When troubles arrive, they tend to arrive in cohorts, gangs, and conspiracies. I would have though I already had enough difficulties in my life without these latest accusations. But apparently nothing is too absurd for our malign press once their flaring nostrils have sniffed out what they think is a juicy story. So, loathe though I am to dignify preposterous allegations by seeming to take them seriously, I am going to face these latest ones head-on. Essentially, there is no truth in them whatsoever. I barely knew Jeffrey Epstein. Sort of sallow and shifty-looking, as I recall. I am not even sure that I am spelling his name correctly. Maybe it’s Epstien. I knew a guy name Epstien once. I can scarcely remember what the man looked like. What limited contact I had with him, including all seven of my visits to his estate on Little Saint James, were related to the fortuitous coincidence of our shared interest in conchology. Mr. Epstein maintained at his Caribbean estate a remarkable collection of seashells. In that very misleading photograph of me with Mrs. Ambercrombie, which has repeatedly been published in the gutter press, we were jointly examining a rare specimen of a shell of the greater spotted whelk.
I came to know Mr. Epstein—if you can call an association so superficial “knowing” someone—only because he sought out my opinion on a matter apparently of interest to him, namely alchemy. Somehow he learned of my work devoted to Chaucer’s Canon’s Yeoman’s Tale. Whether you are familiar with this particular tale of the great poet, you are probably aware of the science, or rather pseudo-science, of alchemy. The aim of alchemy was the transmutation of base metals (iron, tin, copper even old tinfoil cigarette wrappers) into gold. This fantastic project, which captured the attention of even some of the greatest thinkers of the Renaissance and Early Modern periods, had many deluded adherents. In one of my own books on intellectual history I have devoted several pages to this strange phenomenon. Though rather cagey about the matter, Epstein seems actually to have believed that some similar process, adapted of course to the economic and social realities of modernity, was operative in our own world.
“The so-called ‘Midas Touch’,” he once told me, “is an actual thing. And I have got it. A few years ago I was high school teacher. Yes, a f------ high school teacher! Now Bill and Hillary send me birthday cards.” I have not the slightest idea why he would tell me stuff like that. I mean, I barely met the man. Didn’t really know him at all. So where all this crap about me and Jeffrey Epstein came from I honestly cannot say. Most of the time I was down there on the island, he wasn’t even there. Or if he was, I never laid eyes on him. There were just all these flunky-types wandering around with platters of hors d’oeuvres. But my only interest, really, was the sea-shells. I do have to admit that he had a fantastic collection. Probably the best I have ever seen, actually. I’ll give him credit for that.
Somebody said about Whittaker Chambers that simply knowing the man was an indiscretion. That’s certainly true as regards Epstein, which is why I am so glad I never knew him, not at all, really. And of course I have absolutely no idea about the way he died. Given the least opportunity, and I mean the very least, people will come up with the wildest conspiracy theories. So naturally you have all this crap now about his death being “suspicious” because he was (supposedly) under continuous surveillance. He was on so-called suicide watch. Well…In the first place there is no such thing as “a twenty-four hour suicide watch.” I mean, people do have to go to the bathroom and such. Watching somebody, I mean really watching them, is harder work than you might think. I mean, you really have to keep your eyes open the whole time. And how long, actually, does it take you to hang yourself, especially when the rope is right there and all? Now that was a bit of serendipity for Jeffrey. I bet you could do it in under fifteen minutes, especially if you were really motivated. And that man was really motivated. Not that I actually know, of course, but it’s only logical that he would be.
From what the papers say, it looks as though there is going to be a lot more stuff coming out. Why can’t people let sleeping dogs lie? Why should dozens of more totally innocent people, men whose only fault was the indiscretion of knowing Geoffrey Epstein, be subjected to further embarrassment? Look at Prince Andrew, for example. Why that poor guy has been practically ruined simply because he had the bad luck of having Epstein pimping ‘teen-aged girls for him. Did you listen to his long interview on the BBC a while ago? They were out for blood, and they got it. Guilt by association, that’s what it is. Very un-American. Likely to be un-British, too.
The gossip, innuendo, and baseless rumor is only likely to increase. I am hoping for a presidential intervention. Mr. Trump could cut this Gordian knot. He seems to like to pardon people—selectively of course. He ought to get Ghislaine Maxwell out of the clink and send her back to England on condition that she never speak, let alone write a word about Jeffrey Epstein for the rest of her life. I mean, never mention the man’s name, whatever that was. Slips my mind at the moment.
No comments:
Post a Comment