In which, in her Woman in the Nineteenth Century, Margaret Fuller eloquently states a set of precepts I should like to live by. I think this is worth quoting at length:

Yet the business of society has become so complex, that it could now scarcely be carried on without the presence of… auxiliaries; and detachments from the army of aunts and uncles are wanted to stop gaps in every hedge. They rove about, mental and moral Ishmaelites, pitching their tents amid the fixed and ornamented homes of men.

In a striking variety of forms, genius of late, both at home and abroad, has paid its tribute to the character of the Aunt and the Uncle, recognizing in these personages the spiritual parents, who have supplied defects in the treatment of the busy or careless actual parents.

They also gain a wider, if not so deep experience. Those who are not intimately and permanently linked with others, are thrown upon themselves; and, if they do not there find peace and incessant life, there is none to flatter them that they are not very poor, and very mean.

A position which so constantly admonishes, may be of inestimable benefit. The person may gain, undistracted by other relationships, a closer communion with the one. Such a use is made of it by saints and sibyls. Or she may be one of the lay sisters of charity, a canoness, bound by an inward vow,—or the useful drudge of all men, the Martha, much sought, little prized,—or the intellectual interpreter of the varied life she sees; the Urania of a half-formed world’s twilight.

Or she may combine all these. Not “needing to care that she may please a husband,” a frail and limited being, her thoughts may turn to the centre, and she may, by steadfast contemplation entering into the secret of truth and love, use it for the good of all men, instead of a chosen few, and interpret through it all the forms of life. It is possible, perhaps, to be at once a priestly servant and a loving muse.

Saints and geniuses have often chosen a lonely position, in the faith that if, undisturbed by the pressure of near ties, they would give themselves up to the inspiring spirit, it would enable them to understand and reproduce life better than actual experience could.

How many “old maids” take this high stand we cannot say: it is an unhappy fact that too many who have come before the eye are gossips rather, and not always good-natured gossips. But if these abuse, and none make the best of their vocation, yet it has not failed to produce some good results. It has been seen by others, if not by themselves, that beings, likely to be left alone, need to be fortified and furnished within themselves; and education and thought have tended more and more to regard these beings as related to absolute Being, as well as to others. It has been seen that, as the breaking of no bond ought to destroy a man, so ought the missing of none to hinder him from growing. And thus a circumstance of the time, which springs rather from its luxury than its purity, has helped to place women on the true platform.

Perhaps the next generation, looking deeper into this matter, will find that contempt is put upon old maids, or old women, at all, merely because they do not use the elixir which would keep them always young. Under its influence, a gem brightens yearly which is only seen to more advantage through the fissures Time makes in the casket. No one thinks of Michel Angelo’s Persican Sibyl, or St. Theresa, or Tasso’s Leonora, or the Greek Electra, as an old maid, more than of Michael Angelo or Canova as old bachelors, though all had reached the period in a life’s course appointed to take that degree.

Just one sentence, from the preface to David M. Halperin’s One Hundred Years of Homosexuality:

The author and publisher of this volume have arranged to donate half of the author’s proceeds from its sale to the San Francisco AIDS Foundation.

Halperin’s book was published in 1990; the preface is dated June 1988. One could write an entire essay—nay, an entire book—on the meaning of Historical Moment and context in historiography just out of that sentence.

Unfortunately, I’m too tired.

From Tom Stoppard’s highly-recommended play The Invention of Love, a dramatization, basically, of all sorts of Oxford drama surrounding Greek love, with a focus on AE Housman. Here is Stoppard’s Wilde talking to Stoppard’s Housman in the Underworld, where they’re both reflecting on their lives; Housman has just told Wilde that he wishes Wilde had been able to live in ancient Greece, that his life was “a chronological error.” Wilde replies thus:

Dante reserved a place in his Inferno for those who wilfully live in sadness—sullen in the sweet air, he says. Your ‘honour’ is all shame and timidity and compliance. Pure of stain! But the artist is the secret criminal in our midst. He is the agent of progress against authority. You are right to be a scholar. A scholar is all scruple, an artist is none. The artist must lie, cheat, deceive, be untrue to nature and contemptuous of history. I made my life into my art and it was an unqualified success. The blaze of my immolation threw its light into every corner of the land where uncounted young men sat each in his own darkness. What would I have done in Megara!?—think what I would have missed! I awoke the imagination of the century. I banged Ruskin’s and Pater’s heads together, and from the moral severity of one and the aesthetic soul of the other I made art a philosophy that can look the twentieth century in the eye. I had genius, brilliancy, daring, I took charge of my own myth. I dipped my staff into the comb of wild honey. I tasted forbidden sweetness and drank the stolen waters. I lived at the turning point of the world where everything was waking up new—the New Drama, the New Novel, New Journalism, New Hedonism, New Paganism, even the New Woman. Where were you when all this was happening?

AEH At home.

In Stoppard’s telling of the story, my sympathy comes down unequivocally on Housman’s side. I don’t know much about Housman’s life—only dimly recall that when we did oral reports on classic poems in high-school English, we dwelt on the martyrdom evident in “Reading Gaol,” while “To an Athlete Dying Young” passed us by without very much imputation of the love that dare not speak its name. But Stoppard makes me think as if Housman has a nobility to be matched against Wilde’s admittedly ostentatious vulgarity; even as both we and Housman admire Wilde for standing up in public, and feel some sympathy for his confession that he still loves Bosie after all that, I find myself thinking that I have much more in common with Housman than I ever will with Wilde. Those of us who are scholars, who make our lives out of quibbling close-readings and maybe write a bit of poetry here and there, who do not make spectacles of ourselves in witness-boxes to be read years later as champions of free expression and martyrs to a cause that did not yet have a name, much less a name like “gay liberation,” I think must sometimes struggle to find in our lives the proof that it was worth it—because we must find something, as Stoppard’s Housman must, to make conversation about with Charon on the ferry ride, and general audiences tend to find the minutiae of Latin philology, or its equivalent, pretty boring.

But Wilde had to start somewhere. He had to be taught Latin and Greek and philosophy and things. And, I suppose, if you were the one who taught Oscar Wilde to scan Virgil—or, better yet, if you were the tutor for whom Wilde wrote his first essay about Plato—I think you could give yourself a pat on the back all the same, even if you spent most of a very exciting period in intellectual and cultural history very much at home.

The final paragraph of Emma Goldman’s 1917 essay “Woman Suffrage”:

The misfortune of woman is not that she is unable to do the work of man, but that she is wasting her life force to outdo him, with a tradition of centuries which has left her physically incapable of keeping pace with him. Oh, I know some have succeeded, but at what cost, at what terrific cost! The import is not the kind of work woman does, but rather the quality of the work she furnishes. She can give suffrage or the ballot no new quality, nor can she receive anything from it that will enhance her own quality. Her development, her freedom, her independence, must come from and through herself. First, by asserting herself as a personality, and not as a sex commodity. Second, by refusing the right to anyone over her body; by refusing to bear children, unless she wants them; by refusing to be a servant to God, the State, society, the husband, the family, etc.; by making her life simpler, but deeper and richer. That is, by trying to learn the meaning and substance of life in all its complexities, by freeing herself from the fear of public opinion and public condemnation Only that, and not the ballot, will set woman free, will make her a force hitherto unknown in the world, a force for real love, for peace, for harmony; a force of divine fire, of life giving; a creator of free men and women.

Though I no longer think that this paragraph from Eleanor Flexner’s classic 1959 Century of Struggle lends itself to a JP topic (as I did an hour ago; my mind has since moved on), I do still like it quite a bit:

The founders of these earliest women’s colleges had this in common with some suffragists: they believed higher education would be the panacea to remedy all evils, just as some suffragists thought that giving woman the vote would open the way to a new golden age (an illusion cherished by reformers in all ages). Sophia Smith in her will put her dream into words: “It is my belief that by the higher and more thorough Christian education of women, what are called their ‘wrongs’ will be redressed, their wages adjusted, their weight of influence in reforming the evils of society will be greatly increased, as teachers, as writers, as mothers, as members of society, their power for good will be incalculably enlarged.”

Now, however, I’m thinking I might write about critiques of the U.S. suffrage movement from the left. Thoughts on this point are of course appreciated.

Picture the scene I’ve laid out here so many times before: an Emily reclined on a couch under an early-20th-century Princeton window, drinking tea out of the ceramic mug she decorated with her first-grade art skills, reading for class by the sunlight that cuts across what she, after the Oxonian fashion, persists in calling a “quad,” torn between the necessity of pushing through pages in order to get done the work that needs to be done, and stopping to enjoy the picture of academic life which would be recorded if someone came along to take a snapshot of this moment, a snapshot that says, How cool is it that this is Emily’s life? How lucky she is!

I wandered off on this self-regarding train of thought because I am reading Macaulay’s History of England today: a book which is not precisely great at holding one’s attention rapt, and that seems so classically historical that it’s impossible not to sit there laughing so much at yourself that you forget to turn the pages. I mean, really: how crazy is it that right now my purpose in life is to read and be able to talk in seminar about things like this, from the fifth chapter of Macaulay’s work:

At sunrise the next morning the search recommenced, and Buyse was found. He owned that he had parted from the Duke only a few hours before. The corn and copsewood were now beaten with more care than ever. At length a gaunt figure was discovered hidden in a ditch. The pursuers sprang on their prey. Some of them were about to fire: but Portman forbade all violence. The prisoner’s dress was that of a shepherd; his beard, prematurely grey, was of several day’s growth. He trembled greatly, and was unable to speak. even those who had often seen him were at first in doubt whether this were truly the brilliant and graceful Monmouth. His pockets were searched by Portman, and in them were found, among some raw pease gathered in the rage of hunger, a watch, a purse of gold, a small treatise on fortification, and album filled with songs, receipts, prayers, and charms, and the George with which, many years before, King Charles the Second had decorated his favourite son. Messengers were instantly despatched to Whitehall with the good news, and with the George as a token that the news was true. The prisoner was conveyed under a strong guard to Ringwood.

Macaulay’s style is obviously pretty novelistic, but the novelist it particularly puts me in mind of is Robert Louis Stevenson, whose Kidnapped I read at least a dozen times in academic year 2002-03. When you hear a song you haven’t heard in years on someone else’s playlist, you suddenly find your mind transported back to the time you first heard it, and what you were thinking and feeling then; I am the same way about stories of 17th- and 18th-century British politics, and the above passage from Macaulay reminds me of an encounter in the Scottish wilderness when Stevenson’s protagonist, David, sees the villainous “Red Fox” assassinated. Macaulay is of course writing about a different century, elaborating upon a different facet of the Stuart story, but here we are nevertheless back searching out rebels from the British countryside! Here we are back with Whigs and Tories and the trouble caused by Scotland and by France as if nothing had ever happened since the first time I heard the Jacobite anthem “Will Ye No’ Come Back Again?” and found myself converted to the sentimentality of a long-dead political cause.

I suppose early modern British politics will always mean my troubled early teenage years, to me. I suppose that reading about them will always seem to me to be as strange a theatrical role as when I strolled down school corridors in petticoats. And I wonder if, then, I might have suspect that after all that’s happened in seven or eight years of adolescence, I might have come back to the Jacobites again. Reader, I cannot tell you how strange it feels.

In honor of the advent of September and the encroaching end of summer, here is an opinion column by “Mc.” in The Princetonian (then biweekly, not daily), June 21, 1877, entitled “Summer Vacation”:

The realization of freedom from all College discipline, from recitations and lectures, is indeed pleasant. But how can we spend our vacation, while refraining from any severe course of study, yet not absolutely wasting our time? The question comes home to each one of us. We err just as much in pursuing a laborious course of study as in passing the Summer in idleness, else vacation would not be vacation. Hence we see that a medium is desirable. Perhaps we can attain that medium no better than in a study of Nature. If we are in the mountains or at the sea shore, the great beauties of Nature, in animal or vegetable life, are exposed to our gaze and invite our closer attention. If we have been studying Botany, in rather a theoretical manner here, supplement it in a practical way there. The satisfaction will be great, and what has seemed nothing but dry nomenclature, will there become a living science.
Most of us content ourselves with admiring a beautiful sunset, or a pleasing landscape, while a deeper scrutiny of Nature would bring to light objects less grand, it may be, but more beautiful in their minuteness and perfection of arangement.
As we choose food that is palatable, so let us take exercise that is pleasant and at the same time instructive.
Again, all expect to do some reading, but care should be taken in our selections. It is doubtful if a Summer given up to a perusal, or rather study, of History, is beneficial. The hot days are not conducive to the proper reading of such heavy matter, and careless reading insures no long remembrance of what is read. Of course, some Histories are exceptions, as those of Macaulay or Motley, for in these the events are not mere facts of the past, but living actualities. We think, however, that we could profitably devote our Summer to the lighter literature and our best fiction. A method is necessary, and if we read Geo. Eliot or Thackeray, we must do it intelligently and comparatively. A good test of our reading is our ability to express our opinion on the success or failure of the author’s character-drawing; and to this end, it is well, after having read a series or volume of an author, to write out our opinion of the work. This aids our faculties of reasoning, of perception and of memory. A Summer well spent will repay us, and we will return with a consciousness of not having wasted three months.

In my defense, I would like to note that it’s been rather cool in the place where I’ve spent the bulk of the summer, thus rendering the point about reading history moot. But “a consciousness of not having wasted three months”? Definitely still looking for that.

The Prince have recently digitized their archives, which hare a total joy to pore over—the rest of the June 21, 1877 issue is filled with questions about how much Princeton should aim to imitate Oxford and Cambridge, and about whether the university culture is sufficiently religious and whether having a religious culture is a good thing. The prose seems more similar to the work of Oxford undergrads from the same period which I’ve been reading than it does to the modern Princeton literary/journalistic scene. (This is probably not all that surprising, but I sometimes forget how strikingly Anglo 19th-century American university culture was.) Definitely worth a look if you have a few minutes—or hours.

New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg’s speech at the Gracie Mansion iftar brought tears to my eyes:

A few quotes worth highlighting:

Islam did not attack the World Trade Center. Al-Qaeda did. To implicate all Islam for the actions of a few who twisted a great religion is unfair and un-American. Today, we are not at war with Islam. We are at war with Al-Qaeda and other extremists who hate freedom.

Freedom and tolerance will always defeat tyranny and terrorism. And that’s the great lesson of the 20th century, and we must not abandon it here in the 21st.

This is a test of our commitment to American values, and we have to have the courage of our convictions. We must do what is right, not what is easy. We must put our faith in the freedoms that have sustained our great country for more than two hundred years.

There is nowhere in the five boroughs of New York City that is off-limit to any religion. And by affirming that basic idea, we will honor America’s values, and we will keep New York the most open, diverse, tolerant, and free city in the world.

This weekend is the anniversary of Martin Luther King, Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech at the August 28, 1963 March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom. Mayor Bloomberg’s remarks are in the best tradition of spiritually compassionate calls for tolerance, equality, and civil liberties which Dr. King epitomized in 1963. This is an American rhetorical and ideological tradition stretching back through the abolitionists, through Jefferson, and across the continent, though there is an argument to be made that it is New York City which best represents this spirit of freedom and inclusion:

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

I have devoted a lot of Facebook time these past couple weeks to promoting the voices of American freedom and acceptance which seek to put right the voices of misunderstanding which misguidedly believe that lower Manhattan is not the place for a Muslim community center. But you don’t have to be a politician whose words make it into a newspaper or onto YouTube to dispel intolerance—all you need to do is to remember that, from some vantage points in lower Manhattan—perhaps the top of the new Freedom Tower will be one of them—you can see the Statue of Liberty.

The conclusion to Virginia Woolf’s “A Room of One’s Own,” which I finally read yesterday:

I told you in the course of this paper that Shakespeare had a sister; but do not look for her in Sir Sidney Lee’s life of the poet. She died young–alas, she never wrote a word. She lies buried where the omnibuses now stop, opposite the Elephant and Castle. Now my belief is that this poet who never wrote a word and was buried at the cross-roads still lives. She lives in you and me, and in many other women who are not here to-night, for they are washing up the dishes and putting the children to bed. But she lives; for great poets do not die; they are continuing presences; they need only the opportunity to walk among us in the flesh. This opportunity, as I think, it is now coming within your power to give her. For my belief is that if we live another century or so–I am talking of the common life which is the real life and not of the little separate lives which we live as individuals–and have five hundred a year each of us and rooms of our own; if we have the habit of freedom and the courage to write exactly what we think; if we escape a little from the common sitting-room and see human beings not always in their relation to each other but in relation to reality; and the sky, too, and the trees or whatever it may be in themselves; if we look past Milton’s bogey, for no human being should shut out the view; if we face the fact, for it is a fact, that there is no arm to cling to, but that we go alone and that our relation is to the world of reality and not only to the world of men and women, then the opportunity will come and the dead poet who was Shakespeare’s sister will put on the body which she has so often laid down. Drawing her life from the lives of the unknown who were her forerunners, as her brother did before her, she will be born. As for her coming without that preparation, without that effort on our part, without that determination that when she is born again she shall find it possible to live and write her poetry, that we cannot expect, for that would be impossible. But I maintain that she would come if we worked for her, and that so to work, even in poverty and obscurity, is worth while.

Happy birthday, 19th Amendment!