In Colm Tóibín's novel,
The Master, Henry James is visiting his old friend, the wealthy Paul Bourget, an "unpleasantly rigid and authoritarian" anti-Semite:
Henry did everything he could, in the early days of his stay, not to discuss Zola or the Dreyfus case with Paul or Minnie Bourget or their guest, feeling that his own views on the matter would diverge from those of his hosts. His support for Zola and, indeed, for Dreyfus was sufficiently strong not to wish to hear the Bourgets' prejudices on the matter.
Note that Henry is confident that his "sufficiently strong" views are more or less the true ones, for the contrary views of the Bourgets he regards as "prejudices." Aren't we all like that? We think we know what's true about religion, or politics, or marriage, and the people whose views we don't "wish to hear" are bigots.
But Henry, his judgment of Bourget aside, seems to like the man well enough.
[Henry] knew Bourget, he felt, as though he had made him. He knew his nature and his culture, his race and his type, his vanity and his snobbery, his interest in ideas and his ambition. But these were small matters compared to the overall effect of the man, and the core of selfhood which he so easily revealed. This was richer and more likable and more complicated than anyone supposed.
I recognize that there's a lesson for me here. Over the past dozen years of partisan politics in this country (I'm going all the way back to the 1994 mid-term election), I've observed my tendency to write bigots off and grant them no hope of reprieve in my estimation. Fortunately, I have a few counterexamples of bigots with whom I have, for various reasons, nevertheless maintained friendships. The fact that I have been able to do that gives me hope to believe that I may grow past this shortsighted intolerance.
Tóibín continues:
In return for all Henry's attention, he knew, Bourget noticed nothing [emphasis mine]. His list of Henry's attributes, were he to make one, would be simple and clear and innacurate. He did not observe the concealed self, nor, Henry imagined, did the idea interest him. And this, as his stay with the Bourgets came to an end, pleased him. Remaining invisible, becoming skilled in the art of self-effacement, even to someone whom he had known so long, gave him satisfaction. It was not a deliberate strategy, but it was central to his very presence in a room or at a table. Those in his company could enjoy what he said, but most of the time they found a polite and polished blankness. He was ready to listen, always ready to do that, but not prepared to reveal the mind at work, the imagination, or the depth of feeling.
I much admire Henry's reserve, his ability to hang back in the shadows and observe without revealing himself.
Yesterday afternoon, my wife and I went to the first of the remaining two holiday parties I mentioned in a comment on my post on "
holiday frivolity." While I did get into the "holiday spirit" at this one (and even had a quantity of the delicious food served there—too much for my gastro-intestinal comfort in the early hours this morning), I intentionally held back from expressing myself in a few instances. It wasn't that hard when I actually entertained the possibility of holding back, but for the most part I simply let myself go and be my usual spontaneous self. (Over the years I've tended to be a "life of the party" type.)
As for withholding myself in other things, no doubt it would be prudent, as well as respectful, if I
didn't respond to even the most "evangelical" of Christmas greetings by saying something like:
I haven't celebrated Christmas or enjoyed the season for some years and have decided to quit pretending that I do. But to you who do truly celebrate it, I hope that you have a good one.
However, I've already responded this way to one person who came on strong with the "Jesus is our Savior" approach. Maybe I'll learn something from it.
15 years later, 
