Remarks by Ambassador Samantha Power Honoring New York Review of Books Founder Bob Silvers

Note: These remarks were delivered after Amb. Power's service as U.S. Permanent Representative to the United Nations.

Bob Silvers has always seemed to me the keeper of idealism in the United States. There was nothing heavy or self-involved about his idealism. Sure, he had a set of grand beliefs – governments shouldn’t kill their people; they shouldn’t interfere with freedom of speech or religion; they shouldn’t lock people up for their point of view; and they should protect minorities and respect the results of fair elections.  But Bob also had a set of ideals that were simpler, to which he summoned all around him: don’t be indirect – figure out what you believe and what you mean; strive for perfection, even as you remain humble in your ability to achieve it; be faithful to what you believe and who you love; don’t be a phony; don’t be a snob; and, above all, don’t be a bully.

Bob delighted in so many aspects of his life, but especially the freedom that creating his own “paper” had given him. “Because we own the paper,” he would say giddily, “we can publish what we want!” However unconventional he and his writers chose to be, he got a permanent kick out of the fact that “nobody can tell us what to do!” While others hailed the “influence” and “prestige” of the New York Review’s readers, Bob claimed to have no interest in who his readers were, instead boasting, “We never relied upon or even inquired into the nature of the audience.” He did admit a few seconds later, with what seemed like intended humor, “I assume they are quite mature.”

As I spent the weeks since his death listening to Bob in any interview I could find, I for the first time heard him speak about the link between his own freedom as an editor and the freedom he sought for others. He told an interviewer: “If you are in the position of an editor who can do what he wants, you do have an obligation to care about people who are being treated brutally, people who are being repressed.” He said, speaking up for “the most elementary human rights to me is… just an obvious basic obligation that editors in our situation have.” Bob took notable pride in having given voice to once-obscure prisoners of conscience, in documenting terror in all of its forms, and in summoning statesmen and citizens to their better angels. On the rare occasions he reflected on his legacy, he kept coming back to government abuse and individual liberty, emphasizing, “if there has been a large theme in our paper in the…years since we started I suppose you would say it is human rights.”

I started writing for Bob in 2002. Back then I was probably not as scared of dangerous places as I should have been; and far more scared of Bob than I needed to be. I triggered his temper on occasion, which wasn’t pleasant. But I was way less frightened of angering Bob than I was of disappointing him.  This meant that I didn’t dare resist him. Once, when he came looking for an overdue article, I emailed him apologetically that I would do my best but was in rural Ireland getting married “the day after tomorrow.”  He wrote back promptly – and ebulliently. “How marvelous you’re getting married…Every good wish to you both. I hate even to mention our piece in the middle of the moment. We’ll simply hope for the entire text in the next few days…My best, Bob.”

He made all of his writers feel as though we were recruits into a global conspiracy striving for truth and virtue. I was amazed to have been included, fearful always of forfeiting Bob’s surprising trust, and altogether taken by his round-the-clock focus, his improbable non-pretentiousness, and his defining sense of mischief. When I joined the US government, I assumed it wouldn’t be possible to write for Bob. But because I never lost the habit of craving his wisdom, I sent him some of my speeches, to which he somehow never failed to respond.

Last year, to my surprise, he decided to publish an article based on one of them, a long argument on how the dichotomy between realism and idealism, between national security and human rights, was misplaced and obsolete, given contemporary challenges. I sought to rebut the notion that the way a government treats its people is – as I put it in the first draft -- a “merely moral concern.” His reaction, which came by email to me on my phone as I sat in the UN Security Council was negative – and it was overpowering. Indeed, the best tribute to Bob’s idealism that I can offer in closing is his response.  He wrote:

The problem [with the phrase “merely moral”] is that the national security interest can certainly be argued to be of the greatest moral concern. I see you are referring to people who may seem to classify humanitarian issues as moral concerns and therefore, by their understanding, not of the highest concern but of lesser concern with respect to the allegedly more important issue of national security. But it is certainly very entirely plausible and rational to argue that maintaining national security entails a great many moral consequences and therefore is a moral concern.

He had me at hello – mine had been a lazy half-thought, not a considered phrase or judgment. But he could not be stopped. His email continued:

I fear that the use of the phrase “merely moral” would be vulnerable since it would seem to refer to a use of the word “moral” without making it clear just what someone who said an issue was “merely” moral would be referring to...I have not heard someone say that harmful treatment of humans was merely a moral issue. They may feel this is the case in relation to what they regard as issues of political power and influence, but I doubt that would be actually said, and there would be many reasons not to say it… Please consider this, and I hope we can soon be in touch.

That was Bob – precise, determined, deeply humane. I consider it one of the great blessings of my life that we were…in touch.

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