Charisma is catastrophic. It is a relationship-a sick one, and to a great extent symbiotic-between a man who is very, very much in need of applause a… - Shulamith Hareven

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Charisma is catastrophic. It is a relationship-a sick one, and to a great extent symbiotic-between a man who is very, very much in need of applause and constant reinforcement, and a public that seeks a hero to whom it may attribute all sorts of mythological virtues. Once it has found such a hero, this public disclaims all responsibility, as long as the leader endlessly excites and entertains it. A charismatic leader forges an unholy alliance with his public; he becomes a kind of national drug pusher, a provider of constant thrills in return for the vocal adoration he craves. He cannot manage without his public, and his public cannot manage without him: there is a kind of unchecked, mutual, constant high. A leader of this type does not have a normal public; he has groupies. It is difficult to understand what this kind of relationship has to do with leadership, since a leader's role is to define real problems and solve them. Throughout history charismatic types have led people to disaster. Once they have vanished-and they vanish in the blink of an eye-a mere decade or fifteen years later, no one can understand wherein lay their power. In retrospect they usually look ridiculous, their speech and movements laughable, like those of bad actors. There is nothing less comprehensible than the frenzied excitation of yesterday.

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About Shulamith Hareven

Shulamith Hareven (Hebrew: שולמית הראבן; pen name, Tal Yaeri; February 14, 1930 – November 25, 2003) was a Jewish author and essayist who was born in Warsaw, Poland and later lived many years in Israel.

Also Known As

Native Name: שולמית הראבן
Alternative Names: Shulamit Harʾeven
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Sara's father, never having met Morality, had perhaps been exempted from it. Even in Jerusalem of the early century, which was a warm-hearted city of warm-hearted quarters, Don Isaac Amarillo was considered an exceptionally warm-hearted man, unable to resist the general sweetness of things, such as the pure breeze that blew down the oboes of the alleyways when the day's heat suddenly broke, driving before it sun-bronzed women, all colors of children, smells of jasmine crying out loud in Arab courtyards from an abundance of evening, a dusty shepherd returning from the fields of Nikophoria with a new lamb on his arm, a fragrance of arak, thyme, and repose. At such times his defenses were down, tears of utter helplessness flooded his good-natured, near-sighted eyes, any baby could bowl him over; he was capable of giving away all he possessed, his own soul, had anyone requested it, tying it in his not always immaculate handkerchief, and bestowing. One might compare him then to a big, kind Gulliver with a horde of children perched on his hat brim, tweaking his ears to make him run and stamping their feet on his forehead for the fun of it. And when summertime came, bringing the wild red rut of watermelons piled high in the market by the Jaffa Gate, along the path that led down to Hebron Road from the Old City wall, he was at the mercy of the first woman who came along. (first lines)

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