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It was a hot muggy August night, I was listening to an old live album from Neil Diamond, can’t remember the name, Live at the Greek or some such. The music was putting me in a sentimental mood. I was in the mood for history. I had had a history with history.
I hadn’t always been a solitary man. There was a woman whom had enchanted me 25 years previously. I recent chance encounter at the Westport Library has rekindled the flame. I was at the used paperback kiosk when I saw the object of my affection. But it had been 25 years, would it feel the same?
I’ll put it bluntly, I’m in love with Barbara Tuchman. Her writing is so fleshy. She puts flesh on the bones of history. Exactly a quarter of a century ago I had grasped at her body of work in the August nights of 1990. It was a like a distant mirror reflecting another time. A Distant Mirror; her book about the plague ridden and war torn 14th century of death. The body of Europe had never been so vivid that I could really reach out and grab her (Europe), in a literary sense.
And now, I had almost forgotten, but never quite forgot, that summer of reading, I picked her up again. Face to face with her ideas, I am now reading The Guns of August, winner of the Pulitzer Prize for general non-fiction in 1962.
So much comes to mind; such as how could I have let her go for 25 years. How much I have changed since then? She is even more beautiful than ever, as a writer. The Guns of August is just so good — I can’t believe it. No other history writer makes me feel the way she does. With her I feel alive, smart and that anything is possible.
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Her opening passage is so beautiful. But first, I must say that the librarian was very gracious to let me have the book even though I was sans the obligatory .50 cents. In fact, I have made a special note to self to square that one soon. But her opening, her style, her use of language and her udder and complete mastery of knowledge of the events and characters leading up to WW1 is more than astounding, more than amazing, it’s miraculous.
At night I hop into bed clutching her book with sweaty palms. Sweat dripping from my forehead as I delve into her genius. She is painting a picture for me like no other woman, in my past, or in my future ever will. She makes history sexy. I feel like such a shlump for letting all those years go by.
“Baby, I will never leave you again!”
“Barbara, tell me more. I just can’t get enough, mama!”
Barbara Tuchman is my history sugar mama now and I don’t care who knows it, I want the world to know.
