Describing Zizek would test a Flaubert. The words flow unceasingly, delivered in rapid, strongly accented English, accompanied by a sniff after every phrase. He runs his hand through his unkempt hair, squeezes his nose, gets carried away by the sheer velocity and manysidedness of his thought. Zizek the magician, always with a new trick. But I worry about him – this perpetual performance. What about the man behind the mask? He says he has no friends, only academic contacts; is on to his third wife (“an Argentinian beauty”); is “too connected” to his seven-year-old son, with whom he has come to London. “I’m a bad father; I haven’t learned just to live with him; I all the time worry, ‘Is he enough amused?’ It make you very tired.” Another performance; more magic.
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