In a 1912 poem, Ezra Pound wrote, “Winter is icumen in.” Pound’s “Ancient Music” parodies a 13th century Anglo-Saxon poem that begins “Sumer is icumen in” (sic). Hardly a novel idea: “Here comes winter.” Happens every year, no? We want to prepare.
In the first century, from one of Nero’s prisons, St. Paul wrote to his friend Timothy, who was way over on the other side of the Mediterranean, “Do your best to come before winter.” Anticipating a visit, Paul included a list of supplies he needed in this prison, from which he assumed (correctly) that he would never leave.
A big storm hit yesterday. Thunder. Lightning. Rain – an inch here, an inch there. Symbolically, it seemed – as I was watching “Parenthood” – that this storm was blowing away the remnants of summer. For here it is October already. Autumn even.
It’s that time of year when, every year, we cry out for less heat, more cool. In even-numbered years – especially this even-numbered year – some of us cry out for November to get here. And quickly! So the election can be over. And winter? It’ll be icumen in, just any day now.
An editorial I read the other day reached out and grabbed me. The writer told of how a certain campaign manager had “issued an indignant statement full of phrases: ‘total lack of integrity … desperate Chicago-style politics … attempt to steal the election.’ Please, [name omitted], less heat, more light.”
What a great phrase! “Less heat, more light.” Four words. Seventeen letters. Regrettably, it’s too long for one crossword entry and won’t parse to two that could be symmetrically placed. Enough about form. What about substance?
I believe the editorial writer was gently accusing the campaign manager of begging the question.
(If you just thought, “What question?,” then read my column from January 2012. Google up “Fleming” “beg” “question,” and it’ll pop right up. In that column, I cited the “Newhart” episode in which Dick hosts a “World’s Smallest Horse” contest. When a local guy brings in a tiny pony, Dick asks how the owner knows his horse is indeed the world’s smallest. The owner replies, “Look at him!”)
Less heat, more light. Less conclusion, more fact. Less vitriol, more reason. Read that: “Calm down. Tell us the story. Let us conclude whether your candidate’s being treated unfairly.”
About the time the news was breaking on the story alluded to above, I was having dinner in the home of a friend. I was asked to light the candles on the dinner table. There were nine in each of two large holders. My goal was to use only two matches. I singed myself lighting candle 17, the matchstick turning black around my finger. “Ouch!” Too much heat! Abandoning my goal, retreating to reason, I used a third match.
Eighteen candles shed a lot of light on a wonderful dinner that evening. But they didn’t put out much heat. For heat, you could walk outside, as summer was still hanging around. But winter is icumen in. I can feel it in the air.
Vic Fleming is a district court judge in Little Rock, Ark., where he also teaches at the William H. Bowen School of Law. Contact him at vicfleming@att.net.