On various fronts. The overarching subject, the sense of hopelessness, helplessness and despair, the long-winded, meandering way the story is told (which is on par with the idea that it is a stream-of-conscience recount), and the purpose way in which this guy's obliviousness is made plain (and cringe-inducing) for the reader (and the teller).

Found it brilliant, at points boring and quite maddening.

Oh, and I leave it with a feeling akin to what Catcher in the Rye left me.

"Master it," Brother Jack said, "but don't overdo it. Don't let it master you. There is nothing to put the people to sleep like dry ideology. The ideal is to strike a medium between ideology and inspiration. Say what the people want to hear, but say it in such a way that they'll do what we wish."

Now there is a cynic

He laughed. "Remember too, that theory always comes after practice. Act first, theorize later; that's also a formula, a devastatingly effective one!"
            He looked at me as though he did not see me and I could not tell whether he was laughing at me or with me. I was sure only that he was laughing.

"You'll do all right. Now listen. You are to continue what you started at the eviction. Keep them stirred up. Get them active. Get as many to join as possible. You'll be given guidance by some of the older members, but for the time being you are to see what you can do. You will have freedom of action -- and you will be under strict discipline to the committee."
            "I see," I said.
            "No, you don't quite see," he said, "but you will. You must not underestimate the discipline, Brother. It makes you answerable to the entire organization for what you do. Don't underestimate the discipline. It is very strict, but within its framework you are to have full freedom to do your work. And your work is very important. Understand?"

Oh, man! No, he doesn't understand AT ALL. Neither what "discipline" implies, nor the true impact and consequences of his eloquence (because he does not realize how it'll be used).

On all this section, I'm finding it infinitely ironic, yet fitting, the fact that being a figurehead speaker is part of what makes him invisible as a person. There is this bit before

"Stephen's problem, like ours, was not actually one of creating the uncreated conscience of his race, but of creating the uncreated features of his face. Our task is that of making ourselves individuals. The conscience of a race is the gift of its individuals who see, evaluate, record . . . We create the race by creating ourselves and then to our great astonishment we will have created something far more important: We will have created a culture. Why waste time creating a conscience for something that doesn't exist? For, you see, blood and skin do not think!"

He really has no definition of personal identity and gets absorbed into being little more than a voice flavoring other people's ideologies.

Damn. This guy does not only traipse through interesting times being a naive youth, he's got a cursed luck too... and there come the valves

Some pages later:

"The machine will produce the results of a prefrontal lobotomy without the negative effects of the knife,"

Christ. It's shock therapy.

"Why not castration, doctor?"
(...)
"Then why don't you try more current?"
"You suggest it?"
"I do, why not?"
"But isn't there a danger . . . ?" the voice trailed off.
(...)
"Look, he's dancing," someone called.
"No, really?"
An oily face looked in. "They really do have rhythm, don't they? Get hot, boy! Get hot!" it said with a laugh.

Hell

They were tightly sealed. I had read that letters were sometimes steamed open, but I had no steam. I gave it up, I really didn't need to know their contents and it would not be honorable or safe to tamper with Dr. Bledsoe. I knew already that they concerned me and were addressed to some of the most important men in the whole country. That was enough.

*whimpers* Such an oblivious boy

Started this today while waiting on an ever slow queue to pay my bills (yeah, I'm all for fitting dissonances with my reads lately). And I wish I'd brought it with me  to the bank too (those were two long hours of waiting).

Got to the rink, and the electrified rug, and damn. Those older guys. Damn.