Though I hadn't yet scheduled a call with Gates, he rang me at 9 a.m. on a Monday morning. I was stumbling into work, pre-caffeinated. He had been writing for four hours already. Immediately, he asked me about myself. "What type of name is Foer?" "Where did you do your undergraduate work?" When he finally starts to talk about himself, he cuts off all my lines of attack with candor and humor. "They wouldn't tenure me at Yale because the manuscript for my book contained the word 'motherfucker' too many times." "I regret not being a better father and husband." Ten minutes into the conversation, he's confessing grave sins. Ten minutes later, he's telling me: "I've never shared this explanation of my life with anyone. It's just come to me as we're talking." He tells me how his life's work is a reaction against blacks in his hometown, who had big plans but never got off their bums. When I say he's considered a "schmoozer," he says, "Brother Foer, drop me a Yiddish lesson. What is this thing called schmoozer?"