A farewell, and an open call.

Richard Fleming here, firstborn son of Professor John V. Fleming, writing uninvited in the shadow of greatness. It is with deep sadness that I report to you, the readers of gladlylerne, the passing away of my father on May 30th, ten days after his 90th birthday. He is desperately missed by his three children Richard, Katy, and Luke, and by his wife of 62 years, Joan.

Princeton University, where Dad taught for more than forty years and inspired multiple generations of students with his unfathomable erudition and enthusiasm, has published a moving obituary, here.

Please join us for a memorial in the Princeton University Chapel on Friday, September 25th at 1:30 pm.

If you have a memory of my father, an anecdote or story you would like to share, please send it to richardarthurfleming@gmail.com.

War Years in Denver

                                       Denver: the Mile-High City Today
 

Katherine Fleming, who somehow finds time around the edges of her bi-coastal, intercontinental professional life to be an exemplary wife, mother, and daughter, is encouraging me to go full-bore autobiographical in some of my blog posts.  Though my protestations of a poor memory are sincere and appropriate, I am willing to give it a try, as I did in a previous post dealing with two or three fugitive memories of my birthplace, Gary, Indiana.  The next acts were played out in Baxter County, Arkansas, in the Ozarks, which I would come to speak of as my home, to the degree I had one, and in Denver, Colorado, where I spent the War years living with my maternal grandparents in a house, still extant when I last checked about twenty years ago, at 1600 Albion Street in Park Slope on the east side of the city.

 

My mother’s family name was Janet Elizabeth Davidson (1909-1979).  Her father, James Alexander (Alex) Davidson, was a railroad engineer who spent many years working for the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad Company on a narrow-gauge line that began in Salida, Colorado, and ran down, eventually, to Lordsburg, New Mexico.  This is probably among the most scenic railroad geography in the world.  And in his day, it could be exciting.  He told me that on his very first trip to that destination, he found most of the town’s citizens industriously engaged in hanging a man.  Grandad Davidson was a native-born American of immigrant Irish parents.  Janet’s mother, Cora Louise Nelson, of English stock, was an orphan girl born in Vincennes, Indiana, but mainly raised by a great aunt on the Red River in northeast Texas.  This woman, whom I of course never met, was named Montgomery, and referred to by my grandmother, with affection, as “Auntie Gommer”.  I do not know how Cora Louise came to be a school teacher in Salida, but it was there she met and married Alex.  The eldest of the four offspring of James Alexander and Cora Louise, who must have been born some years before 1900, was Vincent, to whom I owe my own middle name.  He was for my grandmother a never-ending grief, a perfect first-born young man struck down in youth by dread disease (poliomyelitis?), living first on crutches and then with an amputated leg.  He died before quite having come to his majority.  As a father I can but speculate about the effect of this loss on the parents, but it seems to have been an indelible sadness, and perhaps unhealthily repressed.  To my grandmother Davidson I owe many debts, but especially my serious, if unfortunately slacking and intermittent, engagement with Christian church life, which continues to be an important aspect of my world view.

 

These were the heady days of democracy in America.  My grandfather, a railroad engineer, was (with several other proletarians) an elected member of the state legislature.  When his second child, a female,  was born, she was officially given the unusual Christian name Heartz by legislative act.  A Mrs. Heartz had been the first elected female legislator in the new state, and I believe was still serving at the time.  About twenty-five years ago, at one of the fancy dos I used to attend, I met a high official in the current Colorado legislature who was interested in this story and later did a little research and sent me the confirmatory results.

 

There are mysteries surrounding my mother.  Physically, she was striking, slightly more than six feet tall.  She had been married to, and divorced from, a man referred to as Van.  His full name was VanDeventer, and he was a native of Elberon, New Jersey.  (This coastal place appears to be about forty miles due east of where I now live, and may now be a neighborhood rather than a geographical entity.)  But around 1928 Van was trying to find a gold mine in the Rockies.  There is a Vandeventer Street in Princeton, which I ought to try and research a bit.  Van was the biological father of my elder brother—so technically half brother--Peter, though neither Pete nor anybody else had any sense of “halfness”, and never expressed interest in exploring it.  There is much that is opaque about this first marriage of my mother, which played no part in her later life.

 

The war had hardly begun before my father (Marvin Dale Fleming) enlisted in the Navy and it was decided that my mother, my two brothers, and I would take up residence with my maternal grandparents in Denver.  Here precise memory fails me.  All I actually remember is that one day I was somewhere and another I was in Colorado.  In all the years I knew him, that is, the War years, my grandfather Alex was already very old and totally blind.  He seemed to me infinitely noble, patient, heroic even.  He spent his days in a living room armchair endlessly listening to the news, practically all of it war news.  The radio was huge and somehow rather ecclesiastical in appearance, topped with a Gothic arch.  He moved about a bit, having memorized the route to the bathroom with such perfection that he always made the trip with the same number of counted footsteps and the precise repositionings of his  walking stick.   He became expert at lighting and relighting his unseen pipe with unseen matches, and we simply learned to live with the daily fire hazard.  The house is still there: still 1600 Albion Street.

 

One day I had the following strange encounter.  After ascertaining that nobody else was in the house, Grandad asked me, “Johnny, do you ever play with yourself?”  I was puzzled.  “Yes, I guess, if there is nobody else to play with.”  I had in mind that vast imaginative world to which all young children have access, in which they by an interior magic become explorers, inventors, war heroes. Only years later did I realize that my grandad was talking about masturbation, concerning which, at the age of eight, I was innocent and of course uncomprehending.  But though I had not the slightest idea what he was talking about, I was nonetheless shocked to hear the confidential attribution of his blindness to having played with himself seventy years earlier.

 

Our neighborhood was surprisingly “multicultural”.  Just across the way was a sweet old couple of Italian speakers.  A German-American neighbor named Geiseking, an enthusiastic ham radio guy, had set up in his back yard a kind of miniature Eiffel Tower.  There were several Jewish families living in the neighborhood.  I remember being nearly awestruck by the old, bearded grandfather of one acquaintance who in the summer sat endlessly reading on his side porch, eye glasses a half inch thick, hair wild like a woman’s.  I also came to realize that the Jews, like the Christians, came in different denominations.  One Jewish contemporary of mine, speaking scornfully of another, said “He calls himself a Jew, but he…” (unfortunately I cannot remember the specific disqualifying vice practiced by the pseudo-Hebrew.)  Funnily enough, one of the Jewish kids in the group sort of blipped across my radar fifty years later as having spent a long career as a teacher of Dante’s Commedia at Wesleyan University and a fellow Rhodes Scholar of 1958.  What are the chances?

 

At the time I was unaware of the tensions and frictions that our invasion of four had inflicted on my already elderly grandmother, but I later came to realize that they had been substantial and contributed substantially to the already difficult situation in which my mother was living during the War years.  The house on Albion Avenue was large enough provided that my elder brother and I slept in the attic, which was a pretty spooky and chilly place, necessitating what seemed a long walk up a dimly lit staircase.  We fought against the winter chill with ceramic hot water bottles in the shape of pigs.  These strange warming devices had to be handled very carefully, and more than once one of them would leak, so that we were not merely sleeping in the cold, but in the wet cold.  A child’s view of life is often vivid, but of course very partial.  Only eighty years later have I come to understand the force of the famous French maxim attributed to Mme de StauuStSSSS  lStael, tout comprendre, c’est tout pardoner.  To understand everything is to forgive everything.  And though it is never possible to “understand everything,” I can but hope our own children can understand and, understanding, forgive, most of it.

Rabelaisian

François Rabelais (d. 1554)

 

One sign that a writer has attained truly classical status is the assignment to him or her of an individual identifying adjective of eponymity: Chaucerian bawdy, Shakespearean majesty, Miltonic grandeur, Hardyesque pessimism, Woolfian subtlety, whatever.  (Please do not be put off by this florid introduction; I am practicing for a “Most Pretentious Sentence of the Week” contest in which I hope to compete.  If “eponymity” isn’t a word, it ought to be one—meaning, of course, “that which gives its name to a habit, style, custom, or practice”.)

 

But it is true that I am perpetually reading such authors—meaning reading and rereading them in snatches, with no sense or desire of actually finishing them or even controlling a confident sense of where I am or where I am going with them or what they said the last time I picked them up.  A few such works are generally lying around my bedstead, and when I wake up in the middle of the night and feel a little too awake to just roll over on my pillow I turn on the bed lamp and, with minimal comprehension, pick up one of my interminables, and spend a half hour with it.  By then a renewed powerful somnolence has generally returned.  The interminable of the moment is the works of Rabelais, five volumes in obsolete French, so the going is very slow, the prospect of completion very remote. Alternatively, I have an anthology of three books of Rachel Carson, a beautiful writer of English prose, The Sea Around Us.  Carson is extraordinary in the scope and precision of her vocabulary.    But her popular oceanography is still very much science, and often beyond my sure grasp.  Yet I read on, and with enjoyment if not total confident comprehension.   

 

But getting back to Rabelais, he is very much a writer who commands his own adjective.  What is Rabelaisian is big, bold, boisterous, and bawdy.  This is all true, though too many of his readers, including not a few experts in the field of Renaissance literature, even several of the contributors to the Rabelais Encyclopedia (2004), have in my opinion missed the forest in the trees.  Rabelais is a satirical Christian moralist.  His learning is immense, but the frequently ironical nature of its deployment is startlingly original and seems anything but pious.  Yet as a default Christian believer he seems never to have entertained any other vocational ideal than that of the religious life.  Here he got off to a false start by entering the Franciscan Order which, though it produced many important theologians, did not on the whole foster cloistered erudition.  He was happier for a time with traditional Benedictine monachism, but eventually developed his own largely independent interpretation of the ascetic life, as so also did Erasmus, Thomas More, and several other eminent intellectuals of the period.  At the center of the learned life of such men was a unifying and traditional intellectual quest: the study of the Bible.  They believed the Bible at once to be transparent in its central historical presentation and moral doctrines and infinitely subtle, profound, oblique and challenging in its allegorical presentation.  It was a gentle brook in which the lamb could safely wade, and a mighty river in which the elephant could plash and swim.  So had said Gregory the Great.

 

Throughout the length of his own huge book or (books) Rabelais refers repeatedly to the biblical model: narrative with both a surface meaning and a hidden one that must be coaxed out with labor and ingenuity.  Furthermore there are in his work literally hundreds of biblical citations and allusions, many of the latter of which are artistically purposeful and wittily constructed.  Rabelais was of that stripe of traditional author who demands much of a reader.  If you were reading his book, he seems to assume, you must have read many others before.  I have in a long lifetime covered a good deal of his implicit reading list, but obviously not enough of it.  While he was no ordinary churchman, Rabelais’s satirical attitudes are consistent with a major strain of Christian polemic as found in many of his famous predecessors including Dante and, especially, Jean de Meun in the Roman de la Rose.  But I must not get lost in the weeds.  Few things are more annoying than being told that you must read some book you have never heard of in order to understand some other such book.  But any adventurous reader with a healthy sense of humor can enjoy Rabelais’s books.  If you have an unhealthy sense of humor, you are guaranteed to enjoy them.

 

His five books deal with the lives and adventures of two giants, Gargantua and Pantagruel, father and son.  The books combine studied, comical crudity with a remarkable erudition, social satire, and learned anecdote.  Rabelais was among the first generation of European humanists for whom a command of the Greek language would be an expectation, and his Greek erudition is often on display.  But he was no less deeply immersed in the living experience of his own times.

 

Rabelais’s theological anthropology is traditional, though uniquely expressed.  As members of the human race we are all bipartite creatures, composed of both body and soul, flesh and spirit.  And though the spirit may be willing, the flesh is weak.  The moral paradox is that the base flesh wars against, and usually conquers the spirit.  Critics long ago settled on the adjective carnivalesque to describe the Rabelasian style.  Caro is the Latin word for flesh.  The adjective carnal comes from this word.  Human nature wants every day to be a Mardi Gras, a “fat Tuesday.”  The literal and metaphorical expression of this sad truth is evident in every act of gluttony, eructation, dipsomania, and lasciviousness in the book—of which there are many.  It is made real in the strange male sartorial acoutrement of the cod-piece.  It is made real in what I can only call the author’s obsession with sausages.  (One book chapter is little more than a nearly endless list of the various names of different sausages available in France!)  He seems particularly partial to the andouille.

 

Around the edges of Rabelais a reader finds a mother load of fascinating detail concerning the material lives of our European ancestors half a millennium ago.  The author intends to be outrageous and succeeds in his intention.  Several of his attitudes, especially those exhibiting premodern clerical misogyny seem to be, and are, offensive to our sensibilities.  Yet though they are obviously designed to shock, they bear the stamp of truth.  The past is a foreign land, very foreign indeed; but like other lands, it can be visited.    Should age or infirmity ever so oppress you as to forbid actual foreign travel, you probably already have the next best thing but an arm’s length away right there on a bookshelf.

 

 

Jeffrey What's-His-Name

 

When troubles arrive, they tend to arrive in cohorts, gangs, and conspiracies.  I would have though I already had enough difficulties in my life without these latest accusations.  But apparently nothing is too absurd for our malign press once their flaring nostrils have sniffed out what they think is a juicy story.  So, loathe though I am to dignify preposterous allegations by seeming to take them seriously, I am going to face these latest ones head-on.  Essentially, there is no truth in them whatsoever.  I barely knew Jeffrey Epstein.  Sort of sallow and shifty-looking, as I recall.  I am not even sure that I am spelling his name correctly.  Maybe it’s Epstien.  I knew a guy named Epstien once.  I can scarcely remember what the man looked like.  What limited contact I had with him, including all seven of my visits to his estate on Little Saint James, were related to the fortuitous coincidence of our shared interest in conchology.  Mr. Epstein maintained at his Caribbean estate a remarkable collection of seashells.  In that very misleading photograph of me with Mrs. Ambercrombie, which has repeatedly been published in the gutter press, we were jointly examining a rare specimen of a shell of the greater spotted whelk.

 

I came to know Mr. Epstein—if you can call an association so superficial “knowing” someone—only because he sought out my opinion on a matter apparently of interest to him, namely alchemy.  Somehow he learned of my work devoted to Chaucer’s Canon’s Yeoman’s Tale.  Whether you are familiar with this particular tale of the great poet, you are probably aware of the science, or rather pseudo-science, of alchemy.  The aim of alchemy was the transmutation of base metals (iron, tin, copper even old tinfoil cigarette wrappers) into gold.  This fantastic project, which captured the attention of even some of the greatest thinkers of the Renaissance and Early Modern periods, had many deluded adherents.  In one of my own books on intellectual history I have devoted several pages to this strange phenomenon. Though rather cagey about the matter, Epstein seems actually to have believed that some similar process, adapted of course to the economic and social realities of modernity, was operative in our own world.   

 

“The so-called ‘Midas Touch’,” he once told me, “is an actual thing.  And I have got it.  A few years ago I was a high school teacher.  Yes, a f------ high school teacher!  Now Bill and Hillary send me birthday cards.”  I have not the slightest idea why he would tell me stuff like that.  I mean,  I barely met the man.  Didn’t really know him at all.  So where all this crap about me and Jeffrey Epstein came from I honestly cannot say.  Most of the time I was down there on the island, he wasn’t even there.  Or if he was, I never laid eyes on him.  There were just all these flunky-types wandering around with platters of hors d’oeuvres.  But my only interest, really, was the sea-shells.  I do have to admit that he had a fantastic collection. Probably the best I have ever seen, actually.  I’ll give him credit for that.

 

Somebody said about Whittaker Chambers that simply knowing the man was an indiscretion.  That’s certainly true as regards Epstein, which is why I am so glad I never knew him, not at all, really.  And of course I have absolutely no idea about the way he died.  Given the least opportunity, and I mean the very least, people will come up with the wildest conspiracy theories.  So naturally you have all this crap now about his death being “suspicious” because he was (supposedly) under continuous surveillance.  He was on so-called suicide watch.   Well…In the first place there is no such thing as “a twenty-four hour suicide watch.”  I mean, people do have to go to the bathroom and such.  Watching somebody, I mean really watching them, is harder work than you might think.  I mean, you really have to keep your eyes open the whole time.   And how long, actually, does it take you to hang yourself, especially when the rope is right there and all?  Now that was a bit of serendipity for Jeffrey.  I bet you could do it in under fifteen minutes, especially if you were really motivated.  And that man was really motivated.  Not that I actually know, of course, but it’s only logical that he would be.

 

From what the papers say, it looks as though there is going to be a lot more stuff coming out.  Why can’t people let sleeping dogs lie?  Why should dozens of more totally innocent people, men whose only fault was the indiscretion of knowing Geoffrey Epstein, be subjected to further embarrassment?  Look at Prince Andrew, for example.  Why that poor guy has been practically ruined simply because he had the bad luck of having Epstein pimping ‘teen-aged girls for him.  Did you listen to his long interview on the BBC a while ago?  They were out for blood, and they got it.  Guilt by association, that’s what it is.  Very un-American.  Likely to be un-British, too.

 

The gossip, innuendo, and baseless rumor is only likely to increase.  I am hoping for a presidential intervention.  Mr. Trump could cut this Gordian knot.  He seems to like to pardon people—selectively of course.  He ought to get Ghislaine Maxwell out of the clink and send her back to England on condition that she never speak, let alone write a word about Jeffrey Epstein for the rest of her life.   I mean, never mention the man’s name, whatever that was.  Slips my mind at the moment.

Extra

 

A VERY SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT

 

I shall hope to continue some semblance of the weekly blog on Wednesday, February 4.  In the meantime, I have an announcement of cardinal importance.  Shortly before midnight last, February 1, 2026, at the NYU Langone Hospital on First Avenue in New York City, our eldest granddaughter, Sophia Fleming-Benite gave birth to a strapping boy, rumored to be name Oliver.  Sophia and her husband Raymond Wang are reported to be in an ecstatic state, while young Oliver demonstrates the appropriately boisterous combination of wonderment and indignation at having been thrust into the World as We Know It.  Unto us a child is born!  Please join us in welcoming him.  My own entirely passive role in this blessed event in my instant transition (let’s call it a promotion) to great-grand-parental status.  I now have a title consonant with the antiquity I feel.

Blizzard of '26

 

The Blizzard of Twenty Six seems to have reached a point of significant remission.  I am going to at least pretend that it has, even though I won’t really know until daylight arrives. And so I am declaring a personal remission as well.  The last ten days have not been without their difficulties on the health front, and my health aide Christie Kadelu and I have been—in the absurd phrase reserved for such occasions—holding down the fort in a kind of unsplendid isolation.  As you may be aware, there has been snow in these parts, quite a lot of it, and no small amount of ice.  Joan is for a while tucked into a rehab facility a few miles up the road.  Our telephonic communication, though frequent, is inevitably a bit wistful.  Not quite Pyramis and Thisbe, but getting too close.  My great buddy Frank is probably at this very moment surveying the Great Pyramid and the Giza Necropolis in Egypt.  He beat the blizzard by about twelve hours, and I won’t be watching any movies with him for the next three weeks.

 

In many ways the big snow is a pleasing distraction.  The tone of our national political life is rarely inspiring, but the current atmosphere seems especially poisonous.  I am loathe to contribute to the near hysteria.  I do not believe that it is 1858, but I do increasingly fear that the spirit of American democracy, if not its actual institutions, is being coarsened and cheapened by fruitless and polemical self-indulgence and self-righteousness.  The Question of America, it seems to me, has always been this: can we possibly live up to our own hype?  This is just my clumsy version of the question famously raised by Abraham Lincoln in his address at Gettysburg.  Can a nation founded on truly democratic ideals actually endure?

 

The explosive atmosphere of mutual distrust and political loathing in Minneapolis is the context in which two of our fellow citizens lost their lives.  Police agents have difficult and dangerous jobs.   They also frequently have big guns.  The principal purpose of big guns is to kill people, so that it is hardly surprising that they frequently do so.  But the pity of it all.  The waste of it all.  The madness of it all.  The two deaths differ in particularity but not in their shared moral insult.  And perhaps reflection over time will acknowledge the madness, and the nation will try to step back from it in honest penitential reflection, though what I see so far is mainly absurd tribal spin.

 

I am moved once again to invoke the Goheen Principle, which I derive from the late and much admired Princeton President Robert Goheen: never be sure that you are more than about eighty per cent right.  The number of hundred percenters seems ever on the rise.  Yet we can, though not without humility, strive with Lincoln, to advance “with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right.”

 

I hope that this brief place-holding post might at least serve as the expression of an intent to return to business as usual next week, by which time I hope to be ambulatory and reasonably compos mentis.  Even have some hopes for the corpus part.

 

Inauspicious

I have been quite ill in the hospital since Christmas, home as of yesterday but still feeling very feeble.   Diagnosis macro flu.  Very debilitating.  Joan is still at the Stonebridge Rehab but doing well.  Man is born unto trouble as the sparks fly upward.  I may well pause the public blog postings.  Heroic help from friends and family.  Happy New Year to all.