Is the intellectual an intellectual? I don’t know, because I’m not an intellectual. But friends, who I’d call intellectuals, say he is, so who am to argue? Whereas I find myself nonchalant to his speech and assertions, friends far more learned than I adore him, paraphrasing his ideas at every available opportunity. For them, his intuition is the saviour of the moment; to me his contentions are merely sentimental, as he plays to the crowd with the insipid sentiments to which we respond. To me, he is everyman to everyone: whatever he says is whatever we want to hear. But then who am I to judge? I am no intellectual, just an unlearned fool of the periphery, peering into a world that is not mine.