THE NO‐POND HERMIT

7 0 Y T H E N O – P O N D H E R M I T N I C H O L A S F R I E D M A N hadn’t had human contact since Chernobyl. Or, rather, once he squeaked a startled ‘‘hi’’ to quell suspicion from a passer-by. His hard-won solitude has now gone global thanks to a spread in GQ magazine, but once he was the undisputed lord of all he kept, and all that buoyed or bored him on the daily. Work never came to lean against his days; Monday was just a thought that joined the welter in the minds of others. Of course there were inevitable bothers: to steal, well, everything; to not get caught; to not light fires for fear of that. To live. Funny to think that his foremost ambition was dodging what we’d die for: recognition, as if life’s crowning purpose were to give biographers a steady lead to follow. J. Salzman was, for thirty years, the dean of Arts and Sciences. He reached the mean income in record time. His vague and hollow – et cetera. Folks long presumed him dead, but hidden cameras caught him pilfering co√ee, Smarties, and hamburger last spring – all from a campground dining hall, the spread 7 1 R explains. Now, he awaits a public trial – and judgment by a jury of his peers. His hopes and fears are not our hopes and fears. His glasses are three decades out of style. ...