Sunday, June 13, 2004
(2:06 PM) | Anonymous:
In Memoriam
As you might have heard, Weblog contributor Michael Hancock is most likely dead. While I find his passing personally devastating, life goes on, and so does the Weblog. Before I return to normal posting, however, a few words about Mike are in order. Every man deserves to be remembered, particularly one as fascinatingly complex as Mike was. Consider this post my attempt to preserve that memory.I knew Mike for close to ten years; when we first met we were both high school students. Even then, he was a striking, wraithlike presence--six foot six, yet skeletally thin, with these oddly delicate hands. Adding to the impression were his ruby-red eyes and white hair. An albino, Mike's utter lack of pigmentation forced him to shun the daylight, while his tendency to violent rages and skill with bladed weapons led many of our classmates to shun him. Still, we soon became close friends--first as co-founders of the school Duelling Society (The Order of the Blue Heron, I believe it was called), and later as we both discovered the sublime joys of early Stendhal. It was around this time I also learned of Mike's greatest passion--Hungarian nationalism. What's that, you say? Hancock's the least Magyar name you've ever heard? True enough, but his mother's family, the Andrassys, were one of Hungary's oldest noble houses, until their virulently anti-Habsburg politics and questionable financial dealings forced them to emigrate. There were many days I would run into Mike after classes, at lunch or in the courtyard, to find him in full Hungarian regalia, looking every inch the Magyar nobleman, haranguing some poor classmate about the Treaty of Trianon, or reveling in tales of patriots like Szechenyi, Kossuth, Hunyadi, and his personal favorite, Kalman the Dauntless, a 13th-century ancestor said to have slain a great many Turks.
Sadly, Mike's time at our school was fated to be a short one; during my junior year, he took issue with a fellow student's characterization of one of Gide's novels, nearly running him through with the sabre he habitually carried (something that, in hindsight, does seem a touch odd). While his father's connections were sufficient to clear up any trouble with the authorities, Mike's career at our school was over--a month later, he was packed off to live with relatives in Vienna. While my friend's sudden departure came as quite a blow, we managed to stay in touch--during his time in the land of Mozart, Mike's interest in music exploded--I was forever receiving his compositions in the mail. Epic in scope, I can't recall a single one that was less than 4 hours long. All of them were as varied and complicated as the man himself--shifting effortlessly from counterpoint that would have made Bach himself proud, to slashing atonality that would have given even Bartok pause. Just before I graduated, Mike sent me a copy of his magnum opus, "Fejlődésvizsgáló Rendszer Célja, Követését Szolgáló" (something like, The Light of God Shines in the Blood of Angels). Stretching to 13 and a half hours long, designed to be played in a single performance, with orchestral requirements that made me doubt it would ever be performed (come on, Mike--SEVEN harpsichords?) it was nonetheless brilliant.
It would also mark the end of our correspondence--that fall, I entered university, and we lost touch. I'd hear from him every six months or so, though his whereabouts and activities were always murky. I would later learn that it was during this time he spent 4 years in Mongolia, living the life of a traditional herdman. While I can scarcely imagine him surviving the cruel sun of that part of the world, such a life seems oddly fitting, coming as he did from such a martial people, just a millenium removed from the steppes themselves. Through his correspondence and various secondhand stories, I've managed to cobble together some details of that time--it is said he took several wives, and earned himself the fearsome sobriquet, "Yumashak Hugjiltu" (One Whom Death Strenuously Avoids).
It was only in the last year that Mike and I were able to renew our friendship; he was back in the United States, and I was fortunate to see him as many times as I did. Though we had both changed greatly since high school, in some ways it was like he had never left. Yet Mike's adventures were not finished; around December he began to talk of his desire to sail around the world. As he put it, "I've conquered the land, only the oceans remain". I had my doubts--Mike was an appallingly poor swimmer, and I could scarcely imagine him in a sea vessel. He pressed on, though, enlisting the help of our good friend Joe Fairweather, an accomplished mariner if there ever was one. Sadly, my doubts proved to be justified--he passed out of radio contact 2 hours after setting sail. When Joe's shark-mangled body washed ashore last month, I assumed the worst. Subsequent Coast Guard reports would later confirm what had long been assumed--the sea had likely claimed my friend, whose considerable talents were never a match for his remarkable hubris.
So, in summary, Mike's dead. Tonight, as I look out upon the Chicago skyline, I will drink a toast of fiery plum brandy (Mike's favorite drink)--a fitting toast to, a remarkable fellow. I think he would find it fitting if all Weblog contributors did the same.
