
Once upon a time, an essay was considered the most effective way to dissect and analyze a problem. Writers could write; readers could read. Lately, the world is taken with graphics and bullets, disconnected bursts of words, to tell the tale. Sentences have gone the way of the carrier pigeon.
All good, says I. Pick your poison. For me, better than the essay I prefer a dialogue, not necessarily Socratic. For that reason, whenever North Korea makes the headlines, I call an old acquaintance of mine in Pyongyang -- let's call him Inspector O of the Ministry of People's Security -- to find out if he knows what's happening. He usually does, or pretends he does, which makes him no worse, and sometimes better, than the passel of analysts who inhabit my clime.
Naturally, a few nights ago, it was O's number I dialed straightaway. Still groggy from an earlier call from a friend, an excitable Wall Street trader who first gave me the news that Kim Jong Il had died, I figured O would set me straight.
"Impossible," I was thinking as I waited for him to pick up. "Don't believe it."
Disbelief is normal when leaders die. People tend not to believe it at first -- too unnerving, too disruptive for the mental universe. And then even when they are sure it is true, they still don't comprehend what it means. At least not at first. But I figured that, unlike me, Inspector O would have his thoughts sorted out already.
"Figured you'd call," he said before I had a chance to say hello. "Don't tell me: You can't believe it."
"How did you know it was me? Your phones have caller ID now?"
He laughed. "No, no one else is using the phone today. Bad etiquette to be on a cell phone when grief-stricken."
"So what happened?"
"What happened? You read the bulletin. The man shuffled off the mortal coil." O sounded hoarse, as if he had been talking a lot. His English was usually good, but when he was stressed, his accent crept back. It was real thick at the moment.
"Mortal coil?" I thought this sounded a little casual, even for O, but decided not to dwell on it.
He continued. "'Overwork,' they said. Could be. High marks in the plausibility department. You people always called him a recluse. Tell me, when was the last time a recluse appeared well over 100, maybe 150, times in public in a year, took numerous long rail trips, and never got off the phone with his subordinates?"
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