There I was in 1950—I’d never be that high again—but in the next two years I was to know every kind of reversal: condemned by the right, damned by the left, and constantly having my plans and my hopes destroyed by malignant forces I could not place or describe. I knew that the higher you get, the more visible you are, and targets that are most visible draw the most fire. As a great cultural hero in 1950, the only man who then excelled in both theatre and film, I was, for a short time, beyond criticism. Or so I thought. Two years later, I ended up beat (you might say “punchy”) and disrespected by all decent liberals—the people among whom I’d been living my life. But perhaps because I’d not trusted my eminence, I survived my defeats. I tried to keep my balance and stay on my feet, because I knew that if I fell to the ground I’d be an easy mark for malice and revenge. I kept my footing, and I found that the middle ground, between the extremes, was my place, the middle “held” for me; it was where I could live and work. It was what I liked about this country and what made it mine.