In Memory Tobie Meyer-Fong As this issue of Late Imperial China went to press, the editors learned of the death at the age of 88 of Harold L. Kahn, who taught Chinese history at Stanford for most of his multi-decade career. A beloved teacher and leader in the field, Hal once described himself as an “inadvertent radical,” and professed that the three things at the core of his being were “food, words, and baseball.” While his culinary acumen, verbal wit, and love of the game were known to many, Hal defined himself and the field through his generous gifts as a friend and mentor. He will be remembered for his still-relevant work on the Qianlong emperor, published in 1971, and for the masterful and often humorous letters of recommendation that he wrote on behalf of his students (a medical school once called to offer him admission after reading a letter he wrote for an undergraduate). Having signed up for the PhD program in political science at Harvard following a Fulbright year in Sweden, he switched to Chinese history at the invitation of John King Fairbank, who observed that Kahn had already mastered a tonal language (Swedish). Hal followed an unconventional path, proudly telling his PhD students that he had not attended an Association for Asian Studies annual meeting since 1968—even as he urged them to attend and present papers themselves. He wore Birkenstock sandals and ancient flannel shirts and a Panama hat to the office, which was filled (literally) floor to ceiling with what seemed to be every important work published on Chinese history in English, Chinese, and Japanese. He stored articles and student work in precariously stacked file cabinets and declared fearlessness in the face of potential earthquake risk. He taught his students the vital importance of writing (and cooking) well, insisted that they find their own scholarly voices, and included them in Thanksgiving dinners and hiking trips to Mt. Tamalpais and the California coast. He regaled his friends with the stories of how he drove a taxi in New York during one sabbatical and about his experiences of onsen and the student movement in Japan in the 1960s. He gently engineered connections among his former students, creating a multi-generational network of friends and scholarly influences. He took tremendous pride in his students’ accomplishments, whether they remained in the profession or not. A rebel and an aesthete, he sought his own path, read voraciously, commented abundantly, and taught by example the signal importance of originality, generosity, rigor, and independence. He possessed wideranging knowledge of literature and the arts—and suggested novels and exhibits to all and sundry. He shared his office with students, friends, visiting scholars, and famously, with canine companions—one of whom, he observed, took his Qing documents course several times—and never learned a damn thing. The rest of us learned more than we can express. And for that, and for his remarkable example, we will always be grateful. December 2018 Copyright © 2019 Society for Qing Studies and Johns Hopkins University Press