Eventually people would ask: Can you believe that there are still some old bags who refuse to accept the Gitlin approach? The leaders of the movement, still reluctant to commit themselves, yet consumed by curiosity and doubt, would declare: That’s all very well, but why doesn’t he come around for a serious talk? Let’s have a good look at him and hear what he has to say. And when he had left their offices, they would confess: No question about it, he swept us off our feet. The boy’s a real find. In time the press would sniff him out too. And the radio. Inquiries would be made and background information sought from the kibbutz. The mystery of his origins and life story would amaze them. How little is actually known about him, they would report. One winter night he simply walked in from the dark.

Crotchety reactionaries would argue with him in the weekend magazine sections. At great length they would attempt to squelch his explosive ideas but in vain. Four or five lines of rebuttal would suffice to crush them, such was the elegant but merciless juggernaut of his wit. Yet in closing, he would always pat their elderly shoulders: Nonetheless, I must credit my opponents for their contributions to the intellectual outlook of their own generation.

A nationwide debate would arise over the new concept, whose founder and leading spokesman was Azariah Gitlin. Fresh forces would rally around him. Young women would write letters to the editor in his defense. Budding poetesses would seek his company. One would even dedicate a poem to him entitled “The Eagle’s Lonely Sorrow.” Celebrities, famous pundits, representatives of the foreign press would come to exchange views. He would be referred to as a visionary for the times. And all the while he would stubbornly refuse to leave the barber’s room or the shack. Repeatedly, to everyone’s amazement, he would turn down the kibbutz’s offer of a better room. In this ramshackle cabin, small groups of young activists would assemble from all over the country. How startled they would be to discover that Azariah Gitlin’s sole earthly possessions were a metal bed, a wobbly table, a decrepit old chest, one chair, and a guitar. These and the numerous bookshelves lining the walls would bear silent witness to the ascetic severity of his life and to long nights of arduous thought. Why, the carpenter who volunteered one morning to make those shelves was the very same brusque young man who had been the first to encounter him upon his arrival in the kibbutz.