Remembering Jay Fliegelman

Most readers of Uncommon Sense will recall Jay Fliegelman as the author of two profoundly influential interdisciplinary studies of the American Revolution: Prodigals and Pilgrims: The American Revolution against Patriarchal Authority, 1750–1800 (1982) and Declaring Independence: Jefferson, Natural Language and the Culture of Performance (1993). Both of these imaginative studies reshaped the study of the period not only in terms of their account of the inner workings of the eighteenth-century Anglo-American world but also, and perhaps more importantly, through their commitment to an interdisciplinary methodology that combined not only literary and historical approaches but also integrated material culture, history of the book, and performance theory before it was fashionable to do so. Fliegelman’s thick descriptions of the literature and culture of British North America reflected his wide-ranging intellectual curiosity. Readers of his work will recall the remarkable ways in which Jay combined interpretations of popular, literary, and political texts with readings of objects (such as chairs, silverware, woodcuts, and clothing) and analyses of visual culture (portraits, history paintings, and newspaper advertisements). He brilliantly assembled such diverse materials to reveal the deep structures of meaning that organized knowledge in the American colonies and early Republic.

Through his books Fliegelman opened up to a new generation of literary scholars a period that had been almost entirely the province of historians. For the most part, early American literature was synonymous with American Puritanism, and the narrative of American literary history typically skipped the century between Edwards and Emerson. Fliegelman made the second half of the eighteenth century a legitimate (and even chic) field for American literary scholars. That he trained a great number of that new generation is no accident. While Jay was justly proud of his books, I think almost anyone who knew him would acknowledge that to him his most important work was his mentorship of graduate students. Simply put, Jay was devoted to his students. In Prodigals and Pilgrims, he studied how the ideal of mentorship and mentoring relationships emerged as a critical concept in the eighteenth century. In his role as dissertation advisor, Jay embodied the best of that ideal: he guided his students gently but firmly, and he sought to bring out the best of each of them, rather than impose his vision upon them. This practice explains why Jay’s students have specialized in such a wide range of subjects and periods and employed a wide variety of methods. Although he impressed certain fundamental intellectual values upon his students, he never demanded that they adopt a specific method or theoretical position (with the possible exception of the importance of close reading). This delicate balance of dedicated mentorship and respect for his students’ intellectual inclinations meant that Jay was not only respected and admired by his students, he was also loved.

Jay was famous among graduate students for his frequent habit of wandering out to the Stanford Quad (when the department was located in the main quad) to engage students in conversation, often right before or after his seminar. Jay’s hunger for conversation was insatiable. He believed in the social nature of knowledge—hence his interest in mentoring relationships in the eighteenth century, his fascination with association copies of books (around which he built a remarkable collection), and his unique engagement with the work of his students and colleagues, about which he was endlessly enthusiastic. Jay not only mentored his students, he also helped countless young faculty make their way through the department at Stanford. He shared his ideas generously, always giving more than he received. I feel incredibly lucky to have been one of those fortunate enough to work with Jay. Like so many of his students, I will be forever in his debt. I know that I am not the only student of his who already misses his enthusiasm: the wild phone conversations, the joy he took in talking about our work, American literature and culture in general, new strategies for teaching, the state of the profession, the goings-on in the Stanford English department, the latest professional gossip, and (not least by any means) the latest book, object, or painting he was trying to add to his ever-expanding collection. Talking to Jay was more than a conversation, it was an experience, and seeing his mind at work, always associating, connecting, speculating, was truly a privilege.

For me the hardest day this year will be the day I land in Chicago for the MLA’s annual conference. The MLA was one of Jay’s favorite events. He didn’t much care for conferences (he rarely participated on panels), but he lived for the job market. Not for himself, of course, but for his students. No one devoted more energy to his students than Jay, and his Herculean efforts on their behalf in the job process testify to the depth of his commitment to his students’ professional careers. He would write a new letter for each occasion when a student or former advisee requested one. These were not ordinary letters. Jay’s letters were famous for the level of specificity with which he described his students’ work and intellect and the excitement he conveyed about each one’s scholarly potential. Jay reveled in the possibilities, the idea of reinventing oneself that, at its best, the job market could represent. In many ways he saw it as a version of sociability. He framed interviews as precisely such an occasion. I remember well how he would emphasize how unique this opportunity was when other scholars wanted to sit with you and talk intensively about your work. Year after year Jay volunteered to serve as the chair of the placement committee. He was a wizard at preparing students to succeed at the job process. He would spend countless hours reading and rereading job letters, counseling, encouraging, coaching, and listening to students’ accounts of their interviews. He would strategize with them, support them, console them, and most of all cheer them on. He did this not only for his own advisees but for all the Stanford graduate students on the job market. It never seemed like a labor to Jay. On the contrary, it invigorated him. So, when I hit the ground in Chicago I will instinctively expect to see Jay and to hear his voice resonating though the hallways. “What’s cooking” would be the exact phrase I’d hear. Jay may not be “bopping along” (another favorite expression) anymore, but he ensured that his legacy would continue to shape the field for decades to come.

Edward Larkin
University of Delaware