"Two other delusions, he [Berlin] believed bedevil
humankind - the delusions of relativism, that all values are more
or less equally valid; and the delusion of determinism, that the
individual makes no difference to the course of history. His superb
essays on Churchill and Roosevelt make the point. You must stand
unflinchingly as they did, Berlin said, for what you believe... He
was a beacon of wisdom and humanity in what he called "the most terrible
century in western history."
      Isaiah Berlin, who died
last week at 88, was very likely the most sparkling man of the 20th
century. Born in Latvia in 1909, he came with his parents to Great
Britain in 1921 as a boy of 12. Through dazzling brilliance allied
with balanced judgement, personal charm, and unaffected modesty, he
became probably both the most admired and beloved man in his adopted
country. The English, with the capacity to take talent to their bosoms,
made his an Oxford professor, head of a college, president of the British
Academy, a knight and the most generally accepted arbiter of philosophical
and moral issues. And through all the deluge of honors he remained
perfectly and completely himself.
      I first met him in 1943 when he was writing
weekly political reports for the British Embassy in Washington. His
acute insight into American affairs made his dispatches to London
required reading at the highest level. On a famous occasion Winston
Churchill, hearing that Berlin was in London, summoned him to luncheon
at 10 Downing Street and asked him penetrating questions about American
politics. Disappointed by the answers, he said later, "Berlin writes
better than he talks." In fact, he had invited the wrong Berlin -
Irving, not Isaiah.
      The man I met in 1943 was 34
years old, black-haired, balding, with alert, snapping eyes and
a smile of delighted
discovery. He seemed then a man of indeterminate middle age; in his
80s he still seemed a man of indeterminate middle age; he changed
in appearance less than anyone I have ever known. I still see him
that first night in Washington, sitting on a sofa, talking at immense
speed in a torrent of words, at first hard to understand until you
surrendered to the cascade and let the meaning pour into you. The
sentences were intricate and erudite but fascinating, filled with
wit, warmth and humanity. He never pulled intellectual rank. He had
enormous generosity of spirit, an unparalleled sense of fun and unquenchable
delight in the varieties of human experience. And he had the marvelous
quality of intensifying life so that one perceived more and
thought more and understood more.
      He had begun as an analytical philosopher,
but after the war he abandoned philosophy and turned to the history
of ideas. "Philosophical problems," he said, "did not keep me awake
at night... I realized that I wanted to know more at the end of my
life than at the beginning." Ideas were the great educators. They
were the entry into the mysteries of human existence. Ideas were
the triggers of action and the key to humanity's hopes, visions,
follies, illusions, terrors and triumphs.
      His central thought was pluralism - a
much abused and not very inspiring word, but one that, as he employed
it, celebrated the diversity of life and the irreducible collision
of values. Many values are perfectly incompatible, but other values
are not. Absolute freedom, for example, is incompatible with absolute
equality: "If you choose one value," Berlin said, "you must sacrifice
another." The tragedy of choice becomes an argument for tolerance,
compromise, for trade-offs. Franklin Roosevelt was his beau ideal
of the man who could lead into the good society, and he remained
an unabashed New Dealer to the end of his life.
      The great human delusion, Berlin thought,
in monism - the proposition that there is a single, final solution,
an ultimate and overarching truth, that harmonizes all values and
that justifies the sacrifice of living beings to grand abstractions
- "the victimization of the present for the sake of the unknowable
future." The pursuit of perfect harmony is "a fallacy, and sometimes
a fatal one" - hence his passionate opposition to communism and fascism.
At the same time he recognized the temptation of monism as an abiding
human trait. His most powerful essays enter emphatically into the
mind of irrationalism. No one has written more perceptively about
the critics of democracy and freedom and their offer of certitude
in an ambiguous world.
      Two other delusions, he believed
bedevil humankind - the delusions of relativism, that all values
are more
or less equally valid; and the delusion of determinism, that the
individual makes no difference to the course of history. His superb
essays on Churchill and Roosevelt make the point. You must stand
unflinchingly as they did, Berlin said, for what you believe.
      In a short space, one can only suggest
the exciting richness of Berlin's thought and direct readers to the
recent anthology of essays, "The Proper Study of Mankind." His polarities
illuminate - the Enlightenment vs. Romanticism, negative vs. positive
liberty, the Hedgehog, who knows one big thing, vs. the Fox, who
knows many things. He was a beacon of wisdom and humanity in what
he called "the most terrible century in western history." And for
those lucky enough to have known him - and many did, because he was
so kind and approachable and unassuming and had an excellent talent
for friendship - the memory of this man of surpassing brilliance
and singular sweetness is imperishable.
November 1997