“I had the feeling there was no war going on, so kind were the people and so warm the welcome.” (May 1970, Hanoi)
He claims that he cannot tell his fans apart. French, American, Vietnamese—all citizens defined by their adoration for him. He says they laugh and cry at the same moments. With a flick of his fingers, he reaches in and pulls out identical sighs. He takes in the onlookers, the gigglers and gaspers, the criers—all from behind the shadow of a hand.
His hand, with all its particulars. Each line, bulge, and groove—defined. They tell the story of a man.
The fingerprints are proof.
He wanted the universal, commonality across nations. But what if all people were not alike? From France to America to Vietnam. He found no formula for the end of suffering. No formula to stir up empathy and understanding. Just a formula for one man.