Isaac Schapera

Whom I am writing about, I think it is time I said something more about him.

Schapera I was supposed to call Schap, and sort of did, was introduced to me many years ago in his apartment at the White Horse Hotel in London.  He gave me precious information for my book, Realm.  He opened his closet and got papers.  He told stories of his research and evinced a frank if self-amused interest in "Sex."  About my research: "Is there any sex in it?" he rasped, his voice box all but gone.  He seemed serious.

Upon parting he asked me to send him Tony Hillerman's books, I think now he meant "as they come out," but it wasn't clear to me which ones he had already, and I neglected my duties.  I sent him one big batch in the hope that it would do.  I saw Schapera once more, a few years later, and he paid no attention to me, but told us all that he had read an article about Gatsha Buthelezi in Jugs magazine.  We were with part of his wider his virtually family, and another anthropologist asked why he'd been reading Jugs magazine.  Schapera did not bother to respond.  He was about 95.

Now Schapera is dead.  I only register that properly because Tony Hillerman is dead, too.  I feel awful about dropping the ball and not sending him all his books.  But I could barely hold my own life together at the time.

And now I have to write about his legacy in order to make the argument I am making.  Ugh.