Homecoming

There are certain dates that are likely to ring a bell for even the most casual of historians among us. For Americans July 4, 1776, is one of them. Most people could at least successfully guess the association of October 12,1492. Surely you recognize December 7, 1941, still and forever living in its infamy. Expand your horizons just a little; include western Europe. How about the famous “eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month”—i.e., eleven in the morning of November 11, 1918? As for the Quatorze Juillet—July 14, 1789—it’s child’s play. But what about July 29, 1881?

That is a little harder, perhaps? July 29, 1881 is a date that separates the sheep from the goats, or at least the frogs from the toads. Anyone living in Paris, as I have been doing for the last several months, encounters this date every day, and usually many times a day. For it was the day on which the famous law of July 29^th was adopted by the French legislature. Curiously, neither I nor any of the numerous Frenchmen I have interrogated on this subject has ever actually read the law of July 29^th; but we all know what it must say. It is the world’s most famous piece of anti-billboard legislation. Défense d’afficher. That

is so much more elegant than the awkward and usually ineffectual English version: “Post no bills”. Advertising posters are illegal on the city’s public surfaces. Parisians cannot hawk hamburgers from the walls of City Hall. Nor can Parisians promote diet pills in that manner. Since the only thing they can lawfully advertise is the law of July 29, 1881, they tend to do so on every possible occasion. And I presume the law is not subject to repeal, since it is literally carved in stone in numerous sumptuous public buildings and monuments.

I returned to America on Sunday afternoon, and the Americanness of America, for good and for not so good, immediately overwhelmed me. To the latter (not so good) category I had to assign the roadside pollution along Route 1, where there are hundreds of garish billboards, not a single one of which says “Loi de 29 juillet 1881”. But soon enough I was glad to have escaped that law’s clutches!

The latest evidence of the aging process is a severity of jet-lag I have never before experienced. Though exhausted nearly to the point of collapse, I could sleep only a few hours before awaking, unrested and still disoriented, in the wee hours. I got up and went through the motions of doing some work in my study; but by the time the actual dawn approached, it was obvious to me that it would be impossible for me to carry through with my plan of getting back to my daily early-morning swimming routine. Hence, it was only yesterday, Tuesday, that I managed to get to the gym. There, affixed to the wall at the end of “my” aisle of lockers, was the following violation of the law of July 29^th:

While I have no definitive proof of the perpetrator of this outrage, I have the strongest possible suspicions concerning a certain Dr. T. K. Chu of the Princeton Plasma Physics Laboratory. No knee-jerk liberal Miranda Rights for Chu. Gitmo now being off limits, I turned to the next best venue. Following our swim I interrogated him ruthlessly over a decaf double latte at the Small World Coffee Shop. Small World in Princeton, NJ, I am happy to report, is one of the few genuinely “Parisian” coffee shops in America. This means that ordinarily you have to take out a second mortgage to finance a double latte; but I made Chu pay for it.

They say that the second day of jet lag is the worst. That is probably true even if one does not, as one in fact did on this occasion, go into New York to see a three-and-a-half hour production of Simon Boccagnegra at the Metropolitan Opera. I was already disgracefully somnolent by the time of our pre-theater dinner with our dear friends John and Susan. By the time of the second intermission I was approaching the comatose. Joan actually secured a taxi in a snowstorm outside Lincoln Center. That’s the kind of aggressive New York street combat that usually rates two stars and an oak-leaf cluster, and it meant that we were able to get the last possible train to Princeton with at least thirty seconds to spare. I stumble into bed about 2:00 a.m.—that is, precisely twenty-four hours after last arising from it.

Hence I was unable to repeat my swimming triumph of yesterday. I didn’t even awaken until after daylight. I was at first inclined to interpret this as failure. But the enforced leisure, as it so often does, soon led to a more mellow view. I looked out of the living-room window, and I was pretty pleased by what I saw.

My sainted mother, dead these twenty years, used to give me advice, even when unsolicited. Perhaps you have such a mother—or are one. She used to say things like “You may live to regret that!” or “Handsome is, as handsome does!” Her apothegms annoyed me intensely. What annoyed me most of all, of course, was that they were invariably true. One of her favorites was “East, West, home’s best!” Given the particular homes involved, I was too often inclined to dismiss that as a defense of provincialism. But as I look about my study, I understand its full force.

As for swimming, there is always tomorrow. And as for a decent blog, there is always at least the possibility of next Wednesday.

What a Prize!

the winner of the Runciman Award, the National Jewish Book Award, and the Benveniste Prize

Among the splendid properties owned and administered by the admirable National Trust of Great Britain is the Georgian mansion called Lamb House in Rye, Sussex, famous in literary history as the private residence of Henry James for the last two decades of his life. The National Trust does not simply create museums. It tries, whenever feasible and appropriate, to keep the treasures entrusted to its stewardship as living monuments to the national history. The trust sometimes leases its significant “literary” properties to significant living British writers, one of the conditions of the lease guaranteeing both the privacy of the occupants and some public access to certain “museum” rooms at certain appointed times. Thus it was that in the 1970s the tenant of Lamb House was Rumer Godden (1908-1998), who in her long and prolific career published dozens of books, including some famous ones like Black Narcissus and Greengage Summer and who in her time was among the most famous writers of books for young people.

One of her readers was a little American girl whose grandparents by happenstance lived in Rye. Though still too young for Henry James, she had read and savored several books by Rumer Godden. This girl could hardly believe her ears when one day as they walked about the town during a school holiday her grandfather pointed out a fine old house as the actual residence of her currently favorite author. Her enthusiasm was not fully satisfied by the possibility—held out to her by her grandfather—of surveying Henry James’s walking-stick and his writing desk on any Wednesday afternoon between two and five. She wanted to talk to Rumer Godden. So she undertook a private initiative.

Lamb House, Rye (Sussex)

The next day—nicely scrubbed and (as I recall it) wearing her school uniform—she walked up to the mighty front door of Lamb House and rang its bell. A housemaid opened it. Politely acknowledging her awareness that it was not Wednesday and indeed not between the hours of two and five, but rather ten o’clock on a bright sunny morning, she expressed her desire to engage Rumer Godden in literary conversation. The maid, too, was impeccably polite. She asked the little girl to wait at the door for a moment, then retired into the interior. Within two minutes Rumer Gooden appeared at the door. Brief words, formal but not without a tempered cordiality, were exchanged. The famous writer, then in her sixth decade of life, invited the girl, more than half a century younger, to return in a day or two to take tea with her in her private quarters, or, if the weather were lucky, in the garden in which Henry James had once sat burnishing the golden sentences of The Golden Bowl. Thus did Katherine Elizabeth Fleming make, with a typifying independence, her formal debut in the world of letters.

I recognize that pride is a sin, the worst of them indeed, but I hope there might be an exceptional easement in one genre—parental pride. For the pride that her mother and father took in her on that occasion has only increased over the years. For me the latest opportunity to bask in it came two nights ago. Joan is already back in New Jersey, but I know she was there in spirit, as I was in the too, too, solid flesh, when at a grand assembly at the Sorbonne she was awarded (yet another) prize for her latest book—Greece: A Jewish History.

The sponsoring academy, the Centre Alberto Benveniste, is devoted to Sephardic Studies—that is, to all aspects of the Jewish culture of old Iberia and its diasporic filiations. (Sefarad was the old Hebrew name for Iberia). The once vibrant Jewish culture of Greece, long centered in Thessaloniki, had its beginning in one of history’s great crimes and its end in another. Like many other exile Jewish communities of the Mediterranean world most Greek Jews traced their origins to the ethnic cleansing undertaken by the Reyes Católicos at the end of the fifteenth century. The surviving community was virtually annihilated in the Holocaust.

I have some associations with some ancient educational institutions. My alma mater, Sewanee, was founded before the Civil War—making it venerable by American standards. Jesus College, Oxford, where I did further study, was founded by Elizabeth I. Princeton, where I taught for many years, was founded under the reign of George II. But Robert de Sorbon founded the institution that still bears his name in 1259 in the reign of Saint Louis, a contemporary of Henry III! That is the date one sees written large in a gilded aureole on the ceiling of the Salle Louis Liard, the magnificent lecture hall in nineteenth-century imitation rococo, in which the prize ceremony took place.

The Salle Louis Liard at the Sorbonne

In a room like this a meeting of the Baxter County Zoning Board might be mistaken for the Congress of Vienna. In this instance there was a happy symmetry of architectural and intellectual brilliance. The proceedings began with an erudite but heart-wrenching lecture by Prof. Michèle Escamilla, an eminent hispanist, on the subject of the dealings of the Inquisition with children in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. I shall allow no summary of its contents to cloud the largely joyous tone of the evening.

Two Beneviste prizes were awarded, one for fiction, and one for scholarship. The winner in the fiction category was the distinguished writer Éliette Abécassis, author of Sépharade. Her work has been much acclaimed, and one of her earlier novels, Clandestin, was among its year’s draw for the Prix Goncourt. Katy’s prize was of course for a work of historical scholarship. Speaking in beautiful French perhaps slightly modulated with a tinge of Provence, where she first spoke the language as a toddler, she succinctly outlined the salient features of a vanished Greek Jewry, and the chief purpose of her book: the recuperation of a fragile history threatened with oblivion. It was a moment that her husband Zvi and her father, privileged with reserved seats in the front rows of the crowded theater, will long remember.

Zvi, a friend, and Katy (with diva bouquet)

The evening in the Salle Liard ended with a fascinating concert of Judaeo-hispanic music, gathered from authentic folk traditions and performed on more-or-less authentic instruments, by a group called Presensya. A large group of us then retired to a restaurant on the rue Monsieur le Prince—a street in which my wife and I had lodged in 1962 when I was conducting research on my doctoral dissertation! There I had the honor of including among my conversation partners one of the daughters of Alberto Benveniste and, at my immediate right hand, the current rector (i.e., president) of the University of Lisbon. Regular readers of the blog will appreciate the timeliness of this fortuitous meeting. Though his field is more modern literature, he is Portuguese, so you can imagine the subject of our conversation: Luis de Camões.

I have been amazed but of course pleased to see that two of our three wonderful children have taken up the scholarly life in which I myself took such great satisfaction. So here is an unblushing paean to Professor Katherine Fleming! I hope that under the circumstances my pride in my daughter is not unseemly, let alone culpable. My whole scholarly career has been devoted to the study of tradition, and I feel comfortable if a little wistful to take my own place in one. I hope somebody, somewhere, still reads Tennyson’s magnificent “Idylls of the King”. As the old Arthur departs into the mists of history he makes a famous speech. Since he was the father to a whole nation, his sentiments are naturally more elevated than mine, though I certainly echo them in a more modest register.

The old order changeth [says King Arthur], yielding place to new,
And God fulfils himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

I had early warning of the paternal eclipse at an academic conference at least a decade ago. In my business the material rewards are mainly symbolic; and since one will never become rich, one has to concentrate as best one can on becoming famous or rather “famous”, since academic fame is largely spurious and certainly transitory. Well, I did become borderline “famous”—meaning that at academic conclaves I sometimes enjoyed the public respect of my peers, and a kind of toadying admiration from my juniors. Once at some unmemorable scholarly conference in some unmemorable, homogenized Chicago hotel, I was walking through a lobby crowded with anxious young scholars. Someone among this group recognized me. An instant buzz began, and its treacle entered one ear. “Bzzzzzzzzzz-bzzzzzzzzzzzz-bzzzzzzzzzz-Fleming.” The demon of pride, ever by my side, whispered in my other: “Listen: they are bzzzzzzzzing about you!” Only then did I catch one whole sentence from one of the bzzzzzers. “That,” she said in star-struck tones, “is Katherine Fleming’s father!”

From Port-au-Prince to Lisbon

It is difficult for me to believe that there is an intelligent person alive who has not posed the “God question”—that is, “Does God exist?” One of the conveniences of answering that question in the negative is to avoid a second and harder question: How can the God in whose existence I find myself compelled to believe allow the horrors and evils I see about me on every side? Whether you ponder this on the local level (the homeless mothers, the crack babies, the suicidal schizophrenics, the hopeless alcoholics, you name it) or on the cosmic (the Ukrainian famines, the Auschwitzes, the Rwandas and Darfurs, the killing fields of Cambodia, you name it) God would seem to have a good deal of explaining to do.

Leibniz coined a fancy word to denote the attempt to reconcile a good God with the moral and material evil in the world: theodicy. Most of the examples I adduced allow one small loophole, since they are related to human agency and therefore perhaps to human motive. This could conceivably justify removing the responsibility from divinity to humanity. Stalin was a bad guy. Hitler was a bad guy. Pol Pot was a bad guy. Those guys in Rwanda—they were bad guys. But this evasion, even if partially plausible, cannot apply to natural disasters like floods and earthquakes and tidal waves. There is a specific legal term for such catastrophes, chosen precisely to show their independence of human agency, and therefore human indemnity. They are called “acts of God”. This is a phrase that frequently makes an appearance in the small print of insurance policies, usually to the detriment of the policy holder.

I was overwhelmed by “theodicy anxiety” the moment I first heard about the Haitian earthquake. You may have been, too; but in this instance the circumstances in which I first learned of it were also decisive. I was sitting with my son Luke in a very agreeable bar in Lisbon. It was my first visit to that charming city. I was sipping a delicious latte thing and eating one of those scrumptious miniature custard pies, the name of which I never learned, which are a Portuguese specialty. Across the screen of a television set in the corner flashed half-decipherable images of horror. The half-decipherable voice of a Portuguese announcer spoke in a garble of plural sibilants of the mounting toll of the dead—was it a thousand, or thousands, or a hundred thousand?

If there is such a thing as “intellectual” or “historical” déjà vu, that is what I experienced at the moment of learning the news from Haiti as I sat in Lisbon. For in the mid-morning of November 1, 1755 a terrible earthquake struck Lisbon and numerous other places in Iberia and north Africa. That was a major Roman Catholic feast day—All Saints’ Day, the day for which Hallowe’en (All Hallows’ Eve) is the preparation. It was a so-called day of religious obligation, meaning that the faithful were morally obligated to attend Mass. Hence the huge, heavy baroque churches were, many of them, full to capacity when the quake struck. The loss of life within these temples was stupendous, but hardly more so than in the residential quarters. Fire rapidly spread among the ruins, immolating a large if unknown number of those trapped in the debris. Large numbers desperately sought safety in the open squares at the dock-front, or even in the large number of ships always to be found in the busy docks of this great commercial city. Thousands of them were snuffed out in an instant by the tidal wave that followed the quake.

The Lisbon earthquake of 1755 may be said to have effected a decisive shift in European intellectual history. Many preachers, then as now, seemed willing to justify God by ascribing to him a fit of choleric vengeance that would have embarrassed a self-respecting devil. Almost all religious commentators ascribed the event to God’s displeasure at sinners, though the identity of the specific sinner varied according to the preacher’s inclinations. Some even managed to turn the disaster to the purpose of sectarian polemic. “It is remarkable,” said one English clergyman, “that some of the Priests of Portugal have (as we are informed) taken the Advantage of the Superstition of the People to insinuate, that this dreadful Calamity was a Judgement of Heaven upon them for the great Lenity that had been exercise towards the Protestants since his present Majesty came to the Throne.”

The ruins of the Opera House by Jacques Philippe Le Bas

Such foolishness could not satisfy the philosophers, who could find in the event nothing to encourage or even allow philosophical optimism. Voltaire famously wrote a poem about the earthquake in which he asked the obvious question. If Lisbon had been destroyed for her wickedness, why were people still dancing in the streets of Paris and gambling in the casinos of London? Voltaire was not an atheist. There were very few atheists in the Enlightenment. But the earthquake seemed to confirm that the watchmaker God, having created the intricate mechanism of the universe, had retired from its daily supervision.

Presume not then the Deity to scan [wrote Pope]
The proper study of mankind is man.

In a famous page of his autobiography Goethe (born in 1749) tells us of the disturbing impact that the news of the Lisbon earthquake had on his childish faith. He was hardly alone.

A painted "Allegory of the Earthquake" by João Glama Stoberle (xviii century)

Religious belief, like the thoughtful rejection of religious belief, is mainly a private matter requiring in a modern, pluralistic world, a good deal of tolerance and civility. Ordinarily I abstain from comment on other people’s religious beliefs. But recent remarks of the “evangelist” Pat Robertson to the effect that the Haitian earthquake is but the latest of many unhappy results of a pact made between the Haitian nation and the Devil are so outrageous, ignorant, and in the most literal sense insane as to require comment. Pat Robertson is a senile blowhard whose self-appointed “ministry” is an embarrassment to every thinking Christian of my acquaintance. His remarks would have doubtless remained in the dark void into which they were uttered had they not been discovered by some incredulous Internet detective and rendered viral. Thus in some mischievous way they have been valorized by a medium that loves its religious freaks no less than freaks of any other genre.

The danger now is that somebody might confuse Pat Robertson’s lunacy with an actual “Christian” response to the Haitian earthquake. That response, imperfect though it may be, is visible not merely in the faith of many Haitians but in the vast fund-raising effort and practical relief efforts undertaken by the churches throughout the world. I may have mentioned a brilliant refrigerator-magnet prayer my daughter found somewhere: “Lord, save me from your followers!” It was designed precisely for the likes of Pat Robertson who, alas, are rather numerous in the United States. Thoughtful religious skeptics can hardly take comfort in this reality. If you have any doubt that Christianity is a divine institution the mere fact that it continues to exist despite the best efforts of some of its prominent “leaders” should dissolve them.

There is a famous half-line in Virgil that succinctly expresses a fundamental truth about our human condition: sunt lacrimæ rerum. There are indeed tear-drops in things. It is not the only truth; for things have their smiles and even their belly-laughs too. Often enough there are tears and smiles. But the devastation in Port-au-Prince, like than in Lisbon more than two hundred and fifty years ago, is an event so tear-stained as to challenge any comfortable metaphysical certainties. And the instant communications of our world hardly allow, at least at this moment, the kind of philosophical leisure accorded to a Voltaire. The only possibly adequate existential response is a thoughtful investment of human empathy and generous material contributions in aid of whatever inadequate means of remediation are available. If you want to see the evidence of divine love in the world, you may have to perform some of it yourself.

My inevitably rather blurry photographs come from the remarkable book of essays put together by Helena Carvalhão and Gonçalo Cordeiro: O Grande Terramoto de Lisboa: Ficar Diferente (Lisbon, 2005).

On the Loose in Lusitania

It is back to travelblog mode, I fear. Luke and I are in Lisbon, both of us for the first time, and we find ourselves happily surrounded by numerous inviting possibilities, all of which seem distinctly more attractive than battling with our hotel’s Wi-Fi arrangements or simply tapping on computer keys when we could instead be sampling tapas in one of the delightful little dives in one of the delightful neighborhoods we have been exploring.

We arrived here on Monday night after a less than satisfactory experience with Air France. We were about two hours late in leaving Paris for no good aeronautical reason, so far as I could tell, but because of unexplained difficulties in securing a transit bus to drive us from the alleged boarding gate to the waiting airplane a kilometer away or so. There were several cheerful Air France staff on hand, but none seemed willing to notice the problem, let alone claim ownership of it. Here was yet another proof, as though we needed one, that our lives are controlled by capricious and mysterious powers working through opaque and uncommunicative bureaucracies—a kind of cosmic Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. All that, however, passed into oblivion, the moment we landed in this charming city: charming, but I must also add, rather wet. It’s been raining pretty steadily for the past two days.

12 January 2010: one solitary sodden scholar on the Praça Luis de Camoes

Luke had been worried that his Brazilian Portuguese would prove inadequate for the Portuguese capital, or expose the rusticity of a country bumpkin. Far from it. In the first place the city is crawling with Brazilians. In the second the attitude of Portugal to its vast American former colony seems entirely different from that of England to hers. Everything positive about Portuguese culture is “Luso-Brazilian”. You have Luso-Brazilian literature, Luso-Brazilian music, Luso-Brazilian food. Try to imagine how well an “Anglo-American” restaurant would do in Paris or Perugia. So Luke has proved a wizard interpreter.

That’s a good thing for me. For although I am hard at work on the classical Portuguese author, Luis de Camões, I wouldn’t get very far if I had to get somebody to change a light bulb or explain to me how the little green tickets for the subways work. The relationship between the phonology and the orthography of Portuguese is so distant and suspicious that “book learning” is but a first hesitant baby-step toward communication. This reminds me of a notable occasion in the past when Portuguese orthography was my friend. Many years ago I began giving my wife a Victorian shell cameo every year or two. This was in the early days of eBay, when it still had some pretentions to being an auction before its collapse in the direction of a bad dollar store. One occasionally found good cameos there. It was about the same time that I was trying to put together a small library of Camoniana—i.e., books by or about Luis de Camões. One day my search for Camões items turned up a stunning mythological cameo, one of several camoes offered by this particular seller. It is a signal advantage for a bidder on such items to be competing against dyslexics rather than aesthetes. I got the piece for a song—or perhaps I should say canto.

Yesterday’s tours of the bookshops turned up only books, but some of them dandies. I got Jorge de Sena’s three collected volumes of Camoniana. There is also a signed copy of Vasco Graça Moura’s Camões e a divina proporção. These are treasures, as I am sure you realize, beyond the dreams of cupidity.

Aside from books, museums, ecclesiastical architecture, and the waterlogged streets, we have been taking in a certain amount of Portuguese alimentation. One notices both its very high quality and, when compared with its Parisian analogues, its very low price. Luke is a vegetarian, but the concept of a lunch without at least a smattering of meat strikes your average Portuguese short-order cook as deeply immoral at the minimum, and probably illegal. As a temporary Parisian who drinks no wine, I can share through fellow feeling the sense of social stigma and opprobrium that greets his every order. You feel guilty of some culinary desecration or kitchen crime. Still, we soldier on.

Lawyered Up, Solecismed Over, and Bummed Out

QUESTION?

What does this guy…

…have in common with this guy?

The answer is obvious: “courtly love”.

Courtly love is an alleged set of extravagant amatory conventions characterizing various heroes of medieval romance, such as Lancelot (pictured above) or Troilus. The courtly lover turns pale in the presence of the beloved, stammers, sighs, falls ill, spends sleepless nights thinking about her; when at last able to speak he declares that he will die on the spot if he doesn’t, right away, get some of what he calls her mercy or grace. (This was called something else in my high-school locker room.) “Courtly love” of course required a lot of bizarre behavior; and it usefully allowed any scholar who had no idea what was going on in a medieval poem to ascribe it all to “courtly love."

Half a century ago my great teacher D. W.Robertson dealt courtly love a severe blow by denying its existence. He prosecuted the attack in numerous scholarly venues, including his classic essay entitled “The Concept of Courtly Love as an Impediment to the Understanding of Medieval Literary Texts.” According to Robertson courtly love was good, old-fashioned lechery nicely dolled up in Gothic weeds, but hardly if at all different from the extravagances satirized by Ovid in his elegies and Art of Love. Horace somewhat indelicately had called the Trojan War “the war of the cunnus,” suggesting perhaps that it was not Helen’s face alone that had launched a thousand ships. There were also biblical examples, such as Amnon’s passion for and rape of his half-sister Tamar (2 Samuel 13). Chaucer thought that story was so good that he modeled a crucial courtly love episode of his Troilus & Criseyde upon it.

Well, if “courtly love” was an unhelpful term, what were we supposed to call all this aristocratic moping about on the part of medieval romance heroes? Fortunately the silver screen came to the rescue. In 1956 there appeared a French film called Helen of Troy. Rossana Podestà (swiche wenche if ever there were one) played Helen. Jacques Sernas was Paris. Catch it if you ever get a chance. Time magazine, which in the 1950s published excellent movie reviews, devoted a dilly to Helen of Troy. “Helen of Troy”, it began, “is about hot pants in high places!”

Hot pants in high places! A great phrase—so much more accurate, and more memorable, than courtly love. It describes the conduct of the princely Troilus perfectly. Unfortunately it also describes the conduct of a guy who ignites his undies at 30,000 feet. That, of course, would be Mr. Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab, forever to be known as the “Underwear Bomber”. It’s been some time since I wrote a “political” entry. This is not because politicians have ceased their fascinating operations, but because I have in recent months been badly placed for balanced and easily accessible American political news. But Mr. Abdulmutallab has made the front page even in Paris and has made me spend a two-hour reading seminar on RealClearPolitics.com, which does a passable job of anthologizing a wide spectrum of political opinion.

Practically all I read there is discouraging. The most sensible thing I read came from the pen of David Books. The nutshell version: “Grow up!” Bad stuff happens. Man is born unto trouble as the sparks fly upward. That’s the Bible, though if you prefer you can arrive at the same conclusion by keeping your eyes open for ten minutes. It is especially unseemly for people who denounce the capacities of the Nanny State to feed, house, or enable medical care for its charges to decry its failure to pry efficiently into every madman’s jockstrap.

Not that the response of the Obama administration is anything less than pathetic. I’ll come clean, though in the manner of ex-President Clinton. When it comes to the confessional mode, he has a lot to teach us all. Sure he smoked dope—but he didn’t inhale. Well, honesty requires me to admit that I did vote for Barack Obama. But I didn’t get the bumper sticker—honest. Since there is not a lot of moral high ground on the market at the moment, I want to snap up that little patch.

Sellers and Yeatman, in their brilliant serio-comic history of England called 1066 and All That, describe the seventeenth-century Civil War between the Cavaliers and the Roundheads as a contest between men who were “wrong but wromantic” and others who were “right but repulsive”. Such is the contest between President Obama and former Vice-President Cheney. The English language is always the first casualty. Mr. Obama is loath to find in Islamic terrorism the slightest thing Islamic or terroristic; so he gives it the old linguistic punt. He does admit, in the fine print, that we are “at war”. We are at war with a “network.” This network is composed of “extremists”. We cannot know what would be the norm or Golden Mean of the thing of which pyrotechnical underpants are an extreme.

Mr. Abdulmutallab had spent months studying network extremism in Yemen. His distressed father had told the American authorities about this—several times. Abdulmutallab travelled light (zero luggage), and he paid for his (one-way) ticket in cash. He breezed through the security inspections of two international airports. Reviewing this sequence of events Janet Napolitano, Secretary of Homeland Security proclaimed that “the system worked”. When taxed by incredulous critics who made a different interpretation of the narrative outlined, she said that her remarks had been taken “out of context.” So I went back to the context. There would seem to be two related tasks faced by a Secretary of Homeland Security. You have to keep the horse from being stolen, and you have to lock the barn door. It’s one of those things like sex and the internal combustion engine for which proper sequence is a consideration. What Ms. Napolitano meant in context was that once the horse had been stolen the locking of the barn door worked “like clockwork”. Ms. Napolitano, too, is very careful about the words she uses to describe blowing airplanes to smithereens out of religious piety. Such acts are not terrorism. They are man-made disasters—along the lines of the Senate and the House of Representatives, one imagines.

Cheney is very certain that we are at war in a less metaphoric sense. Hence his outrage (shared by many others) that Mr Abdulmutallab is to be tried in civilian criminal court rather than a military tribunal. Mr. Abdulmutallab’s conviction would probably be more certain and more swift in a military tribunal. But the idea that we would be sure to get important “intelligence” by interrogating the bejesus out of him needs reconsideration. The three bits of information Abdulmutallab could be lawfully required to divulge as a prisoner of war are his name, his rank, and his serial number. Two of those he doesn’t have, and we already know his name.

However, Mr. Cheney’s idea has the brilliance of the general law of relativity when compared with that of Mr. Obama’s alleged “expert” on terrorism, Mr. John Brennan. (For Obama Abdulmutallab is merely an “alleged” terrorist, er network-extremist; the least one can do is afford Mr. Brennan the same benefit of doubt.) For him the advantage of a civil as opposed to a military trial is based not in the nation’s legal ideals but in pure Machiavellian practically. Brennan will get Abdulutallab to talk with a—plea bargain! He’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse! They need a few more historians around the White House. In 507 BC a Roman terrorist named Mucius (i.e., “Lefty”) Scævola snuck into the Etruscan camp to murder King Porsenna.

Even a serious strip-search didn't stop this terrorist. Mucius Scævola as rendered by Louis-Pierre Deseine

Paris: the Louvre

He killed the wrong man (honest mistake—bad things happen). At this point “the system worked perfectly.” Captured by the real King Porsenna and threatened with a strenuous military interrogation, Scævola showed his contempt for this pitiful threat by thrusting his right hand into a flaming brazier and keeping it there until al dente. That’s how he became “Lefty” Scævola. Porsenna was so impressed he simply let him go. Now Mr. Abdulmutallab has already demonstrated his readiness to immolate himself, private parts first, for the greater glory of God. Great Balls of Fire, Mr. Brennan, do you really think you are going to bludgeon this man with a plea bargain? I don’t know whether you have to talk like a plain country fool to be a presidential security expert, but it obviously helps.

Among the very worst things that has happened is that Mr. Abdulmutallab has now been “lawyered up”. I speak of course of linguistic crime. I never heard of anybody being “lawyered up” until three days ago, and I have encountered it among the RealClearPolitics articles no less than seven times. The meaning of this grotesque barbarism is apparently “benefitting from legal counsel.” We can look forward perhaps to college students being professored up, religious penitents being priested up, and MacDonald diners fastfooded up. One gets fed up, fast. We face in Islamic terrorism a set of difficult and complex challenges. Our president might even call them “unprecedented”. It is fatuous to suggest that they will be easily met, or that we are not likely to suffer more “episodes” and more loss of life. There are a large number of people out there who want to kill as many of us as possible, quite without respect to race, religion, or political party affiliation. We do not live in the kind of police state that would make it easy to stop them. Many of us are adults and would appreciate being talked to by our elected leaders in an adult fashion about our shared problems. There is unfortunately little precedent in the current administration or the one it replaced to make me expect to be straighttalked up any time soon.

Materia Medica

The week between Christmas and New Year’s Day has proved to be very busy without any of the accomplishment that should be the reward of being busy. From the point of view of developing good “blog experience” it has been a disaster. Perhaps this is the week to deal with the inevitable topic of French medicine.

Following the American news from Paris is no easy task. The filter of the French newspapers casts most things transatlantic in a rather sallow light, and the (mainly American) Internet “news” sites threaten to give triviality a bad name. Yahoo “news” is generally unable to decide whether the more important story should be impending bankruptcy of the nation or the traffic violations of some starlet I have never heard of. Nonetheless I followed the meandering course of the “health care” bill with some attention and probably as much comprehension as anybody else—and in particular the senators—who has little actual idea as to what is in the bill. Its passage is neither the end of the republic as we have known it nor a glorious moment in humanity’s slow ascent from the quagmire of necessity to the fruited plain of grace—the two options apparently offered by senators McConnell and Reid respectively—but we all can surely agree that the process by which it has been achieved is a vivid emblem of our sad and seriously dangerous state of governmental dysfunction.

Inevitably the American “health care debate” has been the occasion of a good deal of journalistic comparison of the medical “models” (the preferred French term) of the United States and France. A similar comparative interest has several times been expressed privately, by French friends or acquaintances. Michael Moore’s Sicko, which offered a view of French medicine nearly as complimentary as its account of the American scene was critical, has not surprisingly enjoyed a certain smug approbation in this country. I have a generally dim view of Mr. Moore, not to mention of French smugness; but the messengers of unwelcome truth are not infrequently obnoxious.

The HEGP, or Hôpital Européen Geogres Pompidou. The most important word is the E-word, which differentiates this institution from...

The political ordeal we are experiencing in America at the moment really doesn’t have much to do with “medical care” per se. It is a question, rather, of the economics of medical care. It does seem likely that the new bill will significantly increase the number of Americans who have some level of medical insurance. That is, the bill will indeed have an effect on the financing of medical care. Its effect on actual medical care itself is a subject of speculation, but there is good reason to worry. Since I am not an expert in the economics of medicine I can but offer comparative comment, anecdotally of course, on medical care itself.

My extensive experience with American medicine has been, in a single word, good. During my entire working life I had access to “employer-provided” medical insurance that was adequate for me and my family, and I was living in places served by numerous general practitioners and specialists. My experience with Medicare I would have to describe as excellent, especially since it has been supplemented by a reasonably priced private policy that has left me with a maximal worst case liability of ten percent. As for my actual family doctor—Dr. Y. H. of the Princeton Medical Group—she is superb. She is superb once you get to her, that is, but getting to her involves infiltrating a wall of “helpers” about as porous as the front line of the Notre Dame football team.

...the HAP, or Hôpital Americain de Paris. Five medicos in search of a patient...

Two years ago, while in Paris, I developed what I experienced as a generalized malaise accompanied by shortness of breath. After a while it dawned on me that it was connected with the sensation of an irregular heartbeat. It was in fact the onset of atrial fibrillation, although I did not know that at the time. My daughter, quite concerned, turned to the Internet to find a cardiologist in our arrondissement—which happens to house the Hôpital Georges Pompidou. (In France, many of the academic specialists split their hours of consultation between private and hospital offices.) This man (Dr. E.) was able to meet me at the hospital on the following day, but that was not the first unusual aspect of the experience. When my daughter phoned him, he himself answered the phone. The only thing disturbing in an otherwise wholly positive experience was that he insisted on speaking English. He had spent some months at the Mass General in Boston, and his English was pretty good—just not quite good enough to keep him from petrifying me. “I zink I know what is wrong with you,” he said, after a brief tour of the stethescope. “Your hert, your hert iz not working any more.” He then pumped a horse-syringe full of some liquid blood-thinner into me, to hold me until I could get to a pharmacy for my own supply—all of which was a temporary precaution until the orally administered Coumadine could begin to take effect in a few days. To be absolutely sure that his diagnosis was sound he sent me immediately (meaning within a few hours) to another hospital where a friend of his (Dr. B.), another alumnus of Mass General and this time the owner of a fine Boston accent, recorded an echo cardiogram. Dr. E. then saw me for two more extensive follow-up visits in which he outlined for me the practical meaning of atrial fibrillation, which would require either the permanent re-establishment of a normal rhythm (not easily done) or a continuing pharmacological course of small doses of rat poison. For four extended consultations, including several electro-cardiograms and an echo cardiagam, the fee was three hundred euros, which I paid in cash, without any formal billing procedure, though I was supplied with the receipts that probably would have worked for at least partial Medicare reimbursement, had I thought it worth the while to face the American bureaucratic hassle of seeking it.

I’ve had two other occasions to visit the office of a general practitioner. Each resolved the problem that had led me to seek a doctor’s help and prescribed effective medicine. Each charged me seventy euros for the visit, again paid in cash, and without the hassle of elaborate forms, bills with malfunctioning return envelopes, and the other stuff I have become inured to at home. I had to see one other specialist, a urologist—my ailments all being, alas, age and gender specific. This man is another academic expert, and he was a bit more expensive—120 euros. This man did have a receptionist, but she played no part beyond the decorative in my medical transaction. An amusing feature of our encounter was that I concluded he must have seen me before. By curious chance his son took a Ph.D. at Princeton a few years ago, and the father attended the Commencement ceremony, at which I must have been the chief marshal! He told me how impressed he was that all the seniors were able to understand the Latin of the salutatory address! So, you can fool some of the people some of the time.

Prescription drugs are delivered free of a purchase charge to French residents who possess the indispensable carte vitale—a sort of combination social security and medical insurance document that is the “Open, Sesame” of the socialized French “model”. I have no such card, of course, nor do I merit it by paying the taxes that actually pay for the medicine. But since the over-the-counter cost of drugs here is seldom so much as a quarter of the American price, this hasn’t been an issue either.

My experience allows two other observations. The first is that French pharmacists are trained to a high level. Many ordinary Frenchmen turn with confidence to the pharmacist for colds and sniffles and routine aches and pains. I suspect that some of the people in the always crowded waiting room at the Princeton Medical Center could usefully do the same thing. The second is the private testing laboratories, which are numerous throughout Paris, offer a cheaper and certainly greatly more convenient way of accomplishing routine blood tests and urine scans than is generally available in America. At least in my experience the contrast with a couple of Quest labs I visited in America, where the sullen staff seemed only marginally competent, could hardly be more dramatic.

And on that note, a happy New Year to all!

Merry Christmas

My blog is intended for a general readership, but I cannot always suppress my parochial particularities. I hope that whatever holiday you celebrate will be a happy one. If you celebrate none at all, let that abstention be no less happy. But Christmas has always been a big thing in my life, and I cannot pass over it without comment. As my friend Geoffrey said in another context, if you don't like this post, turn over the page until you find one you like better.The historical origins of our iconography of Christmas—snowmen, jingle bells, Yule logs, etc.—are capricious. How did Christmas come to fall in December? Easy: traditional chronology plus observed obstetrics. Otherwise the ripening grain would be an apter Christmas symbol than the pinecone. You may be unaware what time of year, exactly, God created the heavens and the earth; but medieval people had no doubts at all. Chaucer writes of “...the monthe in which the world bigan, /that highte March, whan God first maked man...” This business about the year beginning on January first is simply reinstituted paganism, secular humanism run amuck. Think about what the word “September” must mean. I am at the moment reading in the autobiography of George Sand and was delighted to find in one of her legal documents of 1848 the month abbreviated thus: 7bre. September is the seventh month by God’s reckoning.

These people also knew two other things: first, that God would have made the New Adam at the same season he made the Old Adam, and, second, that it takes nine months for a baby to gestate. In the beginning was the Word; and a child conceived at the beginning will come to term in December. The next bit of historical whismy was that by the high Middle Ages, when people began to pay a little attention to Christmas, Christendom was much more west and north than it was south and east. Hence Christmas cold, Christmas snow.

So it seems appropriate that the days leading up to Christmas have been very cold in Paris. Actually that means only a few degrees below freezing, but it was enough to halt the EuroStar. Overwhelming the mainly symbolic heating arrangements in our apartment was child’s play compared with that feat. There was a little snow, and since the Parisians have no idea what to do with it, it was soon trampled into slush which, when frozen overnight, makes the sidewalks treacherous, especially in the dark, which descends about five in the afternoon and is with us until eight in the morning.

Thus just as the frenzy of the pre-Christmas rush threatens to overwhelm, meteorological conditions have encouraged something very different, slowing down a bit. I find that coerced inactivity is seldom very productive. Sitting for three or four hours in a plastic bucket seat in an airport waiting for a long-delayed flight is my idea of penal servitude, and probably the kind the Constitution calls “cruel and unusual”. But this week I have found myself unwontedly reflective. What I have been reflecting about would not be easy to explain. In one of the fine old Prayer Book phrases it is “all the blessings of this life”. One of the most conspicuous of present blessings is our Paris church home, Trinity Cathedral, aka the “American Cathedral in Paris”.

Trinity Cathedral is a George Edmund Street building, and therefore necessarily gorgeous. Street was one of the great neo-Gothic architects, the peer of the American Ralph Adams Cram, architect of the Princeton Chapel. It was built in the late nineteenth century by the kind of expat Episcopalians you read about in Henry James or, even better, in Edith Wharton, who herself represented the strain in its purest form—upper-crust, cultivated, and moneyed. Such characteristics were perhaps prerequisites for people like Christopher Newman in The American, who could hang out endlessly being thwarted by the odious relatives of Claire de Cintré. A few days ago in the Carnavelet Museum I saw a painting by Jean Béraud dating from 1890 and therefore prior to the dictatorship of internal combustion, showing the street in front of the Cathedral filled with the carriages arriving to fetch the parishioners after Christmas morning service. Unfortunately I can find no photograph of it. There is in it, I think, a hint of the satire more blatantly present in the better-known “The Bourgeois’s Outing”?

This church of expatriates really became a French national treasure at the time of the Great War and the temporary euphoria of the post-Armistice period, no doubt the apogee of Franco-American amity in the twentieth century. You may be surprised to learn that Hemingway and Gertrude Stein were not the only Americans in Paris in the Twenties and Thirties; and quite a few of the others went to church. The Cathedral was the center of culturally and socially elite networks not unlike those of the great New York parishes (especially Trinity and St. Thomas) with which it has historic connections.

Today it has perhaps lost the social cachet it enjoyed in the belle époque, but it has gained something far more precious: social purpose. Its ambitious music program makes it an important contributor to the Parisian cultural scene. Its "Service of Lessons and Carols," which I attended last week, was packed with music enthusiasts. Its work among the poor and the needy—Jesus himself said that “you will always have the poor,” and I can assure you that the European social model has abolished neither poverty nor need—is impressive. There is a strong youth program. And the really little kids just put on the most tolerable of all the Christmas pageants I have ever sat through—a number that is large and positive. Not that the belle époque has entirely vanished, mind you. At Christmas Eve Eucharist two years ago one of the lay readers was Olivia de Havilland. Yes, that would be the Olivia de Havilland who with Vivien Leigh and Clark Gable was one of the stars in the film of Gone With the Wind (1939). [Christmas Eve update: she's still doing it.]

There are many interesting decorations and memorials in and around the church. Among the most intriguing is this replica of the famous Black Madonna of Czestochowa, the national icon of Poland. It was placed in the church in fulfillment of a vow made by a Polish soldier, and it typifies the international and ecumenical flavor of the congregation.

But my experience of it has been chiefly that of a vibrant spiritual community. It has an excellent educational program, and we became swept up in it immediately. But most impressive is the nature of the congregation. Every shade of Anglican is to be found there—and by “shade” I refer both to skin pigment and theological opinion. There must be some nation of the earth that goes unrepresented, but I’d be hard pressed to tell you which that is. Many members are long-term American expatriates; but there are also many French members. There is a fairly serious attempt at bi-lingualism. Many others are like us, migratory birds, short-termers who are nonetheless encouraged and enabled to make quick and bonding friendships.

Though the role of the clergy is too often exaggerated in assessing the nature of Christian community, it surely does not hurt that the Cathedral has two superb full-time priests and an apparently never-failing succession of interesting visitors. The quality of the preaching—the consistent quality--is really extraordinary. I have spent much of my life studying medieval friars, but the first time I ever heard Meister Eckhart quoted from the pulpit was last Sunday. The Dean had found a passage in Eckhart—actually a medieval commonplace, but beautifully expressed by the Dominican mystic—that sums up the whole truth about Christmas. It is not a truth likely to be popular with the Israeli Tourist Board or the hawkers of souvenirs in the plaza in front of the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem, but it is finally very comforting. That truth is that it doesn’t really matter very much when and where Jesus was actually born, whether in stable or cave, whether in “the bleak midwinter” of December or the dog days of August. The obviously mythic accounts of the gospels present a cosmic event, not the necessary data for a form required of the Bureau of Vital Statistics. No, what really matters is where Christ will next be born. Meister Eckhart knew that place must be within the hearts of those who would follow him.