radical solution, is not in the socioeconomic position to thinkrn$12,000 a year an unattainable dream.rnAs is clear from the personal anecdote with which I began, Irnthink nothing of engaging a strange German in a potentiallyrnexplosive discussion, and this brings me to another importantrnelement in the personality of the presumed sociopath whornis the product of home education. All my life, I have been gregariousrnin the extreme, talking to taxi drivers about Kant and torntrain conductors about Reagan, chatting up schoolgirls in buses,rnmerry widows in cafes, old ladies in tearooms. I have soldrnslim volumes of my verse to people who could not read a cartoonrncaption, and I have raised money for a magazine thatrnshared many of the cultural attitudes of this one from peoplernwho thought George Bush was a conservative extremist. I havernalways had a hundred friends, which in the words of an old Russianrnproverb is better than having a hundred rubles, and I havernnever had a friend who would not have lent me a hundred dollarsrnwhen I needed it.rnYes, I was raised away from other children my age, and this isrnthe gift I have to show for all those years of deprivation. Socially,rnI have a style that belongs somewhere in the caricature worldrnof aluminum-siding salesmen, of amiable conmen of everyrnstripe, of Riviera gigolos and old-style American newspaper reporters.rnAnd, since style is not only not personality, but oftenrnthe opposite of personality, I use my social gift—my style, myrncharm, my gift of the gab —to tell people what they do not wantrnto hear. Some would say that such Sisyphean labor more thanrnmakes up for whatever life I did not lose by attending school,rnand that it is obviously the height of futility to use all of one’s energiesrnto socialize with the very people one intends to antagonize.rnI disagree. I am convinced that the posidon of a writer isrnonly tenable insofar as it carries with itself the privilege of tellingrnpeople what they least want to hear, as well as the obligation ofrntelling it in the most attractive way. A credible writer is like arnbeautiful woman missionary who lures her victims on the pretextrnof a night of passion and makes them sing psalms instead.rnI suppose I will be happy if my son decides to follow me, myrnfather, and my father’s father, and becomes a writer. But whatrnif, already scarred as I have been scarred, and already a sociopathrnby any definition save that of his own friends and family,rnhe decides to become something else instead? An architect?rnA banker? My assumption is that in every field of human endeavorrnthere is always some need for the services of someonernwho was not only never trained as a yes-man, but was actuallyrntrained as a no-man. And if his chosen field should happen tornbe too narrow to admit the likes of him, perhaps he ought tornconsider another, one that, in view of the peculiar kind of educafionrnhe has received, would be more suitable.rnHome education, after all, is a kind of early specialization. Ifrnyou play the violin for eight hours a day from the age of threernonward, you should not be surprised at age 20 when a bank tellsrnyou that they prefer to hire somebody else, perhaps the boy whornran the lemonade stand under the windows of your practice cubicle.rnEqually, if your education has consisted, even in part, ofrndreamy avoidance of the present and of sweet escapism into thernpast, you should not feel offended that a bum-kissing job in thernEnglish department of a major Ivy League university is notrnthere waiting for you. Even if you critiqued Grandison at therndinner table and learned the variant readings of every Shakespearernplay when you were just ten.rnAnd if, when everything’s said and done, my son should endrnup being a writer even more unemployable than myself—becausernwriting, as a career and a means of subsistence, is destinedrnto become as narrow, sterile, and bureaucratized as teaching orrnbanking—then at least I can rest easy in the confidence that hernwill be more than moderately happy despite such misfortime.rnThe loner who stays at home, after all, rejects society in one ofrnits most virulent and concentrated forms before society, in anotherrnof its most virulent and concentrated forms, has had thernchance to reject him. Like the hotel bellboy of old who alwaysrnquit a fraction of a second before he was fired, he has his dignity,rnand that is the main thing.rnThat, and $12,000 a year.rnLooking Backrnby Constance Rowell MastoresrnRemember the fabulous sixties?rnWlien people were enlightened?rnI had a professor like that.rnHe taught Drama 103.rnUnfil he took LSD.rnThen it was poetry.rnFrom the point of view of God.rn18/CHRONICLESrnrnrn