"William Worthy, a foreign correspondent who in the thick of the Cold War ventured where the United States did not want him to go and became the subject of both a landmark federal case concerning travel rights and a ballad by the protest singer Phil Ochs, died on May 4th." ... Story continues here: William Worthy, A Reporter Drawn To Forbidden Datelines, Dies At 92 (NY Times)
For as far back as he could recall, there was one thing that always brought him comfort... The words that rang true and glowed like burning coal. Words that heralded hope, proclaimed love, celebrated loss, embraced shattered faith, and shook a finger at corruption. Words that carried his broken self to lonesome side-streets, waterfront docks, and beauty parlors filled with sun-pecked faces. Words that caressed with a singular voice, a knowing wink, and left in their wake a warm, seemingly all-knowing security.
"A revolutionary age is an age of action; ours is the age of advertisement and publicity. Nothing ever happens but there is immediate publicity everywhere. In the present age a rebellion is, of all things, the most unthinkable. Such an expression of strength would seem ridiculous to the calculating intelligence of our times. On the other hand a political virtuoso might bring off a feat almost as remarkable. He might write a manifesto suggesting a general assembly at which people should decide upon a rebellion, and it would be so carefully worded that even the censor would let it pass. At the meeting itself he would be able to create the impression that his audience had rebelled, after which they would all go quietly home — having spent a very pleasant evening.”
One winter night in the mid-'80s Matt ranted, for what seemed like an eternity, about "the commies" all while letting cigarettes burn out on his arms in an effort to show that he was prepared for "the coming fight." On that same cold blustery night using just one hand — and then just a few fingers — he hung his body off the local esplanade to show his resolve. He could care less about the bumper-to-bumper traffic below. Or perhaps he didn't notice it.
"When I was very young, I admired hardened criminals locked behind prison doors; I visited inns and taverns they frequented; with their eyes, I saw the blue sky and the blossoming work of the fields; I tracked their scent through cities. They were more powerful than saints, more prudent than explorers — and they, they alone, were witnesses to glory and reason!"