I like to re-read And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief as Photos (1992), written in his chosen form of poetry and prose approximating to a philosophical essay – always this writerly approximation. Berger was what a young person might have wanted to be, then, when we first ‘knew’ him. As though in this mourning there is some elation reminiscent of another time and another life when it was possible to pronounce the word solidarity without embarrassment, if also a little naively, considering how much remained unresolved and quite beyond the youthful leap of left politics. This week so many persons around the world are together in remembering John Berger as though he were a friend, almost as though we are all friends.
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