In 2008, in a Profile for this magazine, Larissa MacFarquhar described Naomi Klein as “the most visible and influential figure on the American left—what Howard Zinn and Noam Chomsky were thirty years ago.” Klein became famous in 1999 for “No Logo,” her manifesto about globalization and consumption; she published “The Shock Doctrine,” in 2007, about disaster capitalism, and 2014’s “This Changes Everything,” about the climate crisis. She’s been a prominent Bernie Sanders campaign surrogate and public advocate for the Green New Deal.
Klein’s books are serious, though not humorless; she cuts a reliably resolute figure, modelling for her audience that one’s mind can be on dissolution and disaster while one’s person remains entirely poised, even cool. And so her new book, “Doppelganger,” comes as something of a surprise. Its leaping-off point is not global warming or the expansion of government surveillance but, rather, the fact that Naomi Klein, for more than a decade, has been regularly mistaken for Naomi Wolf. “We both write big-idea books,” Klein writes, and “have brown hair that sometimes goes blond from over-highlighting. . . . We’re both Jewish.” Both had partners named Avram. (Klein’s husband, who in 2021 ran for office with Canada’s New Democratic Party, goes by Avi.) And though they had once had distinct areas of expertise, their specialties eventually began to converge. I can attest to the durability of this confusion: before I interviewed Klein at The New Yorker Festival in 2017, I received multiple texts from friends saying, “Good luck with Naomi Wolf!”
The Naomi confusion got worse as discourse migrated onto social media, where both Naomis were, like everyone else, shrunk down to follower counts and tiny avatars. A viral tweet offered a helpful rubric: “If the Naomi be Klein / you’re doing just fine / If the Naomi be Wolf / Oh, buddy. Oooof.” In 2019, Wolf’s book “Outrages,” which had a premise that rested on a misreading of British law, got a humiliating reception; after that experience, she sought out a new audience on the right—Tucker Carlson’s TV show, Steve Bannon’s podcast. Came COVID, and, if you squinted, the Naomis became slightly blurrier: Klein was angry at Bill Gates for defending corporate vaccine patents; Wolf thought Gates was using the vaccine to track people’s movements. And everyone, in general, seemed to be losing their grip on what was what.
“Doppelganger” is partly an admission—and an occasionally very funny one—that Klein is not exempt from the sense of runaway surreality that marks this moment. The book uses the two Naomis as a guide to the strange contemporary intersections of the left and the right, finding, in conspiracy theories, an uncanny doppelgänger of political reality. I recently spoke with Klein about all of this on Zoom; our conversation has been edited for length and clarity.
The first line of “Doppelganger” is “In my defense, it was never my intent to write this book.” When did it occur to you that you could use your doppelgänger situation as the premise of a book? And when did that idea slip from ill-advised to necessary—perhaps seeming, sometimes, like both at once?
I should start by saying that this is not a pandemic book. But the germ of the book was planted in the first year of the pandemic. Like so many of us who were fortunate enough to be part of the lockdown class, I experienced a destabilization of the self. So many of the ways we know who we are involve the way that the world responds to us—the way we interact with the world, the way our friends reflect us back to ourselves in our downtime. And so many of those ways were not available in those first couple of years.
I’d been a public person for much of my adult life. I cancelled a book tour; I cancelled all sorts of public events where readers tell me who I am. So, like many of us, I broke all my personal rules about social media. I went online looking for some simulation of social relationships, hoping to find myself mirrored back to me. And I had this particular experience, where on some days, hundreds or even thousands of people were talking about me, but actually talking about someone else, mistaking me for another Naomi writer—Naomi Wolf.
Part of this was genuine confusion. During COVID, Wolf became a kind of industrial-scale disseminator of medical misinformation. So some people were really wondering: Why is Naomi Klein saying that vaccine apps are a fascist coup? But then it was also a joke on left Twitter. And I had a period of real vertigo, like: What has all this labor of constructing a self been for?
The idea of personal branding was one of the subjects of “No Logo,” which you wrote more than twenty years ago—and which, as you write in “Doppelganger,” quickly became the kind of commodified symbol that you were urging your readers to be suspicious of.
I had been wanting for about a decade to return to that material. I wanted to write about how personal-branding culture is impacting our relationships with one another, impacting our social movements. It’s a tricky area to write about, and that’s kind of why I tell a story I hadn’t really told before, about the weirdness and the contradictions and the hypocrisies of writing a book denouncing branding, then becoming a brand myself—which I always strenuously denied was true, but was just objectively true, whether or not I was working to perform my brand.
And I really tried to subvert it. I decided, “I’m not going to write about marketing anymore.” My subsequent books really didn’t build on “No Logo” at all. I tried to be a terrible brand—no consistency, no repetition. But I do still care about my reputation. I do still use social media too much—it is a really valuable way for me to reach readers. And being an anti-capitalist writer on a book tour is an inherent contradiction, you know? I wanted to write about this as a system in which we are all inside and implicated.
You’ve always been an avatar of steadfastness and resolve for the left—and, in the book, you grapple with the ways in which those qualities became harder for you to access during the pandemic.
It’s not that same kind of rah-rah cheerleader role, but it’s also not defeatist—I hope you didn’t feel like I was giving up. I think it’s more in the tradition of left melancholy, which is a real political tradition—Keeanga-Yamahtta Taylor wrote about it in her review of Sara Marcus’s book “Political Disappointment.” In North America, we have an amnesiac, don’t-look-back perspective; it’s always reboot, look forward, fail better. We’re terrified of admitting that we’ve lost, that we’ve disappointed ourselves. We blame others, but we don’t do something very politically important, which is to be self-critical and say, What can we do better?
You and Naomi Wolf have a few similarities, but, for a long time, you didn’t really share an intellectual focus. Then, at some point in the two-thousands, her subjects began to drift from women’s bodies and sexual politics, and her work took a conspiratorial turn. To a distracted observer, your arguments and hers might have seemed plausibly interchangeable—you were writing about the hubris of geoengineering, she was posting pictures of suspicious clouds in the sky. She seemed, you write, like a doppelgänger of her former self. This is a thought many of us have had in recent years—that someone we once knew went down some Internet rabbit hole and six months later seemed totally unlike their former self.
And this happens primarily when we’re looking at avatars—when we’re not rooting our relationships in any kind of embodied experience. And, of course, someone we’re looking at on the Internet might actually be an A.I.-generated bot—she might not be human at all.
I want to stress that this book is not about my doppelgänger. It’s using her as a case study for all these other people who have changed, but it’s also using the figure of the doppelgänger to understand the uncanniness of our political moment. Freud describes the uncanny as that species of frightening that changes what was once familiar. People used to be very distressed by wax figures, and now we have a whole doppelgänger world. There are ways in which political movements feel like doppelgängers of one another—the trucker convoy that protested vaccine mandates in Canada felt like a doppelgänger of mass social movements that I’ve been a part of, like the protests against the Keystone XL pipeline. About a decade ago, Bill McKibben wrote a book called “Eaarth,” basically making the argument that climate change creates a doppelgänger of the planet, in the sense that this is not the same planet we grew up on.
There are conspiracy theories that certain celebrities—most famously Avril Lavigne, but now Britney Spears, even Kanye—have been replaced by actors or A.I. There’s even a fringe Internet conspiracy that we’re looking at a replacement sun.
I haven’t seen that—I know the one where Biden is played by an actor in a mask, but not the one about the sun. But, right: whenever you don’t like reality, you can just say it’s not real. Rather than confront the implications of climate change, you just deny the reality. And I think that that impulse has been generalized to basically everything.
Historically, the doppelgänger emerges in culture during moments of collective vertigo. One of the first pieces of theoretical writing about doppelgängers was by Otto Rank, in the first year of the First World War. Then artists turned to the figure of the doppelgänger again during the Second World War. Charlie Chaplin made his film “The Great Dictator,” in 1940, and cast himself as both the persecuted Jewish barber and the Hitler-like dictator, and they trade places, and the Jewish barber dressed as Hitler gives one of the greatest antifascist speeches of all time.
You write about listening to Steve Bannon’s podcast. He’s ranting about living under the rule of the wealthy to suppress the masses, and you realize he sounds like Noam Chomsky—or, maybe, like you. You had urged your readers to be suspicious of those with power taking advantage of moments of crisis, and many on the far right began to understand COVID as exactly this sort of situation, only with ideas totally divorced from material reality—that the government was tracking all of us with microparticles, etc.
That’s the part of this research journey that chilled me most. People asked me whether I was worried that, in listening to Steve Bannon so much, I might begin to agree with him—that I might red-pill myself or something. But that is not what worried me. What worried me is exactly what you’re describing, hearing Steve Bannon take up these issues that I knew to be very powerful, these traditionally left-wing issues that had been kind of left unattended.
When I would hear Bannon cosplaying Chomsky, or my own politics, it wasn’t that I thought he believed it. It’s that he was using this political move to great effect, looking at the people and the issues that the Democratic Party has abandoned. And, I mean, he has other moves—he’s racist, he’s xenophobic, he’s transphobic. But this is part of what he did with workers in the Rust Belt who had voted for Democrats their whole life, and who were continually told by politicians that trade deals were going to be renegotiated, and then the politicians just signed more of them. What Bannon did with the forgotten everyman is what he’s been doing more recently with the angry everymom, and that’s who my doppelgänger represents to him—the frazzled COVID mom who feels mocked and dismissed. He says, “Come on over,” and then he moves very quickly from masks and vaccines to “critical race theory” and transphobia.
And we can get angry about that, and we should, but we have to get rid of this fear of sounding too much like the other side. During COVID, it was sort of, like, if they are anti-vax and anti-mask, we just need to be the people saying, Get vaccinated, and wear your mask, and don’t make too big a deal about all the other things our governments could have done, like lift the patents on the vaccines and make sure that every classroom had proper air filters and make sure that nurses had P.P.E. and ban pandemic profiteering. Obviously, there are exceptions, but we were not ambitious in calling that out, and we dangerously ceded political territory.
This unholy marriage between Wolf and Bannon is an example of what the political theorists William Callison and Quinn Slobodian call diagonalist politics. Can you explain that idea a little?
There’s a phrase used to describe these new political alliances in Germany called querdenker, which is sometimes translated as out-of-the-box thinking or diagonal thinking. It’s a discourse of post-partisanship, but, as Callison and Slobodian point out, diagonalist politics veer consistently to the right. It isn’t horseshoe theory—it’s very much a challenge to horseshoe theory, because it isn’t people on the far left who are going over. It’s not the Marxists and the Trotskyists. It’s people from the green left; from wellness culture; small-business folks; the yoga instructor who’s mad that their studio closed down—it’s what I call the “far out” meeting the far right.
And a lot of these folks are people who had played by the rules of the game. We live in a culture that has told people very clearly, You are on your own in this cruel world. Your job is not to look after a whole society—Margaret Thatcher said there was no such thing as society. Your job is to optimize yourself and your family, to create a little fortress around you and your loved ones, and, if you succeed, that is your heroic narrative. And then COVID hit and suddenly the rules changed. We were told we were supposed to care about people who were systemically made invisible in our culture. To me, the wonder is not that a bunch of people said, Screw that. What I think is interesting is that they were actually the minority, and the majority welcomed the reality that we actually do live in a web of connection.
Yes, well, at least at the level of discourse. But, as you write, this is a moment when the discourse on many subjects has been drastically altered while the underlying conditions remain the same—or get worse, because the discourse obscures the reality. In the pandemic, there was this groundswell of interest in what constitutes essential labor and a fairly mainstream movement toward police abolition and mutual aid. Now Eric Adams, an ex-cop, is the Mayor of New York City, and billionaire fortunes have skyrocketed, and those workers at grocery stores never actually got their raises at all. You describe this as a “moment when words and ideas underwent a radical currency devaluation,” and you connect that crash “to the torrent of words in which we’re swimming on these screens.”
I think one of the greatest pieces of political performance art in my lifetime is what Greta Thunberg did at the Glasgow climate summit a couple of years ago, when she shook off her former role of being the young person who pleads with and scolds world leaders to match their words with their actions. Instead, anytime someone put a microphone in front of her, she just went, They sort of improved the blah, blah, blah, and they actually added a bit more blah, blah, blah, to the agreement, and, you know, blah, blah, blah. It was amazing, and, if you look at what she’s been doing since then, she’s been getting arrested trying to stop fossil-fuel infrastructure.
I think that’s the only way we get out of speechlessness and bring words and actions back into alignment. I still believe in words—I wouldn’t be writing books if I didn’t, or having this conversation. But I don’t think that what we need to do we can just do with words. I think we organize in our communities and we try to live our principles, including treating one another better. That’s another thing that was interesting about eavesdropping on Steve Bannon. We tend to just see the fire-breathing clips of him, but he actually performs a kind of cuddly self for his listeners. He makes a really big deal about how kind he is, and accepting, and willing to tolerate difference. It’s a performance, in the way that everything he does is a performance, but he is feeding off of identified failures. He sees an opportunity in the way that liberals and leftists treat one another like garbage a lot of the time.
An underlying argument in this book is that we move from confusion and flux toward calm and action through the acknowledgment of all these doppelgänger situations. You also write about another kind of shadow self, borrowing a formulation from the writer Daisy Hildyard—the idea being that, while we’re typing on iPhones, we also exist in rare-earth mines alongside poisoned teen-age laborers. The awareness of the plunder and damage inherent in the idealized American life has increased, but so, perhaps, has the lived acceptance of it, and the result is a simmering sense of unease.
I quote James Baldwin a lot in the book, because I think he’s probably the most powerful theorist of the fear of what Hildyard is talking about. She calls it the second body—the shadow self that’s implicated in all of these systems that are unveiled. It isn’t just that they’re hard to look at, it’s also that we are implicated; we are not apart from them. There is my body sitting in this chair, and there’s my other body, hovering over the tax dollars funding drone warfare, implicated in oil wars, implicated in the plastic in the ocean. That’s not other people—that’s me, that’s us.
We’re in this moment of unveiling, and COVID played a big role in that. People and places that were systematically hidden were suddenly being seen, because they were the COVID hotspots—the eldercare facilities, the slaughterhouse floors. The shadow worlds were coming up—the shadows of our past were surfacing in the racial-justice reckonings. In Canada, we had two waves of this, one after the murder of George Floyd and another after unmarked mass graves were found at the sites of residential schools for First Nations people. We are implicated in the histories that are coming at us, in the future that’s coming at us, the storms that will hit us, and we are implicated in worker exploitation in the clothes that we wear and the foods that we eat. And, oh, my God, that’s hard. Is it any wonder that people are finding ways to look away?
The argument I make about conspiracy culture—and what’s going on with my doppelgänger and Steve Bannon—is that they’re creating fake scandals that are an amazing way to not look at the real scandals. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Elon Musk loves conspiracy theories. Of course, he does—he’s a walking conspiracy theory. As Ronan Farrow recently wrote in his story, Elon Musk is running a whole bunch of stuff that you didn’t know about. Conspiracy theories keep us from looking at the systems of power and exploitation that we actually have the goods for, these things that we can actually prove.
I dove deep into doppelgänger novels and short stories and films for this book, and I think I can say with certainty that pretty much all the story lines start with you thinking that you’re confronting your doppelgänger and end with you confronting yourself. So I would say to those of us who might feel a bit smug about those ridiculous people who are choosing to take a flight into fantasy instead of doing the hard work of looking at reality—I mean, I went to “Barbie.” Did you? There are lots of different ways of fleeing from reality.
Well, speaking of “Barbie,” last week I reread “No Logo,” which still feels very prescient, but also feels almost quaint in the age of the Goldman Sachs pride float. We’ve reached a level of corporate capture that has progressed through many levels of nightmare since you wrote that book in the nineties. But you write about Mattel in that book several times, and also Barbie, who you refer to as a “cultural imperialist in pink.”
I did go to “Barbie,” also, literally two weeks after I had a baby. I was immersed in the real and the animal, and it sounded amazing to escape into something shiny and synthetic, and I had a great time. But I found it vaguely depressing as an example of how corporations now actively incorporate dissent as a way of maintaining power. The Barbie movie explicitly advertised itself to viewers who hate Barbie.
Genius.
And all these Barbie corporate collaborations, with Airbnb or with ice-cream companies, were celebrated as legitimate creative events. And it doesn’t seem as though people fail to get what’s going on—the people behind these productions are smart and funny, and we’re steeped in irony and desperate and taking what we can get.
“Barbie” is only one part of this broader thing, right? We’re going to see a lot more from Mattel as a film producer, and we’re seeing all these films about brands—about BlackBerry, about Nike. In “No Logo,” I wrote about this urge I had very powerfully as a kid growing up in the eighties, to basically crawl inside my television set and live there, especially because I grew up with crunchy sixties radicals as parents, and my home culture was very much in contrast with the dominant culture of the eighties. All I wanted to do was to escape it, and to just be in this bulbous, shiny, smooth world of logos.
And I still have that, and I did also enjoy the Barbie movie, and I also hated myself for enjoying it in the sense that it isn’t just a fun afternoon, right? Because—and this is the boring part—there is a second body attached to it, and that second body is producing little plastic dolls at record rates, and it is not the moment for us to be doing that. I feel like such a boring shrew saying that about something that’s giving people pleasure when we all need pleasure. But I really do think we have to find other forms of pleasure.
I also think that that desire to smooth ourselves out is an interesting one. A through line in this research for me was the self taking up too much space. This is where I embraced having a doppelgänger as a sort of exposure therapy, because I probably care too much about the image I project in the world. I’m not proud of that. It is tied to, I think, an overly developed sense of shame, and a sense of being surveilled that came from having these extroverted hippie parents and just being really embarrassed of them when I was a kid. And then I had the wonderful and weird experience of having my first book make me suddenly well known—and literally surveilled. There was a newspaper in Canada with a short-lived column called “Klein Watch,” where they would try to catch me going into a Gap or a Starbucks. The Vice guys, before they became media titans, had a free weekly newspaper distributed all over Toronto, where I lived, and they sent people to go through my garbage and photograph my tampon boxes and Diet Coke cans and Calvin Klein underwear tags to prove that the “No Logo” girl consumed logos.
Because that happened to me when I was fairly young, it made me inflate my sense of importance in the world. People were watching me to try to catch me doing something wrong, but it was still narcissism—it still involved thinking that people care about you way more than they actually do. It was probably just three guys, you know? And so there’s something amazing about having a doppelgänger who lots of people think is you, a person doing all kinds of things you would never do, this fact-free remix of your work—not consciously—and feeding the thought puree to Tucker Carlson, who nods vehemently.
It just tells you very starkly the futility of all of this self-performance. It comes back to the question of what we do about all this speechlessness. I think we hold ourselves a little more loosely. I think we melt some of the icy edges of our identities. As Mariame Kaba says, everything worth doing is done with other people. And that doesn’t mean we’re going to annihilate our egos or not care about ourselves, but the amount of labor we are putting into optimizing our bodies, our image, our kids, is robbing from the work that needs to be done to preserve the habitability of the planet, to preserve our humanity in the face of those spasms, so we don’t double down on the barbarism, on the borders. We have a ton of work to do, and I don’t believe we will do it unless we get over ourselves a little bit.
As you note in this book, it’s a lot easier to prune and manicure the self than to turn one’s attention to enormous systems that feel intractable. But I do think more and more people have an understanding that the relentless optimizing of one’s own life through consumption and travel directly harms the commons, by polluting the planet—and this knowledge, which we often suppress, reëmerges in weird ways.
I was struck by the way you wrote about motherhood, the spasms of consumption linked to becoming a new parent. I don’t think I’ve ever felt the need to shop more than when I first became a parent. And it’s instructive, because it shows you that it’s really just about fear—that you’re afraid of being a bad parent, that you don’t have the people to look to for help that previous generations did. I think a lot of consumption comes from that place of fear, and it’s helpful to identify it, and think about how we can meet those needs.
I’m going through this right now, with my second baby, and it has definitely struck me anew how the dominant reality of isolated new-parent struggle is always disguised as an exciting opportunity for individual optimization. I mostly notice this at 3 A.M. as I think about buying things on my phone. You talk in “Doppelganger” about the work of your life being pattern recognition. What I see as the essential pattern that recurs in your work—the profit incentive devouring everything—is certainly present here. Did you see other patterns that were specific to this project?
When I wrote “The Shock Doctrine,” which came out in 2007, I looked at what I call the disaster-capitalism complex. It was not an entirely new phenomenon, but, during the Bush years, the age of Blackwater and Halliburton, a whole lot of aspects of war-making and reconstruction and aid were moved from the public to the private sector. Then Hurricane Katrina happened, and all of these same contractors moved from Iraq to what one reporter called Baghdad on the Bayou. There, as always, conspiracies swirled in the wake of the disaster, because of the presence of exploitation. People think, Someone must have blown up the levee, because people are getting so rich off of all of this. I was in Sri Lanka in 2005, a few months after the tsunami there, and there was so much profiteering and land-grabbing that people started saying, Maybe the U.S. detonated a war weapon. It wasn’t true, but you could understand why people’s minds went there.
But it wasn’t until COVID that conspiracy itself became an industry, because now we’re in the attention economy as well as all these other economies. So if we want to know why conspiracy theories are surging in the midst of unsettling times, it’s in part because conspiracy is now part of that disaster-capitalism complex.
The other thing I think is important to map about this moment is where the energy of COVID denial goes now that the mandates are lifted. And I think a lot of that energy is now moving to climate-change denial, and misinformation about non-COVID childhood vaccines. And these people have a lot more friends with them—all these people who were apolitical before and got political during COVID. I think we need to be aware of both of those shifts.
There’s a new shimmer of strangeness to this book, compared to your past ones—it’s baked into the subject matter, into the time in which you’re writing it, into the medium where the discourse about these ideas is conveyed. You do reach a final note of clarity and resolve, but I wondered if it was difficult to get there, either in writing or in life.
I do think I wrote myself back into some kind of stability. And I lean into myself as an unstable narrator at the start of the book for dramatic effect, but it’s not made up—I really was listening to Steve Bannon while doing yoga. I was politically speechless, and the speechlessness was coming from the fact that I have been a particular kind of writer for a quarter of a century, and I have been pretty clear about, Here is what we do.
I think my speechlessness had to do with political disappointment. I’d just been part of the Bernie campaign. We were marching in the streets for Black lives, I was moved by the way people seemed to be interested in showing up for working-class people, I was moved by the mutual aid, and somehow so much of it dissipated in a very ugly way. And my political disappointment is always in our side, you know? It’s not in them. I never had expectations for them. It’s us—it’s always us.
For me, writing is medicine. But I didn’t know how to write the content in a way I was excited about. I felt like I was just repeating myself, and to less and less effect, particularly when it came to climate. So I thought maybe if I can get excited about form, that’ll unlock something. If I could write about this subject from the inside, and really make myself vulnerable in ways that I hadn’t done before, it would help me believe in myself again.
And there was something else about this project that was kind of relaxing. We are all racing against the clock, as writers, and it doesn’t always encourage our best work. But, in this case, I knew I didn’t have to rush anything, because no one could write this book but me.
Did you feel less like yourself—less like Naomi Klein—when you were confused?
I felt like I was not able to be the person at the front of the room saying, We can do it, we’ve got three more years. I’ve been that person for a long time. In 2014, we were saying we had a decade to turn things around, and then we said it again in 2015, in 2016. And then it became, O.K., we are not going to prevent dangerous warming, but we can maybe prevent catastrophic warming. And then at a certain point, if we’re not turning it around—are you going to be the person who’s still going to say this? Like, Guys, we’ve got six months left?
So I knew I couldn’t honestly say that we were going to achieve these kinds of transformations on this timescale. But I think there are a lot of things we can do to save one another’s lives. And that depends on whether or not we see one another as human, or worth saving. That’s part of the work of this book—looking at the way we create hierarchies of the human.
Where do we go from here in terms of electoral politics? Bernie isn’t running again. What do you think of what Biden has accomplished in his first term?
Biden can be pushed. Biden right now is not the Biden he was under Obama, or the Biden before that. The Biden we get is infinitely connected to whether or not there are forces outside politics that are building real power and real constituencies. As much as I had some of the most thrilling moments of my life in the Bernie campaign, I recognize that it was something of a shortcut—to go straight for the Presidency without building more base power, whether that’s in tenants’ unions, debtors’ unions, labor unions. I’m in L.A. right now, and I take heart in the fact that half the city is on strike. And I don’t think that’s apart from politics.
We went from the highs of 2020—the Bernie campaign, the B.L.M. uprising—to the left almost becoming a ghost, a phantom. And so I think there is a process that is really rebuilding brick by brick, not taking any shortcuts—and we have to fucking keep Trump out. The history of the rise of fascism is not only a history of the power and organization of the fascist right; it’s also a story of fragmentation and refusal to make coalition on the antifascist left. It’s very important to pledge to one another that we’re not going to repeat those errors. It doesn’t mean line up and be a good Biden soldier and don’t say what you know. It’s organize and push him and stop the fascist. ♦
An earlier version of this article mischaracterized Avi Lewis’s political party.
