Theodore Dalrymple is one of my favorite living writers. He makes complex notions seem obvious and self-evident while employing a sporadic dry wit. His is reliably enjoyable reading that feels like a guilty pleasure.
He has a fascinating history as an English psychologist working in some of Britain’s slums and its prisons. He encounters the modern philosophies through the people who live them, who have really internalized the concept that their crimes were the fault of anything except their own will: their bad upbringing, their parents, their anxiety, their addictions, their ancestry, and so on.
