But no one minds. The broken glass or wrongly placed or positioned, the thorns of vegetable of disagreements, glittery yet in satanic pursuit. I can't avoid them you see. But strangely their daggers drawn no blood. The waves of my beloveds beard tickle my naked limbs. His lips never tire of my form that he insists on calling pearly, much to my mockery and delight. His furry mass envelopes me as he too forages like fodder, only for redemption of a different kind, without restraint, or shame. Arms subtle around me, tendrils of hair escaped from her kerchief, mother here sings in my ear, lyrics of other paradise lanes. Her voice un-ravaged by disease and longing." [ background noise ] this poem is called "Blossom." "As the sun stretched its legs around him, he found that he too could make himself comfortable. Or at least aim for a scrap of snooze. He could disarm the terror in mother's final clutching. He could erase the image of trickster father, unable to meet his eye. His flight to brink and magic and fancy clipped at last. No rabbits or cards or ivory tipped canes that night. They would not fit into the allotted luggage. He could subdue the drone of the announcement with it's recitation of names and hush and confusion and pleading an enormity. The faded animal smells smelt so reassuring against his still crisp herringbone wool suit. As he remembered outings to the mountains and the swarms of goats nuzzling his hand with the ticklish tongue of their acceptance. And a country lady explaining their ways. Not so very long ago either, all of that. He bit into the rolls that mother had packed and was surprised by their freshness. He realized he was losing track of time, the order of things. He thought about his old pals. The gang. Greta who almost never spoke but who we could always understand. Dee Dee, with his frog collection, his damp breath. His habit of breaking suddenly into cartwheels until they were no longer permitted to come. Until they stopped coming. Until he had to leave school entirely until some big boys forced him to pull down his pants and beat him there until he slipped into a fog of dread without end. Imagine his surprise then, when tonight after he had removed his clothes, folding them on the hang, he looked down and saw that a foreskin had spontaneously sprouted. He touched himself to be sure, and yes, it really was true. But it's impossible, he kept whispering and rocking. It's impossible, it's impossible. Whispering and rocking. Only a mouse equally unsettled witnessed his insistence." [ background noise ] Okay. This one is called "Rub a dub dub three figures in a tub." "My sister in law kneels over the tub. Exhausted but relaxed in the evening's steam. Even in this position her dress extends below her knees. Her sleeves are rolled up but not above the elbow. She asks me to remind her of the [inaudible] the noodle pudding in the oven. Of the dry cleaning that needs to be retrieved. Not that she would forget these things but a little reminder just can't hurt she giggles. You probably shouldn't be in here, she whispered suddenly but I won't tell anyone. You can stay. I wink at her knowing she won't see. So immersed is she in the baby splashed away. Where's baby going, she asks. Show Uncle your ducky, she coos. I squat to marvel at the toy and the baby's chubby strawberry cream perfection. Dangerously close to her mother I nuzzle baby's neck, feeling the happiness surging in her, the water prancing all around. I stay down with her, seeking to trace the arcs of her gurgling. Swatting away at the need once thought dormant Okay, poems from the last section. And this one I'm going to read in English and then in Yiddish and it's one of six poems in the book that has an English and Yiddish version. It's called "Nostalgia." "In the city of my birth a calm pervaded the millinery. That was a choice of men. Women were gray everywhere. White was seen not as variety, but as completion. In the city of my birth no one could get lost. Streets were as clear as the first geometry lesson. Visitors soon discarded their maps. This was what our first fathers had intended. In the city of my birth the curls of wigs stiffened. A second chin quivered. In late night alleys, hooded figures scurried to and fro. In the morning it was clear that the upcoming years would not be easy. This was how we understood revolution. In our city people came to breathe deep. They found in our halls a space to contemplate anew. Here voices from above spoke in mild refrain. Even the bullies paused under the sweep of our renowned arches. Our names spread far and wide. In the city of my birth strife was not unknown but not encouraged. Even the dogs understood this. Many have speculated on our formula entirely to no avail. Our love was called brotherly. However there were those who are seduced by other cities, drawn by brighter color. A more varied music. We imagined we could simply transplant the legacy of our city. And there are [inaudible] emissary would be welcomed but the city of our birth refused to release its secrets. We always praised the city of our birth. We spoke of all that it had bequeathed us. Never of ourselves as thieves. Only in the moments before sleep did we sometimes remember the final closing of the city gates behind us. The intimate fury of their slam." [ Inaudible ] And this poem is called "Jewish Spring." And it's about Jewish anxiety in the midst of abundance. "Winter birds brush our face in farewell. Our step quickens as though against force and marches into inevitability. Flowers old in their delicacy, viewed since times beginning are seen anew, interpreting afresh. Everyone sees flowers in a different way. Green on one side. Trees spread cover thickly between the chemical groves below and above, insisting on their leafy say. Hands pull the earth laying the foundation for removal. Already we envision stalks bent with bounty. We breathe these many fragrances humbled, alive. But like the gazelle on the savannah our eyes are only shielded toward the horizon. We peruse the headlines and the top stories. We assess the pitch of the chatter. Who knows how long this generosity, how deep this permissibility? Dogwood blossoms etch our prayer in praise." This poem is called "Silence Equals Life" and the title is a very [inaudible] silence equals death which was popularized by [inaudible] "The epithets were squashed. The chat rooms were silent. Salons were now the order of the day. The paraphernalia were displayed only in museum halls. The tomes on the wall placards reflected a curiosity in the historical. All cautionary notes had been removed. The posters and pamphlets were relegated to rare book reading rooms. They were to be understood as emblems of a dusty [inaudible] Shaved heads were at last only a fashion statement. The anthems, once [inaudible] chanted were refashioned for the cabaret with sequins and panache. Boots marching on cobblestones at midnight inspired and unfamiliar sense of security, the brass was removed, the fists disassembled. Stunned, we unbolted our shutters and warily peered out. The winds in the town square had died down. The garbage fluttered no more. We were no longer despised." And this poem is called "Alternative Yuletide." And it's about that long standing urban Jewish tradition on Christmas which is a movie and then Chinese food. "Alternative Yuletide." "No, this isn't what you think. This won't be a poem for Jews for Jesus. There won't be a dilution of symbols here nor a call to theological [inaudible] No, this won't be an Irving Berlinish revelry. Sparkling and sleigh bells and whiteness. Instead there will be gratitude for the day off. For the streets so desolate, for the stores sealed. There will be relief and freedom for obligation and the search for objects. There will be contentment in apartness. In not looking in from the outside. We will meet beneath the cinema's neon rimmed crystal chandelier. Consider of the various offerings without hurry and despite the queues without stress. Afterwards we will trek downtown, no matter the weather. Where avenues narrow to alleys, where restaurant windows perspire in beckoning. There we will discuss what we have seen. Savor the vigorous fare. Envisioned across oceans revised here. We will toast this plenty, the fellowship, the nourishment the possibilities for renewal, with a smile of delight. This muted reverence this holiday." And the last one I'm going to read is called "Thanksgiving." Also on a holiday theme. Okay, get ready for this one. There is a phrase that's a combination of Yiddish and Hebrew and it means calling the old bachelor. "Thanksgiving." "In dream I was called to the Torah. In singsong was I there beckoned. [Inaudible] My nephews were all around. My nieces too and not in the balcony either. And all of their little and not so little ones in holiday best and I did not stumble and I did not blush. The surged forward. And this time I did not invoke the one [inaudible] who chose us from among all the nations but instead gave thanks to this nation here. To the dawn light sifted by mountain perches. To the red, oh, so red flowers gushing from cactus prickle. And I did not agitate over the verses troubling. The ones unchosen and the other about abomination. You know all about them so infamous are they and in any case can be located easily enough now that there is Google, so no excuses. But neither did I circumvent them skittishly and thus I did not instigate unease, nor approval. But only appraisal. Until my song was accompanied but those who knew the melody all along. Coursings on how into togetherness hitherto thy experience. Until the borders of I expanded, crumbled. Until there was no longer an I but only a we, us. Not the vague or defuse or mystical but all together life and exhilarating. Was this what Freud meant by oceanic feeling? Only I'd never been so blessed in my retreats. The meditations on the boulders aloof by the sea. So that others, many others came to join us. And there were no longer questions on the brotherhood of nations. Since there were no longer nations. If only for this moment. Nor were there disparaging charges of idealism and navet but only a buoyancy and a lyric gladdening. And a proclamation of a golden age, uninterrupted by measured steps and pragmatism and awakening." Thank you. >> That was wonderful. Any questions for Ahron? >> I need to hydrate first. >> Okay. Behind Anne. Yeah. Michael, and can you speak loudly. >> [Inaudible] >> So the question was talk about the process when you're having [inaudible] do you have the Yiddish first then translated? I would say that, yes, I do write English first and sometimes when I'm writing English I try to figure out is this really going to be doable in Yiddish. So, yeah, I start with English. English is my first language and it's the language I'm more comfortable in. My personal language that's keeps insisting upon being heard and I talked about this in greater length around my second book. So yeah, I would say I start with English and then I translate to Yiddish and then sometimes I change the English based on what I've done with the Yiddish so there's this back and forth conversation between the languages. Yes Anne. >> [Inaudible] >> The question was could I say a few words about Rafael, about the poem. Well, I love Rafael, I just think she's an incredible poet and [inaudible] we're talking about, her poems have been translated by Robert Friend in I believe, and they are quite beautiful. And actually on a recent trip to Israel I tried to get to go to here grave but there just wasn't time. We ended up seeing some murals of her in the north of Israel. And I also walked down the street [inaudible] which kind of rocked my world. So have I kind of answered your question? >> [Inaudible] >> Well, look around. [Inaudible] I don't want to give a lecture on [inaudible] but she is a great deeper poet who lived a very brief meteoric life and at [inaudible] is this conversation about her and about her legacy. Yes? >> [Inaudible] >> Okay. No, that was easy. >> [Inaudible] >> Yeah but without English I wouldn't have. I needed English. >> [Inaudible] >> No. >> I have one last question. I love the cover of this book so could you tell us a little bit about it? >> Sure. It's called, let me get it right, Hasidic mask with green background and it's by Aaron Mayer Frankholt [assumed spelling] who is this grand artist who lives in Indiana, he is also a singer and he has a great Web site and I think it's aaronmayerfrankholt.com. Well, we're being Webcast so I hope I didn't miss site that. But I saw it and I did love it. I loved it's, well, the whole question of a mask, you know, this question of sort of hiding and not hiding, revealing, not revealing, visible and not visible which is something I talked about the word Feygele a little and I also love this whole just one eye and being in red which I thought was kind of nifty. And Susan Bright, she designed the cover so she picked out the red and then she did the sprig of green and then these colors are hers so they kind of all come together and I just think it's this fabulous little Rabbinic, Andy Warhol pop art kind of thing. So that's what we were going for and we just wanted something that just kind of popped. Because the covers on my first two books are very subdued, [inaudible] very tasteful, understated. Hopefully this is tasteful but I don't think it's understated but anyway, there you have it. >> And we love what's in the covers. So thank you very much and Ahron I'm sure you would be happy to autograph some of your books. Thank you all for coming today. That was wonderful. Just have you sign. >> I'll do it again. >> Did you do it for Anne? >> Yeah, I did it for Anne. Yeah. >> Today. >> Well, yeah. >> This has been a presentation of the Library of Congress.