The author of these words has been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature:

There are no hard distinctions between what is real and what is unreal, nor between what is true and what is false. A thing is not necessarily either true or false; it can be both true and false.

In December 2002—before the invasion of Iraq—he introduced Noam Chomsky at St. Paul’s Cathedral with these words:

Noam Chomsky is the leading critical voice against the criminal regime now running the United States, a regime which is in fact a dangerous monster out of control. But he will not be bullied. He will not be intimidated. He is a fearless, formidable, totally independent voice. He does something which is really quite simple but highly unusual. He tells the truth.

Who is he? He’s Harold Pinter, who epitomizes those of today’s Western intellectuals whose moral relativism would have blinded them, in the 1930s, to the evils of Naziism and, during the early years of the Cold War, to the evils of Communism.

Shame on the Nobel Prize Committee. The Islamists must think that the West is committing civilizational suicide. Showering honors on someone like Pinter makes me think so, too.


Here’s how The Times reacted to Pinter’s selection:

The Nobel Prize . . . for Literature . . . to Harold Pinter . . . Hmmm . . . there are two possibilities. First, the Nobel committee may have ruled that 2005 was the ideal moment to honour a man who wrote his signature works in the late 1950s. To be fair, Pinter produced notable plays in the succeeding decades. But he made his name, and gave birth to the adjective Pinteresque, with the stripped dialogue, edgy mistrust and air of tangible but mysterious threat of his early works.

Then there is another possibility: that Pinter is just about the biggest and sharpest stick with which the Nobel committee can poke America in the eye. His recent output has consisted almost entirely of rabid antiwar, anti-American and expletive-filled rants against the Iraq conflict. He did not like those in Afghanistan or Kosovo either. In his anger, which only occasionally verges on the coherent, Pinter is as spare with logic as he once was with language.