kill Sunny, dragging her into the bathroomnand opening the window so shenmight freeze to death, abetting thensuicide she had already initiated andnentirely convinced that he was doingnwhat she wanted. It was what he wantedntoo, of course, more money beingnalways better than less. Von Billow’snattorney, Alan Dershowitz, believes innhis client’s innocence, and has suggestednthat, had Von Billow done it thisnway, there would have been fingerprintsn(in his own bathroom? Ofncourse, but irrelevant). What is irrefutablenis that Sunny’s children by hernfirst marriage (to Prince von Augsberg)ntried to frame him, convinced that he’dndone it and not wanting Von Billow tonprofit by his crime. This is the legalnquestion that attracted Dershowitz —nwhether rich people can just hire privatenguns to collect and turn overnevidence, perhaps suppressing or evenninventing what they think is harmful ornuseful.nBut the courtroom drama is only thenframework on which the intricate canvasndepicting privilege and corruptionnis stretched. Ron Silver does a creditablenDershowitz (lapsing only at timesninto something like Snuffy Smith).nIrons deserves an Oscar nomination fornthe thin-lipped, blue-blooded, elegantncreep he has invented. What gives thenportrayal — and the film too — a lastnirresistible twist is the humor. At onenpoint, at a Chinese dinner for Dershowitz’snlegal team. Von Billow asks whatnis a fear of insulin and then gives thenanswer: “Claus-trophobia.” There is anquick, sick grin, which is shocking. Wenhave the eerie sense that to Von Billow,nhis own life has become a thing,nan objet d’art if not virtu. And anmacabre and frightening thing it is, atnthat.nDavid R. Slavitt is a poet and novelistnwho lives in Philadelphia.nFor Immediate ServicenChroniclesnNEW SUBSCRIBERSnTOLL FREE NUMBERn1-800-435-0715n48/CHRONICLESnTHE ACADEMYnEducation in annAge of Hastenby Leo RaditsanA Class Day SpeechnNot much more than 24 hours ago,none of many of you who couldnget away with it asked me to speak tonyou on Class Day. It hit me that for antutor who insists on students meetingndeadlines, the situation has the best ofncomic myth: you got yours back, and atnthe same time gave me an honor whosensweetness I can taste.nYou will, as you grow taller, strongernin yourself and deeper, realize thensweetness of the love that has surroundednyou here. It is strange how love in thenpast, the love of the past, can reach younin the present, how twenty years laternyou can feel the love of teachers yountook for granted and did not recognizenat the time, proof, if any such is needed,nthat the past has its own life, that it reallyndoes live in us and beyond us, perhapsnmore so in the West than anywherenelse.nFor the West is the civilization thatnremembers the most, and most accurately—nthe reason you should learnnCreek and Latin. At the same time, innfits of inconsequence, it wants to destroynthat past, to do away with it, tonwipe it out, to act as if we came fromnnowhere, had no parents, had no name.nAs it is, we do not know what to donwith our names. They seem like conventionsnfrom another time, an embar­nnnrassment, something we have inheritednand do not know what to do with. Butnthe real point is inheritances have to benearned, and earning them takes thenbetter part of a lifetime, perhaps a wholenlifetime.nWhen I look at the generation of myngrandfather, roughly the generation afternFreud, the generation that saw thenFirst World War (still an event nobodynunderstands), what hits me is their robustnself-confidence, their confidencenin their goodwill, goodwill we cannotneven imagine. We distrust ourselves,nand that is the reason we are so easilyneuphoric, especially in the face of disasternthat would have lighted severe recognitionnin the eyes of our ancestors,nand also weeping. They never forgotnthe whips and arrows of fortune. That isnwhy their goodwill was almost childliken— not infantile or immature, but onlynthe child in the man, the most importantnpart of the man, because it gives lifento all the rest, or allows the rest to livenand breathe.nA teacher of mine used to say (not tonme, for it is not a thing a teacher says tona student): La sagesse fait durer, lanpassion fait vivre. Passion here probablyndoes not mean suffering but rapture,nthat rapture you live first as anchild, and probably most disinterestedlynthen.nThe thing that tells most about ournlack of self-confidence is our haste, thenhaste with which we read books —nmaybe I should speak for myself—thenhaste almost of a glutton, unseemly, ornof a libertine, of a Don Giovanni ofnprint: you don’t need so much baggagento get through.nThis haste is a little like Mary Mc­nCarthy arriving in Hanoi in wartimenwith 17 suitcases, her little mark innhistory. I suppose we do not want tontravel light because we do not want tontravel at all. But our world is not a placenthat allows anybody to stay at homenmuch, and if you do stay at home younare likely to see people come and takenyour home away from you. You willnprobably have to fight for somebodynelse before you can fight for yourself,nespecially in America, whose verynConstitution seems to deny since thenCivil War that we have anything of ournown that somebody else cannot alsonclaim.nA wise lady who has lived a lot andnseen a lot told me yesterday that shen