Rachel Cooke interviews and talks about Robert Fisk in this rather interesting article. I get the strong feeling that Fisk would not like the picture painted of him. Try this long section:
We are talking - or, rather, he is talking. Luckily he has a loud, uncompromising kind of a voice and the balcony is tiny, so he is close to me, both of which ensure that I can hear him above the roar of cruising Mercedes below. It is the end of a long day - he picked me up at nine this morning for a drive south to the border with Israel, and I've been with him every minute since - but, if anything, Fisk's energy, unlike my own, increases with every word he utters. On he goes: unrelenting, furious, pernickety and labyrinthine in argument. Every anecdote involves three dusty side alleys, every explanation three historical examples. Worn down by these things, I ask - too casually, I see now - if he thinks that, once the Americans exit Iraq (he believes that they will do this soon; that the US media is already preparing the ground by running articles bemoaning - I paraphrase - the fact that the Iraqis simply don't deserve what the US has offered them), there will be a civil war. 'Do you CARE?' he shouts. Perhaps I look startled, because he now corrects himself. 'Do WE care? I don't think we do.'And how about this for an irritating habit:It's at this point that I start to think longingly of my hotel room in the Holiday Inn; not the old Holiday Inn, which stood close to the green line during the Lebanese civil war and is a pockmarked, shelled-out monument to terror to this day, but a new one, above a smart shopping mall. But it's difficult to get away. For one thing, every time I open my mouth to make my excuses, either he interrupts - Bin Laden this, Noam Chomsky that - or he takes another mobile phone call (no call can be missed, no matter that those coming in tonight are not from top contacts but from groups wanting to book him for lectures). When I do finally lift my bottom from my seat, he takes it as an opportunity to show me his desk - on it, a set of Russian dolls decorated with the faces of Israeli prime ministers and a framed postcard of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand in the moments before his assassination in 1914 (Fisk's father fought in the trenches in the First World War, a fact that has had a profound influence on his own life). At last he puts me in a taxi, though not before he has reminded me that he'll pick me up at 5.30am so that we can travel to the airport together: he is off to Canada to lecture; I'm going home to sleep like the dead. It's kind of him to take such care of me, but I can't say I feel too grateful at this moment. Will he still be like this in the morning? Fisk's long-suffering driver, Abed, was right: one day with him is like a month with anyone else.
But it is worrying that he refers to himself repeatedly in the third person. 'Have you read any Fisk?' he asks me on the telephone before I land in Beirut, a question that is insulting on so many levels. And now I'm here, he keeps calling himself 'Mr Bob'. Oh, well.The actual sections on his analysis of the Middle East make him seem as incoherent and rambling as some of his efforts on ABC's Lateline. He actually seems to dislike or distrust just about everyone in the Middle East, even the Lebanese he has lived amongst for years, as well as most of the West.
Maybe he would have been happier on another planet.
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