~ ~ ~



South Africa, he said to her that night in London that she first met him — the glint of his blue eyes catching some light off the street — with every intent, whether he realized it, to infuriate her: purely an act of provocation; and now she watches him provoke everyone, most particularly those who would presume to be on his side, those who would presume he’s on theirs. Those who would presume to take any sort of comfort in their own righteousness or liberalism: He would make the world as anguished as he is, not out of narcissism but because no truth is worth anything to him without anguish. Everything that would presume to be true must prove itself to him by fire. He no longer accepts that, in political terms, he’s no one if he’s not who the public thinks he is. He’s come to insist that he’s who he thinks he is.

He provokes those who would presume to be indifferent. “There are more rats in New York,” he tells one audience in the Midwest, “than there are people,” and they think he’s joking until they laugh and he hisses, “Stop it.” He provokes those who would presume that he’s indifferent. Meeting militant blacks in California, he stoically submits to their torrent of abuse until it’s exhausted and they’re left with nothing but their respect for him and the exceptional instance of a white man who will come to them alone and listen, and listen, and listen.


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