From Privilege to Shooting on Train

By the end of his long descent into fury and death on the Long Island Rail Road last week, Colin Ferguson's world had been reduced to black and white, good and evil, hate and non-hate: an Orwellian realm where shades of meaning were gone and only rage made sense.

 

It was a world of unjust laws and universal hostility, as uncaring as form letters from a government bureau, as lonely as the rented room in Brooklyn where night after night he had read aloud from a Bible and handled a gun and brooded over what he saw as the implacable racism of America.

 

Like other notorious acts in a nation with legions of unstable people and 200 million firearms, the things Mr. Ferguson is accused of doing on the Long Island Rail Road on Tuesday -- rising in a crowded car, methodically shooting strangers, killing five people and wounding 18 others -- appear inexplicable, their very madness placing them beyond understanding. One of Few Plans That Worked

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