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Sunday, April 30, 2006
My memories of the man? His enormousness. He sat in his living room (book-lined; big piano; Persian rugs) in an oversized chair, which he dominated. For diminutive UD, sitting across from Galbraith was like looking at the Lincoln Memorial. He had a deep slow sly voice, which he used (on the occasions I was there) to tell elaborate, funny stories about politics or his travels or academia. A wealthy man, he was unpretentious. His farmhouse in Vermont was spartan, though rich in the memorabilia of a life well-lived. His country library was full of old Anglo funny stuff: Dickens, Thackery, Wodehouse. Here’s a nice quotation from him, reminding me of one of my favorite Camus passages: “If wrinkles must be written upon our brows, let them not be written upon the heart. The spirit should never grow old.” Camus, in “Return to Tipasa,” wrote: “In order to prevent justice from shriveling up, from becoming nothing but a magnificent orange with a dry, bitter pulp, I discovered one must keep a freshness and a source of joy intact within, loving the daylight that injustice leaves unscathed, and returning to the fray with this light as a trophy.” |