John Berger has just died at the age of 90. A Marxist and self-declared revolutionary, he was a typical example of a 20th-century intellectual. He wrote novels inciting class warfare, and critical books to say that art is a didactic instrument, nothing to do with enjoyment. I used to wonder whether this highly intelligent fool had it in him to sign death warrants, in the event that his revolution had happened.

Of course, his obituaries, especially in the Guardian and on the BBC, made him out to be wholly creative and inspiring. So far, the great moment of his life has been either forgotten or suppressed; at any rate I have seen no mention of it. In 1972, he was awarded the prestigious Booker Prize for one of his novels. A black-tie celebration was held in one of the smartest London restaurants for a large number of distinguished guests. When it was time for speeches, Berger bit the hand that was feeding him, by launching into a tirade associating the Booker company with the wickedness of imperialism, slavery, capitalism, and the rest of it. The British Black Panthers were then setting out to model themselves on the American Black Panthers, and Berger told the audience that he would give half the prize money to these racists and gangsters.

Dame Rebecca West was a real intellectual, possibly the most anti-Marxist person in the room, and she interrupted, “We don’t want to know how you are going to spend your money.” She went on at the top of her voice, “Shut up and sit down.” It was an injunction rather than an argument, but other people began to shout it at him and it worked. Ever afterwards, Berger was never quite able to shake off an aura of ridicule. Like all discontented Englishmen these past two or three hundred years, he went to live in France. And now he has the good old testimonial (coined by H. L. Mencken, is it not?) De Mortuis Nil Nisi Bunkum. R.I.P.