Wednesday, June 21, 2017
Not too long ago I found myself alone in a doctor’s office. A nurse had taken my vital signs and gravely recorded them, first on a chart and then in a computer file. She then left with the unconvincing promise that the doctor himself would be in “very shortly,” shutting the door behind her. I always find this an awkward moment, though I am usually prepared for it by having a book in a grocery store carrying-bag. But for some reason I was on this occasion bereft of that resource. I had nothing to do but sit there surrounded by a vaguely oppressive feeling of scrubbed white cleanliness over-illuminated by fluorescent lighting.
There is nothing that makes one feel more self conscious about what one is doing than having nothing to do. For while it was unlikely that the doctor would actually appear “very shortly,” that was at least a possibility I couldn’t discount. I didn’t want the guy to burst through the door and find me scratching my itchy scalp, let alone picking my nose. So I began to study my environment. It turned out there was more of it than I had first taken in. One wall was covered, and I do mean covered, with fancily printed and nicely framed documents attesting to the doctor’s academic qualifications and professional achievements. Along one wall was a shelf, on which rested a row of document-like plaques attesting that this man had been recognized among America’s Best Doctors in the years 2011, 2012, 2013, and 2015. I strained to remember whether I had been treated by him in 2014 and, if so, whether I had found the service adequate.
Immediately I began worrying. There are of course statutory worries one has in a doctor’s office. They are legitimate and indeed expected. Is it going to hurt? Is she going to make me give up bratwurst? Could it be, God forbid, cancer? My worries, however, were not in this authorized genre. Of a sudden I realized that although I have no fewer than four strenuously earned college degrees, I have no framed diplomas and absolutely no idea where the unframed ones could possibly be. It goes without saying that I have no Top Professor plaques or even documentary proof that I rank among the Outstanding Retirees of Mercer County—which I certainly do, even if I say so myself. I do have a passport and a driver’s license. Somewhere there is even my original Social Security card. From a file called “Vital Documents” I can produce evidence that I was born, baptized, confirmed, and married. I can demonstrate that I an enrolled in Medicare—both parts A and B. I have a CVS discount card. But I have no proof, none at all, that I am educated; that is worrying.
Call me eccentric, but I usually find that medical worry can be somewhat assuaged by etymology. Hyperplasia sounds really bad until you see that it’s mainly plastic. So I started thinking about the word diploma. It’s one of those words that wandered from Greek to Latin, a journey that explains the rarely encountered and pedantic plural form diplomata, as in “I can’t lay my hands on a single one of my diplomata.” The actual meaning of the term is “[a written document] folded in two.” The term diploma is therefore similar in origin to the Latin terms used by printers, and until fairly recently in common general use, to denote the different sizes of printed sheets: folio, quarto, octavo, meaning respectively folded once, twice, or thrice, and yielding a finished product of four, eight, or sixteen printed pages. For long centuries the principal writing material used for important documents was parchment (vellum), and that is why a college diploma is still sometimes called a “sheepskin”. The single-sheet unfolded and framed documents hanging in medical offices are in technical printing terms broadsides (posters).
People can be certified for authority in fields other than medicine, of course. Among the most important of early diploma-bearers, or diplomats, were those certified representatives of political power authorized to conduct business as surrogates of the monarch. What such people did, or were supposed to do, was early recognized as the important craft, skill, or art that we call diplomacy. This is a considerable evolution from a folded piece of paper, but language will have its revenge, and there will always be a whiff of doubleness wherever diplomats gather. On the whole, however, and certainly on the surface, diplomats must try to be sensitive, courteous, amiable, and as non-committal as possible while trying to wrest concessions and commitments from others. They should be pleasant of speech and masters of cliché and elegant circumlocution. Under no circumstances should they employ the word spade to denote a hand-held digging tool. They should, in short, be diplomatic.
Tuesday, June 13, 2017
Many years ago, more than forty, I had a bizarre and frightening experience that remains vivid in my memory. I was at that point, probably the mid-Seventies, a still youngish scholar of the sort ambiguously described as “promising”, and I took any opportunity offered me to participate in the larger discussion among medieval scholars in America and, when possible, abroad. That meant that I was frequently a guest speaker at institutions other than my own, and that I frequented and spoke at many scholarly conferences on various topics in Medieval Studies. In those years, the State University of New York at Binghamton had a very active Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies (CEMERS), and I several times participated in their annual conferences. The first of these I remember was devoted to the topic of “Courtly Love”. I was amused to find myself housed in a rather shabby motel in a place called Vestal—you know, as in Vestal Virgins.
A few years later there was a Chaucer conference. Entrepreneurial professors in the sciences, also known as STEM-winders, practically trip over the bundles of money people are eager to give them for research. We humanists have to make do. One of the ways the CEMERS folks were trying to make do for this particular conference was by finding free accommodation for speakers, thus considerably reducing the conference budget. A friend of mine on the Binghamton faculty wrote with the following proposal. His daughter had an apartment in town. If another of the invited speakers and I were willing, the daughter would return to the family hearth for a couple of nights and let me and this fellow use her digs as a free hotel. The proposed roommate was a friend who taught at the University of Illinois, and would be driving from Urbana. We were given elaborate instructions as to how to find the apartment, and to retrieve its key hidden beneath the statutory loose brick. I got there rather late, but first. In fact I was the only one who got there at all. I later learned that my Illinois friend had become lost in the maze of Interstate exits and, winding up in the parking lot of a Howard Johnson’s, had just gone with the flow.
As for me, I went to bed, and slept fine until about two-thirty or three, when I was wakened by a ringing telephone. I waited for the call to go to a message machine, but there was no message machine. I then waited for the ringing to stop, but it simply did not stop. After what I judged was a full five minutes of ringing, though it might have only been two, I made the giant mistake of answering the phone. “Hello,” I said.
Immediately I heard an enraged male voice, almost certainly chemically amplified, screaming at me. “Donna! I want to talk to Donna. Put that bitch on the line!...” etc., etc. I then made my next mistake. I stayed on the line and tried to explain. “Donna is not here,” I explained. “She, er, loaned me her apartment. I’m just sleeping here.” That didn’t sound convincing even to me. “Oh, yeah?” said the menacing voice, “you expect me to effing believe that, you effer? Give her the phone! I’m gonna kick her ass.” Unfortunately, I persisted. Remember, I was in a highly disorienting situation. I was in a strange place. It was the middle of the night. My interlocutor seemed to be from a social group with which I had had only literary experience. So I said the following stupid thing: “Look, this is a simple mistake. I am a speaker. I…”
Now the return voice took on a sudden spurious coherence. “Oh,” it said, “a speaker. Well, it just so happens that I am a speaker, too. In fact, I am speaking to you right now, and what I want to speak about it the thirty-eight that is in the glove compartment of my truck. So shall we have speaks?” “What I mean…” I started, but got nowhere. “Look,” said the voice, “I think I’ll just drive over now. I know where that little place is…” Finally I slammed the phone down, then picked it up immediately. I put a pillow over the receiver to try to silence the rapid bleepbleepbleep off-the-hook sound. Then I spent about three hours of sleepless, silent terror peeking out of the Venetian blinds imagining the approach of headlights on the dark, wet street.
Day dawned, I drove on to the conference site, drank coffee, attended several interesting talks, gave a talk of my own. At the end of the day there was a social hour. I am a medievalist, but before that a father. If there was an armed madman out there looking to kick my daughter’s ass, I’d want to know about it. Overcoming my embarrassment, I approached my friend, whom I shall call George. “George," I said, “This is rather embarrassing, but I need to tell you about…about a scary phone call. Some guy called for Donna, and…”
“Donna?” he said, puzzled. “Who’s Donna?”
Wednesday, June 7, 2017
In the avalanche of journalistic opprobrium that greeted the President’s visit to NATO and his subsequent announcement of American withdrawal from the Paris Accords, one barb had a special sting for me. Somebody said that the President seemed determined to make America a world leader of a rank “about like Portugal’s.” Hold that thought.
Well, the Princeton Reunions, which are quite the covfefe, took place this past weekend, and we attended some of the more age-appropriate and intellectually respectable parts. These were very respectable indeed, featuring well conducted expert panel discussions on such topics as “A Book That Changed Your Life,” “Reflections on Class and Race,” and “Changing the Climate of Climate Change.” We also took in a terrific lecture on “Shakespeare’s Style,” and participated in the seminar of the forty-second reunion of Bob Hollander’s famous Dante course. As usual I saw hundreds of old students--in that fleeting, wholly unsatisfactory fashion of the four-second conversation.
What with one thing and another, I hadn’t been on campus much of late, and I took the opportunity to go by my old departmental office, where occasional bits of mail still show up. To my great surprise—and momentary consternation, given the logistical problem presented—I found there a hefty box of books. These were the “author’s copies” of my latest scholarly publication (Luís de Camões: the Poet as Scriptural Exegete) sent to me by my publisher in England. I had not been expecting them. I thought the publication date was in July or August.
When I retired a decade ago I wanted to continue reading and writing, but I also wanted to challenge myself with some projects outside my habitual beat. I have now published three such books, the latest and most conventionally scholarly of which involved the challenge of dealing with the Portuguese language in an archaic and highly classicizing form roughly analogous to the English of the Faerie Queene. It is the shortest book I ever wrote. It took me the longest time to write. It is also an allegory of the crisis in academic publishing; at fifty cents per printed page, it is roughly fifteen times the price of my first book (1969).
We don’t know all that much about Luís de Camões, who died in 1580, aged about fifty-five, except that he ticked most of the right boxes for the Renaissance Man contest: scholar, soldier, lover, adventurer, Portuguese patriot. Above all he was a very great poet, author of what I think is the finest of the secular Renaissance epics, the Lusíadas (Lusiads in English) as well as a large body of lyric poetry. He has a small number of fine religious poems. My book is an analysis of the most famous of these, an extraordinary poetic commentary on the psalm Super flumina (“By the Waters of Babylon”). It is quite the equal of Milton’s “Lycidas” in my opinion, though practically nobody, even among professional scholars of Renaissance literature, has ever heard of it. That is because it is written in Portuguese—which brings me back to the thought I trust you have been holding for the last four paragraphs.
Tiny Portugal was a most unlikely world “leader”. Its land mass is about the size of Indiana. In the year of Camões’s birth its population was approximately 1.25 million. In the earlier Middle Ages the Portuguese had been overwhelmed by African aggressors. In the later Middle Ages they were under constant threat from Castilian aggressors. The subject of the Lusiads is the voyage of Vasco da Gama to India (1497-1499). Within the period of about a century a tiny, marginal, thinly populated Iberian country had established a vast maritime empire in Africa, on the Asian mainland, and in the Malay Archipelago. It “owned” that half of South America we today call Brazil. This was an epic achievement that deserved an epic poet. As a “world leader” little Portugal was doing quite well for itself.
But history is all about change, and there is waning as well as waxing. “I saw that all the torments are caused by mutability, and mutability by the years,” wrote Camões in his poem; “when I saw how many deceptions time works on our hopes.” The political pillar of Camões’s world was Empire. Its spiritual pillar was the militant and intolerant Catholicism that several centuries of the Iberian experience of Islamic occupation had created. Both crumbled before the advance of modernity, leaving as memorials in widely disparate parts of the world some great buildings, some great art, and the Portuguese language with its linguistic and literary artifacts. Too many of the contemporary European intellectuals who inhabit literature faculties are disposed to excoriate history as opposed to trying to understand it. For them all history must be the reflecting pool of Narcissus. It is no wonder that great writers of the past who resist being remade in the postmodern image are having a particularly rough ride these days; but it is a pity, and a loss. To conclude that America is destined for a world leadership role “about like Portugal’s” seems premature; but should that day arrive I hope there will still be those who keep alive the memory of our great old writers.
façade of the Bom Jesus church, Goa (1605)
Wednesday, May 31, 2017
I had already half decided that I would attempt to address the student loan crisis when I came upon an opinion piece by David Leonhardt in yesterday’s Times concerning Princeton, my former employer, and specifically its efforts to identify, attract, and give financial support to able students from “low income” backgrounds. In my long experience the Times has seldom had much good to say about Princeton. But Leonhardt’s piece is not merely complimentary; it’s nearly fawning. He praises the institution for the rising percentage of Pell Grant recipients in recent entering classes—a Pell Grant being a pretty good indicator of seriously modest family financial resources.
In addition to a parochial interest in the issue of educational finance, I have a deeply personal one. For nine academic years between the fall of 1954 and the summer of 1963 I got a superb education at three fine institutions, one of them being Princeton, from which I received my doctorate. The out-of-pocket expense to me was nil--not one red cent. Various foundations and trusts paid for it all. A foundation has no face, and a trust no distinctive voice. It was almost possible to regard the largess as entitlement rather than a gift of long-vanished generous and visionary men, a gift demanding a lifetime’s gratitude and repayable, and then only in part, by an ever-intentional teaching vocation. I might wish the same for every intellectually serious boy and girl in America. What we have instead is a generation of graduates suffocating at the bottom of a silo of debt.
For the Princetons of the country—a fairly numerous but still proportionally tiny part of American higher education—the student debt crisis is, well, mostly academic. The endowments of such institutions are so huge that they arguably need not and perhaps morally should not collect undergraduate tuition at all. They could frankly embrace the role of redistributive charity that they perform and be done with it.
But consider the dog rather than the tail. I mean the large number of institutions whose “financial aid packages” must depend upon an ever increasing ratio of loan to outright grant. My undergraduate alma mater, which I think is perhaps ranked about number fifty in quality among the cohort of liberal arts colleges, now has a comprehensive fee (academic charges plus room and board) of about $55,000. That is a real bargain. The more famous places that everyone lusts after come in at $60,000 or more. It is important to realize two things. These figures are real, and relate to real costs. Politicians now talking about “free college” must know that there is no more free college than there is free lunch: somebody is paying for it. Secondly, such comprehensive fees exceed the median annual income of the middle quintile of American families, are about twice that of the fourth quintile, and about five times that of the impoverished bottom quintile. Families in the second quintile, who probably could be described as “upper middle class” could at least in theory absorb one such fee per year, if only in theory.
The willingness of families to make heroic sacrifices to secure a good education for their offspring has inspired me for the last half century. I understand also why during that time a college education has ever more explicitly come to be regarded in terms of economic transaction or investment. Though entirely understandable and perhaps inevitable, this development makes us purists a little wistful. For a few of us still believe that the goal of liberal education is preparation for personal spiritual fulfillment and virtuous civic engagement rather than admission to the top quarter of the top quintile—the only group in America today that can sit down and write out the big check to Amherst without batting an eye, whatever eye-batting is.
American higher education has certain marked similarities to American medicine. Both have been, indeed continue to be, the envy of the world. Yet circumstances seem to be demonstrating that without a fundamental rethink and the laborious forging of certain shared social goals we cannot afford either much longer. There is a great deal to feel sad about in our current political circumstances. My personal take as an American patriot—meaning someone who loves his native land—is that we are truly witnessing the degradation of the democratic dogma. You will perhaps recognize in that sonorous alliteration the title of a fine book (1919) by Henry Adams. Adams quipped that a study of the American presidents from Washington to Ulysses Grant “entirely disproves the theory of evolution.” I say no more. Though for obvious reasons the focus of attention remains on the executive, we are hardly less grieved by a body of legislators from whose small-minded mediocrity, bipartisan though further limited by a poisonous partisanship, it would be unreasonable to expect very much. The “student debt crisis” will probably just have to take its place in the unmoving queue.
Wednesday, May 24, 2017
...not to mention the tree
Saint Augustine and our Founding Fathers share more in common than I at first thought. Augustine says that the search for happiness is hard-wired into our nature. Jefferson says that it is not merely our nature but our right. Well-being and optimism should thus be the defaults of the human situation. I believe this accounts for the sense of grievance we feel—or at least I feel—when life is intruded upon by oppression, hurtful accident, or sudden medical emergency. All of us, surely, face moments equally disturbing and clarifying in which we are forced to think about such things.
It was a choice Ozark morning in early summer, radiant but not yet hot. There was not a cloud in the sky. The only evidence that there had been a light shower in the night was the sparkle from every bright leaf and blade. I was fourteen or fifteen, and my moral and physical being matched the brightness of the day I rushed out to meet. What a great day to be alive! As I hurried through the screen door I crushed down upon my head my well-worn straw hat. What happened next began an unresolved theodicy of seven decades. Theodicy, fancy word: “a defense of God's goodness and omnipotence in view of the existence of evil.” I reeled before an explosive pain in my right temple. I actually imagined I had been shot. Quite unbeknownst to me my hat, acting like a butterfly net, had caught a wasp between its leather sweatband and my hairline. Never before nor since has an insect bite been so dramatic. The pain was not merely excruciating but nauseating. The right side of my head ballooned. Within minutes the right eye was swollen shut. Within an incomprehensible instant an effervescent youthful optimism was overcome by a confusing agony. I was ill for three days.
It would be nearly another decade, anyway sometime when I was at Oxford, that I picked up Goethe’s spiritual autobiography, Truth and Poetry. In 1755, when Goethe was six years old, the major church festival of All Saints’ Day happened to fall on a Sunday. For that reason the heavy stone churches of Lisbon were more crowded than usual when about ten in the morning the city was flattened by a monster earthquake—soon followed by a tsunami and uncontrollable fires. The loss of life was appalling. The impact of this event on the European intelligentsia deserves a chapter in the history of modern thought. Goethe, who was a genius, could already at the age of six intellectualize the dilemma of the Enlightenment philosophes. “By treating the just and the unjust in the same way, God had not behaved in the fatherly manner that I had been attributing to him in my catechism,” he later wrote. “The wise and learned people around me seemed to be unable to agree on the way in which the phenomenon should be described….”
Of course the “problem” was an ancient one, and it is beautifully treated in several ancient texts. In those most familiar to me, the Scriptures compiled by the Hebrew theologians and the poetry of the Greco-Roman ancient world, there is a striking thematic convergence seized upon by the earliest Christian humanists, those ancient ascetics, many of them unknown to us even by name, to whom we are indebted for the preservation of practically everything we have of “classical literature”. According to the myth of the Fall in the book of Genesis God created our race for immortal bliss in a magnificent garden. But human perfection required the freedom of the will to choose moral imperfection. That choice, proposed by the serpent, endorsed by Eve, and executed by Adam “brought Death into the world, and all our woe, with loss of Eden” (Milton). The actual cosmogony or creation story is less central in Greco-Roman mythology—but the idea of a fall from perfection, gradual, episodic, perhaps continuing to this very day—is enshrined in the story of the violent ending of the Golden Age, effected through the revolt of Jupiter against his father Saturn, and emblematized by the birth of Venus, goddess of passionate desire.
Ovid and Virgil both deal at some length with the sad implications of the end of the Age of Gold. In the pastoral world of the Eclogues, in which shepherds and goat-herds pursue their rustic amours and poetry slams, hidden dangers abound. “You lads who gather flowers and strawberries that grow in the earth,” says Damoetas, “fly hence! A cold snake lurks in the grass.” To which Menalcas adds: “Take care, my sheep, that you advance not too far; it is not safe to trust to the bank.” In other words, don’t go near the water.
Disaster intrudes when least expected—and least comprehensible. Proserpina (the Latin version of the Greek Persephone) is in a carefree instant snatched down to hell. Avoid that field of Enna “where Proserpin gathering flowers / herself a fairer flower, by gloomy Dis / was gathered…” (Milton again). Our old folklore is full of tales of sudden danger descending upon the innocent: the Babes in the Wood, Hansel and Gretel, Little Red Riding-Hood. The Greeks had a proverb: “Under every stone a scorpion”—as if to say “In every porch awning a wasps’ nest.”
Wednesday, May 17, 2017
Even occasional readers of this blog will be aware of its improvisational nature. I am often constrained—mainly by ignoble sloth but on occasion by actual disruptive circumstance—to throw something together in rather a hurry and without benefit of the technical resources really required. I am not so bad as Doctor Johnson, Prince of Bloggers, who might not even begin writing one of his essays until the printer’s devil was at his door demanding copy. Unfortunately, I am not nearly so good as Doctor Johnson either. It’s usually a question of hoping that things will come together.
One genre of coming together is the historical congruence. Historical congruences can be happy or sad, sometimes both. Thomas Jefferson and John Adams—American Founders, presidents, and political antagonists—both died on July 4, 1826. That day, by the providential scheme, happened to be the fiftieth anniversary of Independence Day, when the Declaration was first proclaimed in Philadelphia. Both men were pretty prolific writers, but not so famous in literary history as William Shakespeare and Miguel de Cervantes, both of whom died on April 23, 1616. That one involves a little historical leger-de-main concerning time zones and variant calendars and that sort of thing; but it’s too good to give up without a struggle. Cervantes was so fanatical about deadlines as to take them rather literally. His dedication of his last novel, Los Trabajos de Persiles and Sigismundo, is dated April 19, 1616. He wrote it on his literal death bed.
What makes these congruences congruent for my particular circumstances is that as I write I find myself temporarily confined to a bed in a hospital in Philadelphia, city of the Declaration. My circumstances are by no means so urgent as those of Cervantes, and there is not the slightest hope of their stimulating another Persiles. But they do invite serious thought about two topics near the top of the current American political agenda: health care and immigration.
A very old and dear friend from Oxford days, a man who has appeared more than once in my blog posts over the years, was supposed to be visiting us in Princeton yesterday before going on to Boston, where one of his sons is in temporary residence, and thence to California, where he has business interests. Most people, arriving at Newark Airport only to face the Case of the Disappearing Host, would utter a few awkward words of formulaic absolution and encouragement (“Not at all, old man; don’t give it another thought; just concentrate on getting well”, etc., etc.) and then move on north. But not Andrew. He came down to Princeton, where Joan was able to give overnight room and board. Then they both jumped into his rented car and drove to Philadelphia, where we spent an entire long afternoon conducting an orgy of reminiscence and a probing seminar on the state of the world in a 150-square-foot room full of blinking and beeping machines, our debates fuelled by bad tea in paper cups supplied by friendly nurses, and punctuated by intermittent blood-lettings and takings of vital signs.
Our topics included Brexit, the French election, and the rapidly changing latest Trumpiana. But the setting of our conversation, together with some of Andrew’s own recent experiences, naturally raised the large subject of health care in a comparative context. Something like sixteen percent of the American GDP is related to health care. In Britain the figure is closer to six percent. Anecdotes are not the same thing as big data, even if data is the gathering together of anecdote. But my current, personal, anecdotal experience is that as a consumer of Medicare I have in general received services of extremely high quality. The scientific and technological aspects of medicine in a university hospital, as this layman has observed them, are remarkably impressive. The American health care system, as I am experiencing it, is anything but “failing”.
I shall not attempt to draw from this experience any comprehensive generalization on the topic of health care. On the topic of immigration, however, I will make so bold as to do so. Most of a hospital stay is boredom alleviated by observing the variety of one’s fellow human beings. I conclude on the basis of observation that of the most highly trained professionals I have encountered here—the superb physicians, chief nurses, and registered nurses—at least a third are not native speakers of the English language. These are the people who have just fixed me up and plan to send me home today. When one broadens the census of hospital workers to include what usually would be regarded as non-professionals, the proportion of the foreign-born would perhaps be even higher. There are certain nativist attitudes to immigration in the air, and they don’t strike me as particularly conducive to the health of American health care.
There are some advantages to last minute blog composition. I just had the opportunity to test some of my impressions with the Asian-American medical student assigned to my case. When I asked him whether the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania could operate without immigrants he simply laughed. But he thought that the hospitals would probably have a better chance than general and family practices throughout the country.
Wednesday, May 10, 2017
basking in the sun
One summer’s day about three years ago I was prospecting for a few nicely squared field stones in a remote country place where I gather such things when I came upon a turtle. The turtle, morosely planted in the shade of a clump of stringy grass, cast upon me what I considered the plaintive look of a lonely creature seeking companionship. So I picked it up, placed it in the effective holding pen of the bed of my pickup, and after completing my business drove home. If you are already offended by my blatant turtlenapping, I shudder at your reaction to what comes next.
For what happened next, and what happens altogether too frequently in my life these days, was oblivion. Preoccupied with other matters, I did not immediately unload the stones, and only when I went to do so two and a half days later did the turtle reappear in my consciousness. Removing a turtle from a landfill dump is one thing. Starving it is another. What most alarmed me was the fear of a possibly lethal dehydration. My original thought had been simply to move the turtle to a better zip code. But now I decided to put it in our atrium, one feature of which is a small pool frequently refreshed by rain and generous infusions of tap water, frequently recirculated by an electrical pump through the mouth of a concrete dolphin mounted by a cement rodeo-riding putto. The pump is controlled by a switch in the kitchen, reachable by even the smallest ambulatory grandchild when sufficiently motivated; so the dolphin keeps pretty busy.
The atrium is about twenty feet square and has many other attractive features. When I consulted written authority concerning the housing of pet turtles, I discovered that our atrium was the equivalent of the King Ranch and the Taj Mahal conjoined. It could comfortably accommodate a half dozen carapaces. The place is replete with vegetable delicacies and literally crawling with scrumptious insects. Like Onan our frequently shaken bird-feeder regularly spills its seed upon the ground. It turned out later that the root cavities left by long gone birch trees would prove perfect for hibernation.
Other inhabitants of the house, or frequent visitors to it, soon noticed that there was a turtle crawling around the atrium paths and swimming in its pool. I tried, successfully for a time, to be as dumfounded as anyone else. Perhaps it was spontaneous animal generation, as in Aristotle? But eventually I had to come clean. My spouse named the turtle, obviously a female, Chloë. To the delight of the grandchildren, she became a part of the family.
Fast-forward now several turns of the seasons, and through two successful atrium hibernations. Now I am working at the bottom of my garden in the warmth of an early summer morning when I see headed straight for me through the field grass, like a bee toward the hive, a really large turtle, obviously a male with sex on its mind. I hesitated not for an instant. I knew what this turtle needed and where it might be found. I scooped it up, carried it to the outside atrium door, introduced it into its artificial paradise, and returned to my tomatoes. Testudo Twain provided me a second opportunity to keep mum until others made the discovery, but that didn’t take too long. Once again Joan was ready with the perfect name: Hector.
emerging from hibernation
We kept alert for significant tortoise social interaction but saw only indifference and occasional bickering. Both turtles disappeared by around Thanksgiving. Hector, covered in mud, reappeared briefly on a bizarrely hot day in February, then like the Punxsutawney groundhog wisely retreated for six more weeks, when within a few hours of each other both Chloë and Hector reappeared. Since then they have been having public sex on a shockingly frequent basis. And we have had to make a slight adjustment.
You are probably aware that a number of my colleagues in literary study have demonstrated that “men” and “women” are passé—the categories I mean. It turns out that what we call “sex” is neither a natural category nor a fixed one, but a fluid condition constructed by society. The failure to recognize this truth causes enormous problems, and perhaps even accounts for the election of Donald Trump. During all my years as a professor, to my enduring shame, I resisted this scientific discovery, confidently espousing reactionary opinions born in the interstices of a premodern mind. When they go at it our turtles do not make “the beast with two backs,” as Iago calls it. Their amorous sport would better be described as “the shell game”. But it turns out that I totally constructed—or rather misconstructed—their so-called sexual identities. That is, we have been forced to conclude on the basis of empirical evidence that the large and aggressive Hector is actually Chloë. The demure and tidy Chloë is actually Hector. Somewhere among the woodruff there must be a cache of well fertilized eggs. Perhaps I will be able to offer an update to this post in eight or ten weeks.