The Tea Party in Chains

Among the great books I have read in the last five years is the two volume work by E. B. Tylor entitled Primitive Culture (1871). Tylor, an Oxford anthropologist and one of the founders of the discipline, is so little read today that I found he was merely a name to my son, a recent Ph.D. in anthropology. Of course any pioneer anthropologist imprudent enough to use the word “primitive” in a title will have long ago suffered the Oedipal fate of so many other politically incorrect patriarchs.

Sir Edward Burnett Tylor (1832-1917)

What I found particularly striking in Tylor had little to do with the “primitive”. What challenged me is his explanation of the principle of cultural conservatism. “When a custom, an art, or an opinion is fairly started in the world,” he writes, “disturbing influences may long affect it so slightly that it may keep its course from generation to generation, as a stream once settled in its bed will flow on for ages.” If you substitute the word rut for stream bed, you’ll see where culture is stuck. He goes so far as to say that most things that exist in the world exist for the reason that they once existed. That is an idea deserving pause for thought.

Living the expatriate life even briefly offers that pause, for one is constantly importuned to pass judgment on the ways the small experiences of daily life seem “different”, and different from what. Some years ago when I was making a study of the life and times of Christopher Columbus I was struck by what I took to be a risible feature of his log-books. Here was the first European observer known to record his impressions of a literally New World with all its fascinating alterities. Yet all his experiences seemed to fit succinctly into one of two categories. Things were either “like what we have in Castile,” or “not like what we have in Castile.”

Of course when you stop to think about it, all experience in all times and places, anywhere and forever, will fit into one of those two categories. The question is: how good are the categories? My natural instinct in encountering the thousand particularities of a day in Paris is not unlike Columbus’s. Try as I might, I cannot escape the default paradigm: is this or is is this not what it’s like “in America”.

Parts of Tylor’s book now seem ironic. His vast researches so convinced him of the ineluctably conservative nature of culture that he could not for a moment anticipate the vastness of the changes about to break in upon the world in the twentieth century.

Many aspects of the old life once regarded as unalterable have surrendered to the demands of efficiency. We no longer have twenty systems of linear measurement. We are basically down to two, with the metric system slowly but surely winning. Mostly the big things here and in other parts of Europe really are pretty much like they are in America. That is one of the reasons, I suppose, that small things claim such prominence. Why should you have to deposit a coin in a slot in its pushbar in order to get a shopping cart in a supermarket? Then, again, why not? You do get the coin back when you return the cart to home base, and I have yet to see a stray cart around the town.

The biggest thing that’s not like what we have in Castile is language—metaphorically true even if you should happen to be in Castile. If there’s an argument for reducing the number of measuring systems, surely there’s an argument for reducing the number of writing systems. But I don’t see any volunteers for linguistic self-immolation in Beijing, Moscow, Rome, or London. Living in France for even fifteen minutes will teach you the overwhelming difficulty of learning the French language, especially if you were operating under the delusion that you already sort of knew it. You grasp immediately the huge chasm between basic functional literacy and actual cultural participation. This week the sad evidence was to be found in incatenated ducks and the Tea Party.

There is a venerable weekly satirical magazine here called Le Canard Enchaîné. That “means” The Chained Duck. One of my French professors in college told me how great this thing was. Hence, I have been trying to read it, totally without success, since I first visited this country in the 1950s.

Simply to understand how a magazine can be called The Chained Duck requires a boring course in an obscure period of French political history. Then your troubles really begin. Usually I don’t get the cartoons. I cannot decipher the jokes. Frequently I am unable to identify even the political figures being satirized, or the events alluded to. The trouble is, I don’t really get the language. Though the Canard is definitely not like what we have in Castile, you might try to imagine The Onion written in, say, rapper patter.

Cultural incomprehension is a two-way street. I would point to the total mystification of the “quality” French press in trying to give an intelligible account of the role of the Tea Party in the current moment of American politics. Yes, I realize that the New York Times has no idea what the Tea Party is all about either, and I may not myself; but the French press is operating at an altogether different level of confusion and incomprehension.

Confusion begins with the fact that while the French word parti does denote a political organization, it does not denote a pleasurable social event. Even in Anglophone countries a tea party is hardly what it was in the first sentence of A Portrait of a Lady: “Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea.” But even if you can work your way through that, the whole deal about the Tea Party (get it?, get it?) is that it is supposed to connect thematically with some shenanigans in Boston harbor on December 16, 1773. Try explaining that to some Frenchman at a party—er, soirée. I tried on Saturday night, and it’s not easy.

"Where's the good of a blog," thought Alice, "without pictures or conversations?”

What's in a name? Keeping up with the Joneses

When I heard that Terry Jones was planning a churchyard barbeque of Korans, my reaction was probably pretty standard for my socio-economic group. I was shocked, appalled, revolted, outraged—you name it. I didn’t telephone him the way Secretary Gates did. I didn’t broadcast a public display of my political frustration with him, as the President did. And I certainly didn’t rush to Florida with my video camera to abet him as half the so-called journalists in the country did.

I was nonetheless mightily concerned, because it just didn’t sound like the Terry Jones I know. We actually overlapped slightly at Oxford. He was at Teddy Hall, where he must have worked with my old friend Del Kolve. Anyway, I last saw Jones a few years ago at Kolve’s splendid retirement bash at UCLA. Of course Jones and I have had our disagreements before. I strenuously disagree with his interpretation of Chaucer’s knight, for instance. It’s always a mistake, in my view, to confuse ideal literary stereotypes with historical documents. But who could fail to applaud the genius of the inventor of “Monty Python”?

Sure, he’s had some embarrassing press in the past. But just at the moment I am overwhelmed with compassionate good feelings for anyone suffering the misfortune of being named Terry Jones. Nothing ought to be more personal than our personal names, but they are constantly being highjacked by others, and seldom with pleasing results. I learned this early, as no doubt anyone named John must do. To her dying day my grandmother told me that the biblical meaning of John is “God’s grace”. Why, I subsequently wondered, is Merriam-Webster silent about God’s grace but quite vocal about (1) a toilet, and (2) a prostitute’s customer? As I walk down the street beautiful women shout out my name, then register offense when I respond. Wrong John.

Last week I mentioned how difficult it is for historians to figure out who the right Simon de Montfort is. But the de Montfort clan is a piece of cake when compared with the East Anglian Paston family of the fifteenth century, famously documented in the Paston Letters. The Pastons really loved the name John. There seem usually to have been two or three living brothers of that name. We are all familiar with the little “disambiguation” tables at the head of Wikipedia articles. With the Pastons it was the dinner table itself that needed “disambiguation”. In the case of the Joneses, the necessary disambiguation would be between the medieval Jones and the medievalist Jones.

Naturally, the problem of too many people chasing too few names has only become more acute with the huge population increases of modernity. I have personally come to terms with being merely the eighth or tenth most notorious of contemporary John Flemings, especially since, at least as yet, no dangerously demented evangelist is among our number. (There is a Louisiana politician, however, and that’s getting a bit too close for comfort.)

Being the wrong John Fleming has not been without its dividends. I am not, for example, nor ever have been, John Fleming (1919-2001) the self-made art historian, expert on the Adam brothers, and author or co-author of numerous well-received books concerning the art of many times and places. Nor, alas, have I ever owned his Italian villa. This man’s books frequently swelled my bibliography as confidently recited by people introducing me as a lecturer, and I once came close to a nice job offer on his account.

But since my field was English literature, the John Fleming who haunted my career was John Fleming (1910-1987), the prominent New York bibliophile, connoisseur, and book dealer to the rich and famous. It will not surprise you that we never met. This guy was very classy and obviously loaded. Half of the lengthy New York Times obituary was devoted to his amazing apartment. He used to take out full-page ads in The New Yorker in which a single, central, dolphin of type—JOHN FLEMING—swam in a sea of white at approximately $500 per square inch. You just had to know who John Fleming was and what he did; and if you had to ask, you couldn’t really know. In 2001 Sotheby’s auctioned off a superb first folio of Shakespeare for a tidy $6,166,000. Mr. Fleming was gone by then, but he had been the last dealer to flog it, and for quite a pretty penny I have to guess.

Fear of litigation from the tomb forbids my recital of some of my tales concerning this namesake, but one of the publishable ones is probably safe. Soon after I joined the Princeton English department one of my senior colleagues, Charles Ryskamp, left to become the Director of the Pierpont Morgan Library. After a distinguished tenure in that position he became the head of the Frick Collection. His was, in short, an absolutely amazing career in the world of private cultural institutions in New York, and he spent much of it in his dinner jacket, tirelessly pursuing new acquisitions and the funds to purchase and maintain them. Charles Ryskamp died quite recently, and Verlyn Klinkenborg, one of our former graduate students who is now a regular contributor to the Times editorial page, wrote a lovely memorial of him.

Charles Ryskamp (1928-2010), amid objets

The Morgan Library used to be very sniffy about allowing mere graduate students to work there. I know that for a fact, because in 1962 I studied a couple of their manuscripts of the Roman de la Rose for my doctoral dissertation. The reading room gorgons did all they could to make me feel like Jude the Obscure contemplating from afar the dreaming spires of Christminster. About 1970 a very bright undergraduate student in our department was writing a senior thesis on a subject concerning which the Morgan possessed unique materials. Urged on by naiveté and the rashness of youth, I decided to try to push the envelope with a direct approach to my old buddy and former colleague, Director Charles Ryskamp.

I phoned the Morgan, and the conversation(s) went something like this.

Secretary I: “How may I direct your call?”

JVF: “May I speak with Mr. Ryskamp, please?” Followed by a significant pause, as though I had in peremptory fashion demanded an audience with the Pope. Secretary I forwarded me to Secretary II.

Secretary II: “How may we help you.”

JVF: “Well, I’d like to speak with Mr. Ryskamp, please”

Secretary II: “Concerning…”

JVF: “Well, it’s a professional matter…[Silent pause] I am a former colleague at Princeton.”

Secretary II: “I am afraid Mr. Ryskamp is out of town…perhaps you’d like to leave a message with his assistant, Ms. X.”

JVF: “Yes, thank you.”

Another long pause, followed by

Assistant X: “I am afraid Mr. Ryskamp is not available. Perhaps I can help you?...”

JVF: “Thank you, but I probably need to speak with him personally…[long pause]…Perhaps you could just tell him that John Fleming is trying to reach him.”

Assistant X: “Uhhhh” [followed by a really long pause, followed by]

Charles Ryskamp: “Johhhhn!” I heard my name purred with a kind of breathless excitement midway between Bing Crosby telling me that I was as welcome as the flowers of May to dear old Donegal and Mae West inviting me to come up and see her sometime.

JVF: “Charles, you’ve got the wrong John Fleming, but as I have you on the line, I have a favor I’d like to ask you….”

I knew I was home free. By special easement my undergraduate friend was allowed to use precious Milton materials in the Pierpont Morgan Library.

Montfort-l’Aumary

Rather scuffed and dog-eared from a sleepless overnight flight, I arrived on Thursday last to find the sun shining clear from the bright blue sky of a crisp and comfortable pre-autumnal day. This happy omen was an accurate harbinger of my first week in Paris: joyous reunion with granddaughters, some full and productive library days, a dish of pears and cheese, and some medieval countryside.

I mentioned in an earlier post that Joan had spent the previous ten days or so at Pertuis, in Vaucluse, at a kind of chamber music camp. The players were all amateurs, but many of them at an impressively high standard; and they came from many parts of the world. Among them was a lovely gentleman in our general age group, a Parisian bio-medical computer type on the cusp of retirement, named Marc Le Bret. Marc and Joan became friends, and he invited us to spend a day at his country place in nearby Montfort-l’Amaury. Our rapidly filling calendar suggested “Now, or never,” so on Saturday morning we headed off for Montparnasse station. Montfort is on a suburban line only thirty-five minutes west of Paris, not far beyond Versailles. But the village, at least M. Le Bret’s part of it, seemed at least a hundred years away.

His cottage, which dates from the era of Henri IV and shows it, is a part of a large old family compound at the village edge, with several old houses and a jumble of walled gardens. It practically abuts the large Fôret de Rambouillet, the second largest green space in France. In a leafy orchard garden amid fig trees, grape vines, and rows of kitchen vegetables we shared a huge grilled beefsteak with Marc, Marc’s son and Chinese daughter-in-law, and two delightful Franco-Chinese grandchildren.

Montfort denotes a fortified hill, and there are charming castle ruins at its highest point. The medieval lords of the place, the de Montforts, were international big shots. You don’t even need to be a medievalist to have heard of Simon de Montfort. (On the other hand you do need to be one to know which Simon de Montfort, since for purposes of maximal confusion there were about a dozen of them.) The one I’ll call the really “Bad” Simon de Montfort led the Albigensian Crusade. His just reward was having a large stone dropped upon his head from the walls of Toulouse by its besieged defenders. In order to appreciate the really “Good” Simon de Montfort you have to know that these guys were also the Earls of Leicester in England. “Good” or “English” Simon won the Battle of Lewes in 1264, took Henry III prisoner, and forced him to honor certain provisions of the Magna Carta ostensibly agreed to but in fact mainly ignored by his father, King John. One of these was consulting with the barons in a meeting that was vaguely parliamentary, on account of which Good Simon is sometimes known as “the Father of Parliament”.

There is a huge parish church in Montfort-l’Amaury, far larger than any conceivable past population could have required. It dates mainly from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The town’s more interesting medieval relic is the vast necropolis, a combined cemetery and charnel house, which still has its portal in flamboyant Gothic, along with parts of its fabulous wooden arcade roof. On the outside wall one can still (if barely) make out the inscription of an old French memento mori: “As you are now, I once was; as I am now, you will one day be.” This ditty must be imagined to be spoken by an accompanying skeleton mounted in a niche. The term charnel house (also known as an ossuary) does not deserve its grimmer connotations.

Charnel houses were common in places where constrained space or other physical limitations did not allow for an infinitely expandable burial ground. When bodies were completely decomposed, the remaining bones, which took up considerably less space, could be compactly and even reverently stored in a charnel house. That made room for a new grave. Though long since laicized, the cemetery at Montfort-l’Amaury still has a thirty-year time limit. One of the graves had a note posted upon it from the Municipality announcing that its time was up and that the responsable needed to get to the Town Hall d’urgence. I presume the current tenant is no longer the responsable.

a bug and a bogue

Since Marc and Joan are musicians, a requirement of our tour of the town was a visit to the house, now a quirky museum, of Maurice Ravel, who lived there from 1921 until his death in 1937. You never know when you are going to learn something fascinating. We walked toward Ravel’s house along an old wall under chestnut trees. On the ground were bits of the prickly chestnut hulls or burs. I learned that the French word for this cortex, which I did not know, is bogue. Computer English has pretty thoroughly invaded the French language, despite the best efforts of the purists, who insist the thing is not a computer but an ordinateur. But there is one witty counter-attack. In speaking of a computer glitch, imperfection, or malfunction, Anglophones will speak of a bug in the system. Frenchmen speak of a bogue—a kind of bur beneath the cybernetic saddle I suppose!



Ravel’s house is a funny, steepled, old slate-roofed thing strung out in railway car fashion along a high ridge with a fabulous view—which is no doubt why he called it “La Belvédère”. The local lady who oversees the museum at hours of her choosing--and, as we learned, of her arbitrary alteration--is a delightful eccentric. As you enter the house she starts playing Boléro very loud on a stereo. Fortunately, she then turns it off. (Ravel himself famously said of Boléro: “Yes, it’s my masterpiece. Too bad there’s no music in it.”) Only when you see Ravel’s bed do you realize he must have been a midget. There was a good deal of potentially fascinating musical stuff, but the gardienne seemed more interested in the huge collection of bibelots. Several of these—especially a variety of miniature animal automata in metal, wood, and porcelain—fascinated three-year-old Jade Le Bret.

We came at last to the composer’s small study, a third of which was taken up with his magnificent piano. The gardienne insisted that one of us play it. Joan alone among the visitors was even a church hall pianist, and though she stoutly resisted, the gardienne’s repeated importunities at last so bogued her she did for a moment sit at Maurice Ravel’s piano and play—a snatch of Beethoven. In 1928, just before the Crash, Ravel made a kind of rave tour of America, which included an all-Ravel program in Boston greeted with a standing ovation. I thought Joan had made at least partial repayment, while at the same time earning a most happy memory of a most happy day.


The day was, however, not yet quite over. On our way to the station our genial host dropped a last delicious morsel of invaluable French trivia. After Ravel’s death his brother brought a new housekeeper to La Belvédère to keep the piano polished and the tchotchkes dusted. Her name was Celeste Alberet, and she had previously performed this office in the domicile of a certain literary gentleman named Marcel Proust. She was, one presumes, the world’s greatest expert on fastidious French bachelors.

Peer Review

I am flying to Paris this evening, and certain preparatory exigencies oppress my spirit. Even an imaginary audience, however, can impose a quite real sense of obligation. Retirement has turned out to be rather more of an “experience” than I had expected—meaning that the proportion of the surprisingly unanticipated to the coolly anticipated has been quite high. It has also been quite pleasant; I spend a lot more time in the seventh arrondissement than I used to. I shall doubtless always be part of the “academic profession,” and doubtless live some version of the “academic life” until the day I drop. Still I find that I can now view the profession’s anxieties with detachment and what I might call affectionate amusement.

Rarely does an academic professional issue become general news, but a week ago today, on the front page of the New York Times, was an article entitled “Scholars Test Web Alternative to the Venerable Peer Review”. Most people know that scholarly publication is a requirement for promotion and retention on the faculties of research universities and even many liberal arts colleges. Most people are familiar with the trite but telling axiom “Publish or perish.” But how, exactly, does one publish, or for that matter, perish?

A certain number of aspirants are defeated by the preliminary step, necessary but insufficient, of actually writing a “paper”, essay, or book in the first place. These people suffer from Writer’s Block, or, putting it more positively, participate in the Jesus Syndrome. (He was a great teacher, but he didn’t publish.) But if you do write something, what happens next? The answer is that you submit it for consideration by a scholarly journal or a scholarly press. The editors of these enterprises then seek the advice of already established experts in the particular field of inquiry. Thumbs up? Thumbs down? Thumbs sideways (“Rewrite this thing the way we want it, and we may reconsider”)? This process, called “peer review,” is often secret and mysterious, which is one of the factors that allow it not infrequently to showcase with impunity the sloth, inefficiency, and intellectual inconsistencies endemic in the academy.

Now a group of younger, more electronically hip scholars are making a fundamental challenge to the sacred institution of peer review. They suggest that scholars seek their own advice, and on the broadest basis possible, by submitting their work for the review of anyone with access to the Internet. Run it up the electronic flagpole, and see if anybody salutes it. They haven’t worked out all the details yet. The Times notes sagely that many professors “are wary of turning peer review into an American Idol-like competition.” But the article is well worth a read by the intellectually curious.

Well, I’ll try anything once, but as a medievalist I would suggest we need a more comprehensive approach. “Peer review” is but one of numerous aspects of modern academic life that reflect the medieval origins of the modern university. Not that peer review as we know it is itself medieval. Nailing your thesis to the cathedral door was much more like the proposed “novelty” of cyber-review. If people didn’t like it they simply burned the thesis or, on special occasions, the thesis and the author of the thesis. Abelard got tenure by gunning down the theses of his beloved old teacher, William of Champeaux. But peer review is very medieval in its suggestion that the academy is a guild.

Master and apprentices

A guild is self-regulating and, much more important, self-perpetuating. College professors like to think they are the freest thinkers in the land, and one of their most fervently espoused desiderata, threatening to become a terminal good, is “diversity”. That is why on American campuses faculty thinking about the most pressing political and social questions of our times ranges the whole gamut from A to A°. Established professors first decide what works by younger aspirants will be published, and then promote them for the achievement of having published them. Professors decide who will be interviewed and who will not, who will be hired and who will not, who will get tenure and who will not, who will be raided from other institutions and who will not.

That’s pretty much the way the Worshipful Company of Goldsmiths operated in Tudor London. There are many attractions to the guild model, just as there is an undeniable charm in so much of the other medieval ornamentation of the American university: pseudo-Gothic architecture for instance, or the funny hats folks wear at graduation, the titles of dean and provost, of master and doctor. I love it all. I served as the Chief Marshal of my institution for nearly twenty years. But it is not obvious that the guild model is the best guarantor of innovation, or of the lithe response, or of supple interaction with the outside world. And when a “guild” faculty joins in tandem with a “corporate” administration—more and more the model in the American academy—the result is too often the worst of both worlds.

During the course of writing this, I had an aperçu of sorts: I realized that I myself have not submitted an article to a “refereed journal” in many years, probably fifteen or twenty. That isn’t because I stopped writing articles. It is because I was unable to honor even nearly all of the solicitations I received. Herein is revealed another bizarre feature of academic life. When a scholar becomes sufficiently antique, and so far over the hill that, looking back, he can barely make out its crest, then people are practically dying to put into print whatever senescent marginalia he can come up with. Of course there is one degradation lower yet: when he does it without even being asked. It’s called blogging.

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Comparatively Speaking

People surprised by the demand for literary command performance react in different ways. Chaucer’s Pardoner, called upon to tell a tale and at least affecting the need for inspiration, turns to alcohol to warm himself up for a splendid sermon on the evils of drink. The pub sign of the Middle Ages was often a large wreath or garland hung from a pole. It was called a “bush” or an “ale-stake”. Seeing one just ahead of them on the road, the Pardoner agrees to tell a tale.

Fourteenth-century English public house with "bush" or ale-stake

“But first,” quod he, “here at this ale-stake

I wol both drinke, and eten of a cake.

... I must thinke

Upon some honest thing, while that I drinke.

Fortunately or unfortunately I gave up drinking corny ale (the Pardoner’s poison of choice) long ago, but I tend to swallow a lot of water when swimming, and that turns out to be just as good for inspirational purposes. I’m sure you are following this effortlessly, but I shall nevertheless explain in more detail.

Let’s be frank. Your bloguiste is in some disarray. Joan is in the south of France at some kind of string quartet boot camp. I fly to France myself a week from today. I have been dealing with the aftermath of a cyclone and various other domestic matters. Mainly, though, I’ve been working like a dog, presumably a Labrador (get it?, get it?), to finish a book. Other matters have vacated my mind. One night I even forgot to eat—and for me, that’s serious distraction.

Early this morning I opened my email to find, among other things, a very nice note from an eminent former colleague and friend with whom I had been long out of touch. Her note was a delightful surprise, but it packed an unintended wallop. In it she kindly alluded to reading “Gladly Lerne, Gladly Teche”. With a feeling akin to that of remembering, in the down time of the security line at Newark Airport, that you failed to turn the oven off before you rushed out your house, I realized that today is Wednesday. Wednesday is blog day. Oh, stercus.

All was not lost, however. My early morning swim still awaited me. In theory one could drown in the pool, but the more realistic lethal threat comes from the boredom. The boredom can be neutralized, however, by using the time to think, and especially to think about writing projects underway. One often glimpses through the fog of the goggles the word one has been searching for, or the perfect path to a troubling paragraph transition. I didn’t know how good it would be in providing an actual subject to write about, but I was willing to give it a try. I began by trying to reconstruct my thoughts where I left them after yesterday morning’s sixtieth lap.

There were two of them--thoughts, I mean. The first concerned some proof sheets in hand for an essay I had written about Louis Fischer. The second had to do with unlikely or inequitable literary comparison. In a very witty ode (III, 26) Horace compares an aging lover who is throwing in the erotic towel, so to speak, with a superannuated soldier who abandons his weapons. The old lover’s weapon has been his barbiton (lyre or guitar) used in the execution of his love poems. He hangs this up on the wall of a temple of Venus, the goddess he has served. In a most astonishing and brilliant way “my” poet of the moment, Luis de Camões, fuses this image with the psalmist’s famous lines about the Hebrew captives in Babylon: “By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept when we remembered Zion. On the willows in the midst thereof we hung up our instruments…” (Psalm 136[7]: 1-2). I realized that in this odd collocation lay a blog topic, or at least an anecdote.

Louis Fischer (1896-1970)

Q: Who was Louis Fischer? A: a famous political journalist and Soviet expert who ended his career in Princeton, and whose papers are in the archives of the library. He is often regarded as a Great Man, though I tend to take a dim view of his decade-long useful idiocy as a Stalinist toady. In that regard he makes a few appearances in my Anti-Communist Manifestos. Useful idiocy, while not a requirement for appointment to our Woodrow Wilson School, has rarely proved to be an obstacle; and in the late Sixties Louis Fischer was a Great Man right here on the Princeton campus. He was also a friend of an unambiguously Great Man at the Institute for Advanced Study—George Kennan.

Svetlana Alliluyeva

In 1967 Svetlana Alliluyeva, Stalin’s daughter, “defected” to the United States. Soon thereafter she came to Princeton, primarily under the sponsorship of Ambassador Kennan. She became friendly, briefly, with Fischer, thirty years her senior. This is not the Drudge Report, and I say no more. You need to be introduced to but one more character, and then we can move on to the anecdote. That person is the beautiful, colorful, wonderful and much lamented one-time mayor of Princeton, the late Barbara Sigmund. Mayor Sigmund came from a famous political family. Her father was Hale Boggs, Democrat of Louisiana, and majority leader of the House of Representatives. Her sister is Cokie Roberts, the eminent journalist and pundit.

Hale Boggs (1914-1972)

On Tuesday, August 27, 1968, in Chicago, the Democratic Party began what was probably the most disastrous political convention in history. Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy had both been murdered earlier in the year. Protest against the Vietnam War was widespread and often ferocious. Bearing the gavel for many of the televised parts of the event was the estimable Democratic leader of the House, Hale Boggs. Mayor Daley’s police and left-wing rioters battled in the streets.

The actual nomination of the heir presumptive, Hubert Humphrey, was to take place on Wednesday night, August 28. One of the Princeton Russia experts, of whom there were many, thought it would be a very good idea to have a party that night to watch the coronation on television. To it he invited many eminences and a couple of obscure assistant professors. The eminences included Fischer, Kennan, Barbara Sigmund and Svetlana Alliluyeva, the idea being that while sipping Chablis and munching carrot sticks Svetlana would be able to watch some real Democracy in Action.

Chicago: 28 August 1968, "The whole world is watching"

As the evening got going the television cameras divided their time more or less evenly between the interior and the exterior of the convention hall. In the interior the venerable Hale Boggs droned on in his folksy bayou tones, recognizing the delegate from the Great State of This, and complimenting the gentlelady from the Great State of That. Then the cameras would move to the street outside, where the storm troopers were beating the stercus out of an assortment of hippies, yippies, SDSers, and the inevitable unlucky people who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. This was what you might call bad press, a poor show for Democracy, and especially the Democratic part thereof. The demonstrators on the screen were screaming, "The whole world is watching!" Certainly our little part of it was. The sipping and nibbling ceased; all eyes turned to the television set. Barbara Sigmund began to complain in voluble tones that it was unfair of the newscasters to suggest by the alteration of their images that there was some connection between her innocent father and the mayhem in front of the Hilton.

“They’re going to blame it on daddy,” she said. She repeated the phrase a couple of times more. “Blame it on daddy….blame it on daddy…” Then, remembering the party’s distinguished guest, she turned to Svetlana and said, “But I guess you know all about that, huh, honey?” Svetlana said nothing, but her mien was eloquent. If lèse-majesté were still on the statute books, here was an open-and-shut case. Imagine comparing the crimes of the great Stalin with a little bit of police brutality in Chicago! It would be like comparing the Hebrew captives of Babylon with some over-the-hill Roman guitar plucker.

As Cicero once remarked when he found himself in a difficult blog-spot: "If I had had more time, this would have been a shorter letter."

The Tornado of Twenty Ten

The world-wide “extreme weather” events (Wimbledon heat waves, Pakistani floods, etc.) that some are quick to declare portents of a generalized Global Warming have manifested themselves in central Jersey in the qualities of hot and dry—the “choleric” temperament of the old humors theory, the one rather disgustingly ordered by the “yellow bile”. The summer heat, though more oppressive than usual, has been less remarkable than the drought. Lawns are dead, trees dying; even my impatiens are barely hanging on in a state of shriveled, minimalist exhaustion. It was almost thrilling, therefore, when about two in the afternoon on Monday my keen weather sense intuited the certainty of impending rain.

By about three forty-five the atmosphere was unpleasantly sultry, nearly dripping, and there began a modest rumbling of thunder. The sky, however, was ambiguous, not to say schizophrenic. In the north there was a bank of heavy clouds, darkening dramatically toward the horizon. To the south, however, the welcoming welkin was bright, and much of it actually blue. The air suddenly felt much fresher, drier. At about four I stepped out into the backyard, put my infallible weather nose in the air, assessed the ambiguities, and came to a sad conclusion that it was yet another instance of big wind-up, no delivery. I returned to the house and reported my definitive diagnosis to my wife. “Honey,” I said, “we’re not going to get a single drop of rain out of all this.”

My sentence was punctuated by a strange crackling sound and the immediate extinction of all electric light. (The sound was later identified by an eyewitness as a lightning bolt blasting an electrical transformer about a hundred and fifty yards down the road.) Then all hell broke loose. First came torrents of rain so heavy that despite the fact that the downspouts were all reasonably clear, cascades of water begin pouring over all the overwhelmed gutters, rather as though one had turned the full power of a fire hose into a bathroom sink. The trunk of the one oak tree close enough to the house for me to see became the bed of a vertical river that swelled and bubbled as it crashed to earth. Then came the wind, blowing due south into the no longer blue yonder and carrying with it twigs, limbs, and branches that clicked and clacked, and banged against our flat roof before flying, falling, tumbling into the lower garden. At the extreme end of the garden I saw the top of a tall conifer jerk and bend violently southward, never to right itself. Then there was a tiny bit of hail drumming against the skylights. Then, abruptly, wind and rain ceased; there was a preternatural calm. I stepped out to the front of the house and saw the spectacular wake of the Tornado of Twenty Ten.

Bloguiste as Joyce Kilmer contemplates nearly lethal linden (Photo credit: friend/neighbor Carolyn Guile)

About two hundred yards of Hartley Avenue was now a mini-Dunsinane of fallen trees. Two trees in my own front yard had lost significant parts, but that was as nothing to the vast linden that had just missed the house and had, in its uprooting, undermined one of my stone walls. Greater chaos still waited me behind the house. My last viable ornamental tree had been halved, and a huge pine in the compost compound lay splintered like a dry twig. My first sensation was of shock. It should have been of gratitude. Neither we nor our next-door neighbors the Browns had any damage to our dwellings.

The utilities were not just out. They were down and out. The utility pole that channels our electric main plus all the telephone and electronic stuff lay shattered in four pieces at the mouth of the driveway. I was pretty sure none of the wires was hot, but half the people accidentally electrocuted in this country share that comforting view almost to the end. So I didn’t mess. The little girls were just getting home from their day camps. It was a major palaver negotiating police barriers and blocked off roads, and we then faced the daunting task of an impromptu candlelight supper.

One hears a lot of rude comment concerning the quality of our utilities services, but you won’t hear much from me any more. Before nightfall the first PSEG crew had arrived. These guys couldn’t begin to work on the wires until they had cleared the trees. So literally all night long, from dusk to dawn, large men made grotesquely larger by their padded, brightly florescent safety gear, stalked up and down the arboreal highway with screaming chainsaws, the whole surreal tableau illuminated by powerful searchlights mounted on the cabs of trucks. At dawn a new set of trucks arrived, this time to begin hauling away the mountains of dismembered green. Less than twenty-four hours after the big blow, the electricity was up and running again. Telephones, internet, and all that--a different story. That's why I'm writing this blog post in the library.

I spent the years of my boyhood in places like Arkansas, Oklahoma, and Texas. Tornadoes were common. At least that's what everybody said. I never experienced one first hand. Not until I was happily retired in suburban New Jersey, that is.

The tree as it appeared yesterday (above) and in a previous blog (below)

The American Dream

Variations on a dream

The fancy word for today—for surely every blog post must have at least one--will be oneirocriticism, which means the evaluation or interpretation of dreams. Dreams are on my mind for a couple of reasons. Last week I had the rare experience of seeing a current movie--Inception. It's all about dreams--I think. I didn't like it very much, but that is probably because I didn't understand it. Had I understood it, I'm sure I would have hated it. The other reason is the very particular dream I have in mind: viz., the American Dream. For of late the American Dream seems to have been everywhere in the news and the columns of pundits, and usually in a pessimistic context. “The American Dream has soured,” writes one eminent pundit. When compared with his political ideas, his apparent belief that the verb to sour is an acceptable predicate for a sentence in which the subject is the noun “dream” seems nearly plausible. Dreams would seem also to be mobile. “The American Dream is increasingly moving out of reach for most Americans,” writes another. Finally a third says that “for people like these [unemployed citizens and real estate bankrupts] the American Dream has become a nightmare.” There is a minority report from an optimist. “Obama Care extends the American Dream for millions.”

From all this it is obvious at least that few agree as to what the American Dream is (or was), presenting us with a most difficult problem of oneirocriticism. In my work as a medievalist I soon discovered that the old ways of thinking about dreams were very different from those of Freud or Jung. To the ancients, including the biblical writers, dreams had a definite, concrete, objective meaning independent of the dreamer and decipherable by the wise, the inspired, or simply the properly educated. It was probably toward the end of the second century of the Christian era that the Greek Atemidorus of Daldis published his famous Oneirocritica, a hefty encyclopedia of dream meanings that drew on an already rich literature and wielded a large influence on dream experts well into the Renaissance. In the Latin sphere the great expert was the grammarian Macrobius whose commentary on the Dream of Scipio (a part of Cicero’s lost “version” of Plato’s Republic) was still regarded as authoritative in the eighteenth century. Macrobius had a much subtler sense of taxonomy than did Artemidorus, but the two were in basic agreement that to dream of an eagle meant one thing, to dream of blood another. The meanings were part of a sign system, like conventional language, not the manifestations of the unique psychology of an individual dreamer.

As Freudians or post-Freudians, we no longer believe that. Seven fat cows are a good sign, and seven skinny ones a bad sign (Genesis 41:17)? That primitive level of oneirocriticism wouldn’t get you a B in a freshman literature class, but in the Bible it’s enough to make you vizier of Egypt. And if dreams are as cut-and-dried as the folks who write about the American Dream seem to believe, why not? One pundit tells me that the 1950s “were the heyday of the American Dream.” If so, I must be one of the original American dreamers, as I graduated from high school in 1954 and from college in 1958. Among the meanings of the American Dream at that time were the following: (1) a detached house with a garage, with a Chevrolet car therein; (2) an abstract confidence that each new generation of Americans would have a “better life” than their parents, particularly with regard to detached houses and Chevrolet cars.

Here the wisdom of our founders once again shines through. They created a Constitution designed to give concrete expression to the abstractions of the Declaration of Independence. The “inalienable rights” specifically enumerated in that document are only three: life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That last phrase, the “pursuit of happiness”, was a last-minute substitution for another more frequently used by the enlightened politicians of the eighteenth century: “the possession of property”. But though Jefferson and his friends knew that a citizen had a right to possess property, that was different from a guarantee that a citizen would have property. Actually owning property depended upon many variables, such as individual initiative, labor, thrift, and so forth—variables within the realm of what was called “moral philosophy” rather than the realm of governmental arrangement.

You have no right to happiness, but you do have a right to pursue happiness. That, in my view, is the “American Dream,” and it is just as real (or unreal) as it ever was. I know for a fact that my father never had an annual income in excess of $10,000. I am far less confident in claiming that I have had a “better life” than he. The American Dream has more to do with the quality of aspiration than the fact of achievement. The concept seems to hover between the subjectivity of suggestion and the objectivity of definition, which is to say between the Freudian and the Artemidorian. Nor does it have all that much to do with American exceptionalism. “Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?” Robert Browning, a Victorian Englishman, wrote that in the voice of an imagined Renaissance Italian. In the more modern idiom Oscar Hammerstein came pretty close in South Pacific (1949):

Happy talk, keep talkin' happy talk,
Talk about things you'd like to do.
You got to have a dream,
If you don't have a dream
How you gonna have a dream come true?

But Bloody Mary’s prerequisite for that is “No think about Philadelphia—it’s no good.”

In the political commentary of the moment I find a disturbing suggestion that the American Dream can be or should be guaranteed by acts of our Congress. Yes, the United States Congress, with its approval rating hovering around seventeen percent! It can’t even effect a self-respecting nightmare. But if the reality cannot achieve the dream, let the dream be defined in terms of the reality.

There is an anecdote about a Communist organizer orating to a group of exploited garment workers on the lower East Side in the early Thirties. “Come the revolution,” he said, “you will all be eating chocolate cake!”

“But what if you don’t happen to like chocolate cake?” asked a contrarian from the shop floor.

“Come the revolution,” said the organizer, “you will like chocolate cake.”