Autumntide of the Middle Ages Jean McGarry (bio) Autumntide of the Middle Ages, by Johan Huizinga, edited by Anton van der Lem and Graeme Small, and translated by Diane Webb (Leiden University Press, 2020), 592 pp. Reading the newly translated Waning of the Middle Ages hit me like sudden death—not so much the dying part, as the instant review of a long life. Reabsorbing the antic contents of Huizinga’ s history (now entitled Autumntide) sparked a version of the search-and-recover expedition harkened by the sled called Rosebud, and the French cookie, Madeleine. The Dutchman’s freewheeling account of 14th and 15th-century France and the Low Countries, now richly seeded with full-color illuminations, rang bell after bell, until I realized that it was the key to almost every chapter of my own life. How could that be? It began nearly half a century ago, upon the purchase of The Waning of the Middle Ages, a yellow paperback, picked up probably at the Harvard Coop, in an effort to ground my senior project deciphering The Garden of Earthly Delights, Hieronymus Bosch’s infamous painting, whose fever-dream agonies and ecstasies papered many a dormitory wall. I was then a student in Social Relations, a department now deleted from the catalogue, but I was already halfway out the door, tiring of the likes of the turgid Talcott Parsons, the wild Thomas Szasz, and the witty David Reisman, and the possibility of edging toward greener pastures opened up in a single course, Fine Arts 13, Harvard’s year-long survey of art. And I had the brass—or maybe just the foolishness—to think that I could master the swarming history of the 14th and 15th centuries in a few months: and, in those countries whose borders were fluid, culture and politics devilishly complex, and where I had none of the historical background, and only one of the languages. If that weren’t brazen enough for a 21-year-old dilettante, then I’d add to the task a sweeping socio-psychological diagnosis of the artist and his times. And for the cherry on top, my first chapter was rendered in dramatic form, setting some of the characters: Philip the Bold, Philip the Good, Philip the Fair, along with Mary of Flanders, Mary of Burgundy, Mary of York—not to mention Charles the Bold and John the Fearless—as actors [End Page 127] in a talk fest, imagined and staged by me. When—truth be told—I could hardly keep them straight and separate from each other. Do I need to say that—in the eyes of my three or four faculty examiners—my opus fell sublimely flat? These were the days when Freud was no longer on the collegiate menu, so I hadn’t taken a single course, nor read a word. The first question at my thesis defense was what the father of psychoanalysis would have thought of HB. I floundered and fumbled, sitting before my inquisitors in the penthouse of William James Hall. How could I possibly know what Freud would have thought? Shame haunted me for years after this fiasco. I remember lying on the floor of my attic dorm room, wondering how I could go on living, let alone deposit the wreckage of this thesis in the library, a requirement for the degree. But, to my delight and astonishment, I have discovered—only half a century later—that Huizinga shares the blame for the collegiate debacle. He started it, with an account too brilliant, too confusing, too distracting, spiced with quotes from nutty clerics, poets, inquisitors, saints, and martyrs. He himself was burdened with too much reading—and too much imagination—to mount a clear structure for his opus. And now I know. I’m not saying his masterpiece reads like my thesis, but that its swarming, spinning, recycling, and all-too-expressionistic methods gave me license to forgo logic, coherence, factual reliability, you name it. I felt invited to do my thing, and sure enough, during my trial, one of the triune judges, who settled on my grade of “no distinction,” quipped that, perhaps, I was better off becoming a novelist. Although...
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