Steve was born November 3, 1935 in San Francisco. His father was in the military and Steve spent his early years in New Jersey before the family moved to Berkeley. Steve had a brother, Carl, and a half brother, Michael, both of whom predeceased him.
Steve went to El Cerrito High School, and at the end of his sophomore year he entered the University of Wisconsin on a special scholarship. After two years there he transferred to the University of California at Berkeley, where he got his BA in English.
He worked at various jobs, including at the University of Berkeley library, before he began designing and building houses in the Oakland hills. The last house he designed became his home with his partner, William Bartley III. William was a professor of philosophy and author of a number of books, including a biography of Ludwig Wittgenstein. At the time of his death in 1990, William was working on a biography of Friedrich Hayek and was editing Hayek’s collected works. Steve took over this complex editing project, which became the work to which he was dedicated for most of the rest of his life.
Steve always had wanted to live in Big Sur, and after William died, he designed and built a house on a property that the two of them had bought long before, on Pfeiffer Ridge, moving there a few years later. He had a number of friends in the East Bay, many of whom he had known since his high school years, and, although rooted in Big Sur he maintained an apartment in Berkeley, where he would come to write, work on the Hayek project, and spend time with his East Bay friends.
It is with great sorrow that I announce the death of my childhood next door neighbor, Stephen Kresge. Most people probably wouldn't pay tribute to someone in such a seemingly trivial role, but here's the thing: I grew up in a fatherless household starting at 7, and Steve was kind enough to fill the void. In so doing, he gave me a vision of decorum, warmth, and intellectual agility to always strive to look up to. And no wonder: he was one of the editors of the collected works of Friedrich Von Hayek himself, and edited Hayek's book "Hayek on Hayek" solo. I still recall girding my loins every time Steve came over, thinking that maybe this time, just this time, I'd beat him in an argument. I never did, and now I never will, but he taught me so much in losing that I cannot resent this fact. He was a brilliant, ferocious, original intellect, but more than that, he was the kind of old-fashioned lover of humanity, and unflinching student of human nature, that any young boy should have as a tutor in how to explore his own human nature. I will miss him terribly, not merely as a friend, but as one can only miss the man who helped raise him. Rest in Peace, Steve, and know you leave at least an intellectual descendant behind. Mytheos Holt, November 13, 2018, first posted on Facebook.
A heartfelt farewell to my most dear friend Steve, and at the same time, also a greeting. After all, Steve was a Pantheist, and I imagine at least part of him is among us still, now having joined in ever-communion with the grandeur of this land he so loved and honored.
Another dear friend, Welsh poet Peter Thabit Jones, when I told him of Steve's passing, responded, "Steve has/had a poetic soul." Peter also said this is a characterization he very rarely bestows. Although Steve was an intellectual, concerned with and writing about profound issues of evolution, science, humanity, and always exploring beyond the boundaries of the known, Peter perfectly described him, his essence, and the way he lived his life. So, I will only add that Steve enriched my life immeasurably, loved cats, wild creatures, and chocolate passionately, and in his feral yet elegant way, quietly, privately blessed us all with his presence. Ever gratitude to you, Steve. (Patricia Holt, November 2018)
POEM FOR STEVE
(to Scott)
Your new home rises
Out of the old fire’s rage,
Out of the Big Sur
Mountain top’s
Scorched-charcoaled landscape,
Out of your heart’s destruction,
The devastation of blackness,
After the sudden, all-consuming,
Ravaging flames—
And the loss of everything.
With you as a mentor,
Scott, your young helper,
Has discovered himself,
Masterly honed the skills
For turning timber
Into ceiling beams, door knobs,
And perfect furniture.
You have even chosen to use
The damaged remains
Of that ferocious burning,
The leftover skeletons of trees,
As if saying to nature:
I am one with you
And I bring you into my life
Resurrected from a deadness,
To these sculptural forms,
To the needs for everyday living.
Like your dear friend,
Edmund Kara, the sculptor,
You are letting the wood
Speak to you, letting
It suggest its destination
Towards its new shape,
To its completed skin-smoothness.
The construction of your dwelling
Grows slowly,
The detailed craft and labour
Stretching the minutes in each hour.
And as I leave
Your unfinished poem of a home,
I am humbled by your devotion
To your dream, to Scott’s vocation,
The application to a vision
That unfolds in your mind.
An inspiration to me,
A visiting Welsh poet,
A reiteration of my faith in hope,
The human spirit unbending
In the face of despair,
And all of the windows offering
The language of survival—
The fine artwork of light.
Peter Thabit Jones, (Big Sur, June 2018)
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