Jim Crump: A Sinologist who Loved and Taught The Pleasures of Life

JIM CRUMP: A SINOLOGIST WHO LOVED AND TAUGHT THE PLEASURES OF LIFE Milena Doleželová-Velingerová (University of Toronto) When I came to Ann Arbor in fall of 1965 to accompany Professor Lubomír Doležel, then my husband, during his term as visiting professor at the University of Michigan, I did not know a single person in a place that I found so strikingly different from my own milieu in Prague, Czechoslovakia. After a month or so, when I had become accustomed to such wonders like open stacks in the library or a Xerox machine that allowed me to copy materials longed for a long time but never seen before, I began to long to do work in my own field of interest—sinology. My English at that time, even more idiosyncratic than it is today, prevented me from contacting colleagues in Ann Arbor over the phone, as the mere thought of talking to a person whom I could not see and who would judge me by my broken English frightened, not to say terrified, me. Finally, however, I gathered my courage and decided to try to see Professor James I. Crump, Jr., whose work I knew, during his office hours at the university. This stratagem failed, because as Jim later told me, he seldom honoured this type of commitment. Thus, my only hope to meet him was to wait outside his classroom until the end of the lecture in the hope of identifying him by his professorial appearance. My not entirely accurate mental image of a well-known professor at a famous American university almost prevented my recognising him. Instead of a man of distinguished appearance and corresponding attire, out of the classroom door stepped a sporty-looking man with a trapper’s hat and a mysterious box attached to his belt. Fortunately, he understood my haltingly presented introduction to the effect that I sought him out at the advice of Professor Průšek. Professor Crump invited me to walk with him to the parking lot to discuss the matter further, and on the way I managed to explain about the work I had done on the Liu Zhiyuan zhugongdiao (All Keys and Modes on Liu Zhiyuan), in the hope that this 13th century piece of storytelling and predecessor to the Yuan drama would arouse his scholarly interest. At the parking lot, instead of the car I had expected to find as a vehicle befitting an American professor, I was invited to sit on the pillion of Jim’s motorcycle, notwithstanding my high heels and summer skirt. While on the way to my house, I invited him and his wife for a dinner, so that we could talk more about the work I wanted to do in Ann Arbor. The course of the Crumps’ visit foretold the nature of my future collaboration with Jim. I took it for granted that, as in Prague, where the custom is to arrive some fifteen minutes late for social engagements, my American guests would also arrive a bit later than the appointed time. Thus, upon hearing the door bell ringing while still in the shower, I presumed that a neighbour’s son had come again to offer delivery of the local newspaper. Draping myself in a large towel and fashioning a turban from another, I went to open the door, to the mutual surprise of both guests and host. Far from being taken aback, Jim praised my original outfit CHINOPERL Papers No. 26 (2005-2006)©2006 by the Conference on Chinese Oral and Performing Literature, Inc CHINOPERL Papers No. 26 and casually landed on the couch, asking for the zhugongdiao text so that he could examine it. Jeanne Crump, thoroughly accustomed to her husband’s ways of life, was laughing heartily. I no longer remember what I wore during the dinner itself, but I certainly recall the joyful atmosphere and Jim’s offer to translate the Liu Zhiyuan zhugongdiao with me, as the straightforward, unadorned, yet attractive style of the piece greatly appealed to him. At the following once-a-week sessions during my nine-month stay in Ann Arbor, Jim and I would pour over the facsimile of the unique print...