In this essay, which I promptly sat down to re-read, Berlin, for the sake of argument, divides all the world's great "writers and thinkers, and, it may be human beings in general" into two opposing categories, wide-ranging foxes or homebody hedgehogs. Riffing on a line from the Greek poet Archilochus which says "The Fox knows many things, but the hedgehog knows one big thing" Berlin argues that that a "great chasm exists" between those who "relate everything to a single, universal, organising principle in terms of which alone all that they are and say has significance—and, on the other side, those who pursue many ends, often unrelated and even contradictory, connected, if at all, only in some de facto way, for some psychological or physiological cause, related to no moral aesthetic principal." Folks are either centrifugal or centripetal, he insists. Dante, Dosteyvesky, Plato, Hegel, Ibsen and Proust were hedgehogs, Berlin says, while Shakespeare, Pushkin, Aristotle, Montaigne, Moliere, Balzac and Joyce were foxes. "But when we come to Count Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy, and ask this of him—ask whether he belongs to the first category or the second, whether he is a monist or a pluralist, whether his vision is of one or of many, whether he is of a single substance or compounded of heterogeneous elements—there is no clear or immediate answer," Berlin writes. "The hypothesis I wish to offer is that Tolstoy was by nature a fox, but believed in being a hedgehog; that his gifts and achievements are one thing, and his beliefs, and consequently his interpretation of his own achievement, another…"