Harold Pinter likes to tell a story against himself. A year or two back, he was flying to Miami and, as a ferocious scourge of the United States government, expected trouble at immigration. “But I was ready for them, I was ready for them,” he says. He handed over his British passport and the immigration officer examined it intently. “Pinter,” he said, slowly, and paused. “Would that be the dramatist Pinter?”

“Yes!” snapped Pinter, aggressively, preparing to launch into a diatribe on how outrageous it was that a country that claimed to be a democracy should attempt to impede his passage.

“Well, welcome to the United States, Mr. Pinter,” said the officer, cheerily. “Enjoy your stay.”

The most striking thing about the anecdote is how un-“Pinteresque” the exchange is—save, of course, for the pause, and even that, at least as Pinter tells the story, falls somewhat short. Over the years, he must have had many similarly pleasing encounters in America—in cabs, in restaurants, at check-in counters—and yet none of them has caused him to revise his opinion of the Great Satan: the best you could get from him during the Cold War was a surly assertion that there was an equivalence of evil between America and the Soviet Union. It’s not that you’d expect a genial immigration officer to cause Pinter to alter his view of U.S.foreign policy, but you’re surprised that he doesn’t take it into account: if America is an Evil Empire, then