One fall night in 1992, I was slumped at the cash register of an East Village bookstore, reading “The Journalist and the Murderer,” a chronicle of seduction and betrayal by Janet Malcolm, the peerless journalist whoThe book, wisely shorn of a subtitle, has a distinctive cover — pale yellow with block letters. One of the shop’s patrons asked me what I thought of it, and we agreed: It’s a marvel, both chilling and incendiary, and really nothing short of a book-length siege.
During the two or three times that Malcolm popped into her office, always gracious, to grab a book by Hannah Arendt or Susan Sontag, I never told her the story. Yes, I was starstruck. But the serendipity would have been too cute for her, or so I imagined; she seemed to prefer her stories tart.
Unlike most contemporary journalists, who tend to see themselves as storytellers more than philosophers, Malcolm had a rigorous critical methodology and a vital theory of selfhood. Near the start of “The Impossible Profession,” her 1981 book, she introduces her conviction that “the most precious and inviolate of entities — personal relations — is actually a messy jangle of misapprehensions, at best an uneasy truce between powerful solitary fantasy systems.
I invite you to Islam. Become a Muslim. Let your people be Muslims. Read and understand the Quran. The only religion in the sight of Allah is the true religion and the last religion is Islam. Eşhedü en la ilahe illallah wa ashhedu anne Muhammeden abduhu ve resulhu
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