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TWO NIGHTS AGO, in those small hours good for self-interrogation, I went through the inventory of my acquaintance and tried to assess the quality of my attention to their otherness in each case. As I did so, in the back of my mind there was an older interrogation, the occasion of a car-ride to London in 1973 when my combative Anglican uncle ambushed me with the enquiry, Yes, dear boy, but where is the place for Christ in your life?
I liked my uncle. My father and all his brothers had the gift for taking a lively curiosity in human difference, but Uncle S pursued his enquiries with a pepperiness all his own. He was a kind man, but also a Gladstonian evangelist, ...