Which, of course, was the case with me. Somehow I got it in my head that it was the condition exhibited by a person who walks like Charlie Chaplin. Don’t ask me how this happened—who could possibly know something like that? But in any case, for quite some time, I kept checking for turned out toes and shuffling gait, not to mention the need for the assistance of a walking stick. That no such traces occurred didn’t change anything. I lived in horror of those moments when a Charlie Chaplin short appeared at the matinee or later on television. The great Charlie, the world’s beloved tramp, was to me the greatest object of horror in my life.
    Now, before long, this misapprehension got sorted out—I don’t remember when—no doubt the very first time I expressed these fears to anyone. But knowledge isn’t everything, and though the reason for my dread of Charlie Chaplin was promptly removed, the horror remained unabated. Later on when smear campaigns suggested Chaplin was really Adolf Hitler, that he was a Communist, that he was a sex fiend, none of these things surprised me in the least.
    I would be a full-grown adult before I finally overcame this absurd morbidity and began to appreciate the man’s greatness—but we’ll do that in its proper place. Meanwhile, don’t even try to picture him as the subject of my worst nightmares. These days, even I can’t do that.