The sudden revival in popularity of Herodotus, historian of ancient times, because of the book and film, The English Patient, would, I suppose, have pleased Enoch Powell, who died yesterday. Herodotus was one of his great classical loves, and the subject of a number of his brilliant scholarly writings.
Coached by his ambitious mother, Ellen Breese Powell, young John Enoch became a master of Greek and Latin. His military career, which ended with the rank of brigadier, was greatly accelerated when he replied with the appropriate tag to an observation in Latin made by his commanding officer when inspecting the rank and file.
Despite the behaviour which made him what my late colleague, Fergus Pyle, described in a 1996 book review as "probably the most repulsive politician on the scene", many people, myself among them, could not help but admire Enoch, attracted by his brilliance, his black-and-white, if you forgive the allusion, in an age increasingly grey. It was also possibly because of the hints of Greek tragedy in his own life. "All politicians' careers end in failure," he said with more than a touch of bravado, after his own defeat in the 1987 British general election. It was reminiscent of the dramatic throwaway line he delivered when asked in an earlier interview how he would like to be remembered: "I should like to have been killed in the war."
A man ultimately defeated by the downside of the qualities which made him great: that was Powell. He was brilliant and able but doomed by his lack of compromise, by his inability, despite political skills, to adopt the ultimate political survival tactic of putting a soft focus on things. Imagine an Enoch Powell at last Friday's transatlantic mutual-admiration dinner at the White House. Relish what he might have said about the alleged sexual improprieties on which President Clinton feels himself unable to comment.
And then there is the other, human tragedy, of Powell's unrequited and passionate love for a young woman, years before he found a happy domestic life with Pamela Wilson, the secretary whom he married. In what was perhaps his last television interview a couple of years ago, a frail falsetto-voiced Powell was asked about this long-off affair of the heart. Tears came to the old man's eyes. "You really mustn't ask me about these things," he said, emotional.
So far removed from the absolutist, logical, public figure of 20 years ago, it was very touching.
Many might think it a good thing: but we shall not see his like again.