Michael Ignatieff





Michael Ignatieff

Author profile


born
in Toronto, Canada
May 12, 1947

gender
male


About this author

Michael Grant Ignatieff is a Canadian author, academic and former politician. He was the leader of the Liberal Party of Canada and Leader of the Official Opposition from 2008 until 2011. Known for his work as a historian, Ignatieff has held senior academic posts at the University of Cambridge, the University of Oxford, Harvard University and the University of Toronto.


Average rating: 3.70 · 907 ratings · 78 reviews · 44 distinct works · Similar authors
Blood and Belonging: Journe...
3.87 of 5 stars 3.87 avg rating — 110 ratings — published 1993 — 8 editions
Scar Tissue
3.7 of 5 stars 3.70 avg rating — 112 ratings — published 1993 — 9 editions
Isaiah Berlin: A Life
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4.05 of 5 stars 4.05 avg rating — 92 ratings — published 1991 — 10 editions
The Lesser Evil: Political ...
3.4 of 5 stars 3.40 avg rating — 86 ratings — published 2004 — 6 editions
Human Rights as Politics an...
by
3.67 of 5 stars 3.67 avg rating — 61 ratings — published 2001 — 3 editions
Magnum Degrees
4.58 of 5 stars 4.58 avg rating — 62 ratings — published 1999 — 4 editions
The Warrior's Honor: Ethnic...
3.71 of 5 stars 3.71 avg rating — 62 ratings — published 1998 — 7 editions
Virtual War: Kosovo and Beyond
3.47 of 5 stars 3.47 avg rating — 57 ratings — published 2000 — 6 editions
The Rights Revolution
3.3 of 5 stars 3.30 avg rating — 50 ratings — published 2000 — 7 editions
The Russian Album
3.77 of 5 stars 3.77 avg rating — 35 ratings — published 1987 — 8 editions
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“Memory is the only afterlife I have ever believed in. But the forgetting inside us cannot be stopped. We are programmed to betray.”
Michael Ignatieff, Scar Tissue

“One of the greatest feelings in life is the conviction that you have lived the life you wanted to live-with the rough and the smooth, the good and the bad-but yours, shaped by your own choices, and not someone else's.”
Michael Ignatieff

“I do not know whether it is an act of faithfulness to her or a betrayal of the dignity she never lost, to say that she had bitten her tongue, to say that there was blood flowing across her mouth and lips which my brother kept wiping away. I do not know whether I have the right to say, though I will do so, that her body was shaken with epileptic tremors and that she took enormous, terrifying breaths that went on and on until you could not believe she had the strength for them. I do not know whether, as we thought at the time, she could feel our hands on her forehead and cheek, or whether she had waited until we were both there to die.

I did not say 'I am here'. I did not say anything. Her mouth was open wide, as in those portraits by Francis Bacon of caged prisoners in their final extremity. I watched and listened to those terrifying, rattling, hoarse breaths, wondering at the strength remaining in her aged body and at the violence it still had to endure. I looked over at my brother as if he might know, as if he might understand whether she had the strength to continue. He was stroking her forehead, whispering soundlessly to her, attempting even at this moment to reach behind the veil and find her.

If you believe that she knew we were there, if you believe--I cannot be sure--that she understood what her sons needed at that instant, her eyes which had been shut and which, by being closed, made her seem completely out of our reach, suddenly opened. Blue-grey eyes, staring up into the ceiling above her sons' heads, upwards, ever upwards, fixed like an exhausted swimmer on the shore. Then her eyes closed and she took the largest, most violent breath of all, and we watched and waited, stood and looked at each other, felt for her pulse and slowly, as seconds turned into minutes, realized that she would never breathe again.

There is only one reason to tell you this, to present the scene. It is to say that what happens can never be anticipated. What happens escapes anything you can ever say about it. What happens cannot be redeemed. It can never be anything other than what it is. We tell stories as if to refuse this truth, as if to say that we make our fate, rather than simply endure it. But in truth we make nothing. We live, and we cannot shape life. It is much too great for us, too great for any words. A writer must refuse to believe this, must believe there is nothing that cannot somehow be said. Yet there at last in her presence, in the unending unfolding of that silence, which still goes on, which I still expect to be broken by another drawing in of breath, I knew that all my words could only be in vain, and that all that I had feared and all that I had anticipated could only be lived--without their help or hers.”
Michael Ignatieff, Scar Tissue

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CBC Books: Ignatieff, Michael 1 6 Mar 30, 2011 03:23pm  


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