books – Musings of a Memorymancer

Dmitri Ivanovich Morozov was the sort of man who would bemoan to anyone and everyone who would listen that he was unable to secure a suitable wife, though heart of the matter was clear to everyone except perhaps himself. The simple truth was that Dmitri quite loved attending the frequent balls in Moscow and St. Petersburg and at these balls he so loved attending, he would insist on dancing only with the women who were uninterested in dancing with himself, ignoring many a fine young lady who but eagerly awaited his invitation.

Nevertheless, Dmitri, despite his notable lack of a wife, had managed to secure a respectable position for himself in government and was well known to many important people in St. Petersburg, including the senior statesman Alexei Alexandrovich Karenin. These two were quite close in friendship and indeed in outward similarity, and yet one could not imagine two people more different in nature. For while Alexei Alexandrovich cared only for what others thought of him, Dmitri’s primary concern was with what he thought of himself.

Dmitri’s mother, an ardent Pietist, had been so insistent on his religious education that Dmitri had read the Scriptures cover-to-cover before he even learned to ride a horse. As such, he had taken the scriptures to heart from a young age, particularly the sayings of King Solomon, which he was often fond of repeating to himself while on his frequent walks. And since, as a man thinks, so he does become, Dmitri thought it of utmost importance that he thought good thoughts about himself, and often found himself impatiently waiting for his thoughts about himself to transform into his thoughts of himself.

But perhaps the difference between the two can best be explained by Dmitri’s love for his horse. In his youth, Dmitri had been a cavalry officer in a regiment commanded by the notorious Kirill Nikovich Vronksy, a vile, greedy man who cared only for money and the other perversions in life. One day, during a skirmish with some Livonian rebels on a routine border patrol, Kirill Nikovich had been thrown off his horse in the heat of battle, undoubtedly because he spent more of his time drinking and gambling instead of attending the weekly regiment drills. This was especially unfortunate for Dmitri Ivanovich since he happened to be riding directly to the left of Kirill Nikovich and now realized his right flank would be completely exposed to the enemy. But Kirill Nikovich’s horse, Defiant, was not as ill suited for life as he. No, instead of fleeing in fright as most horses do upon losing their riders, Defiant had continued to charge in formation with the rest of the regiment. This charge had saved Dmitri’s life, as she charged down a rebel soldier who was in the process of aiming a bayonet into Dmitri’s exposed right side. After the battle, Dmitri had paid a special visit to Kirill Nikovich, despite their mutual hatred, to give his respects to Defiant, only to learn that the fiend had intended to have her shot, for the same kick that had saved Dmitri’s life had crippled her leg as well. Kirill Nikovich calmly stated that the local sausage maker had offered him a good price and that with such an injury, Defiant could be of no further use to him. Dmitri, alas, had no choice but to make his enemy several rubles richer than he deserved.

And so Dimtri loved his new horse, went through great pains to ensure that not only that Defiant faired better, far better, under his care as compared to with Kirill Nikovich, but that no one, especially not himself, could accuse Dmitri of not loving the horse who had saved his life enough. He fed her the finest hay everyday and personally carried her favorite apples back as treats from his weekly trips to the market, even when they were not in season. He arranged for a doctor to visit her every season and spared no expense in caring for her crippled leg as best as could be done. Nevertheless, their relationship was not unlike what Alexei’s wife Anna had once confided to him about their son Sergei: he loved his horse more in his imagination than he did in reality, and when he visited her, he was forced to descend into that reality and see Defiant as she was, a dying, crippled horse who could no longer walk. And so, he would often forget to visit her, and the time they would spend together, he would often spend lost in his own thoughts.

This was because what mattered most to Dmitri was that he did everything in his power to ensure that Defiant was treated well, and less that Defiant was actually well. That he spared no expense or effort to ensure that Defiant remain happy, but not that Defiant be, in fact, happy. That while Dmitri loved his horse, his love was missing something crucial, that if his horse had passed away next month or next year made little difference to him, so long as it was not because of any fault of his own. It was a matter of honor, not to others — though of course he did not shy away from telling the story when asked — but to himself. But it was less a love for the horse that compelled him as opposed to a love for the story he was able to tell himself, to convince himself was true — that he was the kind of man who could love like that. And so he became, despite his best efforts, not a man who loved his horse to its dying days, but rather a man who told himself, and went through the motions, of loving his horse until its dying days.

Nor was it just his horse. Dmitri loved his country. Should the occasion have arisen, he would have lain down his life for his country without a single regret, but that if asked, just once a month, to serve on a zemstvo council for the sake of his fellow citizens, he would forget to show up. Dmitri loved his family. Of that, there could be no doubt. If it came down to it, Dmitri would not hesitate even for a second to throw away his position and fortune and titles away to save them in their time of need. But nevertheless, he would often forget to write, forget to visit, forget to send presents and well wishes, and perhaps worst of all, forget to think of them.

And so, of Dmitri it must be said, that he was willing to do something great, but not something small, even when in fact, the small things he neglected were more important, more important by far than the great things he imagined himself doing.

He was called a black panther: beautiful, dangerous. The party formed in the wake of his murder.

Growing up, I was told that Malcolm X was a dangerous demagogue, advocating violence, chaos, and the destruction of America. While not entirely false, statements like this are the worst kinds of lies. It would be as if you called Epstein a philanthropist, Hitler an inspirational speaker, or Martin Luther King Jr. a criminal. To dance so close to the truth but miss it all the same is so much worse than being wildly off the mark.

As a child, Malcolm saw his father murdered by white supremacists and his mother forcibly committed to a mental asylum shortly afterward. Placed into the foster system, he was lucky to be pulled out by his relatively well-to-do half-sister, but eventually turned to the life of the hustle anyways. When caught, he served six and a half years in prison. Most people in prison rot. Malcolm turned his life around. He started reading every book he could get his hands on. He joined the debate team, where he learned to speak eloquently and think on his feet. He became a Muslim and began to follow Elijah Muhammad. When he got out, he became a minister and was responsible for growing for the Nation of Islam from 300 followers to 30,000 in a decade. Eventually, he fell out with Muhammad and began charting his own path. Soon afterwards, he was assassinated by his former comrades. He was 39.

Malcolm did not hide his flaws, for what kind of man with his history wouldn’t have them? He was a misogynist, and how he treated Laura was nothing short of despicable. He abandoned his brother Reginald, the same one who refused to abandon him while he was rotting away in prison. He spent the majority of his free adult life evangelizing for an organization run by a hypocritical pedophile. Until shortly before his death, he was just as racist as those whom he was fighting. And that’s just the stuff I know about from an autobiography narrated by the man himself.

In terms of impact though, there is absolutely no doubt that MLK owes much of his success in advancing civil rights to white America fearing the Black community would turn to Malcolm X instead. When afterwards, history was rewritten so that MLK became a national hero while Malcolm X was relegated to being a villain, I cannot help but believe that even in defeat people could not bear praising Malcolm X.

Malcolm X asked how a society could oppress a race for hundreds of years and then expect them not to try to defend themselves. He asked why white people would defend the second amendment with their lives but be alarmed when Black people armed themselves in self-defense. People shudder when repeating his iconic line “by any means necessary.” They don’t mention the full quote:

“We want freedom by any means necessary. We want justice by any means necessary. We want equality by any means necessary.”

Does that sound so sinister to you?

In the modern-day, we act as if we have somehow solved the issue of race. Compare schools in rich neighborhoods to those in the ghetto. Look at any major city, where you can walk one block and see the skyscrapers turn into shacks as fast as the skin colors turn dark. Poor, Black men face a dozen years for a small-time possession charge while rich, white, frat boys snort cocaine and LSD in full view of police who very politely avert their eyes. Anyone who looks at the state of America and thinks that racial issues are mainly due to culture or laziness or whatever might as well gouge out their eyes: they are blind anyways. The issues are complex, yes, but those who continue the facade about equality of opportunity might as well just say what they think: Black people are inferior.

Hamilton wrote his way out. Malcolm read his way out, then spoke his way to greatness. Here lies a man who defied all odds to become an American icon. He dared to fight against the darkness. He dared to speak the truth. Malcolm X himself wrote that “some of history’s greatest leaders never were recognized until they were safely in the ground.” We’ve waited over half a century already, but one day that day will come.