The red and white posters tell me that Senator Paul Wellstone, one of only a handful of politicians I truly respect, is going to speak at the IOP on Friday. I show up at the Kennedy School half an hour early to grab a good seat, but the first few rows of the Starr Auditorium, virtually empty, are reserved for important people. So I hike to the rear of the hall and park in a sea of K-Schoolers who spend the next half-hour swapping stories about foolish things college kids have been saying in their classes. ("He made this comment, it was very undergraduate-arrogant," one explains.) Finally, Wellstone takes the stage.

A senior senator from Minnesota and a Democrat, Wellstone is a rare breed on the American political scene. Labeled "foolishly liberal" in the recent campaign, he was the only senator up for re-election who voted against the Republican welfare reform legislation. And he didn't do it quietly. The former Carleton College professor got up on the Senate floor in a tirade, shaming his colleagues and promising those in the chamber (and political junkies like me watching on C-SPAN) that re-elected or not, he would travel to the most depressed neighborhoods around the country to focus media attention on the needs of the poor.

Even his critics do not deny that Wellstone is a man of principle. And as he discusses his agenda, you can't help notice that Wellstone is talking with an uncalculated frankness that is absent from mainstream political debate. He stresses the fact that the answers to our problems will not come easily and concedes that most of them are not even known. He speaks of his political enemies with respect. He refuses an invitation to blast the media. He goes out of his way to point to the limits of his own analysis.

But there is something unsettling about his talk. Toward the end of his speech, I make the disturbing observation that the audience's enthusiasm is inversely proportional to the complexity of the thoughts being conveyed. Only in the rare moments when Wellstone takes the nuances out of his discussion and tones it down into soundbites and bumper sticker phrases does the crowd really let him have it.

In addition, Wellstone is more concerned about portraying his ideas as mainstream than he is to argue for their acceptance. And this is the most suspicious part of his presentation--at least to the Harvard audience. Because when it comes time for the question-and-answer period, the queries are not about the merits of his case: no one asks how he could support cutting defense programs. No one goes anywhere near disputing his view that the federal government has a crucial role to play in helping people out of poverty.

Instead, the questions are--almost without exception--about how Wellstone thinks his vision can be made palatable to the American people, and about what he believes can be done within the academy to advance his cause. When a self-proclaimed "activist" stands up and says, "If everyone in this room would just get together...we could ignite others," I feel like I'm at a meeting of the Objectivist club and my exuberance about Wellstone suddenly morphs into a kind of skepticism.

What appeals to other people about Wellstone is none of my business because it has nothing to do with the force of his arguments. It shouldn't matter, but it does. There is something undeniably troubling about being in a crowd of people so confident in their view that the only thing left to discuss is the strategy required to convince others.

Especially in a Harvard auditorium.

Leaving the speech, I find myself feeling the same way I often do when leaving concerts of popular rock bands. As good as a group's music is, it's awfully hard to like them if they have annoying fans.

Speaking about politics, a friend of mine once remarked, "It's all propaganda. The trick is choosing the right propaganda." An interesting thought. Still, at Harvard, there doesn't seem to be much of a choice.

Dan S. Aibel's column will appear on alternate Tuesdays.