I brought him to a meeting of the Dissent Magazine board at Irving Howe's apartment (this is what "around" meant to young, left, earnest, writers) and we kept in touch sporadically the way one did back then, before email and free long-distance. Once I hit my own professional turbulence, after I published The Tragedy of Zionism, and took refuge of a kind at the Harvard Business Review, we pretty much fell out of touch. In 1991, we debated about the first Gulf War at Wellesley College--he was against it, I was for it, neither of us really knew what we were talking about--then went out for a drink and that was pretty much that.
The last time I saw him was most memorable, however. It was sometime in the mid-nineties and he was hitting his stride. MIT's Phil Khoury invited him to give a public lecture about the Palestinians, about which we knew considerably more. The talk was simply masterful, fueled by periodic sips from a flask. Not a word was out of place, not a thought was wasted. I confess to being a little dazzled by how carefully he marbled the talk with his wit.
But this presented a problem. How could I trump such a performance with my expression of appreciation. We had been sort-of friends. I didn't want to fawn like a fan. I wanted to receive him as would befit the moment. So when he came down from the podium, I took his hand in the middle of the crush of colleagues and told him, in what I thought a moment of inspiration: "Christopher, when I hear you speak, I become aware of latent homoerotic urges." Without missing a beat, he took my chin in his hands and kissed me passionately on the lips. I simply burst out laughing. He allowed only a little mischievous smile, like that of killer. I told him, "Okay, I give up."