The speech Ed wrote in the winter of 1964 was the best thing he had ever written. He knew it the moment he finished—the particular certainty that came when a piece of writing was right, when the words were not just adequate but true, when the argument and the emotion and the language had all come together into something that could not be improved. He sat at his desk in Bloomsbury for a long time after he finished, looking at the pages in front of him, feeling the weight of what he had done. Th...