The Sportswriter

Scott Hamelin and I go to Placer High School together. We are friendly. The friend I make is his father.
Joe Hamelin is the Sports Editor of the Sacramento Bee (he used to be a beat writer assigned to the San Diego Clippers). He’s remarried and he has six sons. He covers the pros. He writes about the best players alive, and his peers honor him for it. None of that is why I call him. I call him because he picks up, and once he picks up he stays on the line.
The calls run long. A weekday afternoon, the receiver warm against my ear, Joe on the other end with the patience of a man who has nowhere he wants to be more. We talk about journalism. We talk about the career I want before I have done a thing to deserve wanting it. He gives me his afternoons. Over the months the hours pass a hundred. He tells me that Coach Hubie Brown called his players cocksuckers. He tells me that there is no white basketball and black basketball, that no race is faster than any other, that the Sacramento Union won’t be a real competitor until they put in more resources.
Then he gives me more than talk. For two years (1983-1984) we sit together in a community access cable booth and call Placer High men’s basketball. Wood benches. A gym that smells of floor wax and sweat. A camera my classmate Eric aims at the court. Joe has sat courtside for the finest players in the game, and now he calls a high school contest beside a teenager as if more than 10 people watched it (“Nobody ever comments to me about these broadcasts,” he tells me).
Then he gives me the thing that turns a boy into a professional. He hands me an assignment. Cover a high school basketball tournament (Kendall Arnett) for the Bee. They pay me. My reports run in the paper that lands on driveways across the valley. A man who could have spent that assignment on anyone spends it on me.
A classmate mocks me for my hero worship of Joe Hamelin. I don’t mind too much. I have this thing inside of me that needs to worship some people, and it is embarrassing, but Joe is kind to me and he doesn’t make any demands. I’m not fodder for a cause. I’m a smart kid who knows more about sports than any kid he’s known because I learned it from reading books and all the back issues of Time, Newsweek, Life and Sports Illustrated magazines (read the summer of 1977 at Pacific Union College). My home didn’t get a TV until 1980.
I intern at the Auburn Journal Sports Department for six months (late 1983 and early 1984) but my editor Rob Knies doesn’t want a Joe Hamelin profile. “We compete with the Bee. We’re not going to help the Bee.”
Ernest Becker (1924-1974) wrote The Denial of Death in 1973. He says a man cannot live with the knowledge that he will die and rot and be forgotten, so every culture hands him a hero system, a set of roles and rules that let him feel he counts, that some part of him outlasts the body. The hero system tells a man what a good life looks like, what earns honor, what a worthy man does with his days. Inside it he can be a hero on a small scale. Outside it the same acts read as nothing.
Joe lived inside the hero system of the American daily newspaper. Its temple is the sports desk. Its scripture is the box score. Its sacrament is the deadline, the nightly small death after which the day’s work sets and cannot be revised. Its sacred value, the one that orders the rest, is credit.
Joe wrote a column three days a week. It was good.
Credit, in the newsroom, means honor assigned by the record. The score does not lie. You name the man who scored and you name the man who missed, and you do not root in the press box. The byline is the reward and the receipt at once, a man’s name fixed in type, a small immortality on cheap paper that yellows but sits in a library for good. To give a man a byline enters him in the book of those who were here and did the work.
The word changes at the border. Carry credit into other hero systems and it grows a new meaning.
A Benedictine copyist in a cold scriptorium spends his life on a single manuscript and signs none of it. Credit, for him, is sin. The work rises to God, and a name in the margin steals from Him what is His. The monk earns his place by erasing himself from the page.
A Plains warrior counting coup cannot be given credit and spits on the offer. Credit is the blow struck on a living enemy before witnesses, seized on a horse, never assigned by an editor at a desk. What Joe hands across a table the warrior takes in the open or never holds at all.
A loan shark keeps a different book. Credit is what he extends so a man will owe him, leverage dressed as kindness, a line in a ledger that ends in a broken hand. He gives credit to own you. Joe gives credit to free you.
A cadre at a struggle session learns that claiming credit is the deviation that gets a man denounced. The achievement belongs to the collective, the Party, the Chairman, and the man who signs his own name has confessed a crime. The byline Joe prizes serves, in that room, as evidence against you.
A Reformed preacher tells his flock that credit is grace, unearned and unearnable, imputed by God to men who merit nothing. Salvation comes as a gift because no work can buy it. Joe’s faith runs the other way. In his church you earn the line of type. The kid covers the tournament, files clean copy, and the name is his because he did the thing.
Joe’s hero system holds that credit is earned. The score adjudicates. The byline belongs to the man who reported the game. Yet what Joe does for me is advance credit to a boy who has earned nothing, the way a banker advances a loan to a borrower with no history, on faith, against future work. The honor economy of the newsroom and the gift economy of the mentor live inside the same man and the same word. He believes credit must be earned, and he lends it to me before I can earn it, because that loan is how the hero system reproduces. An old man recruits a young one by advancing him significance he has not yet paid for. The hundred hours, the cable booth, the tournament byline: an initiation. Joe does what his religion asks of its elders, which is to make more of themselves before they die.
The hard part comes after. The hero system Joe served thins out. Sports desks empty. Papers fold or shrink to a website and a skeleton staff. The permanent printed record, the byline that was to outlast the man, proves as mortal as the man. Joe advanced me credit in a currency that lost most of its value. The driveways stopped getting the paper. The libraries cleared the bound volumes. A young man who built his life on the byline found that byline worth less each year.
The gift held anyway. The thing that transferred in that booth was never the byline. It was the standard. You name who scored. You do not root in the press box. You file clean and on time and you let the reader have his own reaction. A man carries that into work the newspaper never imagined, onto platforms Joe never saw, long after the desk he loved goes dark. The currency failed. The faith it taught did not.
In 1990, Joe wrote To Fly and Fight: Memoirs of a Triple Ace about Clarence E. Anderson, an Auburn resident who was buried with honors at Arlington National Cemetery on March 30, 2026.
Around 1990, Joe quit his job to write books full-time. I don’t think he published another book, and eventually he went back to writing for newspapers, retiring around 2005.
In 1988, I came down with what some doctors called chronic fatigue syndrome. Tossing and turning on my bed circa 1991, I get up and call Joe and he visits me. All of my friends my own age keep their distance, but everyone over 40 treats me with compassion.
In 1994, I return to two-thirds of a normal life, and once I get regular internet connection starting in 1997, I hunt Joe down to exchange emails.
There lies the strange grace of a hero system. It hands a man a project that death defeats, and in the handing it makes him more than he becomes alone. Joe knew, on some floor of himself, that the paper would not save him. He sat in the gym anyway and called the game as if the wire were waiting, and he gave a job that paid, and he made a writer. Forty years on I am still spending the credit he advanced. He never asked for it back.

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Live

The teletype runs all night. It is July 6, 1985, and I am nineteen, an intern at KAHI in Auburn, and I sit in the booth from eight to five on the weekends and read the news two and a half minutes past the hour, after the AP feed clears. Tonight I go to the track of my almer mater, Placer High School. The Western States Endurance Run starts at dawn up at Squaw Valley and the runners come a hundred miles through the canyons in the heat and finish on the track starting just before dawn and I am thrilled to deliver updates through the night, running back and forth every hour from the track to the station and back.

I stand in the announcer’s booth and the announcer says he’s relying on what he’s hearing on the radio, and I say, that’s me.

While we wait for the first runners, I see a network man standing at the edge of it in a good blazer. Jim Lampley (b. April 8, 1949). He is with ABC, and he has covered the Super Bowl that year and he will cover the New York Marathon that fall, and he is here for the run. I know his face from the television. I ask him for a few minutes for an interview. He gives them. He talks to me as though I work somewhere that counts, and I do not.

After my all-nighter, news director Pete DuFour begins paying me for sixteen hours a week at $3.50 an hour, and the money thrills me. I have an open mike to the world and I am only 19. I keep the job until I leave for UCLA in August of 1988.

Jim King wins in sixteen hours, two minutes, forty-four seconds. The runners come off the trail with their faces gone slack and their crews holding them by the elbows, and the men who started at dawn finish in the dark, and some of them weep, and a doctor checks their feet.

There’s a scrum of reporters around King, and Sacramento Bee sports editor Joe Hamelin, my friend, tells me to use my elbows to fight my way to the story. “Journalism is a young man’s game,” he says.

At five am, I try to get some sleep on the floor of the news room. I get up about 7 am, and check the Auburn Journal. A missing woman has been found dead. I give the news live. I record bulletins for the rest of the day. I go home and watch Boris Becker win Wimbledon and fall asleep.

Ernest Becker (1924-1974) wrote The Denial of Death about men like the ones I watched finish, and about the man in the blazer, and about the boy at the AP teletype. Becker says a culture is a hero system. It hands its members a set of routes by which a man may feel he counts in the order of things, may feel he is more than meat that rots, may earn a place that outlasts the body. The runner takes one route. He buys his significance with his legs. A hundred miles of granite and heat is a bid, scored in hours and minutes, visible to all, and at the finish the bid is paid or it is not. Jim King pays his in sixteen hours. The man who quits at mile eighty pays nothing and goes home with his feet wrapped and his bid refused. The arena is honest that way. The body either does the thing or it does not.

The announcer takes a different route, and his is the route I have spent my life near, so I should say what it costs and what it buys.

Lampley does not run. He stands at the finish in the blazer and he names what the runners did. The feat is fast and it is gone. King crosses the line and the moment dies the instant it happens, the way all moments die, and the announcer’s work is to catch it in the half second of its dying and fix it in words so that it survives. He is the witness. He confers permanence. The runner makes the moment with his body and the announcer makes it last with his voice, and of the two, the voice travels farther and lives longer. King’s run lives in his own legs for a season. It lives in the broadcast for as long as men keep the tape. This is the announcer’s immortality project, in Becker’s phrase. He earns his place in the order of things by standing at the edge of other men’s feats and giving them a voice. Years later Lampley will stand over a knocked-out fighter and shout that it happened, and the shout will outlive the punch, and men who never saw the fight will know the call.

The word at the center of his hero system is live. He works live. The whole worth of the man lies in being present at the moment of consequence and speaking into it while it is still warm, before it cools into history. A recording is not the thing. The thing is the live moment, witnessed and named, unrepeatable, gone if you miss it. So I want to hold that word up, because a sacred word means one thing inside one hero system and another thing inside the next, and the men who use it think they are speaking the same language.

To Lampley, live is the unrepeatable instant he is paid to catch. To the smokejumper stepping out the door of the plane over a ridge in flame, live is the fire that breathes and runs and will kill him if he reads the wind wrong. To the labor and delivery nurse at three in the morning, live is the thing that comes out blue and silent and then, if God is good and her hands are quick, cries. To the bomb technician kneeling over the device, live means the charge is hot and one wrong move ends the conversation. To the Carmelite behind the grille who has not left the enclosure in thirty years, live names the only thing she trusts, the presence she gives her hours to, the One she calls the Living God, and the runners and the fire and the wire are to her a noise outside the wall. To the session bassist laying down a take with the tape rolling and no fixing it after, live is the one pass that has the feel, the pass you cannot get back. Each man kneels to the word. Each man means a different god by it. Lampley’s god is the moment that will not wait, and he has built a whole life on being there for it, microphone in hand, while the rest of us hear about it later.

Now the scene at the finish, told again, because Becker explains the thing I felt and could not name at nineteen. A boy at the bottom of a hero system meets a man near the top of it, and the man blesses him. Becker calls this transference. We take our sense of worth from the figures who seem to hold the power to grant it. The father holds it first. After the father, the culture hands the power to its heroes, and the young man scans the room for whoever carries it now. I scanned the finish at Placer High and there he was in the blazer, the man from the television, the man who got to be live for a living, and he turned and spoke to me as though I belonged in the work. He did not have to. The secure man can afford the gift. He had his place in the order of things and could spare a piece of it for a stranger, and the piece he spared is the reason I remember the night forty years on and have told it more than once. The three fifty an hour bought groceries. The blessing bought something a teenager wants more than groceries, which is the sense that the thing he loves will have him.

Here is the part the other ten essays leave out, and I want it in because truth comes before comfort. The announcer’s route has a hole at the center of it. He is never the man who does the deed. He stands at the finish and never runs the canyons. His immortality is borrowed, every grain of it, from the bodies of other men. King’s legs earn the run and Lampley earns the words about the run, and the words last longer, and still the words are about a thing the speaker did not do. The witness lives inside other men’s moments and owns none of them. Lampley spent thirty years at ringside calling the courage of men who got hit in the face for money, and his voice is famous and their faces are wrecked, and that is the trade the witness makes. He keeps his teeth. He keeps the call. He does not keep a single punch as his own.

I do not think this makes the route a low one. The priest never dies for the sins of the world and still he stands at the altar and says the words that make the bread holy, and the words are not a fraud because his own body stayed whole. The announcer is the priest of the secular arena. He consecrates. He stands where the deed happens and he says what it was, and by saying it he lets the men who were not there share in it, which is most of us, which is the whole point of a hero system, that it gives the ordinary man a way to touch significance he could not reach alone. Becker would say the runner and the announcer and the boy at the teletype are all running the same race by different roads, all of them trying to count, all of them refusing to be only meat.

The winner came in at two minutes past four in the morning by the official clock, sixteen hours and change after the gun. I read it on the air at two and a half minutes past the hour, after the AP cleared, the way I read everything for the next two years. A man I had watched on television stood at the line and gave a nineteen-year-old his time. I have been trying to be live ever since, present at the moment and able to say what it was, and I have never once been sorry, and the pay has rarely been better.

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The Whole Cup

A man sits at my father’s table with something he cannot carry alone. My father gives him the Sabbath afternoon and takes him for a five-mile walk. He does this for years. People come with marriages breaking, with sons in jail, with the cold certainty that God has turned away. My father never meets a woman alone, and across a lifetime no one accuses him of anything. He guards that room the way a man guards what he values most.

In 1983 I ask him why he spends the hours this way. He is busy. Desmond Ford (1929-2019) carries his name on the radio across Australia and America, holds two doctorates, writes book after book. An afternoon with one man is an afternoon stolen from a sermon that reaches thousands. I tell him so.

He answers with water. When you speak over the air, he says, you take your cup and pour it ten thousand ways. When you sit with one man who needs you, you give him the whole cup.

I keep the line for forty years because it explains more than counsel. It explains the shape of his life and the reason a church that loved him could not keep him.

Ernest Becker (1924-1973) gives me the tool to read that cup. In The Denial of Death he argues that a man cannot live with the knowledge of his own death, so he builds a system of meaning that lets him feel he counts in a scheme larger and longer than his body. Becker calls these hero systems. A culture hands each man a way to earn significance and to outlast the grave by serving something that does not die. The soldier earns it through the flag. The scholar earns it through the book that survives him. The father earns it through the child. Take a man’s hero system away and you tell him his life adds to nothing, that he dies for nothing. No man hears that in peace.

My father lives inside a hero system with a name and an address. Seventh-day Adventism hands its people a part in the last act of history. The believer keeps the seventh-day Sabbath while the world keeps Sunday, eats clean, stands apart from the age, and waits as one of a final generation whose faithfulness figures in the close of cosmic time. The doctrine that holds this together is the investigative judgment. Adventists teach that in 1844 Christ entered the inner room of a sanctuary in heaven and began to examine the records of the professed people of God, name by name, settling each case before He returns. A man who believes this holds a seat at the center of the universe’s last reckoning. His Sabbath counts. His diet counts. His name waits in a book in heaven for the day it comes up.

Becker might recognize the arrangement at once. An immortality project written across the heavens, and the believer cast as a witness in the closing scene.

My father reads the doctrine and finds no floor under it. He argues that the investigative judgment, as the church teaches it, has thin biblical ground and a heavy price. The price is assurance. If a man’s case waits in an open ledger, examined and not yet closed, then he cannot rest. He works and watches and fears the audit. My father preaches the reverse. The verdict comes at the cross, he says, finished, in the past tense, available to a man tonight. He calls people to rest in a salvation already secured.

On October 27, 1979 he gives a talk at a forum at Pacific Union College and lays the case in the open. The church summons him to Washington and gives him six months. He writes 991 pages, the manuscript known as Daniel 8:14, the Day of Atonement, and the Investigative Judgment, and opens it with the claim that he means to defend the church.

In August 1980, at a ranch called Glacier View in Colorado, a committee of more than a hundred theologians and administrators sits to weigh what he has written. Men who studied beside him at Avondale sit across the room. His old mentor, Edward Heppenstall (1901-1994), cannot move him and later writes that he stands shocked at how far my father has swung. The committee finishes its work in five days. My father loses his ministerial credentials. He keeps his membership in the church. He drives home a layman.

Read the expulsion through Becker and it stops looking like a quarrel over a date in the book of Daniel. My father does not tug a loose thread. The investigative judgment is the doctrine that makes Adventists the remnant and not one more Protestant body with an odd day of worship. Remove it and the special part in the last act goes with it. The committee cannot grant the point and stay who they are. To accept my father is to hear that the thing setting them at the center of cosmic history rests on sand. Becker tells us how a man answers that news. He does not thank the messenger.

Here sits the part most accounts miss. My father does not take a hero system away and leave rubble. He offers another one. He hands his people the Reformation gospel, the old Protestant settlement where the heroism belongs to Christ and the man rests in it. He trades an immortality project of vigilance for an immortality project of rest. The church cannot read the trade as a gift, because the gift costs them their own place in heaven’s drama.

The whole quarrel turns on a single word, and the word will not sit still. Assurance.

For my father, assurance is the verdict already entered, the cross in the past tense, a salvation a man may lean his whole weight on before he sleeps.

Carry the word into other rooms and watch it change.

To an actuary, assurance is a price set on a death. He builds his life assurance from a table of ages and odds, a hedge against the certain day. The word holds no comfort in his hands. It holds arithmetic.

To an auditor who signs the opinion, assurance comes reasonable and never absolute. His firm stakes its name on books it has tested by sample, and he writes the word knowing it falls short of a guarantee. He offers assurance and swears in the same breath that it is not one.

To a medic working on a man under fire, assurance is the voice that says stay with me, the hand pressing the wound, a promise made while the outcome stays unknown.

To a pianist in the third movement, assurance lives in the hands. The body does not doubt through the hard passage. This self-assurance owes nothing to God and everything to years at the keys.

To a man nursing the dying in a hospice, assurance is the held hand and the managed pain and the refusal to promise a cure that will not come. He assures the dying of company, not of recovery.

To a debtor standing before a judge, assurance is the discharge that cancels the debt, the slate cleared by the law, a grace with a courthouse stamp on it.

Each man speaks the same word. Each holds it as something near to sacred inside his own system. Each means a thing the others do not recognize. Becker’s point sits right here. A word does not carry meaning the way a coin carries value, fixed and portable across every counter. A word draws its meaning from the hero system that gives a man his stakes. My father and the auditor and the medic can sit at one table and use one word and talk past each other, because each protects a different immortality with it.

This returns me to the cup. The broadcast is significance by scale. The cup poured ten thousand ways, the name carried far, the voice in cars on the highway and kitchens at breakfast. A hero system of its own, the system of the public man, and my father lives in it and feels its pull. He knows what the platform offers. The afternoon with one man is the other thing. The whole cup to a single soul.

The theology and the counsel turn out to be the same act. The investigative judgment keeps significance in a ledger across the whole mass of the saved, each name a line, the cup poured a million ways. Assurance hands the whole cup to one man at a table, undivided, his to drink tonight. When my father chooses the single soul over the audience of thousands, he makes in a kitchen the choice he made in his theology and the choice that cost him his collar. The one over the ten thousand. The whole cup over the shared sip. He spends his life persuaded that God works this way. Not by quota across a remnant. By the whole cup to the one who sits down across from him.

I disagreed with my father about a great deal. I overheard parts of the counsel he gave for years, and the wisdom of it held even where the doctrine did not. A man came to the table carrying what he could not carry. He left lighter. My father poured out the cup and did not measure it. He died on March 11, 2019, on the Queensland coast, ninety years old, still sure the cross had settled the verdict, still giving the whole cup to whoever sat down across from him.

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Mulholland Drive

David Lynch (1946–2025) turned sixty on January 20, 2006. The party sat in a restaurant near La Cienega and Melrose, the kind of room where the lighting flatters everyone and the valet knows which cars to bring around first. A producer who worked with Lynch had brought me. He had a plan for me that night, and the plan was Laura Harring (b. 1964).
He walked me over. He said something about how we should meet, the way a man speaks when he has already decided two people belong together. Then he left us standing at the bar. She turned to me. She gave me her attention, which felt like standing too close to a window in winter, all that light and I got scared. We talked for five minutes. I have no memory of a single thing said. I remember leaving her. I remember the relief of the back of the party, the ordinary world where a man like me knew the rules and where Gary Oldman’s manager Douglas Urbanski takes mercy on me and talks to me for the rest of the night while Lynch, Sting, Nicole Kidman and the beautiful people party.
I fled a beautiful woman at a film director’s birthday. That is the whole anecdote, and it is enough, because the question worth asking is not why I ran. The question is what she carried into that room that made running feel like the only safe move. She carried a hero system. So did I. They did not match, and the mismatch threw me.
Ernest Becker (1924–1974) argued in The Denial of Death that every man builds his life inside a scheme that tells him he counts, that his small span on earth touches something that does not die. A cop earns it through the badge. A scholar earns it through the footnote. A mother earns it through the child. The scheme hands out significance, and it hands out terror to those who fail its terms, and it lets a man look at his own death and say, not me, not really, because I belong to something larger. Becker called these schemes the routes to heroism. A culture is a pooled effort to feel immortal. Laura Harring built hers out of the one material she was handed early and could not refuse. She built it out of her face.
Start with the bullet. She grew up the first ten years of her life in Sinaloa, in Guasave, daughter of a Mexican spiritual teacher and a developer of Austrian-German blood. The family moved to San Antonio. At twelve a stray round from a drive-by shooting caught her in the head, a .45, and she lived. Sit with that. A girl takes a bullet meant for the air and survives, and the survival is not a thing she earned through merit or prayer. It simply happened to her body. A child who absorbs that learns early that the body holds death inside it at all times, and that life past the wound is a kind of borrowed thing she now has to justify. Becker would say the wound makes the hero system urgent. Most men keep death abstract. She could not. She had felt it enter her skull.
What she did next reads like a sprint away from the grave by way of transformation. Switzerland at sixteen, Aiglon College. The London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art, commedia dell’arte, the Argentine tango. El Paso, then the pageant ladder, Miss El Paso, Miss Texas, and in 1985 Miss USA, the first Hispanic woman to take the crown. A year wandering Asia and Europe and a stretch as a social worker in India. A marriage in 1987 to Count Carl-Eduard von Bismarck-Schönhausen, great-great-grandson of Otto von Bismarck (1815–1898), and a divorce two years later. She dropped the e from Herring and became Harring. Then Hollywood, and then the role that fixed her, Rita in Lynch’s Mulholland Drive (2001), an amnesiac with no past who picks her name off a poster for Gilda because she sees Rita Hayworth (1918–1987) and decides to be her. Roger Ebert (1942–2013) wrote that Harring could stand still and make the case for remaking Gilda. The International Herald Tribune reached for Ava Gardner (1922–1990).
Here sits her sacred value, and here sits the trick Becker hands us. The value is to be looked at. To be a beautiful woman who walks into a room and gathers every eye, and to hold the gaze, and to make of that gaze a vocation rather than an accident. For Laura the gaze is how the girl who took the bullet becomes the image that outlives the body. Film fixes the face forever. She told an interviewer that film means something, that a man can make a difference with a film. She means that the screen catches a woman and keeps her past her own death. That is the immortality her hero system promises. The gaze is salvation.
Now watch the same value move through other rooms, and watch it mean something different in each, because the word holds still while the worlds around it change.
To the pageant judge in 1985, to be looked at is to be measured. The gaze ranks. It assigns a number, crowns a winner, and the woman who masters it has achieved something the judge can score and defend. She wore a cowgirl costume to Miss Universe, all-American, the body as a flag. In that room the gaze is merit. You win it.
To Lynch the gaze is dread. His whole life’s work pries up the beautiful surface to show the thing squirming under it, the severed ear in the clean grass, the homecoming queen face-down. Critics noted that death by head wound runs through his films like a watermark. He cast a woman who carried a real head wound to play a woman with no memory, pure surface, a face without a past. In Lynch’s room the gaze does not save the beautiful woman. It hollows her. The camera looks and looks until the face stops meaning safety and starts meaning the abyss. Mulholland Drive ends in Hollywood’s promise curdling into a corpse. The dream of being looked at kills the woman who chases it.
(I asked somebody on the film what it meant and he said it didn’t mean anything.)
To the Bismarck world the gaze means lineage. An aristocratic name turns a wife into an ornament that reflects the house. Beauty there carries a duty to the bloodline and the title, Gräfin von Bismarck, and the gaze rests on her the way it rests on a family portrait. She married into it and left inside two years, which tells you the fit was wrong, that her hero system ran on becoming and theirs ran on having always been.
To her grandmother’s Sinaloa, the Catholic world she came from, a beautiful girl looked at by men means danger. The gaze there is the evil eye and the appetite of strangers and the thing a mother warns her daughter against. Beauty is a gift from God and a trap men set, and the modest answer is to lower your eyes and cover up and not give the village a reason to talk. To be looked at is to be at risk.
To the spiritual current her mother taught, and to the India where she did her social work, the gaze runs the other way. The body is a veil. The face is the least true thing about a person. To see and be seen by the holy, darshan, is the only looking that counts, and the beautiful surface is the very illusion a soul must see through to reach what does not pass. In that room her sacred value is the snare, and freedom means caring nothing for the mirror.
To the Hollywood agent the gaze is a market. A face is an asset with a depreciation schedule, and the studio looks at a woman the way a buyer looks at a property, pricing the years she has left. The casting list, the close-up, the call that comes or does not. In that room to be looked at is to be appraised and, in time, marked down.
To the feminist critic the gaze erases. To be looked at is to be turned into an object, the woman emptied of self and filled with the wanting of the man who watches. Salvation for Laura reads as capture to the critic. The thing Laura built her life around is the thing the critic wants dismantled.
Seven rooms. One woman walks into each, the same woman with the same face, and the same act of being looked at means triumph, dread, inheritance, sin, illusion, price, and erasure. The word sits still. The hero systems move. Becker’s point lands here. There is no neutral place from which to say what her beauty means, because meaning lives inside a scheme, and the schemes do not agree, and each one feels to its members like plain reality rather than one bet among many.
Which returns me to the David Lynch party. I ran because her hero system and mine had no common term. She lived by the face and the gaze and the screen that keeps the body past its death. I live by the word on the page, the footnote, the small contribution to knowledge that might sit in a library after I am gone. Two routes to the same destination, two ways of refusing the grave, and at that bar they could not trade. She offered the immortality of the beautiful image. I had no idea how to receive it, and I told myself I had nothing she could use, so I gave her five minutes and ran.
The bullet sits under all of it. A girl survives a shot to the head and spends a life turning her face into something that cannot be killed twice. Then a director who films death by head wound puts her on the screen as a woman with no past, and the world calls it her finest work. Becker would not be surprised. The hero system is the thing we build to keep the wound from being the whole story. Hers worked. The face survives. The bullet did not get the last look.

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Good Evening, Folks

The Capitol dome stands lit. It is July 1980. It is evening on the East Front, the marble still giving back the day’s heat. A black limousine waits at the curb with the engine running. A Capitol policeman holds a loose perimeter made mostly of his own boredom. An aide carries a leather case and a folded coat over one arm.

A family stands on the sidewalk. A father, a mother, a boy of fourteen whose feet hurt from a day of walking. A big man comes down toward the car, white hair, heavy in the shoulders, a rumpled suit, the wide face of a man who has eaten a thousand dinners he never paid for. He stands second in the line of succession to the President of the United States. He could pass the family without seeing them. Men at that height stop seeing the people on the curb. He stops. He looks at them. He says, “Good evening, folks.” Then the door, the car, the red lights going down the avenue.

The boy holds those three words for the rest of his life.

This is the thing a hero system does, and it does it so fast you miss the size of it. Ernest Becker (1924-1974) gives us the term. In The Denial of Death he argues that man builds his whole culture to outrun one piece of knowledge, that he dies, and that he carries under everything the suspicion that he is nobody, an animal who rots in the ground like the rest. A hero system answers the suspicion. It tells a man how to count. It hands him a way to feel he is an object of first value in a world that means something. Take the scheme away and the terror comes back. Give a man his place in it and he can stand at the edge of his own death without shaking.

Tip O’Neill (1912-1994) ran a hero system whose first article holds that no man is nobody.

He came up in North Cambridge, Massachusetts, the son of a bricklayer who rose to run the city sewers and sit on the council. The parish set the boundaries of the world. The priest, the precinct, the wake, the union card, the family that had been on the block for fifty years. O’Neill went to Boston College and lost his first race, for the Cambridge City Council, in 1935. A neighbor he had known all his life, an older woman whose walk he had shoveled, told him afterward that she had voted for him though he never once asked her to. He had taken her for granted. The lesson stayed with him. People want to be asked. People want to be seen. A man who assumes them loses them, and he deserves to.

He won the next time and kept winning. He took the seat John F. Kennedy (1917-1963) left when Kennedy went to the Senate. He became Speaker of the House in 1977 and held it ten years. He fought Ronald Reagan (1911-2004) across the whole of the 1980s, called the budget cuts a war on the working man, and meant it, and then drank with Reagan after six o’clock and traded Irish stories, because the fight ran on the personal and so did the friendship and both men came out of a system old enough to hold the two at once.

Now name the value at the center of it. The word is respect. In O’Neill’s world respect lives in small acts performed in person. The handshake. The name remembered across thirty years. The wake attended for a man whose vote you lost. The favor done and the favor returned. Asking for the vote instead of assuming it. “All politics is local,” he said, and gave the line to his father, and what he meant runs deeper than electoral math. He meant that a man becomes real to you when you stand in front of him and grant him your attention. The greeting on the curb is the whole religion of the ward, pressed into three words and spent on a stranger who can do nothing for him. The boy casts no vote in his district. The boy cannot return the favor. O’Neill greets him anyway. In his scheme the strong hand recognition to the weak and ask nothing back.

But carry the word respect out of O’Neill’s world and watch it change shape in every other one.

A Marine gunnery sergeant hears it and thinks of something earned in mud and never handed over on a sidewalk. Respect runs up the chain by rank and down it by what a man does when the rounds come in. You salute the commission first and the man only after he has paid for the rest. A stranger’s good evening buys nothing on that ground.

On a trading floor respect is the number. It is the position that pays when the whole desk leans the other way, the call no one else had the stomach to make. Warmth is overhead. A man who stops on a curb to greet strangers has time he should put to better use, and the floor will price his softness within the hour.

Behind a monastery wall a monk hears the word and flinches at it. To want respect is the oldest vanity, the self stepping forward when the self should vanish. His order runs on the reverse move. He hollows out the place where the hunger to count would sit and gives the empty room to God. The small thing O’Neill spends on the boy, the thing of being seen, is the very thing this man has taken a vow to stop wanting.

On a hard corner a young man hears respect and reaches for it with his body. Respect is not being disrespected. It runs zero-sum and gets defended in real time and a slight cannot pass. The Speaker’s free greeting reads as weakness here, a thing thrown away by a man rich enough not to feel the loss.

In a quiet room a hospice nurse hears the word and thinks of a body she washes and a name she keeps using after the mind behind it has gone dark. Respect is the worth she guards in people the world has finished counting. She and O’Neill might know each other on sight. Both hand significance to the ones the powerful have stopped seeing. The same word that splits the monk from the trader closes the distance between the nurse and the Speaker.

So the word holds steady on the page and shifts underfoot. Each man speaks it with full conviction and means a different thing, because each stands inside a different scheme for how a life counts, and the scheme decides the meaning. There is no neutral respect floating above the systems. There is the gunnery sergeant’s and the trader’s and the monk’s and the nurse’s, and there is O’Neill’s, and a man raised in one of them can spend a whole evening with a man raised in another and never learn that the two of them were not discussing the same thing.

O’Neill died on January 5, 1994. The system he served has thinned since. The parish loosened its hold, the wake gave way to the cable hit, the favor lost its standing, and the personal touch he spent his life perfecting now reads to many as an old corruption dressed up as warmth. But the three words he gave the boy still do their work. The boy is a man now, and he writes, and he sets the evening down on the page. In setting it down he pays O’Neill back in O’Neill’s own currency. He remembers the name. He says it again where others can hear it.

That is the trade running both ways. The hero system grants the small man a moment of counting on a public sidewalk. The small man, holding the moment across the decades and writing it out, hands the great man a thin slice of the one thing every hero system is built to chase and none can keep. Three words on a curb at evening. A man dead thirty years. The whole religion of the ward, working at distance, working past death, doing the only thing it ever promised to do.

Good evening, folks.

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The Joe Starkey Hero System

In 1980 I am thirteen and I want to be a voice. Not a player. A voice. I write a letter to Joe Starkey (b. 1941), the sports director at KGO in San Francisco, and I ask him how a boy becomes a sportscaster. A week later a postcard comes back. He has filled every white space on it, top to bottom, margin to margin, with tips (such as that I should learn as many sports as possible and I should go to games and record myself doing the call) and he apologizes to me for writing too much! A stranger’s child writes him and he answers with a card jammed full.
I keep thinking about that card. Ernest Becker (1924-1974) gives me the way to read it.
In The Denial of Death (1973) Becker says a man knows he will die and cannot bear the knowledge, so he builds a hero system, a set of roles and values that lets him feel he counts against the dark, that his life adds up to something the grave cannot cancel. Every people hands its young a formula for this kind of heroism. Self-esteem is the feeling that the formula works, that a man is a hero inside the cosmic story his people tell. Take the formula away and he comes apart.
Starkey grows up in Chicago and earns a business degree and a graduate degree at Loyola. He becomes a vice president at Union Bank in San Francisco, then changes course, recording games on his own tape recorder and applying for play-by-play work until Charles O. Finley (1918-1996), owner of the California Golden Seals, hires him to call hockey in 1972. On the bourgeois ladder he wins. Title, salary, the climb. The bank gives him security and nothing to set against death. So he calls games into a recorder, alone, in a living room, practicing a heroism the bank cannot give him, and then he walks off the safe ladder for the booth. A man trades one immortality project for another when the first stops making him feel like a hero.
Here is the broadcaster’s odd place in Becker’s scheme. Most hero systems let a man be the hero of his own story. The broadcaster builds his deathlessness out of other men’s bodies. The athlete’s body fails by thirty-five. The play lasts four seconds and then dies, the way every play dies. What survives is the call. Starkey takes the thing that dies the instant it happens and makes it deathless. He denies death by occupation.
In 1982 Cal returns a kickoff against Stanford with five laterals while the Stanford band pours onto the grass, sure the game has ended. “The band is out on the field,” Starkey says, and his voice breaks, and he says he has never seen anything like it in his life. The kickoff happened once and would have vanished like all kickoffs vanish. A man in a booth fixed it in sound. Now you cannot replay the play without replaying Starkey. He smuggles himself into immortality through the side door of witness. The athletes ran. He stayed.
The year of my postcard is also the year of Lake Placid. Starkey is there for KGO but not assigned to the United States and Soviet hockey game, so he goes as a fan, and as the thing builds he telephones the station, tells his bosses he will risk the job to call the third period live with no authorization, and they let him, and other West Coast stations pick up his feed. To stand present at the great moment and stay silent is, in his hero system, death. He will lose the job before he loses the call. That is a man who believes his own formula.
His trademark is “What a bonanza.” A bonanza is found wealth, the strike no man earned. Luck is holy to him because the witness does not make the moment. He stands present and names it. Presence at grace is the sacred thing, and so he must be there.
Watch the word call do its work in him. He hears a call and leaves the bank. He makes the call that fixes the play. He places the call to KGO that puts him on the air for the miracle. Vocation, broadcast, telephone. One word, one man.
The same word organizes other men and means something foreign in each.
The cloistered monk hears a call, and his summons him away from speech into silence, toward a God who will not be described. He earns his place by disappearing. Starkey’s call pulls him toward the microphone. The monk’s call pulls him away from it. One word, opposite directions.
The floor trader buys a call and means a contract, the right to a rising price, a wager laid on tomorrow. His heroism is to be right about the future and to carry the cost of being wrong. Starkey lays no bet. He describes the thing that already happened. The trader’s call faces forward into what might come. The broadcaster’s call faces the instant that just died.
The auctioneer calls, and he is Starkey’s near cousin, a mouth that turns a room toward a single point and sets a price by speed. But the auctioneer’s chant assigns worth in dollars and ends in a sale. Starkey’s call assigns worth in memory and ends in nothing a man can hold.
The obstetric resident is on call, and his call is the page at three in the morning that drags him to the room where a life begins. He stands at the threshold of a body entering the world, as Starkey stands at the play, but he works in blood and his witness saves a life instead of fixing a moment.
The duck hunter in the tule fog works a call cut from wood and reed, and his call is a lie that brings the living bird down to the gun. The voice summons to kill. Starkey’s voice summons nothing and kills nothing. It comes after the fact and keeps the thing alive.
The revival preacher gives the altar call, and his call summons the sinner down the aisle to be saved before the body fails. His immortality is literal, a soul that outlasts the grave, and the call is the door to it. Starkey promises no soul and no afterlife. His immortality is the cheap and sufficient human kind, a voice lodged in a stranger’s head.
Which returns me to the card. A man who doubts his hero system hoards it. A man who lives inside his hero system hands it down. Becker says a culture survives by handing the young its formula for heroism, and the handing down is the system reproducing itself. Starkey fills a postcard for a boy he will never meet because the boy is continuity, another mouth that might carry the voice forward. He had smuggled himself into permanence by then. He could afford to give the formula away free.
I still have the voice in my head. That was the gift. The play dies. The athlete ages. The card yellows. The call stays.

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Mike Adamle and the Meaning of Heart

It is April 1980. I am thirteen. The place is Sea World San Diego, and the families move past the tanks in the heat with their souvenir cups, and on the beach stands Mike Adamle (b. 1949), whom I watch on television whenever the set will give him to me. He does the NFL pregame and half-time shows for NBC with Bryant Gumbel. He cuts into games with highlights. He’s a star.

During a break from filming, he has no reason to stop for a boy. He stops. He gives me twenty minutes, maybe thirty. We talk about sports and about how a man gets to sit at the desk and call the games. I ask him which NFL team has the best organization. He says San Diego. He says I’m very smart and I have a bright future. He could not have been kinder, and I have kept the warmth of those minutes for more than forty years, which tells a man something about what a small kindness costs the giver and what it pays the one who receives it.

I want to read him through Ernest Becker (1924-1974). In The Denial of Death and Escape from Evil, Becker argues that the human animal knows it will die and cannot bear to live inside that knowledge, so every culture hands its members a hero system, a set of rules for earning the sense that a life counts beyond the body that ends. The athlete earns it in yards. The priest earns it in souls. The trader earns it in returns. Each hero system sets its own terms for what counts, and a man spends his years trying to bank enough of its currency to feel he will not vanish when the body quits. The script does the heavy work. It tells him what a good life looks like, and it tells the people around him whether to clap.

Adamle grows up inside a hero system before he can name one. His father, Tony Adamle (1924-2000), the son of Slovenian immigrants, plays linebacker for the Cleveland Browns through their championship years, then leaves the game for medical school and comes home to Kent, Ohio, to set up a practice and serve as team physician for the high school and for Kent State for more than thirty-five years. The warrior becomes the healer in one body. Marion Motley (1920-1999), a fullback bound for Canton, comes to the house, and young Mike sits on his lap. The boy learns early that a man earns his place through the body, that he hits and gets hit and then patches the wounded, and that the men who do these things deserve a seat at your table.

Mike inherits the script and the wrong size for it. He stands five foot nine. He carries the ball at Northwestern against Wisconsin in 1969 for 316 yards, a school record that holds to this day, and he takes the Big Ten MVP in 1970, and he goes in the fifth round, the hundred and twentieth man chosen in the 1971 draft. Six years in the league, two seasons each with three teams, eleven hundred and forty-nine rushing yards across the whole run. He survives on special teams and on willingness. He blocks for the back who gets the carries. He covers the kicks where the collisions live. The men who keep him keep him for one quality, and they have a word for it. They say he has heart.

Hold that word. Heart means a specific thing inside the football hero system, and it means something else in every neighboring one, and the gap between the meanings tells the whole story.

To a cardiac surgeon the heart is a pump with four chambers and a set of valves, a thing to be stopped and opened and sewn and started again, and his hero system rewards the steady hand and the clean margin, and sentiment in the operating room is a danger to the patient. To a cantaor singing deep song in Andalusia the heart is the wound that makes the voice true, and a man who has not suffered cannot reach the note, and the audience grades him on how much of his own ruin he is willing to show. To a Carthusian in his cell the heart is the room where a man meets God in silence, and the labor of a life is to empty it of everything that is not Him, and the scoreboard is invisible and the season never ends. To a man at a high-stakes poker table heart means he can move all his chips behind a hand he knows is weak and hold his face while he does it, and the table respects the cold nerve and nothing else. To a mother in Seoul driving her son through the examinations heart is the will to grind, the refusal to rest, the endurance aimed at a single test that sorts the whole of a life. To a venture capitalist heart is close to a flaw, the soft spot that keeps a man in a losing position past the point where the numbers told him to fold.

Same word. Six worlds. In each one the word makes sense only against the rules of that world, and a man raised in one of them might watch a man from another spend his heart and see nothing he recognizes as courage at all. There is no neutral ground where the meanings reconcile. Becker would say there cannot be, because the hero system is not a description of reality that men happen to share. It is the thing that lets a man get out of bed, and a man defends it the way he defends his life, because it stands in for his life.

Adamle’s heart is the football kind fused with the kitchen-table kind. It is the small man who plays big and blocks for the man who scores, and it is also the warmth that stops in a crowd for somebody’s boy. He carries the same quality from the field into the broadcast booth and says yes to nearly everything the trade offers. He hosts American Gladiators for seven years. He works the Olympics. He calls bull riding for the Professional Bull Riders. He stands on the sideline for the XFL. He never seems to regard any of it as beneath the dignity of a former All-American, because his hero system never priced dignity that way. The coin he chose to be rich in was usefulness and good cheer.

Then the world that does not run on his coin gets hold of him. In 2008 he goes to work for the WWE, and the wrestling business runs on a different currency, on the worked insult and the crowd’s appetite for a man’s failure turned into theater. He flubs the names. He calls Jeff Hardy (b. 1977) “Jeff Harvey” on the air. The internet that grades announcers gives him the Gooker Award for the worst thing of the year and names him the worst television announcer, and a man who once carried the ball 316 yards in an afternoon becomes a punch line in living rooms across the country. He cuts a promo apologizing. He slaps Randy Orton (b. 1980) in a scripted scene and resigns his scripted job, and he walks out of that world and goes back to the desk in Chicago and keeps working.

Watch what the hero system does under that pressure. The wrestling crowd offers Adamle a deal: stop trying, take the laugh, let the failure be your character. He declines. He runs the Ironman triathlon in Kona at sixty, fourteen hours and change in the heat. The value holds because the value was never the applause. It was the showing up.

The last test comes for the body that earned the coin in the first place. In February 2017 Adamle says he has been diagnosed with dementia and that his doctor sees the marks of chronic traumatic encephalopathy, and he ties it to nineteen years of seizures and to the concussions of the football years. “It shook my world,” he says. The game gave him his heart and the same game took the organ above it. A man might curse the script that did this to him. Adamle does the thing his hero system trained him to do. He goes public so that other men and their families might know the cost sooner, and he sits on the board of the Epilepsy Foundation’s Chicago division, and he turns his own wreck into use. The warrior who becomes the healer, one more time, in one more body, the way his father did it.

So I come back to Sea World and the twenty minutes. I understand them better now. Inside the hero system Adamle lived by, a stranger’s boy with no name and nothing to offer was worth twenty minutes of a working man’s afternoon, because the system told him that warmth spent on the helpless counts, that you block for the man who carries the ball and you stop for the kid who only wants to talk. Another man in another script might look at that exchange and see twenty minutes thrown away on someone who could never repay them. That is the thing about heart. The word changes its meaning the moment you carry it across the border into the next man’s world, and most of us never notice we have crossed a border at all. I have spent forty years certain that I met a great man at Sea World. By the terms of his own hero system, I did.

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Special Progress

The New York Times reports:

When Jeffrey Epstein was about 6 years old, he moved with his family to Sea Gate, in Coney Island. He would spend his formative years there, in a gated neighborhood several blocks from the beach, making friends who stayed close to him for most of his life.

Like many families in Sea Gate, a mostly working- and middle-class Jewish refuge, the Epsteins had little…

On the other side of the tall fence encircling Sea Gate, the west end of Coney Island — including the site of the Epsteins’ previous apartment — was a demolition zone, whole blocks slated for the bulldozer or burned and vandalized during urban renewal. White families fled if they could afford to, and among those who stayed, racial tensions simmered and boiled.

To its residents, Sea Gate signified safety from people and places they viewed as threats. A private police force patrolled its cabanas and community basketball courts. Kids had the run of the place, crowding the paths and the beaches, at home in one another’s houses. They attended one another’s bar mitzvahs; an accordion teacher made the rounds several days a week. “It was like day camp all year round,” recalls Susan Danzig, who lived near Epstein on Maple Avenue. Adults seemed beside the point…

The children in Sea Gate were not spared the convulsions of the 1960s. Heavy drugs were used there. Pals went to Vietnam and never came back. But the kids were aware, at the time and from a distance of five decades or more, that compared with those living outside the gate, they had it good.

By junior high school, Epstein was part of a tight friend group: four smart, ambitious boys who preferred music to sports and cracked one another up…

Epstein’s father, Seymour, was the son of immigrants from Eastern Europe. His father owned a wrecking company in Brooklyn, and his mother suffered a “nervous breakdown” and underwent shock therapy. Seymour quit high school “because I never liked school,” he wrote in an autobiographical essay before his death in 1991 that Maxwell included in the birthday book.

Before landing his job at the Parks Department in 1956, Seymour seems to have drifted, selling cutlery at Macy’s and working as a conductor on the subway. He was a “very, very basic guy” who enjoyed television and especially Tarzan movies, Gary Grossberg, an Epstein family friend, said in an interview.

In their emails the Epstein brothers regularly mocked their father…

Now an elite public middle school with a competitive entrance exam, Mark Twain Junior High School in 1964 was tense with racial conflict in an increasingly impoverished neighborhood. “We had police escorts from the public bus to the school at certain times,” recalled Scott Ehrlich, who attended with Epstein. Epstein once said he did not like wearing a tie because it gave kids on the street something to grab when they dragged you from one place to another.

The solution, at Mark Twain, was to sequester the high-achieving white kids, who tended to be Jewish, and collect them in classes labeled Special Progress, or S.P. Some of these S.P. students, including Epstein, skipped eighth grade. “We were a special class, kind of an island, isolated from the others,” Durham recalled. “And people resented us.” Because of their insularity, the Sea Gate kids were regarded as especially privileged.

For the rest of his life, Epstein displayed a keen determination to enforce the boundaries between those on the outside and those who were “in.” Even the network of “girls” functioned to exclude others. When an unnamed person in 2011 asked Epstein to explain how having “400 women” at his disposal could be as satisfying as “a deep relationship with one woman,” he responded that he liked the security. “The Harem,” he wrote, has traditionally “meant protection for those inside from those outside.”

Sea Gate sits behind a fence at the western end of Coney Island. A private police force patrols the cabanas and the basketball courts. On the other side of the fence, in the years when Jeffrey Epstein (1953-2019) is a boy, the blocks burn and empty under urban renewal, and the families who can afford to leave do. Inside the fence the children have the run of the place. They cross into one another’s houses. They go to one another’s bar mitzvahs. An accordion teacher makes the rounds. A neighbor remembers it as day camp all year round, and remembers that the adults seem beside the point.

The Epsteins have the second floor. The house on Maple Avenue stands three stories, a Dutch colonial with a broad front porch, and the family rents a small apartment in it. Seymour Epstein works for the Parks Department as a laborer and brings home less than eight thousand dollars a year. Paula works as a school aide at P.S. 188. The neighbors find Paula simple, and sometimes silly. Years later the sons mock the father in their emails, the stained boxer shorts, the wife-beaters with gravy on them, and Mark asks whether Seymour might have been part ape. This is the home the boy escapes. The terror under the whole story starts here, in the second-floor rental behind the fence, and the terror has a name the boy hears every day on the other side of the gate. The name is nobody.

Ernest Becker held that a man builds his life as a defense against the knowledge that he is small and that he will die and that he might amount to nothing. The defense is a hero system, an arrangement of meaning that lets a man feel he counts. Cultures hand these systems down. A man does not invent his from scratch. He receives it young, before he can reason, and it tells him what a life worth having looks like and what the worst fate is. For the boy in the second-floor rental the worst fate stands in plain sight beyond the fence, and the hero system that answers it forms early, among four boys who decide together that they are not nobody. They are special.

The word special runs through every hero system on earth and means a different thing in each.

For a Carthusian monk in his cell, special means set apart for God and hidden from men. The monk gives up the rise. He gives up the witness. His significance has an audience of one and that audience needs no proof. The worst fate for the monk is to be seen, to be praised, to have the world know his name, because the knowing would steal the thing back from God and return it to the self. Special means invisible.

For a Marine, special means the few, and the few earn it through shared ordeal, and no man earns it alone. The significance lives in the unit. A Marine carries his worth in the regard of men who suffered the same thing he suffered, and the cardinal sin, the one that damns him, is to leave a brother behind. Special means I did not break, and I did not let my brothers break.

For a founder in a glass building south of Market Street, special means the exception who breaks the rule and makes the world bend to him. He reads the rules as the cage built for ordinary men. He proves his worth by disruption, and the proof arrives as a number, a valuation, the bend of the world measured in capital. Special means I was right and everyone who doubted me was wrong, and here is the money to settle it.

For a prizefighter, special means proven on the body and proven alone. No coach confers it. No crowd confers it. The other man in the ring tries to take it and fails, and that failure is the only proof the fighter trusts. Special means I stood and he did not.

The monk and the Marine and the founder and the fighter use one word and live four lives, and not one of them would recognize what special means inside the fence at Sea Gate. There it means selected out of the precarious mass and witnessed by the boys who were selected with you. It is relational. It is comparative. Special at Sea Gate means special compared to the children burning out of their homes beyond the gate, and the comparison is not the shadow of the value. The comparison is the value.

The school makes this plain and never means to. Mark Twain Junior High in 1964 runs tense with racial conflict, and children take police escorts from the bus to the door. The school’s answer is to gather the high-achieving kids, who tend to be Jewish, into classes labeled Special Progress, S.P. Epstein lands there. He skips a grade out of it. A classmate, Lisa Durham, remembers the arrangement with a clarity that holds the whole hero system in a sentence. They were a special class, she says, an island, isolated from the others. And people resented us.

An island. The word the boy will spend his fortune on, fifty years on, the boy who will buy Little St. James and run his life from it, learns the structure of the island in a tracked classroom at thirteen. The island confers worth, and the worth depends on the water, and the water depends on the people kept off the island. The resentment Durham names is not a cost of the system. It is the proof the system works. You cannot be special unless someone outside the fence is not.

The boys carry the system out of the school and into the rest of their lives, and they speak it to each other for half a century in a private liturgy. We came from nothing, Kafka writes. He says it more than once because it is the creed. Coming from nothing is the terror, and the rise is the redemption, and the cohort is the church that keeps the record of who rose how far. You didn’t learn life’s lessons in your house, Kafka tells Epstein. You learned them from us. We didn’t look to our families really for anything. The family is the nothing. The boys are the something. The hero system replaces the home that shamed them with a brotherhood that crowns them, and the crowning never stops, because Kafka is still measuring the rise in 2015, still writing it down, still keeping the books. He did well. Epstein did better.

The boys prove the system the way Sea Gate taught them, by sorting. They share rare things to mark rank, the recordings of the French pianist who made Bach into jazz, the calculus book the boy reads on his bed with Beethoven going. They travel Europe on two dollars a day and sleep on night trains to save the price of a room, and the thrift is not poverty, the thrift is mastery, the boy working the schedules so the world gives him its rooms for free. Pure happiness, Kafka writes, is sneaking into the five-dollar seats at the Fillmore with an orange soda and a lobster roll, the ultimate luxury. The luxury is small and the theft is the point. Special means the rules are the cage built for the children beyond the fence, and we slip them, and slipping them is how we know we are not those children.

At Interlochen, the summer he is fourteen, the boy enters a higher island, talented youth from everywhere marked as special, and a cabin-mate remembers him skirting the rules and barely complying, sockless under a regulation that requires socks. The detail is small and it is the whole man. The rule binds the others. The boy proves he is special by the margin of his noncompliance, and he proves it again on the Bear Stearns application in 1976, where he invents a degree from Cooper Union and a master’s from New York University he never earned. The lie is not only fraud. The lie is the hero system stated in a job application. The credential is the cage. The man who writes his own credential has declared he stands outside it, on the island, where the rules are for the people in the water.

Then the rise goes vertical, past anything Sea Gate could have scripted, and the cohort watches with awe and keeps faith. Here the hero system does the thing that every other reader of this story has called a puzzle and that Becker lets us read as fidelity. The friends do not stay loyal to Epstein despite his crimes. They stay loyal because Epstein is the proof. He is the boy from the second-floor rental who rose highest, who turned coming from nothing into an island a man could stand on, and to break with him is to concede that the rise can end in a cell and a corpse on Little St. James, and that concession unmakes the meaning of every life in the cohort. The men cannot afford it. So the oncologist Buchholtz and the optometrist Eisenstein and the billboard man Kafka keep the friendship warm across the guilty plea, banter about the girls in the house, track the release date, wire the money. JEE, Kafka writes in 2009. Are you released yet. Good job on getting thru the sentence.

When Eisenstein dies in 2014, Kafka writes the obituary, and in it he names Jeffrey Epstein a soul mate. The man has pleaded guilty by then. Kafka knows what the house holds. He writes the words anyway, because the alternative is to say that the boy who proved the creed proved nothing, and a man does not, at the end of his life, burn the scripture that told him his life had weight.

This is the new thing the Sea Gate story offers a reader who has watched the rise a hundred times in the obituaries and the indictments and never seen the spine of it. The sacred value of the cohort, special, the value that saved four boys from the terror of the second-floor rental, was the same value that built the architecture of the harem. When the unnamed correspondent asks Epstein in 2011 how four hundred women can satisfy a man more than one deep bond, he answers in the language of the island. The harem, he writes, has traditionally meant protection for those inside from those outside. The reader is meant to find the line monstrous and alien. It is neither. It is Special Progress grown rich. It is the SP island with a private plane. The boy learned at thirteen that worth comes from being inside and depends on someone being outside, and he never learned anything else, and at the end he ran the lesson to its floor.

The monk and the Marine and the founder and the fighter would each reach a different floor, because each holds special to mean a different thing, and the thing it means decides where a life can go. The monk’s special ends in silence. The Marine’s ends in the regard of men who held the line with him. The Sea Gate boy’s special ended where its logic always pointed, on an island, with the world sorted into the few who counted and the supply that did not, and a cohort on the shore who could not call it monstrous because they had spent their lives calling it special.

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Amy Gutmann: A Life in Democratic Theory

Amy Gutmann (b. November 19, 1949) ranks among the principal democratic theorists of her generation, and her working life joins three callings that seldom meet in one career: political philosophy, university leadership, and diplomacy. She built a sustained body of work on democratic education and deliberative democracy. She led the University of Pennsylvania for eighteen years. She represented the United States in Berlin as ambassador to Germany. Across scholarship, administration, bioethics, and public service she returned to a single question, how citizens who disagree about the deepest things can live together as political equals.

She was born in Brooklyn, the only child of Kurt and Beatrice Gutmann. Her father, a German Jew, left Nazi Germany in 1934 as a college student, reached India, and came at last to the United States. The family settled in Monroe, New York. She attended Monroe-Woodbury High School and became the first in her family to finish college. Her father’s flight from a totalitarian state gave her later subject its weight, and questions of citizenship, pluralism, and the moral obligations of public institutions traced back to a family history she carried into her scholarship.

Gutmann graduated magna cum laude from Radcliffe College in 1971, took a master’s degree from the London School of Economics in 1972, and completed her doctorate in political science at Harvard University in 1976. Her dissertation, supervised by the political theorist Michael Walzer (b. 1935), shaped her early thinking about justice, citizenship, and democratic equality. It became the basis for her first book, Liberal Equality (1980), a study of the tension between individual liberty and social equality in modern democratic societies.

From the start she wanted to bridge political philosophy and the practical work of governing. Her scholarship asks how a free society can hold freedom and equality together amid deep moral and cultural disagreement. She became a leading advocate of deliberative democracy, and she argued that democratic legitimacy rests on institutions that press citizens to justify their political positions through reasoned public debate, rather than on any expectation of unanimity.

Her most influential book, Democratic Education (1987), reshaped both political philosophy and educational theory. She rejected state indoctrination on one side and unlimited parental control over a child’s schooling on the other, and she held that a democratic society keeps a legitimate interest in preparing its future citizens for independent judgment and civic participation. Education, on her account, should build the capacity to weigh competing claims, question inherited assumptions, and take a responsible part in public life. The book remains a foundational text in democratic theory.

Over the following decades she carried her analysis of democracy into questions of race, identity, compromise, and public ethics. In Color Conscious: The Political Morality of Race (1996), written with the philosopher Kwame Anthony Appiah (b. 1954), she examined the moral and political complexities of racial classification and affirmative action. Identity in Democracy (2003) took up the relation between group identities and democratic citizenship. Her long collaboration with the political theorist Dennis Thompson (1940-2025) produced Democracy and Disagreement, Why Deliberative Democracy?, and The Spirit of Compromise, a sequence that helped establish deliberative democracy as a major field within political theory.

A theme recurs across this work. Disagreement belongs to democracy as a defining feature rather than a flaw. Citizens hold conflicting values and interests, and they always will. Democratic institutions succeed by encouraging mutual respect, public justification, and fair procedures for settling disputes, rather than by erasing those differences. This stress on principled disagreement became a central contribution to her political thought.

After many years teaching at Princeton University, Gutmann moved into university leadership. She founded Princeton’s University Center for Human Values and served as its first Laurance S. Rockefeller University Professor. The center grew into a leading home for interdisciplinary research in ethics, political philosophy, and public affairs. As dean of the faculty and later provost, she oversaw academic expansion and strengthened the university’s commitment to public service.

In 2004 she became the eighth president of the University of Pennsylvania, a post she held until 2022, which made her the longest-serving president in the university’s history. Over those eighteen years she expanded Penn’s financial resources, research capacity, and national standing. The university completed the Making History campaign, which raised $4.3 billion, and then the Power of Penn campaign, which raised $5.4 billion.

Her presidency turned on the Penn Compact, a strategic vision built around inclusion, innovation, and impact. She expanded need-based financial aid, and in 2008 she removed loans from undergraduate aid packages and replaced them with grants, so that students from lower- and middle-income families could graduate free of debt. She promoted interdisciplinary research, entrepreneurship, and community engagement. The campus grew through projects such as Penn Park and the Pennovation Center, which tied academic research to technological development. Penn also widened its socioeconomic range, expanded support for first-generation students, and built new programs for student innovation and public service.

Her interest in bringing ethical reasoning to bear on public policy reached beyond the university. She became a prominent voice in bioethics and health policy and chaired the Presidential Commission for the Study of Bioethical Issues under President Barack Obama (b. 1961). Her later work with the bioethicist Jonathan D. Moreno (b. 1952), Everybody Wants to Go to Heaven but Nobody Wants to Die (2019), examined the ethical and economic strains on American health care.

In 2021 President Joe Biden (b. 1942) nominated Gutmann as United States ambassador to Germany. The Senate confirmed her, and she served from 2022 to 2024, a period marked by Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, a renewal of transatlantic cooperation, and rising concern about the resilience of democratic institutions. The appointment carried a personal charge. Nearly ninety years after her father fled Nazi Germany, she returned as the official representative of the United States, and she drew on her family’s history when she spoke about the defense of democratic institutions against authoritarian threats.

After she stepped down in 2024, Gutmann returned to Penn as President Emerita, Christopher H. Browne Distinguished Professor of Political Science, and Professor of Communication. She continues to teach, write, and speak on democracy, higher education, technology, and civic responsibility. In 2025 she delivered the Berlin Lecture at Wolfson College, Oxford, where she reflected on democratic fragility, civic courage, and the lessons she drew from her diplomatic service and her family’s past.

Her influence remains visible in the institutions she helped shape. Amy Gutmann Hall, a center for data science and artificial intelligence at Penn, was dedicated in her honor and opened in 2025. She also advises initiatives that study the relation among media, technology, democracy, and public trust.

Her honors include election to the American Academy of Arts and Sciences and the American Philosophical Society, the Harvard Centennial Medal, the Leo Baeck Medal, and the Clark Kerr Award for Distinguished Leadership in Higher Education, along with many honorary degrees. In 2018 Fortune named her among the world’s fifty greatest leaders.

Across four decades of scholarship and public service, Gutmann held to one underlying question: how a society of citizens who differ on profound questions can govern themselves as equals. Her career carried democratic theory out of the seminar room and into the governance of universities, public commissions, and international diplomacy. She did as much as any modern political philosopher to tie abstract claims about citizenship and deliberation to the daily work of keeping democratic institutions alive.

Freedom of Association

Freedom of association is the legal name for the thing Mearsheimer says men do by necessity, sort themselves into groups on their own terms, including terms that shut others out. Let association run and you get the tribal sorting. So a theorist who grants the anthropology of the embedded self and fears free association fears the embedding she has already conceded. Gutmann blesses association and then bounds it. She edited a volume on it, Freedom of Association (1998), and her deliberative democracy makes the same move at the level of theory: the groups that survive the right kind of public reasoning earn protection, and the reasoning sets the limit.
Association was the Left’s weapon when the Left stood outside. NAACP v. Alabama (1958) shielded the membership rolls of an out-group organizing against a hostile state, and freedom of association was the shield. Unions leaned on it. Civil rights groups leaned on it. The value served the coalition that lacked the institutions. Then the coalition took the institutions, and association turned. Now it shelters the people the consensus wants reached, the club that will not admit, the congregation that will not hire, the Scouts in Boy Scouts of America v. Dale (2000). The same freedom that armed the out-group arms the holdouts against the in-group’s writ. So the cohort that once carried association as a sword reaches for the regulator. The value held. The coalition’s position moved, and the value tracked the move.
The deliberative democrat like Gutman has an argument with a long pedigree. Association that destroys the equal standing of citizens undercuts the freedom that lets anyone associate at all. Tolerate the intolerant without limit and you lose toleration. On this reading the bound on association is the floor that keeps the room open to everyone, and she needs the room open because deliberation needs a free public to deliberate. A coherent position, held by serious people.
Grant Mearsheimer and the floor stops being neutral. Equal standing is not a fact lying under the groups. It is a value, carried by a coalition, infused early, held tribally, the same as any rival value. The deliberation that draws the bound runs through people socialized into one camp, seated in one set of institutions, and what clears their deliberation is what their camp can live with. The self-limiting freedom turns out to be freedom limited by whoever holds the deliberative chair. On the anthropology, control is the principle, speaking the language of the floor.
The academy is a freely associated group that polices associations. The faculty that rules which clubs may exclude is a club that excludes. Gutmann exercises a coalition’s control. The man who sees the gate is usually the man held on the wrong side of it.

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NYT: ‘Searching for Clues in Jeffrey Epstein’s Boyhood’

The New York Times reports:

Every villain prompts a hunt for an origin story — an understandable if often fruitless quest to try to comprehend the incomprehensible. With Epstein, it’s exponentially more difficult: a trek through emails and documents written decades after his youth, complicated by interviews with aging people incredulous that their lives collided with his. Still, deep exploration of these millions of pages yields astonishing insights. Epstein’s life touched innumerable others, not just tycoons and aristocrats and politicians, and not just a wide network of “girls” and procurers of “girls.” Epstein lived in a tight-knit community among relatives and classmates and teachers and neighbors. People who knew him as a child struggle to square the sexual predator with the boy they knew.

This is the kind of piece that announces its own trap and then walks into it. Miller and Eder say up front that every villain prompts an origin hunt and that the hunt is often fruitless. Then they spend thirty-three minutes hunting. The honesty of the disclaimer does not stop the genre from doing its work, which is to read every boyhood detail backward through the crime. A sockless boy at music camp becomes foreshadowing. That pull is almost impossible to resist once you commit to the form, and they do not resist it.
The strongest thread is the one they treat almost in passing. Epstein (1953-2019) grew up inside literal walls. Sea Gate had a fence and a private police force. Mark Twain Junior High sorted the high-achieving Jewish kids into Special Progress classes that one classmate calls an island. The boy spent his formative years inside enclaves that sorted the in from the out, and he spent his adult life rebuilding that architecture in stone and water, the townhouse, the ranch, the island. The harem line carries the whole piece. He says the harem means protection for those inside from those outside. That is a man describing the floor plan he was raised in and then reproduced. The sociological origin holds because it rests on structure. The psychological origins the article floats, the abuse hypothesis, the neurosis, the attachment theory, stay speculative and the writers know it.
Watch what carries the darkest early material. The knife letter from Jeff Nier, the girls told at knifepoint to take their suits off, is the most lurid evidence of early predation in the piece. It is undated. Mark Epstein says his brother met Nier a couple of years after high school. It comes from a braggart five years older, written into a tribute book that Ghislaine Maxwell (b. 1961) compiled for a fiftieth birthday. So the article’s most damning “boyhood” detail is not from boyhood, rests on no corroboration, and arrives through the most compromised source in the file. A careful reader has to flag that the evidentiary base for the predator-was-always-there thesis is a curated nostalgia document and the memories of people in their seventies and eighties who cannot square the boy with the man.
The class story is sharper than the sex story and the writers underplay it. A laborer father earning under eight thousand a year, mocked by his sons for stained boxers, asked by Mark in an email whether Seymour was part ape. A boy who watches jets take off at the TWA terminal and picks up girls. Timmy Kafka teaching him the grift ethic, let them think you are the schmuck. Epstein learning in Europe that people are schmucks. The con precedes the fortune by decades. The unexplained money that trailed him his whole life makes more sense once you see that his core competence formed early and it was making powerful men believe he was the schmuck.
The piece is a good model of status reporting. The five-dollar seats at the Fillmore, the lobster roll as the ultimate luxury, the fifty-five-degree bedroom, the mandatory socks he would not wear. Wolfe would approve of the detail. He might ask why all of it points one direction.

Epstein ran his world as a series of concentric rings, and the offer at every ring was the same: you belong here, with the people who matter, above the rules that bind ordinary men. What changed from ring to ring was what belonging meant once you were inside.
The outermost protective ring held the patrons. Leslie Wexner gave him capital, power of attorney, and the cover of legitimate fortune. That tie answered the question that trailed Epstein his whole career, which was where the money came from. Wexner functioned less as a member of the club than as the man who built the clubhouse.
The next ring held the trophies, the names that made Epstein look like a serious man rather than a fixer of unclear origin. Scientists came through the funding channel, Harvard money, the evolutionary dynamics program, dinners with physicists and Nobel laureates. Politicians and royalty came through Maxwell’s address book and the airplane. Clinton, Prince Andrew, Ehud Barak, the financiers and lawyers. For these men the frame was intellectual and power. You sit among the chosen minds and the people who run things. The island, the townhouse, the ranch, and the plane worked as the physical markers of who was inside. The flight logs survive as the artifact of that ring.
Maxwell and the operational staff formed the working ring, the pilots and house managers and recruiters who ran the supply.
Then the victims, who entered through a frame that promised the in-group and delivered the opposite. The recruitment pitch offered mentorship, modeling, money for school, a way up and in. The girl who took it learned she had crossed into the tier that the whole apparatus treated as fungible, the out-group the inner rings used and did not see. The Palm Beach pyramid ran on this. A girl recruited a girl, and each new recruit thought she was being let in.
So the organizing logic was status brokerage. Epstein owned the power to grant entry, and he priced that power differently at each ring. The men paid in legitimacy and discretion and got the feeling of belonging to something above the ordinary world. The girls paid with themselves and got the discovery that the belonging was a lure.
There was one circle of human beings who counted and one supply of human beings who did not, and Epstein sold movement toward the first while sorting most arrivals into the second.
Where the record stays thin is the interior experience of the trophy ring, how many of those men understood the lower tier and how many chose not to look.

How many Jeffrey Epstein types are operating now? Where would you look?
A predator who operates at scale leaves a structural signature, and the signature is more legible than any single act. The act hides. The structure has to stand in the open because it needs other people to function. So you watch the structure.
The first marker is wealth without a legible source. Epstein’s whole career sat on the unanswered question of where the money came from. A man with a townhouse, an island, and a plane, and no business anyone can describe, is a man whose fortune does work other than the work fortunes usually do. The money buys silence, lawyers, and the loyalty of people who would otherwise ask questions.
The second marker is a recruitment pipeline disguised as opportunity. Nassar had USA Gymnastics. Raniere had a self-improvement curriculum. Epstein had modeling and mentorship and scholarship money. The pipeline gives the predator a steady supply of young people and gives the young people a story about why they are there that is not the true story. Watch for an older man with structured access to a renewable population of the young and the precarious, especially where a parent or institution hands them over and calls it a chance.
The third marker is the asymmetry of the guest list. The powerful flow in one direction and the vulnerable flow in another, and the two populations occupy the same houses without occupying the same status. A home where titans of finance, science, and politics mix with a rotating cast of teenage girls or barely-adult women, and where the second group has no clear reason to be present, describes the Epstein floor plan exactly.
The fourth marker is the buffer layer. Epstein had Maxwell. Raniere had his inner circle of women. The principal rarely touches the supply directly at the recruiting stage. A trusted lieutenant, often a woman, often charismatic and well-connected, does the procuring and the grooming and absorbs the early suspicion. When you see a charming fixer whose job is to bring people to one powerful man, look at the man.
The fifth marker is legal overmatch deployed early and often. NDAs handed to interns and house staff. Settlements that close before a complaint is filed. Private investigators retained against accusers and journalists. A man who lawyers up against teenagers is telling you what he expects teenagers to eventually say.
The sixth marker is institutional capture through giving. Epstein bought Harvard, MIT Media Lab, scientific conferences, and a reputation as a patron of ideas. The donations purchase a chorus of respectable people who will vouch for the man and who have a financial reason not to look hard. Money flowing to universities, hospitals, and foundations from a figure whose underlying business is opaque buys exactly this cover.
The seventh marker is the geography of control. Islands, ranches, compounds, a private plane. Isolation is the point. A predator wants jurisdictions he controls and exits that others cannot use, and the more a wealthy man’s life happens in places only he can grant access to and only he can revoke, the more those places function as the apparatus rather than the luxury.
Put them together and the composite is not subtle. Opaque money, a youth pipeline sold as advancement, a two-class guest list, a procuring lieutenant, preemptive legal force, philanthropic cover, and controlled space. Any one of these has innocent explanations. The cluster does not.
This cluster describes a risk profile, not a verdict, and plenty of eccentric rich men hit several markers and harm no one, so the markers tell you where to look rather than what you will find. And the people best positioned to spot the pattern early are the staff, the pilots, the assistants, the procuring lieutenant herself, which is why these cases break open through insiders far more often than through the victims, who are the people the structure is built to keep quiet.

John J. Mearsheimer’s anthropology inverts the article’s whole method. Miller and Eder hunt for the cause inside the man, the abuse that might have been done to him, the narcissism, the attachment wound, the hebephilia. That is the liberal anthropology at work, the atomistic actor whose conduct traces back to something in his own head. Mearsheimer says start with the group, because the group came first and did most of the shaping before the boy could reason at all.
Take the value-infusion claim. Epstein’s long childhood ran inside enclaves that taught a code. Sea Gate behind its fence and private police. The Special Progress class, the island within the school, resented from the outside. The boy quartet. By Mearsheimer’s clock the moral code set early, while the critical faculties still formed, and what got infused was a tribal sort, the opposite of the universal-rights ethic liberalism assumes. In and out. Protect your own and treat the rest as available. The harem line is that infusion spoken back in adulthood. He calls it protection for those inside from those outside. He describes Sea Gate.
Then the loyalty puzzle, which the liberal frame cannot solve. Why does an oncologist banter about girls with a convicted sex offender? Why does Kafka track the release date, wire condolences, write him into a eulogy as a soul mate? The liberal answer says these men should have judged Epstein as an autonomous moral agent and walked. Mearsheimer says the tribe outranks the reasoning. These men got socialized into one society as boys, and the membership held for fifty years against the evidence. Attachment to the group, and the will to keep faith with a member, beat the moral verdict. That is the part of the story the article reports and cannot explain.
What Mearsheimer adds is a relocation. The cause moves from Epstein’s psyche to Epstein’s societies, the one that made him and the one he rebuilt. The townhouse and the island reproduce the fence. The girls-network reproduces the in-and-out sort. The friendships show the strength of early socialization against later reason.
Where the frame stops. Mearsheimer’s anthropology describes ordinary men. Tribalism, group attachment, value infusion: these run through every working society and produce loyalty and sacrifice, not trafficking. The frame reaches the architecture and the loyalty. It does not reach the deviance. Plenty of boys grew up behind that fence in that SP class and built no harem. So Mearsheimer explains why Epstein cut the world into inside and outside, and why his boyhood friends stayed. The step from sorting to predation needs something the social anthropology does not supply.

David Pinsof says that almost everything people say in public is signaling, including the moralized horror around an Epstein piece, and that the gap between what someone thinks and what someone writes is the data. Pinsof would read the article as a coalition product before he read it as reporting, and he would read his own reluctance to say so out loud as confirmation of the theory.
What he might think privately, working through his concepts.
Sacred values. Epstein is now a sacred-value object, which means the cost of saying anything except condemnation is social death. Pinsof’s claim is that sacred values are sacred because they are coalition-membership tests, not because they track truth. The article performs the test. Every boyhood detail gets bent toward the verdict because the writers cannot afford a sentence that reads as humanizing him. The sockless boy, the geometry tutoring, the holding-him-while-he-slept girlfriend, all of it has to resolve into monster or the writer fails the loyalty check. He would see the disclaimer about fruitless origin hunts as a tell. They name the trap because naming it buys cover to walk in anyway.
The Opinion Game. The piece is an entry in a status tournament among people who decide what counts as knowledge in this corner. NYT runs it because Epstein is the rare subject where the audience and the staff want the same verdict, so there is no coalition risk and pure reputational upside. He would notice the absence of any claim that could cost the writers anything. The one genuinely uncomfortable thread, the friends who stayed loyal for fifty years, gets reported and then dropped, because following it leads somewhere that implicates ordinary people rather than a safely dead villain.
Confabulation. The forensic psychiatrist supplies a story that feels causal and explains nothing falsifiable. Abused-becomes-abuser, except most abused do not, and most offenders, so the model predicts both outcomes and is unfalsifiable. Pinsof would call it confabulation that serves a function, giving readers the feeling of understanding while keeping the explanation safely inside the bad man rather than out in the social world the readers share.
Anti-status and the harem line. Here he might depart from the piece’s own reading. The article treats the harem quote as a clue to deviance. Pinsof might read it as Epstein telling something close to a general truth about coalitions, that the function of the in-group is protection from the out-group, and that the horror the quote provokes comes partly from its being recognizable. The discomfort tracks accuracy, not error.
Dark idealism. He would suspect the writers half-believe their own frame, that they are not cynically signaling but sincerely cannot see the coalition work they are doing, because sincere belief is the better signal. That is the part he would feel freer to think than to write, because saying it impugns colleagues and the institution that grants him legibility.
The reason he would not publish it. The theory eats the author. If all public moralizing is coalition signaling, then a public essay applying that claim to an Epstein story is itself a coalition move, a bid for status among the contrarian-realist set, and Pinsof knows it. Writing it costs more than it pays, because the sacred value is live and the audience for the deflationary read is small. So the honest version stays private, which is exactly what his framework predicts a person would do with a true and costly belief.

Pierre Bourdieu (1930-2002) reads the article as a product of the journalistic field before he reads it as a story about Epstein, and the first thing he sees is two reporters accumulating capital. The byline note tells you the stakes. Cousins, classmates, thousands of emails, two dozen interviews. That is the display of journalistic labor that converts into professional standing. The piece is a position-taking in the field, a bid by Miller and Eder and by the Times to own the definitive boyhood account, and the rivalry with every other Epstein outlet sits underneath the prose whether the writers feel it or not.
Then habitus, which does more work here than any other concept. Bourdieu would take the Sea Gate boy and read his whole life as the playing-out of a disposition laid down early and carried in the body. Epstein (1953-2019) acquires a habitus inside a walled enclave that sorts insiders from outsiders, and he never leaves it, he reproduces it. The fifty-five-degree bedroom, the surgical bathrooms, the no-tea-bag-on-the-counter exactness, these are not quirks, they are the bodily signature of a man managing the gap between where he came from and where he climbed. Schmidt calling him the Just So Guy is reporting the hexis, the way class anxiety lives in posture and habit. The article notices the details. Bourdieu would say they are the trace of a trajectory.
Mark Twain sorts the high-achieving Jewish kids into Special Progress, an island, resented from outside. That is the school doing what Bourdieu says schools do, converting one kind of advantage into another and laundering it as merit. The SP class teaches the boy that the world divides into the selected and the rest and that the division is earned. Interlochen does it again at a higher altitude, a new elite sphere, talented youth marked as special. Epstein learns the structure of distinction by passing through institutions built to produce it. The harem line is that lesson restated. Inside means protection from outside. He learned it in a tracked classroom.
Capital and its conversions run the adult arc. The boy holds almost no economic capital, a laborer father under eight thousand a year. He builds cultural capital first, the Jacques Loussier records, the calculus book with the Beethoven, the bassoon at music camp, the lent copy of Tolkien. Then he lies it into credentials, the invented Cooper Union degree, the invented NYU master’s, the Dalton job got through European polish. Bourdieu would fix on the forgery as the key act. A man with no inherited capital fabricates the cultural and educational capital the field demands, and it works, because the field rewards the display of distinction more than its provenance. The unexplained fortune that trailed Epstein his whole life is a capital-conversion story, social capital into economic, the address book into the money.
On the loyal friends Bourdieu parts from the psychological reading. The oncologist and the billboard man and the optometrist stay bonded to Epstein for fifty years because they share a habitus, a Sea Gate formation that no later success dissolves. Kafka writing “we came from nothing” is naming the common origin that holds the group. Their loyalty is not a moral failure to be explained, it is the durability of a class formation, the way a shared early world keeps its grip across the trajectories that pull men apart.
The New York Times occupies a dominant position in the field of cultural production. Its judgment of Epstein is also a defense of its own authority to judge, an assertion of the boundary between the legitimate and the disgraced. The horror is sincere and it is also a boundary-maintenance ritual by an institution whose standing rests on being the body that draws such lines. Bourdieu would say the verdict does work for the one who delivers it, and an account that cannot see its own position in the field has missed half of what is happening on the page.
Where the frame stops. Field and habitus explain the architecture, the climb, the forgery, the loyalty, the institutional ritual of condemnation. They explain a man who reproduces the enclosure that made him. They do not explain the trafficking. Many boys carried that Sea Gate habitus through those SP classrooms and built no such apparatus. Bourdieu reaches the structure of Epstein’s distinctions and the social labor of the article about him. The turn from distinction to predation lies outside what the sociology of taste can deliver.

A pure libertarian opposes child labor laws. A person that pure is rare enough that you should picture a type, not a representative, because almost nobody holds the position without hedging, and the hedging is the social-status management I rule out. So grant the premise: a man who takes self-ownership and contract as bedrock, opposes child labor laws because he opposes the state overriding voluntary agreement, and feels no pull to soften any of it for an audience. What does he see in the article.
First he separates two things the piece fuses. There is fraud and there is coercion, and there is also a large middle the article fills with moral horror that he would empty out. Epstein lying his way into Bear Stearns, inventing the Cooper Union degree and the NYU master’s, that is fraud, and the hard libertarian has no trouble condemning it, because misrepresentation to obtain a position vitiates the consent the counterparty gave. Bear Stearns contracted with a man who did not exist. That is a real wrong on the theory. He would note, with some dryness, that the institution Epstein defrauded is the respectable one, and that the article treats the forgery as a colorful detail rather than the early tell it is.
On the central matter he splits hard from both the article and from where you might expect a contrarian to go. The doctrinaire libertarian does not defend sex with minors, because the whole edifice rests on valid consent, and a child cannot give it. Coercion and the violation of someone who cannot contract are the paradigm wrongs in the system, not the gray zone. So the trafficking is not a libertarian puzzle. It is the clearest kind of rights violation the theory recognizes, person treated as the property of another, consent absent or manufactured. He would say the article is right to condemn and confused about why. It condemns from disgust and from coalition. He condemns from the violated boundary of the person. Same verdict, different ground, and he would think the ground matters because disgust is unreliable and the boundary is not.
Where he turns the knife is on the child-labor frame, and he uses it against the article’s sentimental anthropology of childhood. The piece leans on the idea of the protected child, the long nurtured childhood, innocence betrayed. The libertarian who opposes child labor laws rejects the regulatory version of that idea. He thinks the state drawing bright lines around what the young may do, sell their labor, leave school, work the hours they choose, infantilizes them and substitutes bureaucratic judgment for the family’s. But he would see that his own position cuts the other way here and he would follow it where it goes. If you locate authority over the child in the family and in developing capacity rather than in a state age-line, then you have to say what happens when the family is the thing handing the child over. The article’s recruitment pipeline runs through parents and institutions that deliver the young to Epstein. The honest libertarian cannot wave that away with parental authority, because the parents are the channel of the harm. So he lands on capacity. The wrong is exploiting someone who lacks the formed will to consent, and a parent who trades that child away has violated a trust, not exercised a right.
He would also notice what the article will not. The loyal friends, the oncologist and the rest, the libertarian reads as a market in reputation. Epstein bought silence and standing with money and connection, and the men around him sold their vouching because the price was right and the cost looked low. He would say the article moralizes the friendships and misses that they were transactions, and that the account is exchange, not corruption of the soul. Epstein describes a protection racket and calls it security. The libertarian distrusts protection rackets whether the state runs them or a private man does.
On the Times he would be cold. He sees a state-adjacent prestige institution performing the boundary work that keeps its authority intact, and he trusts its verdict about as far as he trusts any monopolist defending its franchise. He would say the paper is correct about Epstein and self-interested in how it is correct, and that the correctness does not launder the self-interest.
The libertarian’s system runs on consenting adults, and childhood is the case where the consenting adult does not yet exist. A man fully committed to the framework and indifferent to status has to either build a theory of emerging capacity, which most libertarian writing dodges, or admit the framework is thin exactly where Epstein operated, in the manufacture of apparent consent from people too young or too precarious to give the real thing. The serious version of the type bites that bullet and says the theory needs a developmental account of the will. The unserious version retreats to the age-line it claims to reject. Which one you get tells you whether the commitment was ever real or was itself a status play in a different room.

A tribalist reads the story and says the animal at the edge gets taken by predators. The animal in the middle is covered by the bodies around it.
Look at who Epstein could reach. The recruitment ran on girls from broken homes, foster situations, lower-income families, the precarious. Giuffre at Mar-a-Lago. The modeling pipeline pulling girls from Europe and South America, far from anyone who owed them protection. The throughline a tribalist would draw is that every one of these girls was at the edge of some herd or outside all of them. No father with standing, no community that would make her disappearance cost someone, no men around her whose duty and whose shame were tied to her safety. Epstein selected for the unprotected, and unprotected means exactly what you mean, outside the middle of a tribe that guards its own.
So the trad claim is not that tribalism caused Epstein. It is that the absence of functioning tribes created his hunting ground. A world that dissolved the structures that put a wall of kin around a young woman left a supply of girls accountable to no one and guarded by no one, and a predator with money found them easily. The liberal order that prizes the autonomous individual, the girl free to model in a foreign city at seventeen, free of the father and the village and the watchful brothers, produced the isolated unit Epstein needed. On this reading the atomization Mearsheimer attacks is not a neutral philosophical error. It is the thing that stripped the protection off the young.
The protection-of-young-females claim is the oldest tribal duty there is, and most traditional societies organized a great deal of their structure around it, the guarding of daughters, the codes of honor that made a harm to a girl a harm to her men, the marriage customs that kept her inside a web of obligation. A trad reads the Epstein supply chain as what happens when that web is gone. The girls were not protected because no tribe held them in the middle.
Two honest pressures on it.
The first is that the protective tribe and the predatory tribe are the same institution seen from two angles, and the trad has to hold both. The structure that guards the young female also controls her, and the same honor codes that made her harm a harm to her men also treated her as their property and sometimes traded her, married her off, silenced her when the harm came from inside. The article gives you the dark case. The recruitment pyramid ran on parents and trusted adults handing girls over. The pipeline used the protective relations, the mother who lets the mentor take her daughter, the institution that vouches. So the wall of kin protects against the outside predator and exposes the child to the inside one, and a serious tribalism has to say which harm it is built to stop, because it cannot stop both with the same wall. The herd protects against the wolf at the edge. It does nothing about the wolf born in the middle, and historically the middle wolf, the uncle, the rabbi, the coach, the family friend, took more of the young than the stranger ever did.
The second is that Epstein was a man deep in the middle of a herd, covered by bodies, and the cover is what let him operate. The loyal friends, the powerful patrons, the institutions he bought, the lawyers, all of it was tribe in your protective sense, a wall of allies that made harming him costly and made his victims’ accusations bounce off. The same logic that protects the vulnerable female in the middle protected him in the middle. So the protective theory has a hard edge it has to face. Being inside a tribe protects you whether you are the lamb or the wolf, and a tribe strong enough to guard its daughters is strong enough to guard its predators, and the stronger the wall the more it does both. The thing that would have stopped Epstein was not more tribe. It was a force outside any tribe that could reach a powerful man covered by his own, which is closer to the impartial law the liberal prizes than to the herd.

A tribalist recoils in horror at the sovereign individual, the man who treats his own conscience as the court of last resort. The article is full of him before he ever touches a girl. Epstein lies his age and his degrees onto the Bear Stearns form, and the lie is not just fraud, it is a declaration that the credentialing order of the tribe does not bind him, that he will write his own warrant. He attends peace marches not from conviction but because the marches are where the girls are, which means he stands inside the moral theater of his moment and feels nothing it asks him to feel. Kafka names the conversion. You learned you could get away with shit, that people in general were schmucks. That is the birth of the man who has slipped the leash of every external code and answers only to himself.
The tribalist reads this as the core catastrophe, not a side effect. A man who follows his own conscience has made his conscience the god, and a conscience with no tribe above it has no brake an appetite cannot override. Mearsheimer gives you the structural version. The value infusion that should have set in childhood is the thing that holds a man when his reason and his desire conspire toward a wrong. Epstein got the tribal infusion of inside and outside, the sorting, but he seems to have shed the part that binds, the part that says these are the things our people do not do and you do not get a vote. Once the code is yours to author, the only question left is what you can get away with, and a clever man with money can author a code that permits nearly anything.
This is the trad case against Protestant conscience and against liberal autonomy in one breath, and it is worth seeing that the article hands it to you. The whole modern apparatus that the Times speaks for says the free individual following his own lights is the high human achievement. The tribalist says the free individual following his own lights, unbound by an external sacred order he did not choose and cannot revise, is Epstein. The autonomy the liberal celebrates and the autonomy that produced the harem are the same faculty. The difference between the good liberal and Epstein is that the good liberal happens to have a conscience that still echoes the tribal code he no longer believes authorizes him. He is living on inherited moral capital, coasting on infusions he has stopped replenishing, and the tribalist predicts that across generations the echo fades and more Epsteins appear, because a code with no transcendent or tribal authority above the self cannot reproduce itself, it can only be spent.
The conscience point cuts at the loyal friends too, and harder than the herd reading did. The oncologist and the rest stayed loyal, and a liberal calls that a failure of individual moral judgment, each man should have consulted his own conscience and walked. The tribalist inverts it. Their loyalty was the tribal bond doing its proper work, holding men to their own across decades, and the thing that failed was not their loyalty but the absence of any tribal authority that could have told all of them together, including Epstein, that this is forbidden and no man’s private judgment overrides it. They had the bond and lacked the law. Conscience individualized gave each of them a private exit they did not take and gave Epstein a private permission he did take, and a real tribal code would have removed both the exit and the permission, because the code would not have been theirs to consult.
The same horror, aimed one notch differently, indicts the heroes. Every man who defied a wicked tribal code by following his conscience did the thing I recoil from. The one who hid the hunted family, who refused the order, who broke with his own people over a cruelty they had sanctified, set his private conscience above the tribe. The faculty that produced Epstein produced him too. So the tribalist cannot simply condemn the sovereign conscience, because he needs it precisely when his own tribe goes wrong, and tribes go wrong, the article’s Sea Gate sorted and excluded and the SP island bred resentment and the honor codes traded daughters. A code with no appeal above it is a code with no remedy when it rots, and tribes rot.
What corrects the tribe when the tribe is the thing doing wrong? The liberal answer is the individual conscience, which is the very faculty you recoil from, and which does produce Epstein. The pure tribal answer is that there is no appeal, the code is the code, and that answer sanctifies the rot. The serious traditional answer, the one the trad needs, is a code above both the individual and the tribe, a sacred order that binds the self so it cannot become Epstein and judges the tribe so it cannot become the mob. That is the move that escapes the trap, and it is a religious move, not a tribal one. Without it the trad is stuck choosing between the sovereign conscience that frees the predator and the sovereign tribe that protects him. The thing that binds Epstein and also corrects Sea Gate is not the herd and not the autonomous self. It is the law that neither the man nor the tribe gets to author.

A hardcore tribalist reads this article and the first thing he notices is the thing the article cannot say about itself, which is that it is a tribe handling one of its own. Sea Gate is a Jewish refuge behind a fence. The SP class is the high-achieving Jewish kids sorted onto an island. The boyhood quartet, the bar mitzvahs, the accordion teacher, the camp, all of it is the inside of one people, and Epstein (1953-2019) spends his life rebuilding that inside in stone. The tribalist sees a co-ethnic network as the engine of the whole story and watches the Times report every tile of it while declining to name the floor.
He would respect the structure and refuse the horror. To the tribalist, in-group preference is not a pathology, it is the natural order, the thing that lets a people survive. So the harem line that the article treats as a clue to deviance, he reads as ordinary wisdom stated plainly. Inside means protection from outside. He thinks every healthy tribe knows this and only a liberal raised on the atomized individual finds it shocking. He would say Mearsheimer is right and the article is the proof, because the loyal friends who stayed fifty years did exactly what blood and shared formation are supposed to make men do, and the article reports their loyalty as a moral failure because liberalism cannot read tribal solidarity as anything but corruption.

Catherine MacKinnon (b. 1946) reads this article and sees a category error running through every line, the treatment of Epstein as an aberration when her whole work argues he is the system made visible. The other readers in this thread looked at enclosure, sovereignty, tribe, field. MacKinnon looks at the one thing the article keeps in frame and refuses to center, which is that the entire apparatus existed to deliver the bodies of girls to powerful men, and that this is not Epstein’s deviation from how male power works but a concentrated instance of how it works.
Her foundational claim is that sexuality is the form male dominance takes, that under conditions of inequality the eroticization of dominance and submission is not a private taste but the social relation of the sexes itself. So she reads the harem line where the article reads it as a clue to one man’s pathology. He says the harem means protection for those inside from those outside. MacKinnon hears the structure of male sexual ownership stated without apology, women as a holding to be guarded and used, and she would say the only unusual thing about Epstein is that he said it plainly. The article finds the quote chilling. MacKinnon finds it ordinary, which is worse.
She would tear into the language the piece cannot help using. The article speaks of girls, in quotation marks, of a network of girls and procurers of girls, of Epstein’s girlfriends and victims as a continuum. The forensic psychiatrist supplies hebephilia, the clinical term, attraction to early adolescents, framed as a disorder located in Epstein. MacKinnon’s lifelong move is to refuse the clinical individualizing of what is structural. She would say the diagnosis does the system’s work, converting a social relation of dominance into one man’s medical anomaly, so that the readers who share the world that produced him can locate the problem safely inside his skull. The abuse-excuse hypothesis, that he was a victim who became a predator, she would read as the same maneuver, a story that turns a man’s power over girls into a symptom, eliciting a flicker of sympathy and dissolving the politics into psychology.
The Kathleen Suter material is where she would press hardest, because the article hands her the consent problem whole. He sits behind a girl in homeroom, the purity he chases, the muse, the prototype. The piece renders this as adolescent infatuation, almost tender, the pretty girl with golden hair. MacKinnon would say watch what the romance language conceals. The article itself reports the apartment application, the marriage index, the decades of fond emails, the guardian angel letter, the offer to pay her son’s education, and then the harder note, the lessons that were not easy. She would read the fond nostalgia not as evidence the relationship was benign but as evidence of how thoroughly women learn to narrate their own subordination as love, how the structure reproduces itself by being experienced from inside as affection and gratitude. The character references Epstein’s lawyers solicited, the women writing to praise him before his plea, are to her the clearest data in the piece, women recruited to launder a trafficker because the relation of dependence and gratitude is exactly what dominance feels like to the dominated. She would not call these women liars or dupes. She would say their sincerity is the point, that the system works by producing real feeling.
On the question of whether Epstein selected Jewish or non-Jewish girls, MacKinnon would set it aside as the wrong axis entirely. He selected girls, and he selected the unprotected, and the relevant category is sex and powerlessness, not ethnicity. She would read the supply chain, the broken homes, the foster girls, the modeling pipeline pulling the poor from Europe and South America, as a map of which women male power can reach, the ones stripped of the resources that let a woman refuse. Class and youth and isolation are the coordinates of availability, and availability is the whole game. The tribal reading two turns back, the herd and the edge, she would half accept and then redirect. Yes the unprotected get taken. But she would say the protection the trad imagines, the wall of kin around the daughter, is itself a form of ownership, the girl passed from the guardianship of her men to the guardianship of a husband, never herself a person who owns her own body, and that Epstein is what happens when one owner finds girls between guardianships. The honor system and the trafficking system both treat the girl as property. They differ on who holds title.
She would read the loyal friends as MacKinnon always reads male solidarity, as the thing that makes the system run. The oncologist, the billboard man, the banter about the girls in the house, the fifty years of loyalty across a guilty plea. The article treats this as a puzzle of friendship. MacKinnon would say it is the male collective protecting a man’s access to women, the ancient agreement among men not to break ranks over what one of them does to a girl, and that the bond is not despite the trafficking but partly constituted by the shared understanding that women are the kind of thing men may use. Eisenstein bantering about the girls in the house after the guilty plea is the bond stated. The friendship and the impunity are the same fact.
Then she turns it on the Times. Bourdieu sees the paper performing class boundary work. MacKinnon sees the paper performing the liberal trick she spent a career attacking, the conversion of a structural wrong into an individual crime so that the structure survives the prosecution of the man. By making Epstein a monster, singular, dead, cast out, the article lets every reader and the institution itself off the hook for the world that supplies men like him with girls like these. The condemnation is sincere and it is also exculpatory, of the system, of the men who are not Epstein but who live in the same arrangement of power. She would note that the paper can run thirty-three minutes on his boyhood and never once frame the question as why a society produces a steady supply of unprotected girls and powerful men who want them. The individual frame is the system’s defense.
Where MacKinnon stops, held to the same standard as every other reader here. Her frame explains the supply, the language, the consent problem, the loyal men, the laundering by grateful women, and the article’s individualizing as ideological work. It explains Epstein as an instance of male dominance rather than a deviation from it. What it does not explain is the variance. Most men live inside the structure she describes and do not traffic children, and her theory, which locates the cause in the structure of male sexuality as such, has a hard time saying why this man built the apparatus and the man next to him did not. She would answer that the difference is one of degree and opportunity, not kind, that Epstein simply had the money and the will to actualize what the structure makes most men merely complicit in. That answer is strong on what they share and weak on what separates them, and the separation is most of what the article is trying to explain. MacKinnon reaches the system that made Epstein possible and legible. She is least illuminating on the gap between possible and actual, which is the gap where this particular man and his particular victims actually live.

Carl Schmitt (1888-1985) reads this article and goes straight to the line the Times will not draw and cannot stop drawing. His whole thought rests on the friend-enemy distinction, the claim that the political begins when a group separates those who belong from those against whom it might have to fight, and that every real community is constituted by that division. So the first thing he sees is a boy raised inside the friend-enemy architecture and a newspaper performing the same division while denying that division is what politics is.
Start with the boy. Sea Gate is friend-enemy made of brick. A fence, a private police force, a gate, and on the other side of it the demolition zone, the burned blocks, the racial tension the article names and steps past. The enclave exists by drawing the line, inside protected, outside threatening, and the line is physical and policed. Mark Twain repeats it, the SP island, the high-achievers walled off and escorted past the others, resented from outside. Schmitt would say Epstein did not learn deviance in these places, he learned the political, the original act of sorting friend from enemy, and he learned it as the ground of safety. The harem line is the doctrine stated bare. Inside means protection from outside. Schmitt would recognize his own concept in a trafficker’s mouth and not flinch, because he always insisted the distinction is prior to morality, that it describes how groups cohere whether we approve or not.
Then the sovereign. Schmitt’s sovereign is he who decides on the exception, the one who stands inside the legal order and also above it, who suspends the norm when he judges the situation demands it. Read Epstein’s life as a sustained claim to sovereignty in this sense. He fabricates his own credentials, deciding that the rules of qualification do not bind him. He builds jurisdictions he controls, the island, the ranch, the plane, spaces where his will is the law and the ordinary norm is suspended. The 2008 Florida deal is the sovereign exception in its clearest form, a man powerful enough that the law bent, the prosecution suspended its own normal operation for him. Schmitt would say Epstein achieved, in private, what Schmitt said only the state could legitimately hold, the power to decide where the norm applies and where it stops. The article reports this as corruption. Schmitt reads it as a private man seizing the sovereign prerogative, and he would find that more interesting than the sex, because it touches his real subject, where decision overrides norm.
The loyal friends Schmitt reads through the friend-enemy bond directly, and with less moralizing than anyone in this thread. These men were friends in his strong sense, bound to their own against the outside, and the fifty-year loyalty is not a moral failure, it is the political relation surviving every liberal pressure to dissolve it into individual judgment. Schmitt despised the liberal who thinks the autonomous moral agent should weigh each association on private conscience. He would say the oncologist and the billboard man kept faith with a friend because keeping faith with friends is what constitutes a people, and that the Times cannot praise this because the paper is committed to the liberal fiction that there are only individuals and universal humanity, no friends and enemies in between.
That is where Schmitt turns the knife on the article. His lifelong charge against liberalism is that it denies the friend-enemy distinction while practicing it, that it dresses its enemies not as enemies but as criminals, monsters, enemies of humanity, and so wages a more total war while claiming to have transcended war. The Epstein piece is this operation. The Times cannot say we are drawing a line and Epstein is on the far side of it, because liberalism forbids the open admission of the friend-enemy act. So it converts the political expulsion into a moral and clinical one. He is a monster, a hebephile, a case. Schmitt would say the disgust is real and it is also the friend-enemy distinction wearing the mask of universal morality. The community constitutes itself by casting Epstein out as the absolute enemy, the inhuman one, and the language of pathology and evil is how a liberal order performs an excommunication it will not call excommunication. The invocation of humanity, Schmitt wrote, is the move of those who would deny the enemy the quality of being human so as to wage war on him without limit. The article makes Epstein the enemy of humanity, and Schmitt would point out that this is the rhetorical structure he warned about, the depoliticized total enemy, applied here to a single dead man.
He would press the point about the absolute enemy further than is comfortable. Once a figure becomes the enemy of humanity, no proportion governs the response, because he has been placed outside the human community where proportion applies. Schmitt is not defending Epstein, he is diagnosing the form. The total moral condemnation, the figure who can have nothing said in his favor, not the geometry tutoring, not the boy who would not grab girls in the hall, every detail forced to resolve into monstrosity, this is what the absolute enemy looks like when a society that denies it has enemies produces one anyway. The need was there. Epstein fills the slot of the enemy that a humanity-invoking order is not supposed to have and therefore needs all the more.
Where Schmitt stops, and it is the same wall every frame in this thread hits. Friend-enemy explains the enclosure, the sovereignty over private space, the suspended law, the loyal friends, and the article’s own structure as a disguised act of political expulsion. It explains the form of Epstein’s life and the form of his condemnation. It says nothing about why the man trafficked children. Schmitt’s distinction is about the constitution of groups and the location of decision, not about appetite or harm. Many men were raised inside friend-enemy walls and seized what private sovereignty they could and never built a harem. Schmitt reaches the political architecture, his own deepest subject, and the political architecture is not the crime. The crime sits in a register, the wounding of specific children, that Schmitt spent a career declining to look at, because his thought is about the group and the decision and the line, and a raped girl is none of those things, she is the human particular his categories pass over. This is the cost of a politics that begins with the line and never arrives at the person on either side of it.

A Christian mother reads the article and feels the revulsion build, but not at the place the Times wants to direct it. The paper offers her a monster, singular, dead, safely outside. She declines the offer. She sees a culture, and Epstein is its logical end, not its exception, and her horror is that everyone in the story is somewhere on the same road and only the distance traveled differs.
She would start where the article starts and read it against the grain. The boyhood the piece treats as the seedbed of a deviant she reads as the ordinary formation of her age. The unwatched childhood Kafka celebrates, adults beside the point, the constant pursuit of sex and talking about sex, the boys picking up girls at the airport terminal, the light shoplifting and the out-of-bounds pranks, all of it nostalgic in the birthday book, all of it presented as innocent boyhood. She sees a world that had already severed sex from marriage, from consequence, from God, decades before Epstein had money, and she sees the men who wrote those fond letters as men who never questioned the premise, only lacked Epstein’s means to run it to the bottom. The peace marches Epstein attended because they were the easiest place to get laid she reads as the whole sixties indictment in one line, the moral theater of liberation that was, underneath, a machinery for uncoupling sex from covenant.
The continuum the article draws without meaning to, girlfriends to victims, muse to harem, is the continuum she already believes in. She holds that sex outside consecrated marriage is quicksand, that there is no stable footing anywhere on that ground, only degrees of sinking. So the article’s careful sorting, this was a girlfriend, this was a victim, this was infatuation, this was a crime, collapses for her into a single substance. The Kathleen Suter romance the piece renders as tender, the homeroom whispers, the golden hair, she reads as the first step onto the quicksand, and she would say the article cannot see that the tender beginning and the harem end are the same thing because the article shares Epstein’s premise that sex is for pleasure and acquisition rather than for the covenant that alone makes it safe. Remove the covenant and you have removed the only floor. Everything after is depth.
Pornography and the commodified woman she would name, because the article gives her the modeling pipeline, Brunel, the agency, the girls pulled from Europe and South America to be photographed and used. She sees the whole OnlyFans logic prefigured, the woman’s body as image, as inventory, as a thing to be optioned and traded, and she sees Epstein not as the inventor of this but as a man who simply bought at scale what the culture was already selling retail. Her revulsion at porn is exactly that it trains everyone to see what Epstein saw, the body detached from the soul and the person, available, rankable, consumable. The harem line, four hundred women, the security of the harem, she reads as the pornographic imagination given a house and a staff. The article finds the number monstrous. She would say the number is just honesty about where the appetite goes when nothing binds it, that every man formed by the culture of the loosed genie carries a smaller harem in his head and Epstein only externalized it.
Here her frame turns toward the victims with something the other readers in this thread mostly lacked, which is grief rather than analysis. The unprotected girls, the broken homes, the foster situations, she reads through the lens of a sacramental vision of the family. A girl belongs inside a covenant household, under a father who answers to God for her, inside a community that consecrates her worth as a soul and not a body. Strip that away, as the culture has, and you produce the isolated girl the predator needs, and you produce her by design, because the same liberation that freed sex from marriage freed the girl from the household that was her shelter. She would agree with the trad reading from earlier in the thread about the edge of the herd, and then deepen it. The herd is not enough. What protects the girl is not just kin around her but a sacred order above her that declares her body is not for sale at any price, an order the culture demolished when it decided her body was hers to license and the market’s to buy. The girls were not protected because the thing that protects them, the marriage covenant and the God who stands behind it, had been laughed out of the public square by the very class that produces the Times.
She would read the loyal friends as the most damning part. Not the trafficking, which any decent person condemns, but the banter. The oncologist and the others joking about the girls in the house after the guilty plea, the lewd exchanges that continued for decades, the men who knew and kept the friendship warm. She sees men whose consciences were not seared by Epstein but were already dulled by a lifetime inside the loosed culture, men who could joke about a house full of girls because they had been formed to find that comic rather than damning. Their easiness is the evidence. A culture that consecrated sex would have made the banter impossible. The friends could stay friends because the premise that sex is play, that women are sport, was the water they all swam in, and Epstein had merely swum out further than the rest.
On the Times she would be cold in her own way. She sees the paper as a pillar of the class that built the world she mourns, the class that championed every loosening, the sexual revolution, the normalization of porn, the dissolution of the marital norm as repression, and that now recoils in horror at the monster its own project produced and refuses the connection. The article’s thirty-three minutes of forensic boyhood, the psychiatrist, the hebephilia, the attachment theory, she reads as elaborate misdirection, a way to make Epstein a clinical singularity so that no one has to ask whether the culture of liberation and the predator are parent and child. She would say the paper hunts for the wound in Epstein because the alternative is to look at the wound in the civilization, and the paper cannot look there because it helped open it.
Now the pressures her frame has to bear.
One. The covenant household and the sacred order she trusts to protect the girl are the very places where a great deal of the abuse of the young has happened, the church that shielded its predators, the trad family that hid its incest under the authority of the father, the religious community that silenced the girl to protect the institution’s name. The article’s own engine, the recruitment running through trusted adults and parents, is the dark form of her sacred order, not its absence. So she cannot simply say the covenant protects and the liberation exposes, because the covenant has its own long record of producing the wolf in the center and then using its sanctity to cover him. The honest version of her position has to say that the sacred order protects the girl only when the order itself submits to a judgment above it, the God who condemns the abusing priest as fiercely as the libertine, and that an order which makes its own authority the final word becomes Epstein with incense. She knows this if she is serious, because her own scripture is full of the prophet rebuking the corrupt temple.
Two. Her continuum, the quicksand on which all extramarital sex is one substance, flattens a distinction the law and the victims need kept sharp. The seventeen-year-old told at knifepoint to remove her suit and the adult girlfriend who wrote a fond letter are not points on one moral gradient, whatever they share in her theology. Consent and age and force are real lines, and a frame that dissolves them into a single sin of unconsecrated sex loses the ability to say why the trafficking is a crime and the girlfriend is not. She would answer that she keeps the legal lines while holding the theological continuum, that she can call one a felony and both a fall, and that is a coherent answer, but she has to be careful, because the move that says it is all quicksand can slide toward saying the victim who was not married was also on the quicksand, which is the blaming of the girl that her own compassion should forbid. The discipline her frame requires is to hold the theological judgment about the culture and refuse to let it touch the victim, who was sinned against and did not fall but was pushed.
Three. Her revulsion at the culture can become its own comfort, a way of locating the rot entirely out there in the liberal class and the loosed genie, and never in herself or her own house. The article tempts every reader toward a villain, and her villain is the culture, which is more sophisticated than the Times’s villain but serves the same function, the placing of the evil safely outside the self. The deepest version of her own tradition would turn the revulsion inward first, the recognition that the appetite Epstein actualized lives in every fallen heart including hers, that the harem in the head is not only the libertine’s, and that the line between the watching and the doing is grace and circumstance more than native virtue. The genie loosed in the culture was first loosed in the human heart at the start, and the marriage covenant is not a wall that keeps the rot outside but a discipline for the rot already within. If she reads the article only as the indictment of a culture and never as a mirror, she has used a theology to perform the same exculpation she accused the Times of performing, just with the boundary of the saved redrawn around herself.

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