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As the British dance critic Richard Buckle said, 'Much as I liked [him] underneath, I began to dislike him on the surface.' That's at least better than the other way around. There was no moderation in Lincoln Kirstein's reactions to others or in theirs to him. He was all hyperbole and paradox. He could be woundingly cruel and manipulative, but so transparent in his machinations that people seemed to find this quality almost endearing, as if he couldn't help himself. He would turn against friends for no good reason and he terrified strangers. He was a glowering, ungainly giant in a dark suit with shaved head and jutting jaw—the familiar analogy was a Roman senator. But as the heir of a department store fortune his generosity as a patron was clearly boundless, like his insecurity. Nick Jenkins in The New Yorker, after Kirstein's death in 1996, noted his contrary nature, saying Kirstein 'sought to be retiring, but he was all the more noticeable as he tried to be invisible.' It was just as Martha Graham had said. 'What I do not think you know,' she told him, 'is really how much people can and do love you, feel your warmth and your great dearness, which you try too hard to hide.'
Review, 4144 words
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