In Memoriam: Greg Dening (1931–2008) Paul Turnbull and Shef Rogers Greg Dening died in early March of this year. Our comfort is that to the end this great historian of our sea of islands, our beloved teacher, was able to fill his days writing, finding the right words to speak about the past in all its human richness and complexity. Greg was fond of recalling that his first published writing was about lying in spring grass, observing little things, listening intently to small sounds, and wondering what made these things simultaneously larger by their connections to other phenomena, by being seen in different perspectives. All the histories he was to write were inspired by this sensitive curiosity. He sought, as he often said, to give back to the past its present—to reveal the particularities and possibilities of thought, emotion, and action that life once had. His chosen past was that of the indigenous peoples of Oceania and the ordinary seamen, missionaries, and traders they encountered in the century or so after 1760. He wanted, he wrote, “to celebrate their humanity, their freedoms, the ways they crossed the boundaries around their lives.” Fifty years ago, this was not easy. At that time Pacific historians were heirs to a tradition of history writing that was inherently Eurocentric. When they wrote about Oceanic peoples relative to voyagers and colonial administrators, they did so rendering them little more than exotic backdrops to European achievement. Likewise the “little people” caught up in imperial ambition were thought to be of little or no historical significance compared to the great explorers and makers of empire in the South Seas. Greg was warned that his project would end his career as a historian before it got started, especially given his thinking that in attempting to write this history he could benefit from studying anthropology. However, Greg was by this time a Jesuit priest. This gave him the freedom, he later recalled, “to be engaged utterly and altruistically in learning”—to explore things unconstrained by disciplinary boundaries and academic rivalries. In addition to formal anthropological studies at Harvard, Greg’s twenty years as a Jesuit contributed much to his becoming an acutely sensitive reader of the fragmentary and partial traces of early cross-cultural interactions in Oceania, with a remarkable ability to tease out the possibilities of meaning these interactions had for both islanders and their sea-borne visitors. At the same time, his priestly experiences made him acutely conscious that every particularity of life possesses a breadth and depth that needs to be understood. In Greg’s histories, brief and hastily written records, passing descriptions [End Page 189] of bodily gesture and sound, became transformed into a theater of understanding, in which he sought to reveal through the playing out of localized events their connectedness with larger historical forces. Greg’s suspicion was that often the true significance of events lay in the participants’ having drawn upon deep memories and implicit beliefs. Thus he felt it crucial to write about what was not said, what did not happen, even if this meant risking the accusation of leaving the realism of history for fiction. However, Greg’s priestly experiences left him acutely conscious that writing about the actualities of human experience demanded he take this risk. As he observed about the time of publishing Beach Crossings (Pennsylvania, 2004), his remarkable account of his journeying in the history of Oceania: “There is a multivalency, a multivocality, in every human act. That is its realism.” Greg was Professor of History Emeritus of the University of Melbourne. But in retirement he embarked on a new career through his association with the Centre for Cross-Cultural Research, at the Australian National University. At least once every year, Greg ran a residential program of seminars and workshops for a dozen or so graduate students in history or any other discipline interested in some aspect of past human experience. Greg worked with these students to stimulate their creativity as thinkers and writers. He encouraged them to read the traces of past human experience with all the attentiveness employed in everyday life. He taught them the importance of empathy with those whom they were...
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