SOURCE: “Isaiah Berlin at Eighty,” in The New York Review of Books, Vol. XXXVI, No. 13, August 17, 1989, pp. 44-5.

In the following essay, Brodsky offers an eightieth birthday tribute to Berlin.

It is almost a rule that the more complex a man is, the simpler his billing. A person with a retrospective ability gone rampant often would be called an historian. Similarly, one to whom reality doesn't seem to make sense gets dubbed a philosopher. Social critic or ethical thinker are standard labels for somebody who finds the ways of his society reprehensible. And so it goes, for the world always tries to arrest its adolescence, to appear younger than it is. Few people have suffered this fear of grown-ups more than Sir Isaiah Berlin, now eighty, who is frequently called all these things, at times simultaneously. What follows is not an attempt to redress the terminological chaos: it...