In the grip of a neurological disorder, I am fast losing control of words even as my relationship with the world has been reduced to them.
I was born accidentally. I lived accidentally in London. We nearly migrated to New Zealand. So much of my life has been a product of chance, I can't see a meaning in it at all.
How should we begin to make amends for raising a generation obsessed with the pursuit of material wealth and indifferent to so much else?
The people whose necks hurt when I write about the Middle East tend to live in Brooklyn or Boca Raton: the kind of Zionist who pays another man to live in Israel for him. I have nothing but contempt for such people.