Damon Phylax

Five years ago, when I conceived the idea of writing a biography of the celebrated journalist and philanthropist, Thomas Golconda Fairchild, I had no inkling of how exotic and perplexing my project would become. I had thought, in fact, that it would be rather easy. The essential phases of Fairchilds careerhis adventures and explorations in the Caribbean, his experiences as a war correspondent, his rise to wealth, his patronage of utopian projects, and his later career as a crusading newspaper editorwere all amply recorded in public documents. Furthermore, I had been able, after much pleading and cajoling, to elicit personal, behind the scenes recollections of Golconda from my own grandfather, Wallace Ernst, who without a doubt was Fairchilds best friend and who was associated with him in one way or another throughout his career. With such evidence, I felt confident that I would be able to write a life that would be accurate, balanced, and reliable and yet at the same time flavored with an intimacy that no other biographer would be able to offer.

It was not until, almost as an afterthought, I wrote to Fairchilds son, William, that things began to go wrong. Well, perhaps go wrong is not quite the right phrase. Let me amend it to that things began to spin out of control. William Traynor Fairchild, as many of my readers may know, is a distinguished engineer, the designer and builder of renowned bridges and tunnels, a rational, hard-headed man who deplores what he likes to call occult nonsense, and I did not expect him to provide much that would be useful in the way of reminiscences or meditations about his father. From earlier conversations, I knew that while William had liked his father well enough, he had not stood in awe of him and had not regarded him as a kindred spirit. The old man, he once confessed to me (and he has informed me that he has no objection to being quoted) struck me as an essentially irrational man who too often yielded to impulses that inevitably got him into trouble and seldom did anyone else any good. It was therefore with astonishment that, in response to my inquiry, I received the following letter, which I reproduce with his permission: