Foundation VIII 1

Vol. VIII

2016

No. 1

Foundation Edited and Compiled by St Chad’s College Members

Editor-in-Chief: Curtis Runstedler Article and Manuscript Editors: Oliver Burnham, Atlanta Neudorf, Irene Roding, Harriet Cunningham, Isabel Crawley, Jonathan Tate, Alvin Sng, and Nive Mathukumar

For copyright and usage information, please contact the Editorial Board via the Principal of the College: Dr Margaret Masson St Chad’s College 18 North Bailey Durham DH1 3RH

ISSN 1752-0398

Contents 'To me as Lowrence leird': Literary Authority and the Hazards of Interpretation in Robert Henryson's Moral Fables ................................................. 1 Laurie Atkinson

Is Modern Art Just Another Business? ....................... 15 Barbora Bartošová

‘Called and knowne by the name of John Burnt Pritle’: Slander, Self and Social Identity in the Early Modern Parish .............................................................. 27 Dom Birch

Rainer Maria Rilke as a Figure of Antiphilosophy...39 Megumi Chou

Milton's Lycidas: A Mere Excuse for a Poem? ..........53 Kate Davison

Read the Translator or Read the Author: A case study of translating Life and Death Are Wearing Me Out ................................................................................... 65 Jiahao Guo

Narrative Strategies and Bodily Transgression in Paul B. Preciado’s Testo Junkie. ....................................83 Sofia Ropek-Hewson

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Gender and Representations of Monsters in the French Renaissance ...................................................... 99 Evangeline Phillips

Establishing the Characteristics of Sustainable Heritage Development............................................... 109 Krystal Osborn

The Failed Rebellion of James, Duke of Monmouth, 1685 ............................................................................... 119 Atlanta Neudorf

Here and Now: Fluid Identity in Vona Groarke’s Poetry ........................................................................... 131 Emily Van Houten

Red House Nearly Sixty Years Ago ......................... 143 Nick Barton

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Contributors Laurie Atkinson is an English Literature finalist. He has recently completed a dissertation that considers the role of doublenesse in the works of Thomas Hoccleve, and looks to continue his research in fifteenth-century literature for his M.A. dissertation on the dream visions of the Scottish Makars.

Barbora BartoĹĄovĂĄ is currently working on her Masters by Research thesis which focusses on modernity, subjectivity of the creator, the formation of mass audienceship, and artistic processes within French contexts.

Dom Birch is a third year undergraduate about to start studying for an M.A. in Economic and Social History. His research focusses on reconstructing the everyday lives of those living in England between 1500 and 1700, with a particular emphasis on social interactions in the past.

Megumi Chou is a second year Ph.D. student in English Studies. Her research focusses on literary representations of homelessness in postmodern novels and twentieth-century German critical thought.

Kate Davison is a second year English undergraduate focussing on late medieval and early modern drama.

Jiahao Guo is a second year Ph.D. candidate in Translation Studies.

Her research focusses on translation of contemporary Chinese literature, particularly on the rewriting of cultural and political information for reception in the English-speaking world.

Sofia Ropek-Hewson is a Chad’s alumnus and first year Ph.D. candidate in the French department at Cambridge University. Her

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current research focusses on contemporary French literature and transfeminist theory.

Evangeline Phillips is a final year Modern Languages student. She has developed an interest in medieval French and Spanish identities over her fourth year, which has led to studying the weird and, somehow, a dissertation about beards.

Krystal Osborn is a Masters student studying International Cultural Heritage Management through the Department of Archaeology. Her research includes strategic planning for cultural organisations under armed conflict, antiquities looting, and repatriation.

Atlanta Neudorf is a final year undergraduate in History. Her main research interests include early modern political history and the exploration of modern selfhood in European architecture, which she plans to further explore in postgraduate studies.

Emily van Houten is studying for an M.A. in English Literary Studies, with an emphasis on femininity and identity in modern and contemporary poetry.

Nick Barton is an alumnus of St Chad’s College (1962-65). He is a college tutor, Schoolmaster Fellow, and grandfather. Nick studied at St Chad’s College, Oxford, and at the University of Wales.

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Foreword St Chad's College takes pride in being a multidisciplinary, multigenerational community of learning (as the new Principal is wont to say whenever she is given the chance). Sometimes, this is an aspirational mantra. But often, it is surprisingly, gratifyingly, and even thrillingly true. We want St Chad's to be a place where students and staff can be unapologetically enthusiastic about learning and intellectual discovery. We hope to be a college where young scholars are supported in the sometimes painfully difficult activity of thinking and supported within the context of a community that believes this is a fascinating and vital part of our raison d'etre.

This edition of Foundation demonstrates the fruits of this hope and one of the ways it is translated into a reality. I'm delighted that we have contributors from all three common rooms and an impressive array of interesting and sometimes challenging topics. Some of these essays are outstanding and I like to think that in future years, some world class scholars will look back on this modest little journal and remember fondly the publication (and college) that helped to nurture their great talent and commitment.

Thank you, Curtis and your team, for making this possible, and for creating a publication we can enjoy and learn from and in whose reflected glory, we can all humbly bask.

Margaret Masson St Chad’s College Principal May 2016

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Preface We are delighted to present the third edition of the St Chad’s College journal since its resurrection in 2014. All of these essays were written by members of St Chad’s College. This year, we extended our submissions to the Senior Common Room and the Junior Common Room as well as the Middle Common Room, and thus this journal constitutes the research topics of postgraduates, undergraduates, tutors, and alumni. This edition represents the academic excellence of the college in literary form. I would like to thank Oliver Burnham, Atlanta Neudorf, and Irene Roding for their invaluable help with this publication, as well as Sean Kelly, Ashley Wilson, and Mark Roberts for their support. I am profoundly grateful for the leadership and guidance of Dr Margaret Masson. In addition, I would like to thank all of our peer reviewers for their hard work and commitment. I am also profoundly grateful to all the contributors. Thank you for making this possible.

Curtis Runstedler St Chad’s College May 2016

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'To me as Lowrence leird': Literary Authority and the Hazards of Interpretation in Robert Henryson's Moral Fables Laurie Atkinson

I

Thocht feinyeit fabils of ald poetrĂŠ Be not al grunded upon truth, yit than, Thair polite termes of sweit rhetorĂŠ Richt plesand ar unto the eir of man; And als the caus that thay first began Wes to reprief the haill misleving Of man be figure of ane uther thing.

(Moral Fables, 'Prologue', ll. 1-7)1

n his Moral Fables, Robert Henryson writes 'consciously in a tradition of literary theory and criticism' that from Horace to Boccaccio asserted the 'gude purpois' to be uncovered and interpreted 'under ane fenyeit fabill' ('Prologue', ll. 14-18).2 It is the Florentine, in De Genealogia Deorum, to whom John MacQueen attributes the 'closest parallels' to Henryson's thinking, yet such convictions as his Stultum credere poetas nil sensisse sub cortice fabularum ('it is a fool's notion that poet's convey no meaning beneath the surface of their fictions') and Damnanda non est obscuritas poetarum ('the obscurity of poetry is not just cause for condemning') are evident too in the fable prologues of the Scot's Robert Henryson, The Fables, in The Makars: The Poems of Henryson, Dunbar and Douglas, ed. by Jackie. A. Tasioulas (Edinburgh: Canongate, 1991). All references to the works of Robert Henryson are to this edition. Hereafter, the Moral Fables are referenced in-text by fable.

2 John MacQueen, Robert Henryson: A Study of the Narrative Poems (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1967), p. 96.

Cp. Aut prodesse volunt aut delectare poetae; | Aut simul et iucunda et idonea dicere vitae 'Poets want to be either useful or entertaining, or to say things that are both pleasing and pertinent to life at the same time' (Horace, Ars Poetica, ll. 333-34); Giovanni Boccaccio, De Genealogia Deorum, Books XIVXV (see above). I owe these references to MacQueen, Henryson, pp. 95-96.

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English contemporaries and predecessors: William Caxton's History of Reynard the Fox (1481) and History and Fables of Aesop (1484), John Lydgate's Isopes Fabules, and even Chaucer's 'murie tale of Chauntecleer' (The Nun's Priest's Tale, B2.4639). 3 It may seem an unfortunate coincidence then, that in the synthesis of Henryson's chief sourcesâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;the twelfth-century verse-Romulus and the material of the Reynard-cycle 4 â&#x20AC;&#x201D;there appears a verbal MacQueen makes no claim that Henryson would have known Boccaccio directly.Chapter headings to De Genealogia Deorum, Book XIV, ch. x and xii respectively. I owe this reference to MacQueen, p. 97. Cp. Lydgate's appeal that poet's 'In fables rude includyd gret prudence | And moralytees full notable of sentence.' Isopes Fabules, ed. Edward Wheatley (Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute Publications, 2013), ll. 20-21, last accessed 16 Feb. 2016, < www.d.lib.rochester.edu>; and Caxton's prologue to his History of Reynard the Fox: that 'this booke is maad for nede and prouffyte of alle god folke', though 'it is sette subtylly, like as ye shal see in redyng it' and 'oftymes to rede it shal cause it wel to be vunderstande' Caxton (trans.), The History of Reynard the Fox, ed. by Norman F. Blake, EETS, 263 (1970), p. 6. Though, within the frame of The Canterbury Tales, the Nun's Priest's tale ostensibly serves as a reprieve from the 'hevynesse' (B2.3977) of the Monk, note the Host's remark, 'Whereas a man may have noon audience, | Noght helpeth it to tellen his sentence' (B2.3992), and the opportunity taken by the tale's narrator to pronounce a 'moralite' (B2.4630) at lines B2.4626-36. Geoffrey Chaucer, The Nun's Priest's Tale, in The Riverside Chaucer, ed. by Larry D. Benson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008).

4 Henryson certainly knew the verse-Romulus (it provides the narrative source for seven of his fables); indeed, 'the collection became popular enough to displace Avianus's fables as the curricular representative of the genre in European grammar schools, earning "Aesop" a place among the Auctores octo', and firmly within the repertoire of the alleged schoolmaster. Edward Wheatley, 'Scholastic Commentary and Robert Henryson's "Morall Fabillis": The Aesopic Fables', Studies in Philology, 91:1 (Winter, 1994), pp. 70-99, at p.

70.

'Reynard the fox is to be found all over the literature of continental Europe from the twelfth century onwards'. Jill Mann, From Aesop to Reynard: Beast Literature in Medieval Britain (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), p. 220.

Although, notes Mann, 'in England the sightings of this elusive beast are few and far between' (p. 220), Henryson, active in the late fifteenth-century, may 3

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symmetry between the Fables' 'fenyeit' form, and 'The fox feinyeit, craftie and cawtelows' ('The Cock and the Fox', l. 402), Lowrence.

Depicted variously 'be figure' as 'flatteraris' ('The Cock and the Fox', l. 402), the inconstant penitent ('The Fox and the Wolf'), 'temptationis' ('The Trial of the Fox', l. 1132), and indeed, 'the Fiend' himself ('The Fox, the Wolf, and the Husbandman', l. 2431), apparently self-contradictory is Henryson's alliance of his poetic technique ('sweit rhetoré') to this epitome of 'misleving' against which the fables' moralitates are ostensibly directed.

Yet as if to draw attention to this identity, and in a curious overlap between literary auctoritas and individual experience, the Fox is presented as model, and even confidant, to Henryson's narrator, periodically encroaching upon the fable-world, and purportedly reporting his findings in good faith, 'to me as Lowrence leird' ('The Trial of the Fox', l. 884). 5 Ethelbert Donaldson and George Kane alerted critics long ago to the dangers of the persona and the 'autobiographical fallacy' in medieval literature written in the 'tradition of the fallible first person singular'. 6 In the case of Fables, one should exercise particular caution towards a presumed equivalence between the fable narrator, or the speaker of the moralitates (referred to hereafter as the moralist), and any homogeneous attitude of Henryson-the-poet as a key to interpretative definitiveness.7 This article will contend have drawn material from Caxton's History of Reynard the Fox (1481) (cp.

MacQueen, Henryson, p. 193).

5 Cp. the yet more surprising instance of the narrator's allusion to the Fox as his apparent tutor in astrology: 'And of the zodiak in quhat degre | Thay wer ilk ane, as Lowrence leirnit me' ('The Fox and the Wolf', l. 634).

6 Ethelbert Talbot Donaldson, 'Chaucer the Pilgrim', PMLA, 69:4 (Sep., 1954), pp. 928-36, at p. 934; George Kane, 'The Autobiographical Fallacy in Chaucer and Langland Studies', in Chaucer and Langland: Historical and Textual Approaches (London: Athlone Press, 1989), pp. 1-14.

7 The proposition of Arnold Clayton Henderson is elucidating here: 'In the explicit moralizations to the fables, authors reveal their own perceptions, not of what the traditional material does mean or has meant (since we will find some of these authors consciously innovating), but of what potential for

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that the hermeneutic dilemma of the Fables is not that their moralist is a rhetoric-spinning fox, but rather that its bestial protagonists pre-empt the invitation to interpretation normally reserved for the moralitas. Lowrence perhaps provides the most overt example of the manner in which moral interpretation of rhetoric in the Fables is jeopardized by the predilections of natural desire. Yet as Jill Mann astutely observes, throughout this work, 'Henryson breaks the "rules" of fable by blurring the fundamental division between fable and moralitas'; a blurring in which beasts figure as good and bad men, man 'in brutal beist is transformate' ('Prologue', l. 56), and the 'deflation of the pretensions of animal rhetoric acquires a self-reflexive potential' for the Fables themselves.8 The intrusion of human linguistic structures into the beastworld of the Fables is nowhere more explicit than in the formal legal and court proceedings affected in the narrative of 'The Trial of the Fox', 'The Fox, the Wolf, and the Husbandman', and notably, 'The Sheep and the Dog'. 9 Henryson is otherwise sparing in the Fables in his use of such polysyllabic Latinismsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;'aureate terms'â&#x20AC;&#x201D; that typify the work of his fifteenth-century English contemporaries (notably fellow fabulist Lydgate). Yet here, he rather packs the speech of his defendant Sheep, plaintiffprosecutor-judge (the Dog), and scurrilous 'advocatis' (l. 1182), meaning they found.' Henderson, 'Medieval Beasts and Modern Cages: The Making of Meaning in Fables and Bestiaries', PMLA, 97:1 (Jan., 1982), pp. 4049, at p.40.

8 Mann, Aesop to Reynard, p. 298; p. 301.

9 'The Trial of the Fox': Despite its title, this fable deals chiefly with the Fox and the Wolf's 'ambassatry' (l. 997) to the Mare absent from the Lion's 'parliament' (l. 958) (cp. Reynard XIII; XXVII) Only in the fable's final thirty lines (ll. 1067-96), is the Fox tried and hung for his slaying of a lamb during the mission (cp. Reynard XV, in which the Fox escapes). I owe these crossreferences to Caxton to MacDonald, pp. 209-13.The opening of 'The Fox, the Wolf, and the Husbandman' sees the 'godlie' (l. 2434) Husbandman brought to task by the Wolf, with the Fox as their 'juge amycabill' (l. 2310), for an oath he speaks against his ox.

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with the specialised terminology of the 'consistorie' ('ecclesiastical court', l. 1148). 'This selie scheip', pronounces the moralitas, 'may present the figure | Of pure commounis, that daylie ar opprest | Be tirrane men' (ll. 1258-60). Yet as noted by MacQueen, the Sheep 'is well aware of his rights under the law, and makes his objections with precision'—a distinctly Scottish precision, with which he protests that he appears before 'ane juge suspect' (l. 1190) and that 'the tyme is feriate' (l. 1199). Indeed, the 'obscurity' of this poetry lies as much in its provincialism as its fiction.10 The fable's narrator is unusually definitive in his defamation of the Sheep's oppressors ('Thocht it [the accusation] wes fals, they had na conscience', l. 1180; cp. l. 1229; ll. 1241-43; ll. 1249-50).11 The moralitas is peculiar in that 'Henryson does not interpret; rather he extends his satire to include Civil as well as Consistory courts [principally by secularising the Wolf as a 'schiref stout' (l.

1265)]'. 12 Somewhat surprising then is the degree of integrity allowed to the 'arbeteris' (l. 1204), the Bear and the Badger, who, as they 'revolve, | The codies and digestis new and ald' in consideration of the Sheep's case, nonetheless 'held the glose and text of the decreis | As trew jugis' (ll. 1221-22). Compare Lydgate's MacQueen, Henryson, p. 128.

Bias among judges would incur severe punishment. In Scotland '[t]he amount of legislation against judicial corruption in the fifteenth century shows how widespread the problem was.' David M. Walker, A Legal History of Scotland, vol. 2 (Edinburgh, Green, 1990), p. 543; in Scottish legal procedure, if a trial was carried out during a holiday, 'feriat tyme', its judgment was often deemed by parliamentary decree to be "of no avail, strength, force or effect".' Walker, Legal History, p. 467. I owe these references to David J. Parkinson (ed.), Robert Henryson: The Complete Works (Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute Publications, 2010), ll. 1198-94n.; l. 1199n., last accessed 17th Feb. 2016, < www.d.lib.rochester.edu>.

11 The narrator of 'The Fox, the Wolf, and the Husbandman', by comparison, exhibits no such explicit comments against the Wolf and the Fox during their proceedings against the Husbandman (ll. 2259-74), despite the evident fraudulence of the accusing Wolf, and Lowrence, the 'juge amycabill' (l. 2310).

12 MacQueen, Henryson, p. 131.

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'Tale of the Hownde and the Shepe', in which the superlative 'false wytnes' (as specified in the incipit) of the Hound, Wolf, and Kite sees the animals forswear themselves upon the incorruptible 'Holy Book' (l. 701); an act which 'is to God treason' (l. 688). 13 In the Fables, however, the attitude towards human textual authority is far less self-assured. The question mark of line 1220 in Jackie Tasioulas's edition, 'For prayer, nor price, trow ye, thay [the arbiters] wald fald?', is editorial, and over-emphasises, I suggest, the potential sarcasm in the narrator's commendation of the arbiters' apparent scrupulousness.14 For all the ensuing 'wrangous jugement' (l. 1250), the fault of lines 1212-22 is principally the interpretative malleability of the legal codes themselves. 'Sum a doctryne and sum nothir hald' (l. 1219): the arbiters have no need to 'fald'. The 'text'â&#x20AC;&#x201D;and significantly, the 'glose'â&#x20AC;&#x201D;already provide ample alterative 'truths' to suit their designs. Mann states the situation powerfully: The whole panoply of legal argument is merely a superficial facade behind which the physically powerful get their own way. [...] Ineffective when they offer resistance to the fulfilment of the listener's hopes Were the 'false wytnes' of the animals not explicit enough from the incipit, Lydgate, in his 224 line fable, includes no less than twenty-eight uses of 'fals' and its derivatives, as his speaker voices his evident moral revulsion that 'Thus in this world by extorcion veriliche | Poore folk be devoured alwey by the riche.' (ll. 636-37).

14 Cp. The Morall Fabillis of Esope the Phrygian, Compylit in Eloquent, and Ornate Scottis Meter, be M. Robert Henrisone, Scolmaister of Dunfermling.

Newlie corectit, and Vendicat, fra mony Errouris, whilkis war oversene in the last prenting, quhair baith lynes, and haill Versis war left owt. . . . Edinburgh.

Inprinted att Edinburgh be me Thomas Bassandyne, dwelland at the Nether Bow Anno 1571 (Edinburgh: 1571), p. 52, last accessed 17 Feb. 2016, <www.eebo.chadwyck.com>. The Bassandyne print has been taken as the authoritative witness for the Fables in most editions since H. Harvey Wood (ed.) The Poems and Fables of Robert Henryson (Edinburgh: Oliver and Boyd, 1933).

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and desires, words instantaneously acquire a magic effect when they harmonize with his wishes.15 Edward Wheately stresses the schoolmaster Henryson's familiarity with the scholastic commentary tradition, particularly of fables, which were 'probably even more available for appropriation than any other texts in the Middle Ages' 16 Yet this acquaintance seems to have produced in Henryson a suspicion towards, as well as fluency in, the scholastic gloss. We need only look to the Fables' analogues in Lydgate to see how fable narrative—that most basic of interpretative materials—no less than the 'panoply of legal arguments', may be construed to propound 'a doctryne' or 'nothir'.

By George Clark's reading in 'Henryson and Aesop: The Fable Transformed', Henryson's solution to this instability of textual authority is to present his text as the purported experience of its speaker. 'Beginning with the prologue,' contends Clark—and inverting the strategy of Chaucer in Troilus and Criseyde: 'as myn auctour seyde, so sey I' (II.18) 17 —'Henryson maintains a clear Mann, Aesop to Reynard, p. 279.

Wheately, 'Scholastic Commentary', p. 71. By Wheatley's estimation, commentary would have been an everyday exercise for Henryson. Confident in his conviction that the poet was a schoolmaster, he notes that 'one of the standard classroom practices from antiquity demanded paraphrase.

Priscian's influential Praeexercitaminaa, standard guide for medieval educational theory, suggested that students learn Aesopic fable plots and then retell them in abbreviated form (modo breviter) and/or lengthened form (modo latius) [...] Henryson must have presided over such student activity frequently' (pp. 71-72).

17 Cp. the comparable deflection of authorial responsibility in the Prologue to The Legend of Good Women: 'what so myn auctour mente, | Algate, God woot, yt was myn entente | To forthren trouthe in love and yt cheryce, [...] this was my menynge' Chaucer, The Legend of Good Women, F.470-74; G.460-64.

Henryson's apparent scepticism towards such auctoritie (even in the vernacular), is of course most memorably stated by the narrator of The Testament of Cressid: 'Quha wait gif all that Chauceir wrait was trew?' (l. 64).

15 16

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distinction between Aesop and the narrator'.18 '[T]he poems are at once Aesop's "feinyeit fabils" and the narrator's truth, even his own experience.'19 As in his references to the extradiegetic tale-telling of Lowrence, in 'The Sheep and the Dog', 'the narrator authenticates matter in his story when he comes in direct contact with its personae': here the Sheep's 'sair lamentation' (l. 1285), transcribed into the moralitas.20 Exemplifying Mann's blurring of the 'fundamental division between fable and moralitas', the dispossessed Sheep, rather than being abandoned 'Nakit and bair' (l. 1257) at the close of the fable, is purportedly overheard by the moralist 'as I passit by | Quhair he lay' (ll. 1283-84) and quoted for the remaining five stanzas in his lament for the oppression of 'We pure pepill' (l. 1318) on earth.21 This ostensible fable-within-the-moralitas invites comparison to what Wheatley describes as the distinctly 'homiletic aims' of the moralitas-within-the-fable of 'The Preaching of the Swallow'. 22 Clark, Wheatley, and John Burrow, have noted the 'formal poetic description—in part, an allegorical pageant—of the George Clark, 'Henryson and Aesop: The Fable Transformed', ELH, 43:1 (Spring, 1976), pp. 1-18, at p. 2; cp. 'My author in his fabillis' ('Prologue', l. 43, my emphasis); 'Be figure wrait his buke' ('Prologue', l. 59); 'first of ane cock he wrate' ('Prologue', l. 1).

19 Clark, 'Fable Transformed', p. 4.

20 'Extradiegetic': taken from the terminology of the analytical notion of narrative, or 'diegetic', levels. 'At the outermost [diegetic] level, external to the intradiegetic (or diegetic, i.e. first-level [the fable]) narrative, the extradiegetic narrator [the narrator of the fable, or in this case, Lowrence's discourse as reported by that narrator] recounts what occurred at that first level'. 'Narrative Levels', in The Living Handbook of Narratology, ed. by Peter Hühn, Jan Christoph Meister, John Pier, Wilhelm Schernus, Wof Schmid, and Jörg Schönert, last accessed 20 Feb. 2016, <www.lhn.uni-hamburg.de>.

Clark, 'Fable Transformed', p. 3.

21 Cp. in the preceding fables, the narrator's comparatively dismissive attitude to the fate of the discarded Jasp ('The Cock and the Jasp', ll. 115-16), and the burgh Mouse ('The Two Mice', l. 357), in favour of a swift movement to the moralitas.

22 Wheatley, 'Scholastic Commentary', p. 89.

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four seasons' that constitutes the fable's opening fifteen stanzas.23 Each critic has endeavoured to assign some structural relationship between this introduction, and the proceeding narrative (the capture of a flock of birds in a peasant's nets, despite a prophesising swallow's repeated entreaties to uproot the flax from which they are woven) which is reported as the first-hand observation of the fable's speaker. Burrow reads the establishment of 'a universe which exhibits both change and order, and in which, therefore, prudence [proposed as the fable's 'main moral theme'] is both necessary and possible'. Wheatley proposes rather an alignment between Swallow and narrator that may recall the moralising Sheep above. Yet it is Clark, bleak, but astute, who seems to strike nearest the prologue's crux: it 'exhorts the hearer to remark the existence of this benevolent design, to embrace a philosophical optimism the fable disappoints.'24 Making reference to the fifteenth-century Middle Scots Kingis Quair, MacQueen remarks that the dominant use of 'I' in reference to the fable's speaker,25 combined with the conventional description of nature above (cp. Kingis Quair, ll. 211-24; ll. 1058101), and preoccupation with the machinations of Fortune, places its narrator squarely within 'the literary tradition of the dream vision'. 26 The 'aesthetic appeal' of the dream vision to medieval writers—with its claim to relate somnium (a dream containing truth that requires interpretation for understanding) 27 —lay, John A. Burrow, 'The Preaching of the Swallow', Essays in Criticism, 25 (1975), pp. 25-37, at p. 29; Clark, 'Fable Transformed', p.11; Wheatley, 'Scholastic Commentary', p. 89.

24 Burrow, 'Swallow', p. 33; Wheatley, 'Scholastic Commentary', p. 89; Clark, 'Fable Transformed', p.11.

25 See 'Preaching of the Swallow', l. 1717; l. 1720; l. 1727; l. 1732; l. 1773; l.

1774; l. 1780; l. 1782; l. 1783; l. 1784; l. 1823; l. 1886).

26 MacQueen, Henryson, p.163.

27 A major authority for medieval dream theory was Macrobius's fifthcentury Commentarii in Somnium Scipionis ('Commentary on the Dream of Scipio'). In this text Mactobius distinguishes between false dreams (insomnium and visum) and dreams that may come true or require 23

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suggests Katherine Lynch, in the potential 'to reach from the world of experience to authoritative truth.' 28 However, in the Fables, Henryson produces a peculiar situation in which his narrator's dream-like 'experience' in 'The Preaching of the Swallow' is juxtaposed with the preceding, and more conventional dream vision, 'The Lion and the Mouse', in which the fable and moralitas are spoken by the clerkly authority Aesop himself (ll. 1405-614) within the frame of the narrator's reported dream (comprising lines 1321-404 and 1615-21). For Clark, this binary opposition 'highlights the contrast between the Aesopian stance and Henryson's'; between the rehearsed 'sweit rhetorĂŠ' of 'ald poetrĂŠ' and its heterogeneous 'glosis', and Lynch's 'truth' authorised by experience. 29 Henryson 'creates a world whose greater realism makes easy black and white evaluations inadequate', 'a world which an Aesopian aphorism cannot epitomize'; yet here, we must pause to acknowledge the hazards of interpretation inherent in both 'The Lion and the Mouse' and 'The Preaching of the Swallow'.30 Though compelling, Clark's claim to 'realism' in Henryson's treatment of this form that is quintessentially 'not al grunded upon truth' should be approached with caution. Rather than disclaiming entirely the apparently blinkered moral outlook of the Aesopian fable (as disparagingly compared to the clerk's 'mair autentik werk' in the moralitas to 'The Preaching of the Swallow', l. 1890, and perhaps, implicitly, the narrator's reported 'experience' of the preceding fable), Henryson's introduction of the conventions of the dream vision highlights, I suggest, that both fables are subject to the distorting potential of interpretation. Perhaps most commonplace interpretation (somnium, visio and oraculum). Steven F. Kruger, 'Dreaming', in A Concise Companion to Chaucer, ed. by Corinne Saunders (Oxford: Blackwell, 2006), pp. 71-89, at pp. 72-74.

28 Katherine L. Lynch, The High Medieval Dream Vision (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1988), pp. 139-40.

29 Clark, 'Fable Transformed', p. 11.

30 Clark, 'Fable Transformed', p. 2; p. 13.

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of all in late Medieval dream poetry is the awakened dreamer's attempt to interpret their vision: the speaker of the Kingis Quair debates 'Is this of my forethoght impressioun [insomnium] | Or is it from the hevin a visioun [visio]?' (ll. 1224-25); for Chaucer's dreamers, the impulse is to compose (The Book of the Duchess, ll.

1330-34; Prologue to The Legend of Good Women, G.544-45), or for further study (The Parliament of Fowls, ll. 695-99); whilst in Henryson's Testament of Cressid, the grim import of Cressid's 'doolie dreame' (l. 344) is immediately revealed 'quhen scho saw hir face sa deformait' in 'ane polesit glas' (ll. 348-49). Just as these dreamers' desire to uncover 'som thing for to fare | The bet' (Parliament, ll. 698-99) in their visions is so often met with frustration, so in the Fables, Henryson's moralitates arguably undermine the primacy of both literary authority and individual experience as hermeneutic touchstones.

Thus, the plaintive optimism of the dreamer in the prologue to 'The Lion and the Mouse' towards the reluctant Aesop, that 'Sum thing thairby heirafter may avail' (l. 1403) from his fable, must be tempered by the reminder that his 'maister venerabill' (l. 1384) is himself the conjuration of 'my dreme' (l. 1347). 'The dream encloses, encapsules, imprisons Aesop within the narrator's imagination', and hence, his interpretation. 31 Likewise in 'The Preaching of the Swallow', Henryson consciously locates his 'halie preichour' (l. 1924) within a distinctly clerkly tradition. Quite apart from reiterating Aesop's authorship of the fable (ll. 1888-91), the poet has the Swallow make her final appeal to 'prudent men or clerkis that ar wyis' (l.1884)—a surprising recommendation, given the manner in which the human 'bludie bowcheour beit thay birdis Clark, 'Fable Transformed', p. 3.

That the Aesop of 'The Lion and the Mouse' is the product of the dreamer's imagination is particularly notable for his description as 'The fairest man that ever befoir I saw' (l. 1348), 'with ane feirfull face' (l. 1361) and bearing the accoutrements of a clerk, a depiction quite at variance to the 'dyfformed and euylle shapen' slave of Caxton's The History and Fables of Aesop (London: Scholar Press, 1976), fol. iiv.

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doun' (l. 1875) in the previous stanza, but no more disingenuous, I suggest, than the suspension of the Sheep's animal identity noted above; his complaint in the moralitas on behalf of 'We pure pepill' is unnervingly complicit with his figuration by the moralist as the 'pure commounis' (l. 1259) sixty lines earlier.32 '[B]oth proverbial wisdom and experience point both ways,' writes Mann, 'leaving natural impulses to determine action.'33 In Henryson's Fables, this statement is as pertinent to the hazards of moral textual interpretation, as to the rhetorical wiles of his Fox. Whether the appetite is one of wolfish greed, or Renaissance sententia-seeking, words 'instantaneously acquire a magic effect' when they harmonize with an audience's interpretative predilections. To some extent, this may account for the Fables limited sixteenth-century reception in comparison to fellow Scot David Lindsay's beast-poem, the Testament and Complaynt of the Papingo (c. 1538). Lindsay's appeal, remarks Priscilla Bawcutt, 'was less his wit or humour than his excellent doctrine, and the widespread belief that he was a committed Reformer'.34 Yet Henryson, despite the conviction of the 'Prologue' Cp. Wheatley's remark: 'In Henryson's fable of the sheep and the dog, the animal's plaint is as appropriate to poor people as to himself, to the degree that he becomes confused about his own identity: the group on whose behalf he complains is "we pure pepill" (l. 1317). [...] [T]he sheep's plaint is not a mere repetition of what he has said in the fable.' Wheately, 'Scholastic Commentary', p. 85.

33 Mann, Aesop to Reynard, pp. 274-75.

34 Priscilla Bawcutt, 'Crossing the Border: Scottish Poetry and English Readers in the Sixteenth Century', in The Rose and the Thistle: Essays on the Culture of Late Medieval and Renaissance Scotland, ed. by Sally Mapstone and Juliette Wood (East Linton: Tuckwell, 1997), pp. 59-76, at p. 68; cp. Denton Fox's similar assessment: 'if Lindsay's poetry was much printed and read, not only in the sixteenth but also in seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, while the verse of Henryson, Dunbar, and Douglas was largely forgotten, this was more because people liked Lindsay's excellent ideas than because they admired the beauties of his verse.' Fox, 'Middle Scots Poets and Patrons', in English Court Culture in the Later Middle Ages, ed. by Vincent J. Scattergood and J. W. Sherborne (London: Duckworth, 1983), pp. 109-27, at p. 126.

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â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;To me as Lowrence leirdâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;

that 'Sa dois spring ane morall sweit sentence | Oute of the subtell dyte of poetry' (ll. 13-14), relentlessly highlights the immoral interpretation such subtell dyten also invites. His moralitates, if 'no worse than unpleasing', may appear compromised by the intrusion of animal rhetoric, and even speakers, within the realm of clerkly exegesis; but in a world where wolves are pastors ('The Fox and the Wolf') and foxes are judges ('The Fox, the Wolf, and the Husbandman'), it seems no less an act of abandon for the moralist of his final fable to ultimately conclude: 'I left the laif unto the freiris' ('The Paddock and the Mouse', l. 2971).35

35

Burrow, 'Swallow', p. 35.

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A

Barbora Bartošová

rt creation is recognised as a form of self-expression executed by an individual who is bestowed with the transcendental quality that we call ‘talent.’ It gained this definition on account of an art movement titled ‘modernity’ which emphasises the significance of subjective point of view. However, modernity inherited these values from the Enlightenment, whose focus was on the individual – after all, its famous motto, formulated

by Immanuel Kant, is ‘Sapere Aude.’ For this reason, I am going to examine specific modes of artistic creation in the works of Charles Baudelaire and Futurists since they are presented in unconventional forms. Baudelaire differed from the traditional lyric poetry, and Futurists did not follow established painting techniques. Hence, it appears that they liberated their artistic production from their previous customs; that they ‘dared to know’ and to articulate their own and original perception. On the other hand, it is crucial to take note of the subsequent paradox – the fact that these artists, these individuals were nonetheless situated within the particular ‘modern’ society (and as I will argue that they also acknowledged this integration). Moreover, one of this society’s defining signs is ‘the commodity culture which arises in post-1880 Europe and which represents the prehistory of the consumer society as we know it today.’ 1 Accordingly, one is faced with the following question: is individual uniqueness, when promoted by modernism, actually aligned with the desires of the masses?

Baudelaire’s choice of crowds to be his subject matter can be perceived as a fascination as well as a strategy in the age when people were no longer attentive towards the focus of traditional lyric poetry. As Walter Benjamin states in ‘The Author as Producer’ (1934), ‘the rigid, isolated object (work, novel, book) is of no use whatsoever. It must be inserted into the context of living social Adamson, W., (2010) ‘How Avant-Gardes End—and Begin: Italian Futurism in Historical Perspective.’ New Literary History, 41 (4), 855-874.

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relations.’ 2 Baudelaire’s production is a perfect example of this because he felt the need to subject his writing to the requirements of his current readers, but, on the other hand, the vocabulary employed by him and the choice of the theme can be also recognised as a social commentary on his milieu. As Benjamin notes, Baudelaire’s ‘work cannot merely be categorised as historical, like anyone else’s, but it intended to be so and understood itself as such’.3 He also cultivated this notion in ‘Eduard Fuchs: Collector and Historian’ (1937) in which he maintained that ‘works of art teach that person how their function outlives their creator and how his intentions are left behind. They demonstrate how the reception of the work by its contemporaries becomes a component of the effect which a work of art has upon us today.’4 These notions set Baudelaire’s poetry apart because he was aware of the limitations on the lyrical poetry in his times and on the substance of his readers, as he explicitly illustrates in his poem ‘Je n'ai pas pour maîtresse une lionne illustre’ (1908). He writes that ‘Pour avoir des souliers elle a vendu son âme /Mais le bon Dieu rirait si, près de cette infâme, / Je tranchais du Tartufe et singeais la hauteur, / Moi qui vends ma pensée et qui veux être auteur.’5 To begin with, he demonstrates an awareness of the current social situation that is exemplified by the obsession with material consumables – it is even proved to be a sin (that is, if one is willing to trade the transcendental property of one’s soul for the earthy luxury, such as shoes). Nonetheless, at the same time, he also refused to be judgmental of the contemporary shoppers, as he Benjamin, W., (1988) ʻThe Author as Producer.’ Understanding Brecht.

Trans. Anna Bostock. London and New York: Verso.

3 Benjamin, W., (1973) Charles Baudelaire: A Lyric Poet in the Era of High Capitalism. Trans. Harry Zohn. Bristol: NLB. 4 Benjamin, W., & Tarnowski, K. (1975) ‘Eduard Fuchs: Collector and Historian.’ New German Critique, 5, 27-58.

5 Baudelaire, C., (2008) Les Fleurs du Mal. Trans. William Aggeler, Roy Campbell, Cat Nilan, Kenneth O. Hanson, David Paul, and Geoffrey Wagner.

Web: Josef Nygrin.

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acknowledged his own stance on the question of the financial gain – he was likewise dependent on the demands of the market, to which he needed to adapt his divine art, when he cried out that he is prostituting his ideas to act like his capital. Moreover, the fact that in the aforementioned citation Baudelaire doubts his stature of an author when he claims that he would like to be one rather than acknowledging that he actually was one indicates that he was solely endeavouring to make a profit from his ideas and to do so he was necessarily stripping them of their artistic quality. This, according to him, is essential since he was convinced that his readers were unable to recognise the true genius as found in his art. This belief of his is formulated in poem titled ‘Le Chien et le flacon’ (1869) in which he complained that his dog is not capable of grasping the superior scent of the most exquisite perfume and instead he prefers the smell of faeces. In fact, he made the explicit connection between his dog and his audience when he wrote that ‘ainsi, vous-même, indigne compagnon de ma triste vie, vous ressemblez au public, à qui il ne faut jamais présenter des parfums délicats qui l'exaspèrent, mais des ordures soigneusement choisies’.6 As this passage reveals, he criticized the public for not being able to recognize the value of his literary attempts. In his time, Baudelaire’s works were commercially unsuccessful. Eugene Holland captured the fact that he ‘had great difficulty placing his writing in the Parisian press. From the perspective of his actual market self-prostitution, the poet’s aspirations […] are a form of imaginary revenge enacted by a consummate consumer for the humiliation of having to sell himself as producer on the open market.’7 To give an account of this, Benjamin also described the instance in which Baudelaire exploited the vanity of publishers when ‘he offered the same manuscript to several papers at the same time and authorized reprints without indicating them as Baudelaire, C., (2015) Le Spleen de Paris. Web: Bibebook.

Holland, E.W., (2006) Baudelaire and Schizoanalysis: The Socio-Poetics of Modernism. New York: Cambridge University Press.

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such.’8 In spite of this, it was not an unusual practice in the times when the literary market was identified simply just as another form of commodity. This can be unambiguously discerned in the genre of feuilleton: it was the most popular medium which was containing the literary texts of these times. As Marshall Berman stated, ‘many of the greatest nineteenth century writers used this form to present themselves to a mass public,’9 even in spite of the fact that it was recognised to be a channel of questionable quality.

These writers were often disputed on their actual authorship, as can be shown in the instance when Benjamin referenced the anecdote of the present day: he alleged that even Alexandre Dumas himself did not know precisely how many novels he had published.10 The relationship between the renowned authors and tabloids was employed on the basis of mutual prosperity: because of feuilleton’s wide circulation among Parisian cafés, writers used it as a mean for the enhancement of their reputation (and the success of this method can be, for example, attested in the fact that sometimes this influence even led to the initiation of their political career); and the newspapers’ revenue was also credited to the popularity of these authors and the prestige of their name. In this regard, the actual authorship was not necessitated, as the newspapers did not aim to promote the intellectual quality of serial novels; instead, author’s approved signature was their exclusive goal, as what they were selling was the popular figure’s big name.

As Benjamin declared, ‘the master's name is the fetish of the art market’.11 Conversely, it can be proclaimed that this historical occurrence of feuilleton removed the works of (at least seemingly) Benjamin, W., (1973) Charles Baudelaire: A Lyric Poet in the Era of High Capitalism. Trans. Harry Zohn. Bristol: NLB. 9 Beman, M., (1983) All that is Solid Melts into Air: The Experience of Modernity.

London and New York: Verso.

10 See Benjamin, W., (1973), Charles Baudelaire.

11 Benjamin, W., & Tarnowski, K. (1975) Eduard Fuchs: Collector and Historian. New German Critique, 5, 27-58.

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some of the most acclaimed writers of the times out of the French strong literary tradition. This is because this tradition is perceived to be exemplified by the exquisite novels which were stressing the eternal quality in national canon and the creative genius of the author – alas, in the nineteenth century these features appeared to be replenished with the momentary cravings of the crowd. At the same time when literature was converted into being accessible to the masses, it was also compelling to modify its character according to the requisites of this newly acquired body of a readership.

Benjamin captures the heart of this issue in the following statement: …the consideration of mass art leads to a revision of the concept of genius. It reminds us not to give priority to the inspiration, which participates in the becoming of the work of art, over and against the demand (Faktur) which alone allows inspiration to come to fruition.12 This foreshadows the definition of the contemporary readers to whom Baudelaire attempted to appeal to – his objective was to write for masses whose interest was ignited by the well-known and common writer, while personally he struggled to express his original insights. In his poem ‘L'Albatros’ (1861), Baudelaire compares poets to a bird whom he calls ‘prince des nuées.’ 13 He described the downfall of this majestic bird after it was captured by sea men – once the bird is displaced from his natural habitat, it appears to be ‘maladroits et honteux’ and ‘piteusement;’ and the seamen mock him. Baudelaire then drew parallel between poet and bird, and he insinuated that poet’s place is in the skies – in other words, he connoted position out of this world, in a certain spiritual sphere; and since he was in worldly exile ‘au milieu des huées’ it is no wonder that his art was ridiculed as ‘ses ailes de géant

12 13

Ibid.

See Baudelaire, C., (2008) Les Fleurs du Mal.

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l'empêchent de marcher.’ 14 Correspondingly, Benjamin defines Baudelaire’s readers in the following terms: ‘will power and the ability to concentrate are not their strong points; they are familiar with the “spleen” which kills interest and receptiveness.’15 These readers, who seem a little bit bored and melancholic, were craving for stirs (similar to the seamen from the aforementioned poem since they catch the albatross solely ‘pour s'amuser’); and that is most likely the clarification of why the feuilletons and the gossips were experiencing such a huge popularity in Baudelaire’s times. As Robert Kaufman concluded, ‘lyric poetry bears a special, radical relation to conceptuality as such and, in modernity, to determinate conceptuality's socioeconomic identity as exchange value and as the commodity.’16 Furthermore, this is one common aspect that can be found in both Futurists and Baudelaire: their animosity towards critics and audience. As aforementioned, Baudelaire was convinced that he needed to prostitute his art in order to secure financial gain and appreciation from his readers. Walter Adamson remarked that ‘by the end of the nineteenth century, it was fully apparent to European artists and intellectuals that there was simply no way to opt out of commodity culture.’17 Futurists seemed to be aware of this condition themselves – for example, they exclaimed that ‘the paid critics […] condemn Italian art to ignominy and a state of true prostitution,’18 or that ‘the prostitution of the great glories from the Ibid.

Ibid.

16 Kaufman, R., (2010) Afterword: Vicente Huidobro’s Futurity Is Now; ¿Por qué?. Huidobro’s Futurity: Twenty-First Century Approaches. Ed. Luis CorreaDíaz and Scott Weintraub. Hispanic Issues On Line, 6 (Spring), 248–260.

17 Adamson, W., (2007) Embattled Avant-Gardes: Modernism's Resistance to Commodity Culture in Europe. Berkley, London and Los Angeles: University of California Press.

18 Boccioni, U., Carrà, C., Russolo, L., Balla, G., & Severini, G. (2009) ‘Manifesto of Futurist painters.’ Futurism: An Anthology. Ed. by Lawrence Rainey, Christine Poggi and Laura Wittman. London and New Haven: Yale University Press.

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musical past, turned into insidious offensive weapons against budding talent.’19 However, unlike Baudelaire, they never openly approved the subordination to the commercial market – they declared that those ‘who, after much self-sacrifice, succeed in obtaining the patronage of the great publishers, to whom they are bound by a hangman’s contract, illusory and humiliating, represent a class of slaves, cowardly, sold out.’ 20 It seems that they valued artistic liberty above financial appreciation and, in fact, they explicitly proposed to ‘keep away from commercial and academic environments, disdaining them, and instead preferring a modest life over the large profits which mean that art has to sell out.’ 21 On the other hand, Barbara Pezzini showed that these statements were hypocritical as ‘the Futurists had sonorously proclaimed their contempt for commerce, especially for the old-masters trade, and yet they exhibited in private galleries.’22 It is problematic, then, to establish a Futurist stand on the question of artistic value and how they perceived it to be conditioned to the art market. Adamson proposes one elucidation, noting that they also understood themselves as taste professionals hoping to educate their audiences about art. They understood that craft production and artisanship was on the way out and, in some important cases, even welcomed this new reality. They all insisted that only artists, individually or as part of a profession, were fit to assess aesthetic value. They never doubted that Pratella, F.B., (2009) ‘Manifesto of Futurist Musicians.’ Futurism: An Anthology. Ed. by Lawrence Rainey, Christine Poggi and Laura Wittman.

London and New Haven: Yale University Press.

20 Ibid.

21 Ibid.

22 Pezzini, B., (2013) The 1912 Futurist exhibition at the Sackville Gallery, London: an avant-garde show within the old-master trade. The Burlington Magazine, July, 471-479.

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artists were capable of developing such standards, and they consistently aimed to wrest control of the judgment process away from critics, audiences, and others they perceived as servants of the bottom line.23 Actually, Futurists were often accused of poor painting techniques and inability to distinguish good quality colours – craftsmanship was indeed rarely mentioned in connection their works. Moreover, In ‘Weights, Measures and Prices of Artistic Genius: Futurist Manifesto’ (1914), Bruno Corra and Emilio Settimelli further supported Adamson’s claim, revealing the awareness of current economic situation of the art market in the following terms: ‘now genius has a social, economic, and financial value. Talent is a commodity in vigorous demand in all the markets of the world.’24 They commodified talent, and in order to provide this analysis with some validity they also invented a ‘logical and utterly objective’25 system for the measurement of this rather special article of trade.

They also emphasized that Futurists are the only people who are able to establish and execute this fully functional system of evaluation of the artworks, and in doing so they stripped audience or critics from this function. Their belief in the superiority of judgement is also demonstrated in Umberto Boccioni’s writing, in which he accused the audience of being pretentious in the sense that they are unable to recognise artistic worth: ‘the public always denies that one can call something a masterpiece if its author is still living, a man who eats, drinks, and makes love just like the rest of

Adamson, W., (2010) How Avant-Gardes End—and Begin: Italian Futurism in Historical Perspective. New Literary History, 41 (4), 855-874.

24 Corra, B., & Settimelli, E. (2009) ‘Weights, Measures and Prices of Artistic Genius: Futurist Manifesto.’ Futurism: An Anthology. Ed. by Lawrence Rainey, Christine Poggi and Laura Wittman. London and New Haven: Yale University Press.

25 Ibid.

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us, one whom they can see and know. . . .’26 This criticism evidently contradicted the cult of elitist artists, who were largely renowned in the past centuries. One can compare it with Baudelaire’s selfproclaimed identity of the supreme, out of this world poet which I have discussed. Yet, Boccioni proposed the new model of an artist for the twentieth century – it was the commonplace person who was taking pleasure in exactly the same activities as his audience was.

On the other hand, one can argue that Boccioni’s proclamation was solely a marketing strategy, described by Benjamin as ‘the alignment of reality with the masses and of the masses with reality,’ 27 which sourced from Boccioni’s consciousness of current art market requisites. Benjamin, in ‘The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction’ (1936) described the shift in the accessibility of art for the masses, as opposed to the past in which the display of masterpieces was only available to very exclusive and small group of wealthy aristocrats.

It seems that Futurists noticed the change that the universal approachability of the art initiated – as Adamson commented, Filippo Marinetti ‘fully recognizes that this new mode is linked to a rising society of consumerism, which is in turn predicated on mass appeal, that is, on the greatest possible breadth of appeal.’ 28 By taking this into consideration, ‘Marinetti had achieved his success not by addressing only an educated elite, but by speaking in a public forum to a wider audience.’29 These public events were also thoughtfully publicized – Marinetti designed many posters himself, Boccioni, U., (2009) ‘Absolute Motion + Relative Motion = Dynamism.’

Futurism: An Anthology. Ed. by Lawrence Rainey, Christine Poggi and Laura Wittman. London and New Haven: Yale University Press.

27 Benjamin, W., (1999), ʻThe Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction.’ Illuminations. Ed. Hannah Arendt. Trans. Harry Zorn. London: Pimlico.

28 Adamson, W. (1997) Futurism, Mass Culture, and Women: The Reshaping of the Artistic Vocation, 1909- 1920. Modernism/ Modernity, 4 (1), 89-114.

29 Rainey, L. (1994) The Creation of the Avant-Garde: F. T. Marinetti and Ezra Pound. Modernism/ Modernity, 3 (1), 195-220.

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and while these possessed date and place of the event like any other poster, arguably, they also contained an artwork – illustration which was done by Marinetti himself, and then mechanically reproduced. As a result, ‘through the vehicle of advertising the avant-garde had invaded the great cities and so realized one of the Futurist ambitions: to leave the museum and extend art into the streets and public spaces.’30 In conclusion, I would argue that from the late nineteenth century onwards it is problematic to establish the extent of autonomy in terms of artistic creation due to formation of (pre)capitalistic model of art market. Both Baudelaire and Futurists were aware of the mechanics of this market and they conditioned their works to its prerequisites. Ultimately, I would like to include some points from Michael Baxandall’s study of dynamics in the art commerce from the fifteenth-century Italy. He noted that painters were paid in two instalments: firstly, according to the accurate expenses on the specific colours; and secondly, for their craftsmanship. Insistence on the excellence of paints was stressed as patrons who commissioned the works insisted on ‘the painter using a good quality colours.’ 31 This power-relation between the patron and the painter was gradually modified when ‘the conscious consumption of gold and ultramarine became less important in the contracts, its place was filled by references to an equally conspicuous consumption of something else – skill.’ 32 To summarise, the financial value of the painting was originally mirrored in its material features, although progressively, due to lessening of this quantifiable approach, painters were empowered to develop their own personas as artists, rather than their command of being mere craftsmen. One is left to wonder then, are Salaris, C. (1994) Marketing Modernism: Marinetti as Publisher.

Modernism/ Modernity, 3 (1), 109-127.

31 Baxandall, M., (1988), Painting and Experience in Fifteenth-Century Italy: A Primer in the Social History of Pictorial Style. New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press.

32 Ibid.

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we now experiencing the opaque symmetry of these procedures?

Are current patrons multiplied, demanding precisely defined end product of paradoxically bad quality?

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‘Called and knowne by the name of John Burnt Pritle’: Slander, Self and Social Identity in the Early Modern Parish

I

Dom Birch

n his 1992 study of Warao ritual wailing—a type of speech through which Warao women could articulate their grievances and concerns, following the death of a close relative—Charles L. Briggs notes how this type of ritualistic, public speech was in itself a powerful form of social action. 1 This action depended on its publicity: it was done before the entire community, and could be heard even by those listening from their houses.2 The grievances articulated by this speech usually involved blaming Shamans for the relative’s death. This information had already been whispered about privately, but during the course of the ritual wailing it becomes public knowledge. 3 Annette B. Weiner’s study of words within Trobriand society illustrated a similar phenomenon. In the Trobriands, speaking what one thinks of something is called ‘hard words’: saying the truth publicly exposes the compromises and negotiations of truth under which individuals lived their daily lives. Thus, ‘hard words’ are perceived to have a great and disruptive social power. 4 These studies provide reference points for thinking about speech and social action in the early modern community.

As has been frequently pointed out, early modern individuals Charles L. Briggs, “‘Since I am a Woman, I will chastise my relatives’: gender, reported speech and the (re)production of social relations in Warao ritual wailing,” American Ethnologist, 19/2 (1992): 338.

2 Ibid, p. 341.

3 Ibid, p. 340.

4 Annette B. Weiner, “From Words to Objects to Magic: ‘Hard Words’ and the Boundaries of Social Interaction,” in Dangerous Words: Language and Politics in the Pacific, ed. Donald Brenneis and Fred R. Myers (Prospect Heights: Waveland Press, 1991), 161–191.

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understood speech to be a type of action.5 In early modern English society the act of slander was one specific manifestation of the speech-act relationship and one that contemporaries took seriously. 6 Within the historiography, however, the power of slander has not been fully appreciated. Gowing has stated that the effects of slander are less tangible than the high levels of Laura Gowing, Domestic Dangers: Women, Words, and Sex in Early Modern Eng- land (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996), 124; Garthine Walker, Crime, Gender and Social Order in Early Modern England (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 99; Jane Kamensky, Governing the Tongue (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 6; Andy Wood, The 1549 Rebellions and the Making of Early Modern England (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 108–133.

6 The literature on slander is vast. See, for example Gowing, Domestic Dangers ; Walker, Crime, Gender and Social Order; Martin Ingram, Church Courts, Sex and Marriage in England, 1570-1640 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987); Martin Ingram, “‘Scolding Woman Cucked or Washed’: A Crisis in Gender Relations in Early Modern England?,” in Women Crime and the Courts in Early Modern England, ed.

Jenny Kermode and Garthine Walker (London: University College London Press, 1994), 48–80; Martin Ingram, ‘Law, Litigants and the Construction of “Honour”: Slander Suits in Early Modern England,” in The Moral World of the Law, ed. Peter Cross (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 134–161; Robert Shoemaker, “The Decline of Public Insult in London 1660-1800,” Past and Present, 169 (2000): 97– 131; Peter Rushton, “Women, Witchcraft, and Slander in Early Modern England: Cases From the Church Courts of Durham, 1560–1675,” Northern History, 1982, 116–132; James Sharpe, Defamation and Sexual Slander in Early Modern England: The Church Courts at York (York: Borthwick Institute for Historical Research, 1980); James Sharpe, “‘Such Disagreement Betwyx Neighbours’: Litigation and Human relations in Early Modern England,” in Disputes and Settlements: Law and Human Relations in the West, ed. John Bossy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 167–188. For slander in an American context, see Clara Ann Bowler, “Carted Whores and White Shrouded Apologies: Slander in the County Courts of Seventeenth-Century Virginia,” The Virginia Magazine of History and Biography, 85/4 (1977): 411–426; Mary Beth Norton, “Gender and Defamation in Seventeenth-Century Maryland,” The William and Mary Quarterly 44, 1 (1987): 3–39.

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litigation suggest. Thus, to Gowing the ‘only substantial effect of slander was more talk’.7 The assumption that ‘mere talk’ was the only effect of slander pervades the historiography of slander disputes. This assumption ignores how such talk was a powerful social action with real—if often intangible— consequences. Ingram’s latest work on slander offers a way out.

Ingram comments how slander disputes went ‘to the very heart, to the individual’s sense of self’.8 In this essay I will focus on ideas of ‘self’ and ‘social identity’ to offer a mild corrective to the historiography. By focusing upon the way in which social labels became hurtful, I hope to investigate slander whilst also recognising the humanity of the litigants. I will use records from the Durham ecclesiastical court for the years 1620–30. This is a small, qualitative sample.

The deposition books do, however, offer a great deal of detail for the historian. If my work has any claim to national significance it is only because Gowing, Sharpe, and Shepard have all claimed such significance also using limited (temporally, geographically) datasets.9 On 13 July 1620 William Dixon, the vicar of Osmotherly, commenced a suit against one of his parishioners, Agnes Swales, in the Durham ecclesiastical court. Swales was noted to possess a ‘lewd and dishonest behaviour’ both ‘in her single life and since her marriage’, living ‘in adulterye with divers persons and namely one Robert Kewing [...and] Thomas Prince’. 10 Because of this reputation, Swales had been presented to the church court multiple times for her behaviour. 11 Swales had gained a Gowing, p. 131.

Ingram, ‘Law, Litigants, and Honour’, p. 144.

9 Alexandra Shepard, Accounting for Oneself: Women, Status and the Social Order in Early Modern England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015).

10 Diocese of Durham Consistory Court Deposition Books November 1618–November 1626, 72V, 73V. All subsequent references will be referred to as DDR/EJ/CCD/1/11.

11 DDR/EJ/CCD/1/11, 82R. 7 8

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reputation as the village whore. Not everyone believed this to be true. When called to the court Mary Stringer deposed how it was reputed that Swales had slept with her husband, but that she thought this was ‘without cause’.12 It was the ‘common fame’ of the village that case Swales into the role of whore—but there was sufficient level of doubt for at least some of her fellow villagers.

Dixon, for his part, played an instrumental role in the construction of Swales’ reputation. He chastised her ‘divers times openlye and in publiq assemblies’ for her supposed lewd living. 13 One of Swales’ neighbours, John Bowles, supposedly gave her the ‘friendly advice’ that she should ‘submitt herself’ to Dixon’s requests and ‘amend or reforme herself’. Dixon, as a figure of authority, promulgated the very public discussion of Swales’ actions and reputation.

Dixon’s sermonising against Swales seems to have stemmed from more than a Christian interest in her behaviour.

Dixon was accused of coming to Swales’ house ‘thr[ee] tymes in one daye when [her husband] was from home and would have been in the house but she (an honest woman as she was) locked the doore’.14 It seems that Dixon attempted to rape Swales and, having failed, brought a cause against her in the church court. It is difficult to get to the truth of this accusation, although Swales’ reputation would certainly count against her in the court and community. Swales was known for promiscuous behaviour, an image propagated, at least in part, by Dixon himself.

The case of Swales offers a reflection on the way in which the articulation of a social identity had very important consequences for early modern individuals. In this case, it was Swales’ reputation as a ‘lewd and dishonest’ woman that left her open to the—potentially brutal—regulations of neighbourhood morality. This reputation depended on the DDR/EJ/CCD/1/11, 74R. DDR/EJ/CCD/1/11, 72R. 14 DDR/EJ/CCD/1/11, 74R. 12 13

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public gossip and slander of Swales’ fellow parishioners. The ‘common voice and fame’ of Osmotherly attested to Swales’ behaviour. A common voice and fame that can be broken down to talk—and more talk.

The articulation of such a negative social identity was often used de- liberately. In particular, ‘common voice and fame’ could be used to chas- tise, challenge and abuse those who were considered strangers. In 1628 the ‘general and common voice’ of Washington affirmed that Cuthbert Glenn ‘lived suspitiouslie’ with one Margaret Sotherton. 15 Concurrently, Cuthbert’s brother John was accused of not paying the customary tithes. 16 Robert Sheppard deposed how he was sent to ‘view’ Glenn’s animals and pastures, weighing their value in the ‘common estimacion of men within [the] parish’.17 Glenn’s possessions were set against the local knowledge of the inhabitants of Washington. Whilst there is no way of gauging the truth of Cuthbert and Sotherton’s relationship, this seems to be motivated—at least in part—by the fact of the ongoing tithe dispute of John Glenn, and the fact that the Glenns had moved to Washington on ‘May Day last past’.18 Ann Ellergill was also subject to such abuse. In May 1626 Matthew Rutter stated that Ellergill ‘was a wedmans whore and that she had bourne a bastard to a wedman and that she durst not remain in the countrie where she was borne for feare therof’.19 Ellergill’s movement was explicitly tied to her sexual reputation, and her status as a stranger facilitated speculation about her history. Rutters’ assertion that Ellergill had fled her home country suggests the precarious position of a newcomer—whether invented or discovered, this was a past DDR/EJ/CCD/1/11, 118V. DDR/EJ/CCD/1/11, 116V-118V. 17 DDR/EJ/CCD/1/11, 116V. 18 Ibid.

19 DDR/EJ/CCD/1/11, 523V. 15 16

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liable to have repercussions. The word ‘country’ in early modern popular culture had particular resonances. It was the place where one’s reputation was known, and was associated with extent of local popular interests. 20 When Cuthbert Jackson defamed Elizabeth Chambers he did so by declaring that ‘all the countrie knewe she was a whore and worse’.21 When an individual appeared in a new ‘country’, the local community had no knowledge of their past, reputation and character.

The stranger-as-deviant label did not stop at talk. In August 1622 Emmanuel Trotter, the vicar of Kirk Newton, was faced with armed opposition when he attempted to collect the tithes. Dainson Gare, the principal antagonist, referred to Totter as a ‘stranger’. 22 Trotter appealed to Matthew Wilkinson to negotiate with those involved, hoping, it seems, to utilise a local figure whose authority would be respected.23 The label ‘stranger’ pitted the interests of the local ‘country’ in much the same way as the label ‘dishonest’ pitted the interests of the ‘lewd’ parishioner against the self-identified respectable parishioners. In both cases, the label mattered rather than the ‘innate’ identity.

These labels were not plucked from thin air. They represented specific, communal appraisals of a person’s standing that were often glossed as ‘common fame’, ‘rumour’ and ‘report’. On 22 Febuary 1621, Oliver Brackenbie from Killerbie deposed that Agnes Smith and Robert Ward visited his house ‘three or fower tymes’ drinking together and acting in a ‘frindlie and familiarlie’ manner. Brackenbie did not see any ‘suspitious or unlawful caringe betwixt them’. Yet, when Sir George Tonge informed him that ‘he and others thought much Andy Wood, “Subordination, Solidarity and the Limits of Popular Agency in a Yorkshire Valley, c.1596-1615,” Past and Present, 193 (2006): 56–7.

21 DDR/EJ/CCD/1/11, 116V. 22 DDR/EJ/CCD/1/11, 279V–280R. 23 DDR/EJ/CCD/1/11, 278V–279R. 20

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that the said parites frequented [his] house and willed him [. . . ] to desist’ he did so.24 The communal appraisal of Ward and Smith’s behaviour trumped Brackenbie’s faith in them. It also led to their appearance before the church court, investigated for the crime of fornication. These community appraisals were built up by watching and regulating the behaviour of others.

Margaret Wilson was known to be ‘verie much given to drinking and playing at cardes’. 25 Community opinion was not necessarily based on fact. In fact, it was often based upon inference and informed guesswork. In 1620, Agnes Hall accused Barbara Archibald of obtaining ‘a petticote and a gowne for lying a night with Mr. Handerson’.26 Whilst this may be true, it seems more likely that this was a rumour made up to explain Archibald’s new clothes. Communal speculation could lead to a variety of conclusions. Jane Stell and Margaret Unthanke supposedly came across Jane Robson and an unidentified man together by the wayside. Later, when reporting this to the inhabitants of Chester, they were informed by one Mabell Bird that ‘it was John Marley and the said Jane Robson that they found soe lyinge together’. 27 Robert Allan was ‘verily persuaded’ that his master George Aislabie and Jane Fewler had slept together having seen them go to bed together at night, and wake up together the next morning. 28 Allan also deposed that he only affirmed what was ‘repoted generallie in his masters house amongst servants’ and by the ‘common voice and fame’ of Norton. 29 The relationship between Allan’s report and the ‘common voice and fame’ is hard to pin down; prompted by Allan’s report (or not) this common rumour certainly involved a good deal of speculation and gossip.

DDR/EJ/CCD/1/11, 180V–181R. DDR/EJ/CCD/1/11, 80V. 26 DDR/EJ/CCD/1/11, 50R. 27 DDR/EJ/CCD/1/11, 304R–V. 28 DDR/EJ/CCD/1/12, 105R–V. 29 DDR/EJ/CCD/1/12, 105V. 24 25

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The social status and identities of parishioners could be more obviously affected by those whose speech commanded greater respect. William Rowell, in July 1625, affirmed that ‘thre old men who live all of them in the chappelrie of Bellingham [. . . ] reported’ that Elizabeth, Ann and Jane Dodd were all the bastard daughters of Symon Dodds and Mabell Hunter. 30 The voices of old men had more authority within these communities.

In this case, these three old men were passing on a social label— ‘bastard daughters’—through their authority within the community.

The wider community regulated the perception of others: often these perceptions could be harmful. In the case Mary Mideton c. John Eastmas, Jane Redeard reported how, following an argument with Elizabeth Tate, Eastmas’ penis was caused to be raw and swollen and Eastmas ‘many and sundry tymes [was] called and knowne by the name of John Burnt Pritle’.31 In this case, Eastmas’ relationship with the community was defined by one particularly unfortunate event which coloured his reputation elsewhere. Eastmas evidently took such name-calling seriously as he commenced a suit against Tate.32 These reports and repeated words formed part of Eastmas’ reputation and identity within the wider community in which he moved.

Such identities varied, but they often had purchase.

John Lawne was known for having an ‘evil tongue’, whilst Henry Mitforde was described as a ‘popish recusant’, for not attended church for ‘thre or fower years’. 33 Mitforde’s absence only became known to the church courts when he found himself involved in a pew dispute, suggesting the way in which this communal identity may have mitigated more formal punishments. These identities did have consequences.

DDR/EJ/CCD/1/11, 339R. DDR/EJ/CCD/1/11, 8R-V. 32 DDR/EJ/CCD/1/11, 8V. 33 DDR/EJ/CCD/1/11, 293R, 496V–497R. 30 31

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When Richard Softley and John Symm testified in the case Alice Dunn c. Richard Hutchinson the court was informed that they were ‘poore labouring men’. As Shepard has made clear, these economic categories had real consequences in court— construing individuals as less trustworthy. 34 Economic categories and personal reputations could be created through the concerns of the gossip and rumour of the ‘common voice’. We must not, however, make too much of these obviously tangible consequences: the main consequences of negative communal identity were the more human ones—being shunned or humiliated by your neighbours.

Both the intangible and the tangible effects on an individual’s reputation were expressed by contemporaries as the system of ‘credit’. Credit was the economic and social system through which early modern individuals understood their worth. Craig Muldrew and Alexander Shepard have already undertaken work to unpack the economic implications of the term. To Muldrew, credit was based on the wider moral community’s continual judgement of individuals’ moral worth—conditioned by what people said about each other.35 To Shepard, social identities were born from a dialectic of material reality and language. Hence, social identities could be fluid and temporary as well as permanent. 36 Thus, the language of morality was in- credibly important for the negotiation of selfidentity, reputation and social position. 37 What emerges from the work of Muldrew and Shepard, then, is a picture of economic DDR/EJ/CCD/1/11, 293R, See also Shepard, Accounting for Oneself, p p .

303–4.

35 Craig Muldew, The Economy of Obligation (London: MacMillan, 1998), 151–157, at pp. 298–9.

36 Shepard, Accounting for Oneself, p. 6.

37 Muldrew, “Class and Credit: Social Identity, Wealth and the Life Course in Early Modern England,” in Identity and Agency in England, 1500-1800, ed. Henry French and Jonathan Berry (London: MacMillan, 2004), 149, a t p p . 171–2.

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credit that depended on the process of voiced communal judgement.

Credit, as a more obviously social term—not defined by any economic metric—depended similarly on voiced communal judgement. Agnes Swales’ bad reputation was voiced as bad credit. Elizabeth Joplyn was supposedly dismissed from her service because of reports that her parents died of syphilis. The reports proved detrimental to ‘the good name and credit of the said Elizabeth’—prompting her dismissal. 38 In 1624, Marie Hedworth was reported to have told a long tale about Jane Porter’s miraculous day- long pregnancy. After giving birth to a baby, Porter, Hedworth accused, placed it in the fire and burnt it.39 Anne Gibson, a witness in the ensuing defamation case, suggested that Hedworth ‘did publish the words by her predeposed upon purpose to slander the said Jane Porter and bring her credit in question’.40 The equation of infanticide with bad credit suggests how flexible the term could be: rather than relating to just ‘bad behaviour’, it could be expanded to include accusations of a much more serious nature. ‘Credit’ articulated a complex and vague set of ideas about an individual’s reputation and identity within the community. In the suit John Iley c. John Grinwell, Nicholas Harrison, attesting to Grinwell’s credit, commented that he was borne near unto the articulate John Grinwell and for these thirtie yeares last have bene nere neighbors for all which time he saith that he the said John Grinwell hath bene and is a verie honest man of good life and conversacion.41 DDR/EJ/CCD/1/11, 180R. DDR/EJ/CCD/1/11, 328V–333R. 40 DDR/EJ/CCD/1/11, 329R. 41 DDR/EJ/CCD/1/11, 524V. Cf. comments made about Isabell Wright at DDR/EJ/CCD/1/12, 71R–71V. 38 39

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The complexities of a thirty-year relationship are beyond the simple term ‘credit’.

It is worth emphasising that this communal appraisal of identity was done by individuals who were all neighbours. In this period a fairly large market town consisted of about 1000 residents: roughly the size of a large comprehensive school in twenty first-century Britain. Villages were much smaller.

Indeed, Corneforth town was so small that if an argument was loud enough it could be heard throughout the village. 42 The articulation of identity within such small communities resulted in gossip, hurt feelings and rejection that were difficult to navigate. In the case of Agnes Swales, it seems that the whole of Osmotherly was aware of her reputation in some way. Behind the terms ‘credit’ and ‘identity’ lay a vast network of real human relationships. To be clear: these human relationships were the fundamental building blocks of identity within the early modern parish and they are worth sustained study.

Modern social rituals involve paperwork—to become legally (and, thus, socially) married, dead and so forth means signing a form.43 In early modern society both involved interpersonal oral communication. The creation of social identities was also an oral, interpersonal experience. Slander was one part of this process. Slandering another individual created the possibility of a ‘common voice and fame’ that could have real effects on the way in which that individual was viewed by the community.

The sociolinguist Penelope Eckert defines identity as one’s ‘meaning in the world’: a person’s place relative to other people, a person’s perspective on the rest of the world, and a person’s understanding of his or her value to others. Identity is, therefore, the way in which an individual perceives their DDR/EJ/CCD/1/11, 1R–V. David Graeber, The Utopia of Rules: On Technology, Stupidity, and the Secret Joys of Bureaucracy (London: Melville House, 2015), p. 50.

42 43

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relationship to a community, and vice versa. Thus, to Eckert, identity is a continual process of engagement and disengagement. 44 Considering early modern reputation and credit in light of this definition of identity is illustrative. Credit was a metaphor that often operated through disengagement.

When individuals were considered to be a ‘stranger’ or a ‘whore’ this affected the community’s perception of them.

Hence, credit often opened up a variety of exclusions: from placing the category of ‘nightwalker’ on men with local histories, to discrediting an individual’s testimony in court. 45 As Eckert and Ingram remind us, these exclusions cannot be untangled from a person’s sense of self and worth.

To slander a person was to call into question their identity. Words such as ‘whore’ and ‘queane’ were articulated against a background in which one’s place in the community was continually considered. The possibility of a ‘common voice and fame’ defaming one’s behaviour was always a possibility: words, as much as actions, could contribute to the community’s collective ‘social knowledge’. This social knowledge could then be used to harm and chastise: to effect disengagement from the community. In 1620 Agnes Swales learned the consequences of talk: she was soon placed in opposition to her community, and to individuals in power. She not only had her private life picked apart by those she knew, but this led to unwanted attention from the man most responsible for chastising her. The consequence of slander was indeed more talk, but it must not be considered ‘mere’ talk.

Penelope Eckert, Linguistic Variation as Social Practice (Oxford: Blackwell, 2000), pp. 41–2.

45 Paul Griffiths, “Meanings of Nightwalking in Early Modern England,” The Seventeenth Century Journal, 13/2 (1999): 223; Norton, “Gender and Defamation in Seventeenth-Century Maryland,” p . 24.

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Rainer Maria Rilke as a Figure of Antiphilosophy

I

Megumi Chou

n his introduction to Rainer Maria Rilke: Aspects of his Mind and Poetry, Stefan Zweig offers this compelling sketch of Rilke as a perpetually wandering artist: No successful and prosperous poet or artist of our own times has ever been so free as Rilke, who allowed himself to be bound by no tie. He had no regular habits and no address. He did not really even have a fatherland, for he was as much as home in Italy as he was in France or Austria, and one never knew where he was. When one met him it was almost invariably by chance. In a Paris bookshop or a Viennese drawingroom one would suddenly see his friendly smile[.] Then . . . he would vanish, and we who loved and honoured him did not ask where he was to be found or call on him if we knew, but waited until he came to us.1

For Zweig and other critics, (including Rilke’s German biographer Wolfgang Leppmann, and Anna A. Tavis who writes on Rilke and his connection to Russia, 2 ) homelessness -- whether Rilke expressed his rootlessness by an absence of address or of regular habits, was a marked quality of his life that gave him the privilege of being a true poet, or as Walter Benjamin would put it, a true ‘storyteller.’ 3 Though Rilke made numerous trips to the places Stefan Zweig. Introduction. Rainer Maria Rilke; Aspects of His Mind and Poetry. Ed. William Rose and G. Craig Houston. New York, NY: Haskell House, 1973, p. 7.

2 Anna A. Tavis. Rilke's Russia: A Cultural Encounter. Evanston, IL: Northwestern UP, 1994, p. xvi.

3 Walter Benjamin. "The Storyteller: Reflections on the Works of Nikolai Leskov." Trans. Harry Zorn. The Novel: An Anthology of Criticism and Theory, 1900-2000. Ed. Dorothy J. Hale. Malden, MA: Blackwell Pub., 2006, p. 362.

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Zweig mentions, and in all of those places he had no shortage of friends and acquaintances, it is also telling that he manages to be at home in all of those places at once. This fluidity almost begs the question of whether he was truly at home, or just making do while his true home lay elsewhere, as yet unattainable to him.

In short, this essay seeks to examine the rather homeless nature of the life of the German poet Rainer Maria Rilke (18751926) and subsequently, how Rilke’s profound sense of homelessness transmuted his writing into an expression of ‘antiphilosophy.’ I take the term from Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari’s critical volume Kafka: Towards a Minor Literature. 4 In the simplest of terms, Deleuze and Guattari envision antiphilosophy as a concept that will stand up to the more mainstream idea of philosophy, independently filling in gaps left by philosophy in between after going through the process of writing minor literature, a concept which I shall also later discuss in detail in relations to Rilke’s writing. It is my primary contention here that Rilke’s continued dalliances with abstract homelessness makes him an ideal antiphilosophical writer. More to this point, is Rilke’s strong dislike for conventional definitions of referent, and his later obsession with describing ‘das Unsichtbare’ (the invisible) -- Judith Ryan would remind us that Rilke grew to believe strongly that art was in fact, not a tool used to represent reality, but instead a way to ‘transform’ the invisible. 5 However, Rilke also recognised the importance of retaining ‘artistic form or ‘Figur’ (figure) as a way of retaining the object in a kind of structural metamorphosis.’ 6 Although a number of Rilke’s writings fit this criteria, as he tries to put in tangible language what lies just beyond the indescribable, I shall be concentrating on just two of Rilke’s works, the first being The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge (1910) which quasiGilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari. Kafka: Towards a Minor Literature. Trans.

Dana Polan. Minneapolis, MN & London: U of Minnesota, 1986, p. 27.

5 Judith Ryan. Rilke, Modernism and Poetic Tradition. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1999, p. 157.

6 Ibid.

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autobiographically describes the mental breakdown of a young man in Paris, and the Duino Elegies (1923) a collection of poems which undertakes the tremendous question of the displacement of the whole of the human condition after the First World War. Finally, in my conclusion, I shall visit very briefly the effects of Rilke’s homelessness still much present within the twenty-first century.

To start, we begin with the simple, but also oversimplified notion of Rilke as a German poet. He was born René Karl Wilhelm Johann Josef Maria Rilke in Prague, Czech Republic on 4 December, 1875. 7 (He only started using the German version of his name, Rainer, when he became acquainted with Lou Andreas-Salome.)

Prague was then a part of the German-speaking Austro-Hungarian empire. The city itself bore no real immediate significance, and presented as a ‘sleepy provincial capital neglected by Vienna.’ 8 Prague boasted an exclusive German elite. Rilke was part of this elite, as he attended the German grammar school along with sons of the German-speaking upper-middle class, and he didn’t have an opportunity to socialise with Czech pupils who went to school nearby. Leppmann notes that Rilke was even ‘linguistically’ shielded by his well-to-do mother Phia, who insisted on speaking her native French to him as she walked him to school.9 By doing so, young Rene gained the unique gift of French thinking (which he continued to hone under the guidance the sculptor Auguste Rodin) but Phia Rilke further delayed his ability to socialise with others and managed to displace her son even further within the Germanspeaking minority in Prague by teaching him French.

However, even if we look at Rilke’s exposure to language without paying much attention to his knowledge of French, the sort of German spoken in Prague would have afforded him no great advantage either. The Prague dialect was described by Franz Wolfgang Leppmann, Rilke: A Life. Trans. Russell M. Stockman. New York: Fromm International Pub., 1984, 8 Tavis, p. 5.

9 Leppmann, p. 15.

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Werfel as ‘homeless’ and ‘germ-free,’ altogether lacking in richness and tradition characteristically found in contemporary strains of German from Germany.10 As such, it seems wholly appropriate to investigate Rilke’s writing in the context of minor literature, used most commonly by marginalised writers who are disenfranchised by their literary traditions; for instance, both Rilke and Kafka were disadvantaged by Prague German. Giles Deleuze and Felix Guattari identify this literary subset by three primary traits. Although Deleuze and Guattari have chosen Kafka as their example, Kafka could be considered as a contemporary of Rilke’s, having grown up with a Jewish upbringing in Prague, making Kafka another minority within a minority. This is not to say that Kafka and Rilke’s contributions to minor literature are comparable, but the framework offered by Deleuze and Guattari is independently useful for contextualising Rilke’s work. The primary goal for minor literature then, is to recognise a certain amount of deterritorialisation. Deterritorialisation is related to the concept of appropriation and refers to the dislocated connection between a population and their cultural practices -- or in this particular circumstance, the cultural practice of language. Kafka is markedly less kind than Werfel regarding alien enclaves of German speakers, a marvel opinion because he himself was one such alien speaker of German. For Kafka, speakers of Prague German were excluded from a more proper German dialect like ‘gypsies who have stolen a German child from its crib.’11 Kafka’s notion of language exclusion is clearly active in nature, as from his viewpoint, Prague speakers are trying to maintain an illusion of forcible inclusion while they are still excluded. This is sharply contrasted with Rilke’s interactions with an emaciated, ‘homeless’ German, where language is defined by a perceived lack. Furthermore, minor literature is bound up inextricably with politics. Deleuze and Guattari write that because of the ‘cramped space’ that minor Das Tagebuch. Ed.: S. Grossmann and L. Schwartzschild), Vol. VIII (January 1927, p. 141 (qtd. From Leppmann, p. 55).

11 Deleuze and Guattari, p. 17.

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literature is forced to occupy, it is imperative that individual concerns be highlighted and valued, lest everything be swallowed up by collective, nationalistic concern. Writers of minor literature do not have the luxury of addressing individual concerns as being separate from a nationalist agenda.

Yet, at the pinnacle of minor literature stands the nearly perfect notion of antiphilosophy, which appears to be the light at the end of the tunnel. It is as if minor literature is the long, arduous process to which antiphilosophy is the goal. In a particularly heartening note, Deleuze and Guattari observe that after we have made ‘intensive, minor use’ of a language, we may yet relieve language of its oppressive qualities, find points of non-culture or underdevelopment. . . by which a language could escape,’ the fulfilment of these criteria creates a much needed moment for antiphilosophy to become ‘a language of power.’12 Rilke’s passive participation in minor literature as such, coupled with his eventual interest in representing the unsaid suggests that he was aware of certain gaps of form which are in dire need of a representative voice. It would not be too much of a stretch, I’d imagine, to attribute Rilke’s devotion to ‘das Unsichtbare’ to a need to reform his own inherent ‘lack’ of language into something more productive. This too, inherently feeds into the idea of antiphilosophy. Rilke’s concerns with representing the invisible could also be seen as an effort to make something productive of the intrinsic lack or absence. This lack is finally given form, by virtue of having to represent the invisible.

In addition, it is worth noting that Rilke’s notion of trying to give some structure to the invisible almost saves it from having to adhere to a political agenda. In other words, the invisible inherently bears no inherent political agenda and serves instead to represent the individual. This is the true power of antiphilosophy, as it moves away from the expected hegemony that seems to be the backbone of minor literature. It is therefore important for 12

Deleuze and Guattari, p. 27.

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antiphilosophy to be seen as the final evolution of minor literature, for it elevates one of minor literature’s main weaknesses and doubly counteracts against the more conventional expectations of philosophy.

If antiphilosophy allows us to recognise a certain absence and fill in much-needed gaps in the collective, our next task then, would be to understand how Rilke brings in his severe knowledge of homelessness as an antiphilosophical figure. I have chosen The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge and the Duino Elegies as my texts because of how differently Rilke views lack and absence in both works. On the one hand, the lack and absence as presented in The Notebooks could be seen as negative antiphilosophy. The Notebooks chronicles Malte’s deep unhappiness and undeniable homelessness in Paris. Some passages from Malte’s notebooks are actually taken directly from Rilke’s own writings during the time he lived in Paris.13 Malte Laurids Brigge has been shocked by the idea of modern Paris; whereas Paris might be experienced by some as a lively urban city, Malte dooms the capital from the start. Rather than accepting Paris as a place to live, Malte remarks, ‘I would sooner have thought one died here’ (The Notebooks, p. 13). In some sense, Rilke not only tries to give Malte’s invisible anxieties their due, but by adopting a language of uncertainty, which allows the opportunity for Malte to come to terms with the unshakeable certainty of death. The uncertainty which haunts him; however, finally lets him to ‘see’ (The Notebooks, p. 15). His sharpened loneliness is in essence privileged here as a useful flaw. In seeing, Malte begins to notice cracks in the human condition, most noticeably found in people’s faces: … but there are many more faces, for each person has several. There are people who wear the same face for years; naturally it wears out, it gets dirty, it splits at Rainer Maria Rilke. The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge. Trans. M. D. Herter Norton. New York: Norton, 1964, p. 8. Subsequent quotes are cited in-text abbreviated as The Notebooks.

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the folds, it stretches, like gloves one has worn on a journey. . . they do not change their face, they never even have it cleaned. . .[S]ince they have several faces, what do they do with the others? . . . Their children will wear them. But sometimes too, it happens that their dogs go out with them on. And why not? A face is a face. (The Notebooks, p. 15) In this passage, we learn that Malte’s sight has provided him with the ability to observe near-invisible gaps between an individual’s many alleged faces. His eyes are keen enough to actually distinguish one from the other, though someone else might mistake them for being the same. The distinct lack of a continuous single face prolongs and deepens his estrangement from the rest of Paris.

Yet George C. Schoolfield suggests that Malte does not shy away from his ‘growing neurosis,’ and he ‘cossets his excess alertness as an artist-pedagogical experiences.’14 In this way, Malte’s alienation (sometimes self-imposed) is actually a positive point as his newfound powers of observation grants him a chance at true experience.

Previously, I have made a correlation between being a true poet and a true storyteller. If Duino Elegies is indeed evidence of Rilke as a true poet, then I would like to put forward the idea that The Notebooks might prove Rilke as a true storyteller, an occupation that has also long eluded us during the modern times, especially after the First World War. Walter Benjamin writes in ‘The Storyteller’ that true storytelling as an artistic craft has been long since passed over for information. 15 The clearest difference between the two is that information is fleeting whereas storytelling has a value outside of the moment -- in simpler terms, Benjamin gives storytelling staying power. This staying power, is most George C. Schoolfield. "Die Aufzeichmungen Des Malte Laurids Brigge." A Companion to the Works of Rainer Maria Rilke. Ed. Erika A. Metzger and Michael M. Metzger. Rochester, NY: Camden House, 2001, p. 185.

15 Benjamin, p. 364.

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noticeable with soldiers who have returned from the war. Instead of brimming with rich, communicable experience, the soldiers who returned from the battleground have ‘grown silent.’ 16 Therefore, silence is a burdensome absence with a powerful grip, which has kept us at bay from true experience since. Malte refers this when he remarks on a birthday occasion: for him, birthdays are ‘richest in almost incomprehensible experience’ (The Notebooks, p. 128).

Duino Elegies picks up where The Notebooks leave off, and almost manages to leave us with an antiphilosophical standpoint to alleviate some of our anxiety. Rilke still faces many of the same challenges already discussed, such as how to lend the right sort of language to bring das Unsichbare to the forefront and to rehabilitate the meaning of human experience. In the Elegies, the scope of experience is most clearly expressed through humanity’s complex struggles with its own limiting self-consciousness. Duino Elegies takes its name from Castle Duino near Trieste, where Rilke was staying in 1912 as a guest of Princess Marie Thurn und Taxis.

Although Rilke began the Elegies in 1912, when he claimed to have received a calling to start these poems, effectively drawing him out of an extended writer’s block brought by depression, it was not an easy process with muses paving the way. 17 Duino Elegies were finally finished a decade later in Muzot, Switzerland, where Rilke would spend his last years. Ryan notes that it is not enough to admire the Elegies for the enormous task of poetic transformation, but that the Elegies should also be noted as a valiant effort to keep his career as a poet alive.18 If the keyword which describes poor Malte’s approach to the invisible is the continued realisation of his own incompleteness, his own inadequacy, then the Elegies embraces these inadequacies in full and in turn attempts to make sense of this lack -- translated within the Elegies as the obvious limitations of self-consciousness -- by way of contradiction and comparisons. Rilke is at once mindful of these limits, and at the Benjamin, p. 362.

Ryan, p. 113.

18 Ibid.

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same time, searching for ways within these same limitations to represent what lies just beyond the conventionally describable.

Furthermore, Kathleen L. Komar also confirms that the poetic voice presented in the Elegies essentially has its roots in The Notebooks. Just like Malte, the impassioned speaker starts his journey by attempting to come to some understanding of his current crisis by ‘altering his vision.’ 19 While Malte’s education ultimately comes at a price of his mental well-being as he is not able to come to terms with the contradictions within his environment, the Elegies explores the same question of crisis by means of positive contradiction. In other words, instead of caving under the weight of contradiction’s many incomprehensibilities, contradictions as presented to us in the Elegies takes what one could almost consider a positive spin. The speaker at least makes an effort to speak towards what is invisible through contradictions.

Interestingly, the contradictions that are found within the Elegies still treat the invisible as an entity in itself. In doing so, the invisible gains structure, though its exact form might not be immediately clear. As someone who is intimately acquainted with homelessness, Rilke revels in uncertainty and would have been at home amidst contradictions. Komar pinpoints this characteristic as the moving force behind the Elegies: [Rilke] moves in the poems from an early focus on the divine realm and its powers through a series of reflections and retractions, propositions and rejections, models and deflations of the models until he arrives finally back in the realm of the humanly possible. . . He constantly backtracks in his reflections to issues he cannot settle so long as his eyes are focused on the other-worldly realm.

For Rilke this journey of self-conscious reflection Kathleen L. Komar. Transcending Angels: Rainer Maria Rilke's Duino Elegies. Lincoln: University of Nebraska, 1987, p. 15.

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becomes an exploration of not only of his individual role, but of the poet’s role in general.20 From Komar’s prescribed framework, we again see that Rilke values the fluidity of the poetic task, a task that is also reminiscent of the enormity of true experience as Benjamin suggests. The whole of experience is such a burden that not only is it oftentimes relegated to the otherworldly realm of silence -- the invisible. It is the poet’s life task to rediscover and bring forth the invisible in his art, and he can only perform this feat as he remains comfortable investigating his own flaws.

As with Malte, where his profound homelessness gave him fresh insight into an absence of the human condition, the models which Rilke chooses to interrogate the limits of self-consciousness can all be identified by their flaws. Rilke’s main models are lovers, parents, the child, and the hero. Not to ignore any of the other examples, the nature of the hero’s flaw in Elegy VI most concisely illustrates my argument. The hero is first introduced to us very briefly in the opening elegy and in Elegy VI, Rilke examines the possibility of the hero in depth. Oddly, the hero that Rilke chooses to depict is Samson, from the Bible, whose greatest heroic act is to commit suicide, taking many of his enemies with him. The Book of Judges confirms that ‘[Samson] killed many more when he died than while he lived.’21 To make yet another comparison with Malte, Samson too, is plagued by violence and death; the very existence of death in and of itself is in fact what gives the hero his strength, while at the same time being his downfall. Just before the following passage celebrating the presence of death in the hero’s life alludes to the myth of Leda and the Swan. The hero is thus both haunted and glorified by (violent) death because he is born of a most ‘destructive’ union, that is, a rape:

20 21

Komar, Transcending Angels, p. 9.

The Book of Judges 16:30.

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Fig tree, how long it’s been full meaning for me, the way you almost entirely omit to flower and into the seasonably resolute fruit uncelebratedly thrust your purest secret.

Like the tube of a fountain, your bent bough drives the sap downwards and up; and it leaps[. . .] into the joy of its sweetest achievement. Look, like Jupiter into the swan. . . . . . But we, we linger alas, we glory in flowering; already betrayed we reach the retarded core of our ultimate fruit.22 However, if we revisit the contradiction of cowardice and heroism, as death can also be seen as an escape from the world and therefore also a form of heroic sacrifice so that others may live, perhaps it is not so strange that Samson plays the role of Rilke’s ideal hero.

Cowardice and heroism are here entwined. In a similar vein, Komar observes that Rilke’s other critics have not remarked on Rilke’s opening line, wherein the hero is hailed as a ‘Fig tree.’ In the original German, fig tree is ‘Feigenbaum’ which can alternately used to describe a coward; so again, along with the promise of death, the hero cannot escape his human nature as a coward.23 Though where the hero and Malte falter in their quests, they are ultimately saved by the poet’s word. It is the word, and the ability to construe productive language in order to ‘surviv[e] in a fragmented. . .world.’ 24 Even though the society we live in today seems to be inclined towards a united, globalised direction, Peter Boxall observes that instead of calmly seguing into a united world full of increased ‘homeliness,’ we’ve instead been delivered into a

Rilke, ‘Elegy VI,’ Duino Elegies. Trans. J. B. Leishman and Stephen Spender.

London: Hogarth, 1939, p. 65.

23 Komar, Transcending Angels, p. 109.

24 Ibid, p. 209.

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world in which is ‘out of joint’ with its current time and place.25 Rilke’s poetics then offers a much needed comfort when it comes to attempting to wade through the displaced mire that is our life today.

To conclude, both The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge and Duino Elegies illustrate antiphilosophy as an overall idea that taps into a repressed, but still ever present anxiety which permeates the new century. It would not be too much of a stretch to note that homelessness has essentially become a faint, but growing spectre, casting a shadow over daily concerns. In a separate essay on the importance of Duino Elegies at the end of the twentieth-century, Komar states that one of the reasons why Rilke remains such a relevant figure, and why he has been quoted across all sorts of media is that his particular awareness regarding the gaps between how we choose to live is something that still speaks to us, as Rilke is a ‘seeker after wholeness.’26 Conversely, we must be careful not to read so much into Rilke’s work as to misuse it.

Ryan remarks on this note that it would be ‘wrong to think of Rilke’s writing as a self-help manual in disguise,’ that Rilke himself was disturbed when admirers would write to him, expressing a special kinship with his work.27 Still, this intimate calibre of Rilke’s work suggests that he was attuned to the human condition through the invisible, something that is only possible as a practitioner of lifelong homelessness. Perhaps, his non-place in life was decided long before. Having started with Stefan Zweig, perhaps it is only appropriate to end with a quote from the movie Grand Budapest Hotel (2014), which Zweig’s writing inspired. The following quote describes Gustave H., but it is also befitting to describe the Peter Boxall. Twenty-First Century Fiction: A Critical Introduction.

Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013, p. 21.

26 Kathleen L. Komar. "Rethinking RIlke's Duiniser Elegien at the End of the Millennium." A Companion to the Works of Rainer Maria Rilke. Ed. Erika A. Metzger and Michael M. Metzger. Rochester, NY: Camden House, 2001, p.

189.

27 Ryan, p. 4.

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wandering poetic life of Rilke in this way: â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;To be frank, I think his world had vanished long before he ever entered it. But I will say, he certainly sustained the illusion with a marvelous grace.â&#x20AC;&#x2122;28

Grand Budapest Hotel. Dir. Wes Anderson. Perf. Ralph Fiennes, F. Murray Abraham. Fox Searchlight Pictures, 2014.

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Milton's Lycidas: A Mere Excuse for a Poem?

Kate Davison

T

illyard’s famous proclamation that the primary subject of Lycidas is not the drowned Edward King, but rather John Milton himself, is not difficult to attest. 1 From the beginning the immediate focus of the poem is on the unreadiness of its author, rather than the death of the supposed subject. Yet this does not mean that the death of fellow poet, aspiring priest, and Cambridge graduate, Edward King was a mere excuse for an egotistical poem.

The death of someone with such similar aspirations and background to Milton aroused his own fears of mortality and of shortened poetic achievement in light of the seemingly arbitrary tragedy that befell King. It is through King’s death that Milton suddenly comes face-to-face with the uncertainty and destruction of mortal existence; Lycidas being a direct manifestation of those fears. Here the intense and personal experience of a death of a friend is transformed and elevated into something of universal significance. The guise of the pastoral elegy provides further means through which to discuss the contentious political and religious turmoil of the Church (and by extension the country as a whole) that King and Milton had plans to enter.

Perhaps Fallon is correct when he asserts that Milton’s poems can often feel like a hall of mirrors, reflecting copious aspects of the author in its text.2 However, it is possible to suggest that in Lycidas, Milton goes far further than this, reflecting not only his own fears but those of his readers. James Holly Hanford’s John Milton, Lycidas, in Milton: The Complete Shorter Poems, ed. Jon Carey (Pearson Education Limited, 2007), pp. 243-256. ‘Fundamentally, Lycidas concerns Milton himself; King is but the excuse for one of Milton’s most personal poems.’ See E.M.W. Tillyard, Milton (London: Chatto and Windus, 1949), p. 80.

2 Stephen M. Fallon, Milton’s Peculiar Grace: Self Representation and Authority (Cornell University Press: 2007), p. 3.

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assessment of Lycidas as an impersonal exercise in traditional monody, and his advice that we need not look for the author is also too easy a conclusion.3 After all, in choosing not to actively look for the presence of the author and ignoring the voice of Milton, something that is so deliberately overt, is surely to miss the point of the poem and limits critical appreciation of the work. It is questionable whether Milton could have created such a uniquely personal, yet also universally significant, poem had it not been for the opportunity to use the death of King as a transferable symbol that lies beneath the fears, hopes and desires that are so eloquently presented in the poem.

The identification of Milton with King underscores the entire poem; Milton pushing the similarities between the two until they become almost indistinguishable. Their lives run in parallels, from their time at Cambridge ‘nursed upon the self-same hill’ (l.23) to their aspiration to enter the priesthood. These similarities supply Milton with the background for his own personal meditations. Indeed, it is Milton's unreadiness to eulogise a life so similar to his own that is primarily asserted in the first fourteen lines of the monody, the structure of which form a ‘broken sonnet’ furthering the image of his reluctance. 4 The adjective-nounadjective of Milton’s ‘forced fingers rude’ (l.4) that ‘shatter’ (l.5) the leaves of the laurel crown, conveys the distress of the inexperienced Milton and foreshadows the underlying violence in the poem. The sudden death of Lycidas, a life so similar to his own, before any poetic or religious aspirations have been realised, forces Milton to reflect on himself; he hopes, somewhat pathetically, that someone will ‘favour my destined urn’ (1.20) and mourn for him.

The dominant image of the laurel crown extends the identification between the poets further legitimising the selfreflective nature of the poem. The purpose of the crown of laurel, James H. Hanford, “The Pastoral Elegy and Milton's Lycidas”, PMLA, 25/3 (1910), pp. 403-447.

4 Keith Rinehart, “A Note on the first fourteen lines of Milton’s Lycidas”, Notes and Queries, (1953), p. 103.

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ivy, and myrtle, all appropriate symbols of poetic offering, is unclear. That it is an echo of the laureate crown seems obvious, yet who is it for, however, is not explicitly established. Does Milton’s unreadiness lead to the shattering of his aspiration for a laureate crown or is he despairing at his inadequate efforts to preserve the figurative crown given to King in death? Milton’s outburst of ‘Aye me, I fondly dream’ (ll.56), dismissing his outdated and vain hopes that the classical nymphs may have saved Lycidas, has the distinct echo of ‘I me’. and thus further emphasizing Milton’s place in the death of Lycidas.5 Moreover, the stress falling on ‘I’ distinctly marks Milton as both maker and subject of the poem; his fears of inadequacy and failure, born from his lament for Lycidas are soon to become of paramount significance to it.

Milton’s most intense fear is the arbitrary nature of the death of fellow poet-priest King, which is conveyed throughout the poem. Lycidas conveys Milton’s great anxiety of a premature death before his poetic aspirations can come to fruition. Milton is rudely forced to accept the fact that life can be cut short by the ‘blind Fury with th’abhorred shears, / And slits the thin-spun life’ (ll. 75-76).

The delicacy of life characterised by the image of its ‘thin spun’ (l.76) strings contrasts with the violence of the ‘shears’ (l.75) cut by the blind, therefore arbitrary, Fury. Furthermore, the rhyme of shears with the poet’s ‘trembling ears’ (l.77) of the following line suggests the violence of the times and emphasises Milton’s centrality to this destruction. 6 Soon, the identification of Milton with King is extended to encompass the archetypal poet, Orpheus, who becomes another underlying, poignant, symbol of death’s violation of poetic harmony. The association between Orpheus and Milton, while not as explicit as that between King and Milton in Lycidas, is prominent in his earlier works. In L’Allegro, the quasidivine description of Milton as ‘The melting voice […] Untwisting all the chains that tie/The hidden soul of harmony’ (ll. 143-5) Fallon, pp. 71-2.

John Leonard, “‘Trembling Ear’: The Historical Moment of Lycidas.” Journal of Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 21 (1991) 59–81, p. 77.

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seems more easily identifiable with Orpheus, the son of the muse Calliope, whose music did indeed bring harmony to nature. That even the voice of fabled Orpheus, who Milton had hopes to surpass, can be drowned out by senseless death (here by ‘the rout that made the hideous roar’ (ll. 61) rather than a literal drowning of King) is deeply unsettling.

Moreover, both Orpheus and Lycidas had been failed as a consequence of the powerlessness of those charged with their protection, Calliope and the sea nymphs respectively. Calliope, dismissed as the ‘thankless muse’ (l.66), is charged with not only the death of her son but also the failure to provide poetic inspiration to Milton. Poignantly, this awareness extends into the future as Calliope is the muse of the heroic and epic poetry that Milton hopes to write.7 Sacks offers an explanation of the intense identification of Milton with Orpheus as a reaction to the death of his mother, both Milton and Orpheus having lost the protection of a mother figure.8 Both Orpheus and Lycidas are here reduced to what Milton finds most terrifying, that his ‘thin spun life’ (l.76), so far void of poetic inspiration, will be cut short before his poetic endeavours can surpass that of Orpheus’. The isolation from poetic achievement is emphasised by the jarring lack of rhyme to ‘Lycidas’ (ll.51), furthering the image of separation, a grim echo of the detached ‘gory visage’ (ll.60) of Orpheus, sent ‘down the stream […] to the Lesbian shore’ (l.61-2). 9 The end-stopped finality of this statement echoing the finality of death and concludes the presentation of Milton’s fears of absolute separation and discord provoked by the death of Lycidas.

C .F. Stone III, “Milton’s Self Concerns and Manuscript Revisions in Lycidas", MLN Comparative Literature, 83/6 (1968), 867-881, p. 879.

8 Peter M. Sacks, The English Elegy: Studies in the Genre from Spenser to Yeats (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1985), p. 103.

9 Raymond N. MacKenzie, “Rethinking Rhyme, Signifying Friendship: Milton’s Lycidas and Epitaphium Damonis”, Modern Philology, 106/3 (2009), 530-554, p. 544.

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Yet it would be wrong to classify Lycidas as a mere offering of Milton’s personal fears. The device of Edward King’s death is given far greater scope. Here we see Milton, enabled by his lament, adopting a public voice to air political and personal grievances, foreshadowing his pamphleteer future. As part of the commemorative collection of King, Milton presents the poem to a semi-public audience. It is unsurprising that Milton uses this as a means to voice political and personal messages. Imitating Pindar’s use of the commemorative form to introduce contentious issues under the guise of an ostensible subject, Milton capitalised on a set precedent to convey political grievances.10 Adopting the guise of the commemorative ode provided Milton the freedom to include in Lycidas a range of utterances and themes that may at first seem to have little relevance to a lament for the dead Lycidas. 11 Milton’s choice to compose Lycidas in English rather than Latin further demonstrates his intent to reach a public audience.

It is significant that the language of his denouncement of the pastors that ‘creep and intrude’ (l.115), is English, the language of the masses, rather than the university and clerical Latin.

Considering the poems place in a commemorative journal for Cambridge fellows (partly made up of Latin poems) this is somewhat unexpected. Milton’s Lycidas is unlike any other poem within the memorial collection, taking on the zeal of the pamphleteer in anticipation of his anti-prelatical tracts of 1640s.

Milton upsets the tone of pastoral mourning that dominates the collection, brushing aside the pastoral ‘dearest pledge’ (l.107) of the river deity of the Cambridge and welcoming the authoritative voice of St. Peter.12 Milton, through the voice of St. Peter, may be indicating to his Cambridge contemporaries his emerging role as not only the poet-pastor but also the poet-pamphleteer. The See Anne Burnet, “The Scrutiny of Song: Pindar, Politics, and Poetry”, Critical Inquiry, 13/3 (1987), pp. 434-449.

11 Stella R Revard, Milton and the Tangles of Neaera’s Hair: The Making of the 1645 Poems (University of Missouri Press, 1997), p. 166.

12 Ibid, p. 193.

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denouncement marks the critical connection between the poetic, the religious and the political, demonstrating Milton’s skilful accommodation of important subjects in his work, transforming and elevating the occasional poem and foreshadowing his later political tracts.13 The political opportunity offered by the death of King is most astutely realised in Milton’s passionate exit from the pastoral voice to denounce the corrupt Catholic clergy. The religiously divided audience, as well as the power of the Catholic Church, meant that such condemnation had to be done in a circumspect manner, in this case through the guise of the pastoral Lycidas and Edward King. The almost superficial topic of King’s death soon gives way to a separate agenda foretelling ‘the ruin of the corrupted Clergy then (in 1637) in their height’.14 Here the pastoral voice is shed, the influence of the divine replacing the erotic and elegiac muses. Disgust of the corrupt clergy is clear; they are given the swiping epithet ‘blind mouths’, a grotesque and monstrous image (particularly fitting to both pastoral and traditional church metaphor) astutely highlighting the failure of bishops to oversee their flock and the failure of pastors to feed them.15 The lines ‘for their bellies’ sake / Creep and intrude and climb into the fold’ (ll.114-115) evoke not only condemnation of greed, ignorance, and

Elizabeth Sauer, “Milton and Caroline Church Government”, in The Yearbook of English Studies, 44 (2014), pp. 196-214.

14 This preface was added to the 1645 edition after the fall of Archbishop Laud (1633-5) and the defeat of Royalist forces at Naseby (1645). It is further interesting to note that the condemnation of ‘nothing said’ (l.129) is replaced by the more cautions ‘little said’ in the 1638 Commemorative edition and then reverted back to ‘nothing’ in the 1645 edition. Neil Forsyth, “Lycidas: A Wolf in Saint’s Clothing”, Critical Inquiry, 35/3 (2009), 684-90, p.

696.

15 Anna C. Brackett, “Notes on Milton’s Lycidas”, The Journal of Speculative Philosophy, 1/2 (1867), 87-90, p. 89.

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ambition, but echo the denouncement of the corrupt in John 10:1 16, the wolves of Matthew 7:1517, and the greed of Philippians 3:1918, demonstrating Milton as the legitimate poet-pastor.19 They are the ‘grim wolf with the privy paw’ (l.128) that threatens the flock of the church. The wolf as a traditional antagonist in pastoral poetry is demonstrated in Comus, but thorugh Lycidas acquires a new symbolic significance, one that resonates throughout the anticlerical polemic of the day.20 Moreover, the fate of these incompetent ‘blind mouths’ is given a poignant dreadful finality. The specifics of their punishment is nondescript, however, the very vagueness of the ‘two handed engine […] ready to smite once, and smite no more’ (ll.130-131) gives something of a universalised terror. 21 Milton’s authorial voice dominates, his views given divine authority through the voice of the ‘pilot of the Galilean lake’ (l.109), St. Peter.

It is possible to notice a slight, perhaps intentional, dual meaning to the word ‘pilot’, evoking both the fishing vocation of St. Peter and Milton’s manipulation of his voice. This unique and passionate outburst provides evidence to dispute perhaps the most famous criticism of the poem, Dr. Johnson’s scathing remarks that ‘there is no truth […] there is nothing new’.22 Although the Pindarian echo is clear, the freedom with which Milton condemns the false shepherds surpasses that which his pastoral predecessors had King James Bible: John 10:1 ‘He that entereth not by the door into the sheepfold, but climbeth up some other way, the same is a thief and a robber.’

17 King James Bible: Matthew 7:15 ‘Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.’

18 King James Bible: Philippians 3:19 ‘Whose end is destruction, whose God is their belly, and whose glory is in their shame, who mind earthly things.’

19 Forsyth, p. 696.

20 Sauer, p. 200.

21 J.M. French, “The Digression in Milton’s Lycidas", Studies in Philology, 50/3 (July, 1953) 485-490, p. 488.

22 Samuel Johnson, “Life of Milton”, excerpted in Merritt Y. Hughes, Milton: Poetry and Prose, (Oxford: Clarendon, 1920), p. 2.

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achieved.23 Dropping his usual Latinate style, here emerges a plain speaking Milton, angry and violent at the corrupt clergy that both himself, and King, once had aspirations to join.

The death of Edward King offered a further opportunity for Milton to not only criticise the church, but to take upon the role of the poet-priest to reassure his reader of the promise of the afterlife, countering the fears of death that arose after contemplating the death of King. French argues that the real subject of the poem is the Christian paradox of death as a means to a closer relationship with God (Matthew 10:39 24 ), thus not only is the soul of Lycidas in question throughout the poem, but the soul in general.25 Indeed, throughout the poem we see a discourse between the naturalistic position as advocated, and excused, by the nymphs and pagan deities and the doctrine of the resurrection that eventually triumphs. There is no need for sorrow for Lycidas has mounted to the ‘blest Kingdoms’ (l.177), here religious learning, inspired poetry, the threat of death and human love are all merged in the triumphant vision of Edward King in heaven.26 The earlier stressed monosyllabic line ‘For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime’ (l.8) has now been resolved, ‘For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead’ (l.166) but rather has risen from his watery bier to enjoy the rewards of heaven.

Rather than confronting the death of Lycidas, the man, Milton can broaden the scope of the poem by seeking to find a theologically satisfying answer to death itself. Milton’s focus on theological reassurance is echoed throughout his poetry. In On the

John Crowe Ransom, “A Poem Nearly Anonymous”, American Review, 4 (1933), 79-203, p. 82.

24 King James Bible: Matthew 10:39 ‘He that findeth his life shall lose it: and he that loseth his life for my sake shall find it.’

25 French, p. 487.

26 Karl, P. Wentersdorf, “Allusion and Theme in the Third Movement of Milton's Lycidas”, Modern Philology, 83/3 (1986), 275-279, p. 275.

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Death of a Fair Infant Dying of a Cough27 he consoles himself, and simultaneously his readers, with the reward of heaven that awaits the deceased. More famously, the remarks in Lycidas foreshadow Milton’s powerful conclusion in Sonnet XVI28 that heavenly rewards come to those ‘who only stand and wait’ (l.14). Like these other poems, the grandeur of Lycidas is contained within the poem’s ability to surmount mortal fears. Through showing man’s link with the divine Milton is able to provide an answer to one of the most universal fears. Knight’s assessment of Lycidas as ‘an effort to bind and clamp together a universe trying to fly off into separate bits’ is particularly apt here.29 It seems that Milton has succeeded in this effort, utilizing the death of Edward King as a means to console his own and his readers’ fear of death through God’s redemptive grace.

Tillyard may be wrong in his assertion that the death of King is manipulated as an excuse for Lycidas but his claim that it is Milton’s ‘most personal poem’ is perhaps more accurate. This assertion by Tillyard leads the reader to consider it alongside Epithium Daemonis, of the most universally acknowledged personal poems of Milton. The relationship between the deceased and the poet may be significantly different (Charles Diodati was perhaps the closest friend of Milton whereas King is a mere past schoolmate) yet both commemorative poems demonstrate a striking level of similarity. Despite the intimacy between Milton and Diodati much of this pastoral lament to him concerns Milton himself. Indeed, the opening paragraph concludes with his ‘exonerare dolorem’ (l.18)30, focusing the pathos of the poem on himself as he does in Lycidas. It would seem that even Milton’s Milton, On the Death of a Fair Infant Dying of a Cough, in Milton the Complete Shorter Poems, pp. 15-18.

28 Milton, Sonnet XVI (‘When I consider how my light is Spent’), in Milton the Complete Shorter Poems, pp. 332-3.

29 G. Wilson Knight, The Burning Oracle: Studies in the Poetry of Action (London: Oxford University. Press, 1939), p. 120.

30 Translation: to unease huge burden of pain (found in Milton the Complete Shorter Poems, ed. Jon Carey (Pearson Education Limited, 2007), p. 282.

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closest friend cannot escape becoming a lens through which Milton can assess his own feelings. Moreover, the apotheoses of both poems are strikingly similar, the pastoral speakers consoling themselves and their readers with Christian theology. Damon is ‘mentes/ sacrae formaeque deorum’ 31 (1.197), Milton’s tears become redundant as Deamon ‘purum colit aethera Damon’ 32 (l.203) whilst in Lycidas, the music of the ‘expressive nuptial Song/ In the blest Kingdoms meek of joy and love’ (ll.176-7) that greets Lycidas demonstrates the Milton’s orthodox comfort from death.

Furthermore, if we look at the evidence contained in the poems we gain very little information as to the deceased, Daemon may well elicit a genuine emotional response, but even he becomes a tool for Milton to project himself.33 One would by no means characterise the figure of Charles Diodati as a mere ‘excuse’ for a poem and therefore we should not reduce Edward King similarly.

Tillyard’s assessment of Lycidas does provide us with many useful insights to understanding this unique poem. It is true, for example, that the poem becomes far more significant to its readers when we realise it is not about King but Milton, yet his dismissal of King is unwarranted. 34 Although correctly indicating that the similarities of their lives are sufficient to demonstrate how King’s death could arouse Milton’s concerns, he ignores the continued, and fundamental, impact this has on the conception of the poem.

King, through Lycidas, is transformed into a metaphor for the self, allowing Milton to analyse not only his own concerns but also those concerns in relation to society as a whole.35 Through the death of King and the freedom of the pastoral Milton is able to reach a far greater scope is his analysis of himself and the world around him Translation: you too, are among the Gods (found in Milton the Complete Shorter Poems, p. 285).

32 Translation: drinks the draughts of Heaven (found in Milton the Complete Shorter Poems, p. 285).

33 MacKenzie, p. 546.

34 Tillyard, Milton (London: Chatto and Windus, 1949), pp. 80-85.

35 Stone, p. 874-5.

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than if he were presenting actuality. The poem may well be an illusion, but it is a deliberate and honest one. 36 The concluding remarks of the Milton-figure are indicative of a movement away from ‘the Okes and the rills’ (l.186) of the pastoral and towards the larger perspective of the ‘Woods and Pastures new’ (l.193). This satisfying, concluding rhyming couplet encapsulates the development of Milton’s voice throughout the poem, from the naive ‘uncouth swain’ (1.86) to the voice of Milton as the poet-priestpamphleteer ready to embark on ‘Fresh Woods, and Pastures new’ (l.193). Coleridge’s comment on Paradise Lost that ‘Milton writes himself in every line […] he is himself before everything he writes’ is also true for Lycidas.37 Yet, the death of Edward King is no mere ‘excuse’ for Lycidas; indeed, the foundation of the poem may depend on it.

Ransom, p. 85.

Henry Nelson Coleridge, Specimens of the Table Talk of the Late Samuel Taylor Coleridge, vol. 1 (London, 1835), pp. 129-13.

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Read the Translator or Read the Author: A case study of translating Life and Death Are Wearing Me Out Jiahao Guo

Introduction

L

iterary works are good resources for introducing both a nation and its culture because they can shed light on daily life and national character. Chinese literature occupies an important place in the context of world literature; however, the number of contemporary Chinese literary works that have been published in Anglophone culture is quite minimal. Thus, it is worth considering the various ways in which one could introduce it to the global market.

According to Damrosch, translation plays an important role in world literature, and it is an effective way of introducing a particular literary work to the scope of world literature 1 . The translation of Chinese literature into English is not only a communication between different cultures, but it is also a communication and negotiation between different civilisations, in which ideological conflicts and negotiations are inevitable, and it will lead to distortion, omission and addition of original information. Each language has its unique characteristics, and matters related to diction and patterns of speech could prove difficult for a translator to preserve. Due to the cultural gap, making a work of Chinese literature come to life in English requires ‘a scholar’s knowledge of Chinese language and culture as well as a profound knowledge and creative flair in English’2.

Damrosch, D. (2009) How to Read World Literature. Manchester: WileyBlackwell.

2 Balcoon, J. (2006) ‘Translating Modern Chinese Literature’, in Bassnett, S. and Bush, P. R. (eds.) The Translator as Writer. London: Continuum, pp. 119– 137.

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Moreover, there are a number of historical, cultural, mythological, and political references in Chinese literature that English readers may not be able to relate to or understand. In this sense, a passage that would have inspired a Chinese reader could prove to be a reading barrier for an Anglophone readership, owing to the different ideological and poetic systems they inhabit. Thus, the translator plays a key role as a mediator who introduces Chinese literature to new readers.

Though the number of translated Chinese literature being accepted in the Anglophone market is quiet small, the dissemination of Mo Yan’s works could be regarded as one of the few successes. As an important contemporary writer in China, Mo Yan has been translated and introduced in many countries and has won several literary prizes abroad. In 2012, Mo Yan became the first Nobel Laureate with a Chinese nationality.

Mo Yan is the pseudonym of Guan Moye, who was born in 1955 and grew up in Gaomi Township in the Shandong province in eastern China. ‘Mo Yan’ can be translated literally from Chinese as ‘don’t speak’. In an interview with Jim Leach, he explains that the name comes from his parents’ warnings not to comment on sensitive social and political issues, because of China’s revolutionary political situation at that time3. That is why Mo Yan adopts ‘hallucinatory realism’ and ‘merges folk tales, history and contemporary’4. This can be seen in his writing; he critiques society through the voice of fanatics or animals, and writes stories with allusions to Chinese myths and legends. This feature is notably evident in Life and Death Are Wearing Me Out. Mo Yan thanked his translators in his acceptance speech of the Nobel Prize and stated that, without the translators’ creative

Leach, J. (2011) ‘The Real Mo Yan’, Humanities, 32(1), pp. 11-13.

Nobel Foundation. (2012) The Nobel Prize in Literature 2012 :Mo Yan. Available at: http://www.nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/2012/biobibl.html (Accessed: 5 April 2015).

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work, these works would not be part of the world literature5. To date, Howard Goldblatt has translated all eleven of the existing English versions of Mo Yan’s works and is regarded as the foremost translator of contemporary Chinese literature. German sinologist Wolfgang Kubin maintains that Goldblatt’s translation is very artful and that he does not translate word for word or paragraph by paragraph. Instead, he translates on the basis of the integral meaning6. In other words, Goldblatt rewrites the original Chinese novels in the English context. By taking Goldblatt’s translation of Life and Death Are Wearing Me Out as cases, this study aims to analyse the factors leading to the rewriting and to argue the necessity of rewriting in literary translation.

The title of Life and Death Are Wearing Me Out emanates from the Buddhist expression ‘living and dying are exhausting; desire is born of greed’. This novel uses black humour to describe everyday life and the transformations in China in different time periods. The protagonist of this novel is a rich landowner named Ximen Nao, who was executed by his fellow villagers in the Land Reform Movement led by the Chinese Communist Party in 1948.

When confronted with Yama, the lord of the underworld, he insists that he was innocent because of his benevolence and generosity in his village. Yama makes him reincarnate successively into a donkey, an ox, a pig, a dog, a monkey and, finally, into a man again on the same land where he used to live as a landowner. In this way, the reforms of China’s rural areas over around half a century are witnessed through the observation of all these different animals.

Land Reform, the Great Leap Forward, People’s Commune, the Mo, Y 莫言. (2012) Prize Presentation. Available at:http://www.nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/2012/yan -prize-pre sent.html (Accessed: 31 October 2015).

6 Wolfgang, K. (2009) ‘Yuyan de Zhongyaoxing-Bentu Yuyan Ruhe Sheji Shijie Wenxue ’ 语言的重要性-本土语言如何涉及世界文学(The Importance of Language- How Native Language relates to World Literature), The Yangtze River Criticism, 2, pp. 16-19.

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Great Cultural Revolution, Reform and Opening Up…all of these historical events are used as backgrounds in this novel, which makes it possible to integrate history and reality. Steven Moore of the Washington Post thinks it a grimly entertaining overview of recent Chinese history and Mo Yan offers insights into communist ideology and predatory capitalism that we ignore at our peril7. It is featured with the profuse cultural and political connotations, which add difficulties to its translation and make the process of translation with collision and fusion of cultural transmission.

By analysing Goldblatt’s translation of Mo Yan, the study aims to demonstrate that translation is an interactive action that is deeply grounded in a cultural and social context and that rewriting Chinese literature is an act which is positively mediating between Chinese and Anglophone culture.

Previous Studies on Goldblatt’s translation of Mo Yan’s work

As the foremost translator of contemporary Chinese literature, Goldblatt and his translations attract a lot of attention from Chinese media. Many influential Chinese media, such as China Reading Weekly，China Daily，and the China Press and Publishing Journal have interviewed him. These interviews focused on how Goldblatt began his translating career and the books he has translated, and they serve as concise introductions to Goldblatt.

In Chinese academia, the studies related to Howard Goldblatt are primarily concerned with his translation viewpoints or translation style, including his ideas about translation and his translation techniques. Other studies use his translations to demonstrate the application of particular translation theories. The perspectives or theories in the study of Howard Goldblatt primarily Moore, S. (2008) Animal Farm. Available at: http://www.washingtonpost.com/wpdyn/content/article/2008/05/22/AR2008052 203515.html (Accessed: 25 Jan.2016).

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include stylistics, relevance, narrative theory, communicative and ecological perspectives, and skopos theory.

Professor Zhang Yaoping’s ‘Howard Goldblatt: To Read in Chinese and to Write in English’ was published in the Chinese Translators Journal8. By analysing two cases from Mo Yan’s Garlic Ballads ， Zhang commented that though there is a kind of rewriting, Goldblatt’s translation is extremely faithful to the spirit, mood and time of the characters in the original text. Professor Wen Jun supported this viewpoint, arguing that while Goldblatt concedes that the act of translation may be viewed as a betrayal and rewriting of the source text, his ultimate goal is to translate the material as faithfully as possible9. Goldblatt’s translation style has also been analysed by Shao Lu, who focused on his translation of Mo Yan’s Life and Death Are Wearing Me Out. Shao observed that Goldblatt’s translation is pseudo-faithful to the original novel as he tended to remove or depoliticise certain aspects of Chinese culture.

Shao concluded that while this strategy reduces the accuracy of the translation, it may make the translated work more accessible to American audiences10.

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Zhang, Y 张耀平. (2005) ‘Na Hanyu Du, Yong Yingyu Xie- Shuoshuo Ge

Haowen de Fanyi’ 拿汉语读，用英语写-说说葛浩文的翻译 (‘Howard Goldblatt: To Read in Chinese, To Write in English’), Chinese Translators Journal, 2, pp. 75-77.

9 Wen, J 文君, Wang, X 王小川, and Lai, T 赖甜. (2007) ‘Ge Haowen Fanyiguan Tanjiu’ 葛浩文翻译 观探究(‘A Probe into Howard Goldblatt’s Views on Translation’), Foreign Language Education, 28, pp. 78–80.

10 Shao, L 邵璐. (2013) ‘Fanyizhong de Xushi Shijie – Xi Moyan Shengsipilao Gehaowen Yingyiben’ 翻译中的叙事世界–析莫言生死疲劳葛浩文英译本 (The Narrating Model in Translation).

-‘Analyzing Howard Goldblatt’s Translation of Life and Death Are Wearing Me Out’, Foreign Languages and Their Teaching, 2, pp. 68–71.

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In these analyses of Goldblatt’s translation work, it is worth remarking that the primary focus is on the degree of faithfulness to the original material. In translating literature, the outcome of the translation is reliant on how the translator understands the original work and how the translator intends to present the work.

It is simply not possible to translate a work of literature with absolute fidelity due to the language and cultural distance. Thus, this study will not focus on fidelity but will instead explore the factors leading to the rewriting and the effect of rewriting. Further, it will discuss if Goldblatt’s translation of Mo Yan can illuminate Chinese outgoing strategies. Rewriting theory is utilised as the theoretical framework.

Brief Literature Review

Traditional translation theories concentrate more on discussion of the pure linguistic dimension. Translations are judged to be successful when they ‘reproduce the closest natural equivalent of the source-language message in the receptor language in terms of meaning and style’11, or, in other words, being faithful to the source text (ST). However, due to linguistic and culture distance, translation always falls short of equivalence. Taking the supremacy of the original for granted, the study of translation, then, serves merely to demonstrate that original’s outstanding qualities by highlighting the errors and inadequacies of any number of translations of it 12 . Literary translation is a communication between different cultures. Original novels should not be posited in a supreme position; target readers’ culture should be taken into consideration.

Nida, E. A. and Taber, C. R. (2003) The Theory and Practice of Translation.

4th edn. Boston, MA: Brill.

12 Hermans, T. (ed.) (1985) The Manipulation of Literature: Studies in Literary Translation. London: Croom Helm.

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From the 1970s, many practitioners attempted to explore various approaches and strategies to accomplish a translation. This encouraged a new and flourishing era of diversified thoughts in a postmodern context，and the authority of the source text-oriented translation was challenged. Among them, Katharina Reiss and Hans Vermeer developed skopos theory. According to skopos theory, translators would take target readers into consideration and adopt proper translating strategies or principles that complied with their translating purposes. This has shifted the focus of translation from mere faithfulness to the ST to the functional aspect of the target text (TT). It should be noticed that functional theorists did not exclude the ‘fidelity’ or ‘equivalence’ of the ST，and believed ‘a principal of necessary degree of precision’ 13 in translating renders an equivalent relation between ST and TT. In the book, Translation as a Purposeful Activity, Nord argued that functional theory also works in literary translation, stating that ‘The problems in literary translation can be approached from a functionalist standpoint without jeopardising the "originality" of the source text’ 14. In this context, translation is not limited to the linguistic or grammatical levels only; the purpose and function of a translation is highlighted.

Like equivalence, functional translation theory is prescriptive. It can be referred to as guidance for translation practice. However, for literary works, which have many cultural and political expressions, it proves inadequate to explain the omissions and additions in the translation process. We cannot speak for the translator’s intention or skopos unless we have evidence. To analyse the factors contributing to the rewriting of a literary work, cultural and political issues should also be considered.

Honig, H. G. (1998) ‘Positions, Power and Practice: Functionalist Approaches and Translation Quality Assessment’, in Schaffner, C. (ed.) Translation and Quality. Clevedon: Multilingual Matters, pp. 6–35.

14 Nord, C. (1997) Translating as a Purposeful Activity: Functionalist Approaches Explained. Manchester: St Jerome Publishing.

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In the mid-1970s, Even-Zohar proposed the polysystem theory in ‘The Position of Translated Literature within the Literary Polysystem’15. Translation can have a repertoire of its own and the way in which a literature work should be translated would be determined by its position (primary/secondary) in the target culture. Translation is regarded as an activity dependent on relationship within the target cultural system. However, the ‘position’ is not the ‘universal law’ influencing a translation, interaction with the literary system and cultural, historical and social factors should also be considered.

Later, Toury expanded polysystem theory to study the norms governing translation activity in the target literary system.

Following Toury, Hermans systematically analysed the prescriptiveness of norms. In 1985, Hermans edited The Manipulation of Literature, introducing a new paradigm for translation studies. Translation is seen as a method of communication between different cultures and different civilisations. Translation studies, thus, moved to a broader issue of context, history and convention. Dialect, literary allusions, and culturally-specific items are all integrated into the scope of translation studies16.

Bassnett and Lefevere contribute significantly to this new paradigm. In the 1990s, they proposed the concept of ‘cultural turn’ in their co-edited book, Translation, History and Culture. Lefevere placed a greater stress on the cultural model, on social and historical factors, and on the constant interaction between the literary system and the surroundings. Bassnett and Lefevere located translation with the broader parameters of the two cultures involved and placed a greater stress on the cultural model, Even-Zohar, I. (2000) ‘The Position of Translated Literature within the Literary System’, in Venuti, L. (ed.) Translation Studies Reader. London: Routledge, pp. 192–197.

16 Sturge, K. (2009) ‘Cultural Translation’, in Baker, M. and Saldanha, G. (eds.) Routledge Encyclopedia of Translation Studies. London: Routledge, pp.

68–70.

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on social and historical factors, and on the constant interaction between the literary system and the surroundings. They believed that translation as one of the rewritings of the original text and, rather than being secondary and derivative, translations serve as one of the primary literary tools in ‘manipulating’ the source texts to create desired representations in the target culture. Rewriting will reconstruct the ‘image’ of a writer and the work of a literature17. The aim of the rewriting is to make the opinions and attitudes in the original work deemed acceptable to the receptor culture.

Research Methodology

This study will be conducted by undertaking a textual comparison of the original piece with the translation in order to examine any discrepancies. Discrepancies can potentially include mistakes, the wrong interpretation of a subject or absent translation18, which can be categorized as translation changes/shifts at a lexical/sentence level and editing on a textual level. The translation changes/shifts can be understood as either being conscious strategies or unconscious manifestations, while the editing decisions can reasonably be regarded as the translator’s intended amendments with the influence of extra-linguistic factors, which can also potentially shed light on the politics and culture of the translation in the target context 19 . Therefore, this study will examine the editing decisions, namely the deletions and additions on a textual level.

This study will therefore conduct a critical discourse analysis to discuss discrepancies between the original novel and Bassnett, S. and Lefevere, A. (1990) Translation, History and Culture.

London: Pinter.

18 Tymoczko, M. and Gentzler, E. (2002) Translation and Power. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press.

19 Tymoczko, M. (2010) Translation, Resistance, Activism. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press.

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the translation. Discourse is the reproduction of ideology20. It is ‘a set of meanings, metaphors, representations, images, stories, statements and so on that in some way together produce a particular version of events … surrounding any one object, event, person, there may be a variety of different discourses, each with a different story of representing it to the world’21. An ideology might not be expressed directly within discourse, but the writer (in this case, the translator) can mitigate or amplify the presence of underlying ideological themes in the text. Thus, a critical discourse analysis can make connections between the use of language and society, revealing the implicit propositions and evaluative translation strategies in the novel. The analytical approach will consider: 1) the political and cultural background of/in the original novel; 2) the translator’s comments on the original novel and viewpoints on the translation; 3) other factors such as patronage, target readers and so forth.

Rewriting of Chinese Proverbs

In Life and Death Are Wearing Me Out, the Chinese cultural elements are present in many facets. Since there is a wide difference between the Chinese culture and the English culture, translators are constantly confronted with the situation of how to deal with the cultural information in the original novel. Readers often lack knowledge of the historical and cultural context which may call for explanations outside the text. By analysing the following example, this study discusses Goldblatt’s strategies in translating Chinese cultural elements, the consequences and the possible reasons.

Van Dijk, T. A. (1998) Ideology: A Multidisciplinary Approach. London: Sage Publications.

21 Burr, V. (1995) An Introduction to Social Constructionism. London: Routledge.

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Proverbs are closely related to Chinese culture. The fourcharacter proverbs are very concise; however, there might be stories and background information within them. When translated into English, it requires many words and much explanation. The following example will discuss Goldblatt’s translation of proverbs.

Example

Original: 莫言那小子是书店少有的几个常客，他把这里当做卖弄的场所。 他自我吹嘘，不知是发自内心呢还是胡乱调侃。他喜欢把成语说 残，借以产生幽默效果，“两小无猜”他说成“两小无——”，“一见 钟情”他说成“一见钟——”；“狗仗人势”他说成“狗仗人——”。他 一来庞春苗就乐了。庞春苗一乐那两个中年妇女就乐了。他那丑 模样用的言语方式说那可真叫“惨不忍——”，但就是这样“惨不忍 ——”的一个人，尽然高密县气味最美好的姑娘喜欢他。究其原 因，依然是气味，莫言的气味与那种烟农烘烤烟叶的泥巴屋里的 气味相仿，庞春苗是一个潜在的烟草爱好者。莫言看到坐在店堂 一角出租书摊前专注看书的蓝开放，上前去揪耳朵。然后对庞春 苗介绍，这是县社蓝主任的儿子。22 Translation: Mo Yan, who was one of the bookstore’s rare customers, once saw Lan Kaifang sitting in a corner absorbed in a book, so he went over and tugged over on the boy’s ear. The he introduced him to Pang Mo, Y 莫言. (2006) Sheng Si Pi Lao 生死疲劳 (Life and Death Are Wearing Me Out). Beijing: Writers Publishing House, p.404.

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Chunmiao, telling her he was the son of Director Lan of County Supply and Marketing Cooperative.23 Omitted Text: Mo Yan always showed off in the bookstore. You never knew if it is out of confidence or he just did it for fun. He likes to say only parts of the Chinese proverbs, which he thinks will have a humorous effect. For example, he says ‘Liang Xiao Wu —’ instead of ‘Liang Xiao Wu Cai’ (intimacy of childhood), ‘Yi Jian Zhong —’ instead of ‘Yi Jian Zhong Qing’ (fall in love at first sight) and ‘Gou Zhang Ren —’ ’ instead of ‘Gou Zhang Ren Shi’ (be a bully under the protection of a powerful man). Whenever he comes, Pang Chunmiao smiles. If Pang Chunmiao smiles, the other two middle-aged women smile as well. The most accurate proverb to describe Mo Yan’s appearance should be ‘Can Bu Ren Du’ (could not bear the sight), or, in his way, ‘Can Bu Ren—’. Even though he is so ugly, Pang Chunmiao, the girl who has the best sense of smell in our town, likes him. I guess it must be his smell. You can always smell cigarettes on Mo Yan, so Pang Chunmiao must be an unconscious tobacco lover.

This paragraph describes the first meeting between Pang Chunmiao and her lover’s son, Lan Kaifang. Mo Yan functions as an introducer between Chunmiao and Kaifang and a minor character in this context. The deleted information is MoYan’s funny way of using Chinese proverbs. To get the humorous effect, Mo Yan only uses the first three characters of each proverb. There are only four characters in each proverb and they are fixed, so Chinese readers can guess the full proverbs and know the meaning when they are provided with the first three characters and, thus, the humorous effect can be achieved.

Mo, Y 莫言. (2008) Life and Death Are Wearing Me Out. Translated by Goldblatt, H. New York: Arcade Publishing, p. 409.

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The humorous effected is achieved on the prerequisite that Chinese readers already know the proverbs. However, for Englishspeaking readers without the same background information, it requires at least one sentence to first translate the original proverbs. The translator needs to explain what information has been deleted in translating the partial proverbs literally. Even if translated, it does not necessarily produce an expected effect as humorous and meaningful as in its Chinese context. In this context, instead of developing the plot or introducing Chinese culture, these proverbs serve as supplementary information in presenting Mo Yanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s interesting personality, who is a minor character in this novel. If translating literally, the focus of this paragraph would be on these proverbs instead of Chunmiao and Kaifang. Also, it would take up considerable space to translate the information, which would make the paragraph redundant. The humour in the original literature can be sensed immediately by original language reader; however, some features in the original novels would be untranslatable to readers of other languages. Goldblatt once admitted that he read Chinese literature with a foreignerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyes and his primary concern is to produce something that can be readily accepted by an American readership. By deleting the using of Chinese proverbs, the story is easier to understand.

In his 2002 interview, Goldblatt emphasised the aim to produce something readily accepted by an American readership.24 He also emphasised that a translator should be responsible to his reader, instead of to the writer. This feature can also be noticed in his translation of this novel. He added a note on pronunciation in the preface to tell English readers how to read Chinese names, which can help them to better read this novel. Thus it can be safe to conclude that in presenting his translation, the reading habits and competence of readers are his priority. When encountering aspects of Chinese culture which require background information Goldblatt, H. (2002) The Writing Life. Available at: http://www.washingtonpost.com/ac2/wp-dyn/A51294-2002Apr25 (Accessed: 18 June 2015).

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or detailed explanation, Goldblatt just deleted those passages. Not everything being accepted in China is going to be accepted in another culture (Lingenfelter, 2007) 25 . Deleting the indigestible cultural information, on one hand, can simplifies the novel, and make it more acceptable to English-speaking readership; on the other hand, it will make the structure more concise.

Discussions

This study set out to explore the function of rewriting in introducing Chinese literature to English-speaking readers. By conducting textual comparison and critical discourse analysis, this study explores the discrepancies between the original and translated novel, and how Goldblatt deals with cultural information. Referring to book reviews and his interviews, this study attempts to analyse the potential reasons for his translation strategies and the consequences of his rewriting. In this section, the study focuses on discussing Goldblatt’s strategies, the necessities and significance of rewriting in introducing Chinese literature to Anglophone readers.

Goldblatt’s Strategies in Rewriting Chinese Literature

In the translation, Goldblatt adopts domestication as the main strategy of translation. He attaches great importance to the readability of his translated version and simplifies the original novel. It is because of the cultural default call for explanations outside the text, and, since readers may not bother to read accompanying prologues or notes, he therefore deletes the plot just to ease the difficulty in reading. 26 Thus, his translation is a Lingenfelter, A. (2007) Howard Goldblatt on How the Navy Saved His Life and Why Literary Translation Matters. Available at: http://fulltilt.ncu.edu.tw/Content.asp?I_No=16&Period= (Accessed: 20 July 2015).

26 Balcoon, J. (2006) ‘Translating Modern Chinese Literature’, in Bassnett, S. 25

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rewriting of the original novel based on readability in the English context.

Goldblatt’s translation deserves a discussion of the long debated dialectical relation between rewriting and fidelity. In accordance with what has been analysed in this study, the pursuit of absolute faithfulness at the lexical level in literary translation is unfeasible and translation has never been merely a matter of linguistics. 27 Goldblatt talked about his translation ideas in one interview, mentioning that, for him, firstly, a translation should be faithful to the original. Later, he also asserted that translation is a betrayal and a rewriting of the original novel. Based on the examples from this research, Goldblatt’s faithfulness to the original can be understood as he is faithful to the original story and frame.

His betrayal or rewriting is that he doesn't translate the novel word by word or paragraph by paragraph in the translation process.

Thus, his translation can also be regarded as an editing following the target culture’s ideology and poetics; during the process, he can even evade the weakness of the original and make it appropriate to the target culture.

The Necessities of Rewriting

There are several reasons leading to the rewriting the Chinese in an English translation. English belongs to the Indo-European language family, while Chinese belongs to the Sino-Tibetan language family. Thus, they are quite different in vocabulary and semantics, which leads to a lack of equivalence between English and Chinese. Some Chinese expressions can be quite easy to translate literally at the lexical level, but, without the contextual knowledge, the literary translation can be meaningless and lose the and Bush, P. R. (eds.) The Translator as Writer. London: Continuum, pp. 119– 137.

27 Lefevere, A. (1992) Translation, Rewriting and the Manipulation of Literary Fame. London: Routledge.

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point of cultural communication. Thus, the translator has to contextualise the situation. When it comes to some particular language forms, such as wordplay, idiomatic expression and proverbs, rewriting them within the English context is inevitable.

By rewriting, the translator retains the aesthetic value of the original novel as well as improving readability.

There is a huge gap, which is hard to bridge, between Chinese and Anglophone culture. As a result, there exists a noncorrespondence of cultural phrases, different associations about animals, conventions and values. There will inevitably be disagreements or conflicts between Western and Eastern civilisations in terms of ideology. Thus, not all the information of the original novel would be acceptable in the target culture, and translating the unacceptable cultural information literally will not promote cultural communication. By leaving out some indigestible cultural elements, the novel can be easier to accept.

Rewriting theory offers a new aspect to think about literary translation and introduce Chinese culture to an English-speaking readership. The priority is to make the potential target readers have an interest in it. Rewriting Chinese literature within an English context doesn't mean setting the Chinese story in the English culture, but to negotiate between the two cultures, and then remove the Chinese cultural elements which prove to be difficult for English readers to understand. This can ease the understanding of Chinese literature for English speaking readers and, thus, promote the transmission of Chinese culture to the English speaking world.

As Bassnett and Lefevere asserted, the purpose of rewriting is to make the opinions and attitudes in the original work acceptable to the receptor culture; to reconstruct the â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;imageâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; of a writer and the work of literature28. In other words, the purpose of rewriting is to achieve the aim of cultural communication. Rewriting is prompted Bassnett, S. and Lefevere, A. (1990) Translation, History and Culture.

London: Pinter.

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by political or cultural factors which would make a literal translation of the original novel unacceptable to the target culture; thus, the eventual purpose is to promote one culture to another.

Rewriting is not about recreating a story at the translator’s will, and it requires the translator to fully understand the original novel and express it in a way that could be acceptable to the target culture.

The Significance of Rewriting Theory in Cultural Communication

Rewriting theory is descriptive. The purpose is not to teach translators how to rewrite in the target language, but for the translation studies researcher to consider extra linguistic factors, such as ideology and poetics, which may influence the production of a translation when analysing the translation. Thus, the traditional criterion of ‘fidelity’ should not be regarded as the only standard when evaluating a translation, since translations are never produced in vacuum, other factors should also be considered when judging them. Rewriters are never innocent code-switchers.

Their rewritings serve a special purpose 29 , such as political propaganda or cultural communication. The target ideology, poetics and patronage constitute a significant prerequisite for the success or failure of the rewriting.

As such, the translated work should not be regarded as simply a ‘replica’ of the original, but rather a parallel or afterlife of the original novel. Nor should the status of translator be regarded as inferior to the original writers. The purpose of rewriting is to make the original better received in a different culture. Goldblatt once commented that one reason Mo Yan’s translation is a success is that Mo Yan gave his translators the right to rewrite his novel according to the convention of the target culture. In the process of transmitting Chinese literature and culture to the English-speaking 29

Lefevere, A. (1992) Translation, Rewriting and the Manipulation of Literary Fame. London: Routledge.

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readership, rewriting offers a new perspective for cultural mediation.

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Narrative Strategies and Bodily Transgression in Paul B. Preciado’s Testo Junkie.

Sofia Ropek-Hewson

‘Dear Martha, I bought five hundred grams of cocaine. I have a project.’

Paul B. Preciado paraphrasing Sigmund Freud, Testo Junkie (2013).

T

esto Junkie: Sex, Drugs and Biopolitics in the Pharmacopornographic Era is a rich, wide-ranging combination of narrative and theory concerned with the possibility of bodily political praxis. 1 Preciado’s aim is to inspire the collective subversion of neoliberal, ‘pharmacopornographic’ manipulations of subjectivity. Paul B. Preciado (formerly Beatriz Preciado) takes testosterone (Testogel) illicitly, rather than as a ‘medicine’ for gender dysphoria, and examines its effects, both personally and politically. Testo Junkie is peppered with neologisms: the ‘pharmacopornographic era’, the most significant, describes the intertwined pharmaceutical and pornographic industries and their undeniable influence in terms of biopower (the political regulation of bodies) and contemporary capitalism.

Through an analysis of Testo Junkie, I will explore Preciado’s narrative strategies and his interpretation of bodily transgression under late capitalism.

Preciado’s book can be read as a manifesto, or, as Preciado writes, ‘a manual for a kind of bioterrorism on a molecular scale’ (389). But Preciado’s relationship with his readership fluctuates, reflecting, in many ways, the relationship between the pharmacopornographic ‘regime’ and its subjects. Preciado weaves sex scenes with theory, teasing the reader and connecting the book’s form to the ‘global circuit of excitation-frustrationPaul B. Preciado, Testo Junkie: Sex, Drugs and Biopolitics in the Pharmacopornographic Era (New York: The Feminist Press, 2013).

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excitation’ (271). The author writes that the object of all pharmacopornographic work is ‘not to satisfy, but to excite’; Lydia Lunch similarly claims, ‘I sell frustration, not relief’ (274). Through suppressing relief, or a sense of catharsis, Preciado’s work invokes Bertolt Brecht’s belief that ‘catharsis is the enemy of revolution’.2 If the audience leaves the theatre satiated, they are unlikely to take political action: ‘the absence of a cathartic resolving action (in the theatre) would require the audience to take political action in the real world, in order to fill the emotional gap they experience’ (52).

However, Preciado’s juxtaposition of theory and narrative also reflects his progressive addiction to testosterone. At the beginning of Testo Junkie, Preciado acknowledges that he is already behaving ‘as if I were an addict of an illegal substance’: ‘I hide, keep an eye on myself, censure myself, exercise restraint’ (56). The (often abrupt) transitions into theory from scenes depicting the application of Testogel and frantic sex with ‘VD’ can also be interpreted as the exercise of restraint. Crucially, Preciado’s fluid narratives reflect a desire to find new ways to communicate theory, and galvanise the reader into political action – the clear objective of Testo Junkie.

Sex scenes and theory are first starkly juxtaposed between the fifth and sixth chapters, entitled ‘In Which the Body of VD Becomes an Element in an Experimental Context’ and ‘ Technogender’. The fifth chapter ends with a sex scene: ‘When I wake up later, her hand is inside me […] I push two fingers in her mouth, she sucks them without taking her hand off my body […] we go on like that until I come in her hand, until my hand comes in her mouth’ (98). Immediately following, the next chapter begins: ‘The invention of the category gender signalled a splitting off and became the source point for the emergence of the pharmacopornographic regime for producing and governing sexuality’ (99). The juxtaposition of ‘until I come in her hand’ with ‘the invention of the category gender’ is playful and deliberate.

David Buttrick, Speaking Parables: A Homiletic Guide (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2000), p. 52.

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Although Preciado depicts a climax, the sex scene itself is interspersed with theory: ‘She sucks them, without taking her hand off my body’ is followed by ‘Pleasure follows this arrangement of forces, this hierarchy of functions whose stability is necessarily precarious’ (98), which, in turn, is followed by ‘We go on like that until I come in her hand’ (98). Similarly, ‘Technogender’ ends with a theoretical postulation about ‘Pharmacopornographic emancipation’ through biodrag (129). The following chapter, ‘Becoming T’, begins, ‘Victor, the lover I left for VD, has been working for six months for a phone sex line […] we fuck each other all day’ (130). Preciado writes that a pharmacopornographic society functions on a sexual frustration-excitation-frustration model, which produces perpetual dissatisfaction in order to produce more excitation and consumption. Preciado describes the ‘ritual’ and ‘cycles’ of excitation-frustration-excitation, but he also embeds them in the text of Testo Junkie; in a Paris Review interview, he mentions that his writing is a ‘performative device’.3 Preciado also writes about an earlier manuscript on the ‘impact of feminism on contemporary aesthetic and political discourse’, clarifying: ‘it calms me when sex and philosophy approach each other’ (131). Not only do sex and philosophy approach each other in his academic work, Preciado moves between English, French and Spanish, describing the process as comparable to ‘being in transit between masculinity, femininity and transsexuality. The pleasure of multiplicity’ (133). Preciado both tantalises the reader with the textual rhythms of excitationfrustration-excitation and celebrates the power and potential of communicating in multiple forms (sexual and philosophical discourses) and languages. He writes ‘about what matters to me, in a language that doesn’t belong to me […] dispossessed from the start’ (133). But this sense of dispossession is akin to Preciado’s inversion of Lacan’s mirror theory: it is ‘fundamental not to Ricky Tucker, ‘Pharmacopornography: An Interview with Beatriz Preciado’, The Paris Review, December 4, 2013.

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recognise oneself’ (397). Political subjectivity ‘arises when the subject does not recognise itself in its representation’ (397). This sense of dispossession and dis-identification is similar to Brecht’s ‘alienation’ effect, a negotiation between the familiar (heimlich) and the unfamiliar (unheimlich), which often results in cognitive dissonance.4 This feeling of dis-identification is capable of creating political subjectivities and engendering political action. As Brecht wrote, ‘unresolved’ identities and the absence of ‘cathartic resolving actions’ may leave us anxious to ‘fill an emotional gap’ – perhaps through political action.5 However, Preciado does not view sex as a domain of political action or subversion. Angela Carter writes that we ‘may believe we fuck stripped of social artifice, but we are deceived’: in Preciado’s work, an awareness of the inherently political nature of sex is crucial.6 Sex is not transcendent or a magical space ‘outside’ power, it is the crux of pharmacopornographic control.

Accordingly, politics and philosophy are enmeshed in Preciado’s descriptions of sex: ‘As we screw, I feel as if my entire political history, all of my years of feminism, are moving directly toward the centre of her body and flowing into it […] she is covered with my feminism as if with a diaphanous ejaculation, a sea of political sparkles’ (97). In comparison with theorists like Beauvoir and Bataille, who believed in the power of the sexual act to place you in transcendent contact with your inner ‘Other’, Preciado uses sex to plug into the current of pharmacopornographic capitalism – to become more deeply embedded in its mechanisms, in order to identify points of ‘technopolitical intervention’ (226).

Subverting the pornographic ‘money shot’, Preciado describes how VD is ‘covered’ with his feminism. Linda Williams writes that the traditional ‘money shot’ (of ejaculation) is the ultimate symbol of late capitalism: ‘Perhaps in the money shot’s Buttrick, Parables, p. 52.

Ibid.

6 Angela Carter, The Sadeian Woman: An Exercise in Social History (London: Virago, 1979), p. 9.

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repeatedly inflated, “spending” penis, we can see condensed all the principles of late capitalism’s pleasure oriented consumer society: pleasure figured as an orgasm of spending; the fetish not simply as commodity but as surplus value of orgasm’. Pornographic narrative reduces the male orgasm to ‘impersonalised labour’ and the female body is depicted as a ‘reconfigured receptacle’: ‘a recoding that turns all the invisible and evasive and traditionally dangerous holes and insides and unknown territories of her body into a clearly decipherable surface’.7 If the ‘money shot’ requires that the penis is not ‘hidden’ by the mouth or genitals, the clearest, and most common, expression of this display is an ejaculation on the woman’s breasts or face. Frida Beckman writes that ‘to be claimed into the visual economy, her pleasure must be made surface’, the female body is reconfigured as a ‘passive receptacle’: the ‘repository of sexual expenditure’ (154). Furthermore, the female orgasm is rarely present or ‘invisible’ in contemporary pornography – in the sense that the female ‘money shot’ does not produce visible ‘surplus’ fluids. Thus pornographic orgasms are visually and theoretically compartmentalised: the male orgasm is ‘surplus semen’ and impersonalised labour, and the female orgasm is intangible or invisible. In comparison, Preciado’s sexual narratives depict genderless orgasms with visible or tangible fluids: ‘covered with my feminism’, ‘I come in her hand, my hand comes in her mouth’ (98). Furthermore, their sexual experiences are described in multiple ways: ‘sex is videographic. Now we are coming in green. Then the impression becomes more olfactory than visual, more haptic than auditory […] a connection made of human phenotypes, language, electronic sounds, and dildos’ (332).

Preciado blends technics, media, language and the body in his sex scenes, acknowledging the myriad influences and responses. Their sex, like Preciado’s experiment, is both embedded in queer/ trans

Frida Beckman, Between Desire and Pleasure: A Deleuzian Theory of Sexuality (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2013), p. 154.

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culture and symbolic of a late capitalist ‘pleasure oriented consumer society’.8 But Preciado also acknowledges the (potentially productive) ‘difficulty’ of seeing or depicting desire in bodies ‘without a visible erectile appendix’ (47). For these bodies, desire ‘exists in a poetic state of indeterminacy’ (47). Preciado writes about ‘having the power to decide whether it does or does not wish to express itself through representation’, which ‘unlocks the possibility of sex as fiction, as potentiality’ (47). In lesbian sexuality, an ‘extensive anatomical cartography’ denotes sexual excitement: ‘the hands, the accuracy of touch, the mouth’s degree of openness, the amount of sweat or wetness’ (47). Accordingly, when Preciado ‘fucked a cis-guy’, ‘his cock seemed like a secondary object’; Preciado seems bemused at the prospect of trusting this single indicator of excitement (48). On testosterone, Preciado senses the development of multiple sex organs: his tongue becomes ‘an erectile muscle’ and when VD senses this, ‘her mouth fucks my tongue, mounting it and descending rapidly. She has found my erection’ (88). Preciado here writes of the power of ambiguity and multiplicity, implying that political transgression exists in our ability to construct our own ‘somatic fictions’, to configure our own ‘sex organs’ and to represent our desire in multiple ways – acknowledging the influence of technics and the media: ‘we must reclaim the right to participate in the construction of biopolitical fictions’ (69). Preciado subverts traditional pornographic directives, like the ejaculatory ‘money shot’ (representative of the importance of male sexual satisfaction) and the centrality of the penis, exhorting the importance of new narrative strategies.

He also writes about ‘the pleasure of multiplicity’ through encouraging us to ‘blend’ genders, narratives and methods (133).

‘Transing’ scholarship means to move between genres, disciplines and writing styles, rather than ‘disclosing his or her identity or

8

Williams, Hard Core, p. 108.

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disciplinary home’.9 Preciado urges us to invent novel methods of transmitting knowledge in order for ‘new kinds of counterknowledges to proliferate’ (149). In the introduction to the Trans issue of Women’s Studies Quarterly, Stryker, Currah and Moore write that ‘transing assembles gender into contingent structures of association with other attributes of bodily being’.10 The significant terms for reference are ‘contingent’, ‘association’ and ‘bodily’ – acknowledging the contingent nature of our social and biological construction, its multiple cultural associations, and its bodily un-fixedness, can enable political transgression.

But Preciado’s narrative strategy also reflects his progressive addiction to testosterone, his ‘drug-subjectivity’, and his identification with the ‘romantic’ history of selfexperimentation – from Rimbaud to Freud to Burroughs. In an interview with The Paris Review, Preciado talks about reading Freud’s About Cocaine: Freud obtained pure cocaine and believed that it would be the ‘substance of the century’ (2013). Preciado remembers Freud’s letter to his future wife, ‘Dear Martha, I bought five hundred grams of cocaine. I have a project’ (2013). The actual letter was slightly more tentative: ‘I am [….] toying now with a project, and a hope which I will tell you about; perhaps nothing will come of this either. I have been reading about cocaine’ (Freud 2000: 107). However, Preciado, inspired by Freud’s project, visualised a similar project with Testogel: ‘I had this testosterone and I had a project’ (2013). Writers such as Allen Ginsberg and Samuel Taylor Coleridge searched for poetic transcendence through drugs like amphetamines and opium, inspiring lines like ‘Angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night’ (1956), and ‘In Xanadu did Kubla Kahn/ A stately pleasure dome decree’ (1816).

Preciado’s Testogel narrative alternates between removed, L. R. Rodriguez, ‘Transgressive Truth Telling’, Transgender Studies Quarterly, November, 2015.

10 Stryker, Currah and Moore, ‘Introduction: Trans-, Trans, or Transgender?’, Women’s Studies Quarterly, Vol. 36, Fall/ Winter, 2008.

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objective explications: ‘I’ve become witness to my own body experiencing new centres of reception and excitation, aggressiveness and strength’ (96), and equally drug-induced prose: ‘I’m completely high on testosterone […] we screw naked for the first time. Her pelvis is glued to mine, her vulva connected to mine, our organs gnawing at each other like the muzzles of two dogs that recognise each other’ (97).

However, Preciado’s decision to appropriate a medically controlled hormone is motivated by a difficult choice. Taking testosterone outside the framework of gender transitioning is to ‘declare (myself) to be drugged and psychotic’ (57). But taking testosterone on the terms of the medical/ pharmaceutical establishment is to entirely reject his ‘biobody’, to ‘rewrite (my) history, modify all the elements in it that belong under the narrative of being female’ (57). Preciado recognises a choice between ‘two psychoses’ or narratives: ‘in one (gender identity disorder), testosterone appears as a medicine, and in the other (addiction) testosterone becomes the substance on which I’m dependent’ (58). Preciado chooses addiction, in place of submitting to the state, his Testogel narrative depicting his increasing subjection to the drug. Henri Michaux writes that ‘to enjoy a drug, one must enjoy being a subject’. In comparison, Preciado quotes Spinoza with frustration, ‘why do people always desire their own slavery?’, but his narrative/ theory describes his slavish reliance on Testogel, thus perhaps the inevitability of submission to the ‘pharmacopornographic regime’ in some form (208). However, Preciado does acknowledge, if not reject, this possibility: towards the end of the text he watches a film of a woman masturbating, with a hairy arm intermittently intruding to fondle her. Preciado worries about eventually becoming this symbolic ‘hairy arm’, and submitting to the masculine, ‘pharmacopornographic’ role: the woman is the object of the ‘male gaze’, freely and easily manipulated by the patriarchal ‘hairy arm’.

Ultimately, Preciado’s intertwined drug and theory narratives could be interpreted as the alternate colliding and

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prising apart of gender and sexuality. Biddy Martin writes that queer theorists often take an ‘overly negative’ view of gender, writing in terms of prisons, following Michel Foucault. She also writes that a number of queer theorists think that ‘gender identities are only constraining’ and must and can be ‘overridden by the greater mobility of queer desires’. 11 Martin believes that gender, of the inhibiting, constraining variety, gets coded as female, whereas ‘sexuality takes on the universality of man’ (92).

Preciado’s Testogel narratives could be described as symbolic of (the power of male) sexuality: ‘I could leap to the balcony opposite and fuck my neighbour if she were waiting for me with her thighs spread’ (95). In comparison, Preciado’s chapters on theory and the Pill are primarily concerned with the limitations, and unexplored potential, of the cis-female. Inhibiting gender is coded female and powerful sexuality is coded male. But Preciado’s autoexperimental narrative enables the reader to view their collision: when Preciado writes that he could ‘fuck (my) neighbour’ on the opposite balcony, he responds to that desire by tidying his apartment: ‘like an energising biosupplement being activated within a female cultural agenda, the testosterone compels me to tidy up and clean my apartment, frenetically, all night long’ (95). In place of a sex scene, Preciado then describes his painstaking cleaning: ‘my movements are precise […] I pick up all the chairs, move the couch, the bed’ (95). His description of sexual desire being channelled into cleaning, thanks to the ‘female cultural agenda’, symbolises the limitations of his project. Although he takes testosterone illegally and declares himself an addict outside the system of gender re-assignment, Preciado is still subject to the ‘female cultural agenda’; he is still in thrall to the societal and cultural constraints that he intends to subvert or escape. The blending of these narratives mimics the inability of the pharmacopornographic regime to displace the nineteenth century Biddy Martin, Femininity Played Straight: The Significance of Being Lesbian (Abingdon: Routledge, 1998), p. 92.

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disciplinary regime and its rigid gender binaries. Preciado cannot displace the ‘female cultural agenda’ through his experiments with Testogel; these narratives co-exist and exert power on his body.

Thus Preciado explicates the relationship between the body, transgression and the cultural context or environment. When on holiday, Preciado describes the nimbleness of beavers in the river – ‘their fur-covered shapes rippling’ as they dive around shrubs.

But when they venture onto dry land, ‘their first paw on the asphalt’ declares them foreign: ‘on dry land, their furry bodies become clumsy, their tails too heavy; their eyes, still covered by a liquid film, can barely distinguish the other shore’ (262). His description is reminiscent of Baudelaire’s maladapted albatross: ‘Scarce have they fished aboard these airy kings / When helpless on such unaccustomed floors, / They piteously droop their huge white wings/ And trail them at their sides like drifting oars.’. 12 Locals accuse the beavers of being illegal immigrants – coming over from South America to disrupt the ecosystem in Camargu. They ‘go to great lengths to eliminate them, pitilessly’ (262). Cars ‘zigzag to try to trap these viscous volumes under their tires’ (262). Preciado compares these beavers to ‘the wetbacks from Tiijuana, with Africans who swim to Gibraltar. They cross over to survive. Leave their skin under the wheels’ (262). Ultimately, Preciado writes both of harsh, uncompromising environments or cultural contexts, and the fragility and fixedness of bodies. Transgression, or survival, must overcome these specific challenges. Preciado’s application of Testogel conforms to these guidelines: his body feels more powerful and sexual – less fixed and fragile (21). He wants to walk around outside more often, ‘to feel the city awaken under my feet’ (96). His first experiment with testosterone leaves him feeling in ‘perfect harmony with the rhythm of the city.’ Testosterone has modified Preciado’s perception of the city, rendering his environment less hostile. Accordingly, Preciado implies the Charles Baudelaire, The Flowers of Evil (Oxford: Oxford World Classics, 2008), p. 24.

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necessity of bodily praxis in advance of environmental, cultural transformation: ‘a philosophy that doesn’t use the body as an active platform of technovital transformation is spinning in neutral. Ideas aren’t enough […] only art working together with biopolitical praxis can move’ (395).

But Preciado’s biopolitical praxis can ultimately only be achieved through reversing the cognitive bias of ‘functional fixedness’: functional fixedness is how we often have mental blocks related to using objects in different ways for different purposes.

Although this mental block is adaptive, because it leads to quick decisions, it also inhibits our ability to repurpose objects creatively.

According to Margaret Defeyeter and Tim German, children younger than seven are ‘immune’ to functional fixedness and can repurpose an object easily (Defeyeter & German, 2000).13 Although a wealth of theory and evidence suggest that younger children perform more poorly on problem-solving tasks than older children, Defeyeter and German have concluded that ‘younger children have wider criteria for what can count as an object’s function than do adults […] rather than taking into account only the proper function of an object, they adopt an agents-goals view, in which any intentional use of an object can be its function’ (2000). Their notions of object functions are definitively more ‘fluid’ and ‘flexible’ than those of older children and adults (2000). Preciado’s Testo Junkie explores our attachment to bodily functional fixedness – using our body in socio-culturally defined ways – and the possibilities inherent in its disruption or reversal.

Crucially, Preciado’s Testo Junkie illuminates the impossibility (or perceived impossibility) of lasting transgression under late capitalism. Preciado’s means of resistance (the application of testosterone to his, formerly her, skin) is centrally embedded in the culture that he intends to disrupt. The pharmaceutical industry, one of the two lynchpins of our Tim German and Margaret Defeyter, ‘Immunity to Functional Fixedness in Young Children’, Pyschonomic Bulletin and Review, 2000, 707-712.

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‘pharmacopornographic’ society, produces the Testogel applied by Preciado – although for the treatment of low testosterone or ‘lowT’ in men. But Preciado obtains the gel without a prescription, from a dealer in transgender hormones, and refuses to adhere to medical guidelines regulating its application. However, although Preciado’s experiment could be interpreted as the evasion of pharmaceutical and capitalist regulation, I concur with the contemporary theoretical (predominantly Marxist) consensus that there is no ‘outside’ to power.14 As Hardt and Negri wearily assert: ‘We should be done once and for all with the search for an outside, a standpoint that imagines a purity for our politics’. 15 Accordingly, flows of capital, hormones and fluids become the means of both capitalist control and transgression (for Preciado, Testogel is this dual substance) – and identifying political disruption becomes problematic. Preciado’s somatic project both maps neatly onto capitalism’s contours and appears creatively resistant to pharmacopornographic control.

Furthermore, Preciado details how bodily technologies of power, like contraceptives, have become progressively invasive and miniaturised – notably with the development of prosthetic implants and transdermal patches. Donna Haraway writes that this trend towards miniaturisation and camouflage has ‘turned out to be about power; small is not so much beautiful as pre-eminently dangerous, as in cruise missiles’ (Haraway 2013: 106).16 As power shrinks its material means of assertion and camouflages itself, identifying resistance in relation to its machinations becomes inconceivable. Preciado’s text also describes a societal shift from the state manipulation of bodies in Foucault’s conception of biopower, to what we might call auto-manipulation – a term neatly encapsulating both self-regulation and the pharmacopornographic Judith Butler, Gender Trouble (Abingdon: Routledge Classics, 2006), p. 93.

Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri, Empire (Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 2001), p. 45.

16 Donna Haraway, Simians, Cyborgs and Women: The Reinvention of Nature (Abingdon: Routledge, 2013), p. 106.

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regime’s emphasis on masturbation and pleasure. Increased automanipulation further muddies the landscape of resistance and transgression: bodily opposition is often ‘indistinguishable from capitulation’ (Hester, 2013).17 Moreover, late capitalism’s feigned embrace of ‘difference’ obscures oppositional political praxis. Magnum recently released an advert at the Cannes Film Festival featuring, according to Unilever marketing material, ‘drag queens.’ The advert, entitled ‘Be True To Your Pleasure’, epitomises both the capitalist emphasis on ‘pleasure’, and the capitalist ‘acceptance’ of ‘difference’. Wilde comments, ‘It might sound silly as far as “it’s only an ice-cream commercial”, but it’s actually so much more: to see this is our everyday life and make it ‘normal’ and to celebrate it – it really changes the way people look at us’.18 But certain queer theorists would argue that participating in mainstream commercials, like gay marriage, results in the ‘erasure of their subcultural, and indeed countercultural, difference’. 19 The queer community appears to be divided into Michael Warner’s ‘stigmaphobes’ and ‘stigmaphiles’ (borrowing from Erving Goffman) – referring to vying demands for assimilation and subverting dominant norms.20 Crucially, adverts like Magnum’s ‘Be True To Your Pleasure’ are normative: if they normalise drag queens and the transgender community, their impact is positive, if they normalise capitalist consumption and subsume transgender cultures and ‘difference’, marginal and marginalised sexualities and genders continue to face erasure.

But neoliberalism not only encompasses ‘difference’ in its contemporary totalising processes, it now also subsumes Helen Hester, ‘Synthetic Genders and the Limits of Micropolitics’, Journalment, 2013.

18 David Hudson, ‘What do you think of Magnum’s new ‘drag queen’ advert?’, Gay Star News, 18 May, 2015.

19 Michael Warner, The Trouble with Normal: Sex, Politics and the Ethics of Queer Life (Massachusetts: Harvard UP, 2000), p. 43.

20 Ibid.

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transgression, often described as ‘rebellion’ or ‘revolution’. The phone company, ‘Three’ uses the tagline ‘A Revolution is Coming’ to advertise a new marketing campaign. John Lydon from the Sex Pistols sang, ‘Your future dream is a shopping scheme’ in 1976, railing against rampant consumerism. But the Sex Pistols recently agreed to a deal with Virgin Money. Artwork from the Sex Pistols’ albums, along with their band name, will feature on a line of Virgin Money credit cards; one card is covered with images from the single ‘Anarchy in the UK’. Virgin advertises these cards with the slogan, ‘Bring a Bit of Rebellion to Your Wallet.’ Gü advertise their chocolate desserts with slogans like, ‘Pleasure is Everything’ and ‘Break Free’. As the language of transgression and rebellion is neutralised by contemporary capitalist consumerism, Preciado’s movement from language (and discourse based performativity) to the reappropriation of ‘flesh’ and ‘bodies’ (biodrag) appears apt.

Capitalist flexibility has permeated contemporary discourse, but our bodies and brains are still largely self-regulating and ‘plastic’.

But Helen Hester and Benjamin Noys have written about Preciado’s lack of focus on the possible collective replication of his micropolitical project. Hester writes that Preciado writes in terms of ‘small-scale interventions’, operating at the level of the ‘atomised subject’, with ‘little imaginative space being given to the ways in which diverse embodied appropriations might interconnect, or how the project might be expanded or scaled up’.21 Alex Williams and Nick Srnicek have written about the necessity of emancipatory processes ‘shifting towards the structural, the generalised, and the non-localised.’ 22 According to Williams and Srnicek, contending ‘on a global scale with capitalism in its myriad forms’ depends on moving decisively away from localism.23 Hardt and Negri also write that localism can be ‘false and damaging’: ‘the problem rests on a false dichotomy between the global and the local, that the global Hester, ‘Synthetic Genders’, Journalment, 2013.

Nick Srnicek and Alex Williams, ‘The Accelerate Manifesto for an Accelerationist Politics’, Critical Legal Thinking, 2013.

23 Ibid.

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entails homogenisation and undifferentiated identity, whereas the local preserves heterogeneity and difference’ (2000: 45).24 Hardt and Negri characterise localism as ‘reactive’, its defenders cry: ‘if capitalist domination is becoming ever more global, then our resistances to it must defend the local and construct barriers to capital’s accelerating flows’ (45).

But Preciado traces the miniaturisation of power and the ways in which the local (or the body) perpetuates capitalist homogenisation through self-regulation. Preciado also refuses to establish barriers to ‘capital’s accelerating flows’, instead he embraces capital’s fluidity, not uncritically, and attempts to understand how he can re-appropriate it. Rather than renouncing the capitalist-tainted pursuit of transgression and ‘difference’, Preciado advocates ‘accelerationist’ politics. 25 Deleuze and Guattari write that we can respond to capitalist ‘flows’ by refusing to withdraw and by going ‘further’ and ‘accelerating’ its processes, in an attempt to repurpose its power. 26 Similarly, Williams and Srnicek describe ‘accelerationists’ as activists desiring to ‘unleash latent productive forces’. 27 For Preciado, the platform of neoliberalism must be ‘repurposed rather than destroyed’, used as a ‘springboard to post-capitalism’. 28 In terms of the collective application of Preciado’s theory, his text is not wholly focused on individual bodily transgression and experimentation. Although Preciado often leapfrogs from the ‘micropolitical’ to the ‘transformation of the species’ – admittedly omitting pragmatic tactics – Testo Junkie does exhort open access to hormones and information, new narrative strategies, and opposition to bodily functional fixedness (111). Preciado’s project might require ‘scaling up’, but his text represents a radical reformulation of Hardt and Negri, Empire, 2000.

Srnicek and Williams, ‘The Accelerate Manifesto’, 2013.

26 Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, Anti-Oedipus, (Bloomsbury Academic, 2013), p. 138.

27 Srnicek and Williams, ‘The Accelerate Manifesto’, 2013.

28 Ibid.

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capitalist hegemony, galvanising its readership to reclaim their bodies from the ‘pharmacopornographic’ regime. Foucault’s ‘disciplinary’ regime (which punished ‘deviant’ sexual practices like homosexuality, and transgender identification) still persists in the perpetuation of contemporary gender binaries, which collide and collude with our ‘pharmacopornographic’ society. But if we become ‘gender pirates’ or ‘gender hackers’, ‘blending’ or ‘transing’ narratives wherever we can, we can aspire to the reappropriation of our bodies and the crumbling of the disciplinary prop of the body politic – with the ultimate hope of destabilising the pharmacopornographic regime.

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Gender and Representations of Monsters in the French Renaissance

T

Evangeline Phillips

he judgments passed by great writers such as Pierre Boaistuau, Ambroise Paré, and Claude de Tesserant greatly influenced their Renaissance readers. As such, their texts serve as a window into contemporary views to some extent, and reveal that gender was central to depictions of monsters. In this article, I will examine these works with respect to the stories they recount as well as the manner in which these stories are presented.

To reflect traditional notions of gender (which are somewhat under scrutiny here), this discussion will be bipartite. Firstly, I will explore the roles and effects of fixed gender beings within the French Renaissance, and secondly the importance of the hermaphrodite and androgyne figures in French Renaissance society will take centre stage.

Gender in Renaissance France played a defining role in many different representations of monsters, influencing them from conception, throughout life, and until death. According to the science of the time, the lack of heat Paré describes in Chapter VII of Des Monstres et Prodiges (‘elles n’ont pas tant de chaleur’) during conception was one of the causes of a female child or a monstrous birth. Another cause was a ‘superabondance’, ‘defaut’ or ‘corruption de semence’ mentioned in Chapter V of Boaistuau’s Histoires Prodigiueses. 1 Women were also thought to produce a ‘seed’ in their ‘arteres spermatiques’. 2 Rüff agreed: ‘That part is called the womb or genital member, in which the seed is conceived

Boaistuau, Pierre (2010), Histoires prodigieuses (édition de 1561): Introduction par Stephen Bamforth; texte établi par Stephen Bamforth et annoté par Jean Céard (Genève: Droz), p. 388.

2 Du Laurens, André (1639) Les oeuvres de M Andre du Laurens. (Paris: Chez Pierre Billaient), p. 252.

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and formed.'3 As the carrier of the child, the woman would have been blamed for these monstrous/female births (if not morally, at least physically) because ‘Greek humeral physiology characterised women as cold and wet’, 4 which was another element in the ‘indisposition de la matrice’ described by Boaistuau.5 Although the male gender had a strong effect on the child, the female carried the foetus, and so the female effect upon it was reckoned to be stronger due to their contact with the child whilst it ‘n’est encore formé’.6 This is representative of attitudes towards men and women at the time; men were, in strength (both physical and mental), intelligence, and countenance in general, superior to females. In line with this widely-held belief, their (fixed) genders played practically opposing roles in the creation (or prevention) of monsters and monstrous births; women were often held to blame for monstrous births, whereas men could not possibly have had such a negative effect on the child.

Paré reinforces the notion of heat during conception to create a male – or an insufficiency leading to the creation of a female - moments earlier in Chapter VII. Women being the result of a lack of sufficient heat are therefore the imperfect, unfinished version of a male, with the same genitals ‘caché dedans le corps que les hommes decouvrent dehors’. 7 Paré proves this through the story of the jumping woman who, generating heat when leaping through a field, springs male genitals from where there were previously female sex organs. In order to rationalise this story, Paré asserts that ‘nous ne trouvons jamais en histoire veritable que Rüff, Jakob (1554), De conceptu et generatione hominis (Tiguri: Christophorus Froschouerus excudebat), p. 14v. The translation from Latin is my own.

4 Rothstein, Marian (2015), The Androgyne in Early Modern France (New York: Palgrave Macmillan), p. 31.

5 Boaistuau (2010), p. 388.

6 Paré, Ambroise, ed. Jean Céard (1971), Des monstres et prodiges, (Genève: Droz), p. 37.

7 Ibid, p.30.

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d’homme aucun soit devenu femme, pour-ce que Nature tend tousjours à ce qui est le plus parfaict’. 8 The use of ‘veritable’ indicates a judgement applied to somewhat varying degrees to tales of the time, with interpretations of both witness reports and monsters themselves interpreted in many different ways.

According to Claude de Tesserant in the second chapter of Histoires Prodigieuses, this positive attitude towards gender change can only be tolerated to a certain extent; women may become men spontaneously ‘comme de leur proper naturel’, 9 and, since this must be the will of God, it is therefore natural. However, women deciding to live as men, whether as transvestites or taking steps to change their biological sex, is unnatural. He describes their actions to ‘se soient faits femmes’ as only undertaken to ‘satisfaire à leurs abominable paillardises’. 10 As an example of this (of perhaps the most shocking variety), Tesserant recounts the story of Nero (Neron) and Sporus (Spore), although he is careful to indicate that is it ‘selon l’Epitome Grec que Xiphilin nous à laissé’.11 His tendency to specify the origin of his stories makes one wary of the fact that there are surely stories he has omitted. He goes on to pass judgement all the same. Nero is condemned for changing Sporus’ gender and then seeking someone else to penetrate him (Nero), in order to experience intercourse as a female. It must be noted, however, that within this report there are nuances to Tesserant’s tone. As terrible as castrating Sporus is, Nero then marries him as if he were any other bride, and Tesserant seems to recognise this slightly perverse attempt at decency through reigning in use of his favourite adjective: ‘abominable’. Later on, however, Tesserant unleashes his pen against Nero’s engagement in sodomy, so that he may ‘etre Androgyne homme & femme’12 and declares that ‘comme Paré (1971), p. 30.

De Tesserant, Claude (1594), Histoires Prodigieuses: Extraictes de Plusieurs Fameux Auteurs (Anvers, Chez Guislain Ianssens, au Coq veillant), p. 293.

10 Ibid.

11 Ibid, p. 295.

12 Ibid, p. 296.

8 9

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Spore, luy auoit feruy abominablement de femme’ (ibid.). For the first time in the texts discussed here, someone has experienced sex who is as close to being both a male and female as possible. This brings another reading to the term ‘androgyne’ which is considered, in this case, as a fixed gender being wanting to be of the other sex, but wanting to be so purely for carnal gratification, in contrast to the androgynes born with dual genders who are forced by society to select and live as only one gender. Nero plays with gender roles here, of both others and himself, and - in the ultimate expression of power – is consequently pushing and redefining boundaries. Tesserant makes it clear what he thinks of this and other stories by classifying it as a tale of a ‘monstre' (‘Si les monstres naissent fortuiement, ou qui se font artificiellement’) 13 rather than a ‘prodige’, two terms which other writers, in particular Boaistuau, use interchangeably (Schachter 7 December 2015, Durham). In a time when so-called ‘wonder books’ were ‘changing confessional identities’,14 Tesserant was giving readers something worse than their confessions to reassure them that they were not as bad as others. This is echoed today in the way reality television shows or documentaries about transgender transformations are lapped up by an audience keen to pry from behind the shield of their television screen in their own home. 15 Instances where gender comes into question play(ed) a key role in amusement and entertainment, whether for those experimenting with new gender experiences, or for those hearing about them.

The tale of Heliogable, which follows that of Nero, takes it one step further, pushing Renaissance notions of gender, the human, and monstrosity further still. Heliogable ‘ne voulāt laisser

De Tesserant (1594), p. 293.

Spinks, Jennifer (2011), 'Print and Polemic in sixteenth-century France: the Histoires Prodigieuses, confessional identity, and the Wars of Religion' in Renaissance Studies, Vol. 27 No. 1, p. 74.

15 Kesler, Suzanne J. (1998), Lessons from the Intersexed (New Brunswick, New Jersey and London: Rutgers University Press), p. 5.

13 14

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gaigner le prix à Neron’16 and undergoes surgery to ‘devenir femme entierement’.17 Our reaction to this is dictated by his introduction of ‘j’ay honte de dire’,18 where, once again, the image of gender as something changeable by man is judged as wrong. According to Tesserant, the role of gender is to be a personal constant: being something someone else cannot change for you, nor something you should change for yourself.

Moving on from stories of gender changing, we return to the role of gender during conception and pregnancy. Once again, women were blamed for abnormalities in the child due to ‘une ardente et obstinee imagination’ according to Paré. 19 Although men may affect the child through ‘quelque objet ou songe fantastique, de quelques visions nocturnes’, the female imagination, and subsequent effect, is that which carries the truly negative connotations. Paré’s ninth chapter Exemple des monstres que se font par imagination was backed up by ‘l’authorité de Moyse’ 20 and given more weight by mentioning a royal couple who went through the same experience. In this chapter, he recounts tales of hairy children, children of different races/with animal attributes (or, indeed, entire animal physiques), blaming the fact that the woman ‘regarde ou imagine attentivement choses monstrueuses’21 during conception. Boaistuau also explains the origin of the hairy child: while conceiving, the mother of the hairy child had ‘trop ententivement regardé l’effigie d’un sainct Jean vestu de peau’,22 and lo, her child was born hairy. This too places the fault for the monstrous child squarely on the mother, as almost all tales in Boaistuau and Paré do, and, as was to be expected, puts women in a position of inferiority in two ways. Firstly, the female mind is De Tesserant (1594), p. 296.

Ibid, p. 298 18 Ibid.

19 Paré (1971), p. 35.

20 Ibid, p. 31.

21 Ibid, p. 37.

22 Boaistuau (2010), p. 388.

16 17

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painted as simple, in this instance unable to discern the difference between a man in furs and a furry man, and in other situations it is easily penetrated by a vaguely distracting or abnormal event, such as holding a frog to ward off fever23. Secondly, these effects of the imagination were usually negative. In a situation where women could potentially be seen as having more power than men (a reversal of established gender roles thus far), it was ensured that their version of power often had negative effects so that there could be no question of changing the gender status quo. Therefore, in these tales from both Paré and Boaistuau, the role of gender was central to monstrous births; females were the root of it all.

A preferential leaning towards the male gender influenced many aspects of Renaissance life, even for those of no fixed gender.

To a modern audience it may seem counter-intuitive that hermaphrodites and androgynes were accepted during the Renaissance under the guise of being God’s work, whereas transvestites (arguably also without a fixed gender) were shunned as being a ‘real threat to the social order at the time’, 24 but this concern reveals much about Renaissance attitudes to gender. In modern times, Judith Butler (1990: 145) writes that ‘gender is an identity tenuously constituted in time, instituted in an exterior space through a stylised repetition of acts.25 A clear parallel can be seen in Gilbert’s argument that, during the Renaissance, ‘gender, like clothes, could be assumed and transferred between the sexes’26 because it was something that could be performed. Thus, gender related issues were obviously pertinent in Renaissance society, resulting in the exclusion - or at the very least, disapproval - of transvestites. But how did androgynes and hermaphrodites fare?

Paré (1971), p. 37.

Gilbert, Ruth (2002), Early Modern Hermaphrodites (Hampshire and New York: Palgrave), p. 82.

25 Butler, Judith (1990), Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (New York; London: Routledge), p. 145.

26 Gilbert (2002), p. 77.

23 24

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Plato’s Symposium, featuring Aristophanes’ idea of the original human as two humans facing outwards as two halves of a sphere, with four arms and four legs, may give us some idea of the roots from which Renaissance thinking blossomed. These came in three models: double male, double female, and half-male, halffemale. Somehow, somewhere in the intervening years, the spheres separated, and in modern times, finding partners is truly like finding our other halves. The doubles are homosexuals, and the half-male, half-females, are heterosexuals. Although for some this gives food for a vision of the hermaphrodite as a symbol of duality (for example in politics), or even ‘the joining together of opposite and often contradictory parts’ 27 (Gilbert 2002: 126), Rothstein esteems that the physical androgyne is only ‘approximating the repaired condition of the creature in Plato’s myth'. 28 These creatures, which in reality have many variations and so are mismatched, are an explanation for infidelity, ‘leaving little place for its originary, four-limbed, two-headed form’. 29 It seems Renaissance society was keen to come up with a way to categorise, and therefore manage the concept of, androgynes. Through this, they might find an answer they would accept to the question of gender and monsters.

The solution, therefore, according to de Tesserant was that hermaphrodites who were able to perform sexually as both a female and a male should choose one gender and stick to it for the rest of their lives in order to conduct themselves with decency.30 Foucault claimed otherwise: For a long time…such a demand was not made…indeed it was a very long time before the postulate that a hermaphrodite must have a sex – a single, a true sex – was formulated. For Ibid, p. 126.

Rothstein, Marian (2015), The Androgyne in Early Modern France (New York: Palgrave Macmillan), p. 53 29 Ibid.

30 De Tesserant (1594), p. 289.

27 28

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centuries it was simply agreed that hermaphrodites had two.

31

Yet Rothstein disagrees, arguing that ‘a hermaphrodite was understood to be visibly flouting biological and hence social expectations - a kind of monster, existing in defiance of the order of God and Nature’.32 She further contends that this led to ‘functional gendering’, which she defines as ‘a mode of gendering that can be seen to allow all humans potential access to the functions or roles that in traditional societies were customarily attributed to a single sex’. 33 This functions as a way of coping with the questions that dual-gendered beings raised for society, particularly ‘disturb[ing] notions of what it meant to be male or female’. 34 In short, they believed it possible to reduce the concept of gender to intercourse as one sex only, with hermaphrodites being compelled to perform certain ‘functions or roles’ in order not to appear monstrous to many (in particular Stubbes and other early modern moralists who most objected to masculine women because they ‘transgressed gender codes’)35. Here, it was gender, a construct of their precious culture, rather than sex, a biological fact, that encouraged movement towards division.

It is evident that gender was integral to representations of monsters in Renaissance France. Simply for being of the ‘inferior’ sex, women were blamed for monstrous births due to a supposed lack of heat, inhospitable womb, and/or imperfect quantities of ‘seed’. As if physical reasons were not enough, it was believed that the imagination could also affect the unborn child. Although this applied to both men and women, the tales recounted emphasise the Foucault, Michel (1978), trans. by McDougall, Richard, Herculine Barbin: Being the Recently discovered Memoirs of a Nineteenth-Century French Hermaphrodite (New York: Pantheon Books), vii.

32 Rothstein (2015), p. 2.

33 Ibid, p. 27.

34 Gilbert (2002), p. 5.

35 Ibid, p. 77.

31

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negative effects of the woman’s prolonged contact with the foetus, ensuring that even though women may break from the status quo by having a greater influence over a situation than men, their influence is, more often than not, negative. As well, reflecting society’s views of females, female-to-male sex changes produced by a sudden heat were accepted, though only in the context of nature always trying to aim for perfection, with man being perfection. The notion of women choosing to live as men, however, was called monstrous, as it was not God’s work or will. On the other hand, choosing one’s own gender was actively encouraged in the case of hermaphrodites and androgynes, who could make their own monstrosity more palatable to society by assuming one gender only; gender was thought to be that easy to decide upon and perform. Whether producing monsters from fixed gender humans or forming a key characteristic of unfixed gender beings, gender was a fundamental component in representations of monsters in Renaissance France.

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Establishing the Characteristics of Sustainable Heritage Development

S

Krystal Osborn

ustainability in heritage management is gaining traction in discourse, such as the International Union for Conservation of Naturesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; priorities for action report. However, understanding and application of theoretical approaches can vary. The application of standardized policies to address this can be difficult as each site has its own unique issues and opportunities, however some basic tenants can be applied to establishing management tools that are both broad enough to be applied to a variety of sites but also specific enough to appropriately equip stakeholders with the tools they need to implement such systems.

In order to achieve sustainable tourism and heritage development calculating the Total Carrying Capacity (TCC) for sites is the first step in order to understand how current numbers of tourists are affecting the site and where there are problem areas.

Communication among stakeholders, particularly locals living within heritage sites, is the vehicle that will drive the changes that will take place based on the TCC calculations. This system can be applied to a wide range of scenarios, including to heritage in developing countries, as the case study for the Esna heritage site in Egypt demonstrates.1 Secondly, developing policies and legislature designed to respond to heritage management and take into account its changing nature and needs can be put into place to create long term strategies and incorporate sustainable heritage management into core operations of heritage sites. Training for professionals underpins this process TCC has been discussed at many state levels but has never been clearly defined or measured but is a system used to identify 1

Ghanem, M. M., Saad, S. K. (2015) â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Enhancing sustainable heritage tourism in Egypt: challenges and framework of actionâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;, Journal of heritage Tourism, 4(10), p. 361.

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the maximum visitor numbers a site can handle before degradation of a site occurs. 2 The best approach would use a mixed methodology system of both quantitative and qualitative analysis in order to gauge how tourists are affecting the site, affecting conservation and how the visitor experience in turn is affected by these factors.3 An appropriate method would also be repeatable in order to assess the site on a regular basis.

The main factors Cimnaghi and Mussini identify as being the key indicators for the TCC are Theoretical, Social, Psychological, Infrastructure and Management. Theoretical TCC is the maximum number of visitors that can occupy the site at the same time, assuming a certain and standard amount of space per person. This is then set against functional TCC aspects such as architectural barriers, accessibility inhibitors etc. Social TCC deals with local residentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; perceptions of tourism, including behaviour and seasonality of visits. Psychological TCC refers to how tourists perceive the sites they visit and how they judge services provided and the quality of hospitality. Infrastructure TCC looks at the site with a wider focus, evaluating the environment around the site and infrastructure like transportation and parking spaces.

Management TCC is a comprehensive approach examining all the previously identified weak points and is a platform for suggesting improvements to the management of tourism. 4 It is important to note that this method is also dependent on the amount of data available and includes office-based research and on-site survey collections, but this means that the professional will gain as much as what they put into this method.

The application of the mixed method TCC to the Galleria Nazionale delle Marche indicated that the number of tourists visiting the gallery was lower than its carrying capacity, 2

Cimnaghi, E., Mussini, P. (2015) â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;An application of tourism carrying capacity assessment at two Italian cultural heritage sitesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;, Journal of Heritage Tourism, 3(10), p. 303.

3 Ibid.

4 Ibid, p. 305.

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highlighting the possibility of increasing visitors while not affecting the integrity of the building or the collections.5 In addition, other factors were identified that, when corrected, would result in increased visitors and identified areas of improvement for the visitor experience. The same type of TCC calculation was used to evaluate the Museum of the Arts of the XXI Century in Rome, revealing that the space was very under-utilized. They identified strategies to improve this, such as partnering with hotels and other attractions to host temporary exhibits in its numerous halls and meeting rooms.6 Cimnaghi and Mussini conclude that even though the two sites that were used as case studies and were in different places, the analysis worked to highlight what the limitations and the potential of each were, and what factors needed to be addressed in order to reach that potential.7 The need to balance conservation of heritage as well as attract tourism in order to fund the maintenance of the site is especially critical in developing nations, where the need for the heritage site has to be economically viable but also provide a boost to the economic and social institutions. In order to manage sites, key stakeholders must agree to objectives regarding development, which balance both conservation and business needs, coupled with a long term logistical management plan. In order for heritage sites to ensure the needs of the site along with its economic outputs are addressed it is important to involve the local community.8 Ghanem and Saad identify the issue of antiquities theft as a problem to achieving sustainable heritage at the Esna site, and cultivating a good relationship with the local community as well as heritage stakeholders would alleviate this problem. 9 Communication is at the core of addressing this issue, and needs to be led by local professionals who can tailor outreach and Ibid, p. 306 Ibid, p. 312.

7 Ibid.

8 Ghanem, Saad (2015), p. 360.

9 Ibid, p. 365.

5 6

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educational programs to the needs of the community. Making cultural heritage part of their lives in a positive way, and demonstrating its importance would increase public support and reduce pillaging of sites. Collaboration between the relevant stakeholders makes the task of developing sustainable guidelines for a site possible.10 Further to this aim training for practitioners is the easiest medium for effective communication.

Community involvement is another key factor towards sustainable heritage. Local involvement in heritage sites would better serve the economic goals of the local community as they would be able to direct development to suit their needs.11 This is especially difficult in developing states where tourism does not always positively benefit local communities, professionals instead relying on residual tourism expenditure to support local groups.

There is a lack of understanding among locals about their heritage and how best to integrate it with their economy and social institutions, which is when large national and international organizations take control which removes more control and input from the local community. 12 All stakeholders need to be on the same page in order to achieve any lasting long term goals, and communication with local populations coupled with professional understanding of how to implement sustainable heritage systems.

Many of these factors ultimately boil down to communication and participation of all stakeholders, however there are challenges to this process. Facilitating effective communication with theses stakeholders, in particular the local community with heritage professionals, training and meetings need to take place. The funding for such schemes is one such challenge to this endeavour.13 Again this is critical when looking at sites in economically depressed or politically unstable as access to resources to put these

Ibid.

Ibid, p. 367.

12 Ibid.

13 Ibid, p. 373.

10 11

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programs in place would be more limited than in an area that does not suffer these issues.

In the case of male craftsmen in Estonia, for example, Parts et al noted that it was possible to create a sustainable way of craft knowledge transmission to future generations.14 The social aspects of these crafts are steeped in tradition and based on tacit knowledge which has in the past hampered the passing on of these trades, especially during the Soviet period. 15 Parts et al investigated this intangible heritage and discovered that in order to manage this intangible heritage of the country, establishing more formalized vocational training for these trades would be necessary, but due to the local nature of these crafts and the deep social meanings behind them, great care needs to be taken.16 Most crafts were based on what resources were readily available in that area, so locating these groups where the appropriate resource is located would maintain the authenticity of the trade and conserve the heritage of the craft.17 Those that wish to diversify or modify their practice still have room to let their trade evolve as desired within this system, preventing a stagnation of this aspect of Estonian culture. Local Estonians were recognized as being happy with their lifestyles, along with their income and property, despite most being below the average wage. 18 In terms of the larger understanding within the country this was not an aspect that had heritage recognition or within the general curriculum within the country, despite their attempts at establishing vocational institutions. Generational gaps meant that the older generation who make up the majority of traditional craft manufacturing 14

Parts, P., Rennu, M., Jaats, L., Matsin, A. (2011) â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Developing sustainable heritage-based livelihoods: an initial study of artisans and their crafts in Viljandi County, Estoniaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;, International Journal of Heritage Studies, 5(17), p.

405.

15 Ibid, p. 402.

16 Ibid, p. 417 17 Ibid, p. 405.

18 Ibid, p. 414.

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populations struggled with the institutionalization of their roles, as these did not take into account the social meanings behind the crafts and their practice.19 There is a clear communication gap here between the overall national narrative that is being created and the real world issues on the ground as government forces cultural traditions to fit a modern mould. In order to ensure that these crafts are continued into the future in an authentic manner, sustainable managing of these intangible heritage needs to occur that relies heavily on effective communication with local communities who are employed by it and flexibility with nationally imposed cultural structures.

Recent changes in the perception of how far sustainability goes in terms of heritage sites now include energy, water and waste management in this remit.20 As a result, any exploration of heritage management must include the environment in addition to sociocultural and economic factors. This highlights the importance of managing heritage sites adequately and brings in a host of stakeholders that can help this process. The examination of sites in Devon and Cornwall demonstrates how sustainability in heritage management is on the minds of managers and staff, but also highlighted that there is not enough training and resources for managers to go about this task. 21 In this instance, most of the respondents to the surveys also indicated that responding to the needs of visitors was one of their priorities, but community engagement at these sites were limited and we can infer that there is a disconnect between the needs of the community and the products of the professional.22 This would prevent cooperation on a sustainable front as the heritage organizations cannot claim to speak for all its stakeholders without engaging with the community Ibid.

Darlow, S., Essex, S., Brayshay, M. (2012) â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Sustainable heritage management practices as visited heritage sites in Devon and Cornwall, Journal of Heritage Tourism, 3(7), p. 220.

21 Ibid, p. 221.

22 Ibid.

19 20

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and professionals would be spending their time fighting community indifference or animosity rather than improving and evolving their offer.

By looking at a specific case study, we can see where the disconnect lies between real world issues and the implementation of, what is essentially, best practice guidelines. Esna is a small city on the west bank of the Nile, south of Luxor and home to the World Heritage site of Khnum Temple, which dates from the eighteenth dynasty and is the only remaining one of four.23 Most of the ruins lie underneath modern structures, putting its condition of preservation at risk. 24 Esna was a big tourist attraction for its Ottoman-era souq and its British occupation period bridge which stalled the many cruise boats that travelled the Nile and drew tourists from the boats and into the markets and sites while the boats waited to pass. In 2008, however, a second bridge was built to alleviate the congestion, which resulted in a loss of tourists and an economic depression in the local community. 25 A qualitative research approach by the Suez Canal University in Egypt was taken to examine the heritage tourism development in Esna. The first step involved exploratory interviews taken with three stakeholders, including one local resident and two employees within the Egyptian Tourism Development Authority in order to investigate the experience of tourism. The investigators conducted seventeen semi-structured interviews with locals, government officials, travel company managers, and academics. They also analysed online forums such as Trip Advisors and other platforms to examine wider opinions and perceptions of visiting Esna, both from locals and outsiders. Additionally, they also included document analyses of governmental and UNESCO reports on sustainable heritage management in the area.

The study identified two challenges related to sustainable heritage development for Esna. Within the community, Esna faces Ghanem, Saad, (2015) p. 362.

Ibid, p. 363.

25 Ibid.

23 24

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pollution problems resulting from the urbanization of the area which damage the monuments. 26 There is also an increase in antiquities theft, especially since the 2011 revolution, and this coupled with loss of jobs within the tourism industry has turned many people towards illegal trade. 27 There is also no protection from a legal standing on the national level, with many loopholes identified which is believed to encourage this trade.28 Ghanem and Saad also identify the lack of proper management on the part of authorities and their inability to communicate with other professionals and the local community as a major roadblock for the research team.29 Locals and professionals noted that top positions within the ministry of Tourism and Antiquities is a large factor, and have prevented local action groups from implementing projects to aid their heritage and their social structure. In addition to these issues, there was a knowledge and skill gap in the management of the area, with decisions made about land development in conflict with heritage management. As a result of this, no sustainable planning is in place for the site, and though UNESCO has noted several times the issues with this site and indicated the detriment of having no Management Plan in place, nothing has been done.

Funding has also been noted as a problem, but considering the current political climate in the region and the loss of income due to the resulting loss of tourism this cannot be directly attributed to unsustainable management.30 In terms of public awareness, education and training programs aimed at locals could address the issues of antiquities theft, showing the value of conservation and sustainable management of the site to locals rather than temporary short term gains involved with selling these objects. Coupled with legislation and policies on all government and tourism levels established to integrate tourism, Ibid, p. 363.

Ibid.

28 Ibid, p. 364.

29 Ibid.

30 Ibid, p. 366.

26 27

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heritage management and local communities that operate on a continuous evaluation basis could assess the changing needs of a living site and support the local community in protecting their resources. Top level managers and their influence on training, community involvement and policy making is important to this process. Moreover, any solution for Esna should include adequate training and resources being allocated so that top managers are equipped with understanding and resources to direct the necessary changes. 31 This case study shows that there is not necessarily a homogenous approach for sustainable heritage management. The methodology used to evaluate these problems, however, can be applied to a wide range of scenarios. Public initiatives such as consultation with local community members, government officials, and heritage professionals is a tool to identify the issues and engage the community on finding solutions that can benefit stakeholders and reveal how interconnected these systems are.

After examining these cases, in particular the site of Esna in Egypt, we can see recurring themes. Despite these sites being in different parts of the world, with different historical narratives and different issues, the themes of community engagement, adequate management practices and education for all stakeholders were recurring. Involving local community members with the decision making process and educating the top level managers as to how to conduct sustainable management were identified as key factors in Esna as well as Devon and Cornwall. In Estonia, communication between local craftsmen and national policy makers needs to take place in order to make sure the intangible aspects of these crafts are effectively conserved alongside the physical practice.

Underpinning these factors is the necessity to have quantifiable data to support decisions about how management is carried out.

Calculating the Total Carrying Capacity of a heritage organization or site will provide the hard numbers that can help direct the 31

Ibid, p. 373.

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professional and local towards where problems lie and where progress is being made. This process is not static; it should be an ongoing function of heritage management. The needs of the site and how it fits within the larger environment is constantly susceptible to change, and as the site of Esna demonstrates, there are forces outside of heritage that can affect its longevity.

Establishing processes to managing this finite resource now will ensure that cultural heritage is protected for future generations.

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The Failed Rebellion of James, Duke of Monmouth, 1685

A

Atlanta Neudorf

fter the death of English king Charles II in early February 1685, the Duke of Monmouth, his illegitimate son, was faced with few possibilities for the future. Disliked by his uncle (the new Stuart king James II) for his involvement in the Whig exclusion attempts and in the conspiracies of the Rye House plot in 1683. Monmouth, who was in exile in Holland, was abruptly cut off from the English court, and the monetary support he had been receiving from Charles. Over the course of spring 1685, he was coerced into taking on the leadership of a ‘rising’ in England, intended to coincide with a Scottish landing by Lord Argyll in May. The rebels’ plan upon landing was to gain the support of sympathetic Whig gentry in order to build up a force to move towards London, while Whigs in Cheshire and London simultaneously rebelled against James II. This ‘large gamble’, as it has been aptly termed, ended in total failure less than a month later. 1 Monmouth’s defeat can be explained through multiple interconnected causes linked to the political context within England in the early months of James’s reign as well as Monmouth’s failure to gain the expected support and his overly cautious tendencies throughout the rebellion. Through the examination of the Duke’s initial preparations on the Continent, the level of English support he received, his failure to act boldly against royalist forces, and James II’s superior military abilities, it will be shown that Monmouth faced a great number of barriers to a successful rebellion which ultimately caused him to fail.

‘Whatever way I turn my thoughts, I find insuperable difficulties’, 2 wrote Monmouth to an unknown supporter in the southwest before landing in Lyme in June. Monmouth’s fears even before the rebellion had begun are indicative of the wide variety of Robin Clifton, ‘James II’s Two Rebellions’, History Today 38/7 (1988), p. 23.

Richard L. Greaves, Secrets of the Kingdom: British Radicals from the Popish Plot to the Revolution of 1688-1689 (Stanford, 1992), p. 286.

1 2

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obstacles barring the way to the rebellion’s success.

Contemporaries from both sides of the Whig-Tory political divide focused on very different reasons for Monmouth’s failure in their accounts. The contemporary Whig-sympathizer and clergyman Gilbert Burnet was against the uprising from the start, believing that no fears of ‘illegal acts in the administration’ of James II ‘could justify an insurrection’, and that such a rising at this time would be ‘so weakly supported…it would precipitate our ruin’.3 These views widely reflect those of other moderate Whigs in 1685, as James II had promised in his first public address to protect the liberties of the nation. Prior to his accession, the nation had been plunged into the ‘exclusion crisis’ debates from 1679-1681 concerning his suitability as king. Many were opposed to his accession to the throne after Charles II as he was known to be a practicing Roman Catholic.

Catholicism in this period conjured up images of arbitrary and even tyrannical rule as well as religious oppression, as exemplified by the attacks on Protestants carried out by Louis XIV’s government in France at the same time. James’s promise to protect the liberties and religion of his people in the first months of his reign explains to some extent the lack of both gentry and general support for Monmouth’s rebellion. John Reresby, the moderate Tory governor of York, recorded of the rebellion that Monmouth actually ‘showed the conduct of a great captain, insomuch as the King said himself he had not made one false step’. 4 However, as W.M. Emerson points out, Monmouth’s attempts to take over militia-held towns like Bristol and Bath resulted in a ‘blundering campaign’ around Somerset. 5 Emerson claims that the rebels’ failure can be explained by the fact that a lack of gentry and general support meant their plans could not be carried out and that Gilbert Burnet, History of His Own Time, vol. III, ed. M.J. Routh (Oxford, 1833), p. 15.

4 John Reresby, Memoirs of Sir John Reresby, ed. Andrew Browning (Glasgow, 1936), p. 384.

5 William Richard Emerson, Monmouth’s Rebellion (New Haven, 1951), p. vii.

3

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Monmouth’s ‘inability to understand the tactical demands of the situation’ meant he failed to take control of key cities like Bristol and Bath.6 It is not enough to merely examine the rebel’s lack of support however. The royal and legislative response to the rebellion was a central reason for its collapse. The ‘strategic grasp’ of James during the rebellion contributed to its suppression as he was able to deploy his army effectively due to his personal revenue and independence of action.7 In addition, he was able to use a very loyal session of parliament right before the landing of the rebels in June to dissuade the rebels through legislative routes. This contributed to Monmouth’s lack of legitimacy as a true alternative to James II in the eyes of the English.8 Thus it is clear that a number of variables played into the ultimate failure of Monmouth’s rebellion.

Even the initial preparations for the invasion, though arguably well-planned by the exiled Whig Lord Grey and Monmouth to involve their expected sympathizers in England, were subject to a number of setbacks. Firstly, due to the ‘Tory reaction’ following the Rye House plot in 1683, which had dealt with rumours of an assassination attempt on both Charles II and James, many extreme Whigs had been executed or were persuaded, as Burnet notes, to ‘speak and meddle as little as might be in public business’.9 The few Whigs who did stay involved in plotting against James II were not generally of high political or social reputation. In addition, as David Ogg notes, the exiled plotters were divided: some wanted Monmouth on the throne but others such as republicans

Ibid, p. 21.

Robin Clifton, The Last Popular Rebellion: The Western Rising of 1685 (London, 1984), p. 184.

8 Clifton, ‘James II’s Two Rebellions’, p. 24.

9 Gilbert Burnet, History of My Own Time, vol. II, ed. Osmund Airy (Oxford, 1897), p. 351.

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Andrew Fletcher and Wildman ‘regarded the duke only as a means to an end’.10 Though Monmouth only decided to rebel in March 1685, it is clear that his plans in and of themselves were well laid. It is the lack of support, as will be shown, that caused the failure of the rising. Monmouth, in the weeks leading up to his departure from the Continent, informed the Cheshire Whigs Lord Delamere and Lord Macclesfield that he would be landing in the southwest as the gentry there would ‘readily pay obedience’ to him. 11 Monmouth also attempted to gain funds by requesting his representative in England Captain Matthews to ask for £6,000 from Wildman and Hampden in order to support his cause. 12 When they refused, Monmouth was forced to delay in order to secure the necessary funds from elsewhere.

Another effect of this lack of funds and a support base that was willing to join the invasion from the Continent was the total reliance of Monmouth and the conspirators on the remaining underground Whigs in England and remaining fears of ‘popery’ within the population. Matthews wrote in a letter to Monmouth before the invasion that Wildman had assured him that ‘there never was such a ferment in England as at that time’ due to the May parliamentary elections that had clearly been rigged to provide James with a loyal House of Commons, and that ‘there was a general inclination in the kingdom to rise, but that some of the gentry…were not to be relied on’. 13 He also noted that Wildman promised him a ‘considerable number of horse’ in the surrounding counties were ‘prepared’ for the landing.14 However, it is clear that due to the rushed nature of the plans, ‘there was no time to verify David Ogg, England in the Reign of James II and William III (Oxford, 1955), p. 146.

11 Forde Grey, Earl Tankerville The Secret History of the Rye-House Plot; and of Monmouth’s Rebellion, 2nd edition (London, 1754), p. 110.

12 Ibid, 114.

13 Grey, Secret History, p. 123.

14 Ibid.

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and cement the arrangements of his supporters in England’, which was one of the central reasons for the rebels’ failure.15 When the rebels finally departed on 30 May, they brought over 1460 suits of arms, 100 muskets, 500 each of pikes and swords, and 250 barrels of powder, a ‘ridiculous arsenal’ with which to attempt a rebellion, but the best that could be afforded. 16 It is clear therefore, that though the plans may have been well-laid, the resources of Monmouth and his men ‘both political and material, were too small to hold out any assurances of success’, and their unavoidable reliance on English Whig support was a monumental risk.17 The ‘Protestant hero’ Monmouth naively relied on his previous popularity from the days of the exclusion crisis, in which he had ‘embodied the hopes for an escape from the twinned threats of popery and unbridled royal power’ portrayed by James. 18 Monmouth’s declaration of rebellion, read out in Lyme Regis upon landing, expressed the old fears of the exclusion crisis, with J.P. Kenyon calling it ‘the last public statement of Shaftesbury’s Whigs’. 19 The declaration set out the reasons for the uprising, claiming that James II’s life had been a ‘continued conspiracy against the reformed religion, and rights of the nation’. 20 Monmouth stressed his dedication to ‘vindicating our religion, laws, and rights’ through annual parliaments as he had a ‘legitimate and legal right’ to the throne due to a secret marriage between his mother and Charles II in 1649. 21 However, it is evident that England’s situation had drastically changed since the days of Emerson, Monmouth’s Rebellion, p. 18.

Grey, The Secret History, p. 127. See also Emerson, Monmouth’s Rebellion, p.

48.

17 Emerson, Monmouth’s Rebellion, p. 4.

18 Wolfram Schmidgen, ‘The Last Royal Bastard and the Multitude’, Journal of British Studies 47/1 (2008), p. 53.

19 J.P. Kenyon, quoted in Melinda S. Zook, ‘Turncoats and Double Agents in Restoration and Revolutionary England: The Case of Robert Ferguson, the Plotter’, Eighteenth-Century Studies 42/3 (2009), p. 371.

20 The Declaration of James, Duke of Monmouth (1685).

21 Ibid.

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exclusion and the ensuing ‘Tory reaction’ against the Whigs, and this attempt to revive ‘anti-Catholic hysteria’ clearly failed to have a great effect.22 Once Monmouth had landed at Lyme, he initially gained a great number of volunteers but his expectation of Whig gentry support failed to materialize in any sense, leaving the rebels lacking in arms and any major political backing. The most important task upon landing at Lyme was to gain men, arms, and horses straight away in order to be able to progress towards London. After four days, approximately 3,000 volunteers had come forward to offer their support for his declaration.23 However, few had any arms or formal military training, and it is ‘hard to judge how much enthusiasm was generated by the manifesto’ itself with its calls against tyranny and popery.24 Additionally, immediately after their arrival in Lyme, messages were sent out to Delamere, Macclesfield, and the London Whigs to begin simultaneous uprisings in Cheshire and London. On 15 June, the rebels managed to take Axminster from the control of the Somerset militia, and it was noted by their commander that ‘half, if not the greatest part, are gone to the rebels’.25 The rebels arrived in Taunton 18 June, where they were to stay for three days.

Whilst at Taunton and in the week following, it became increasingly obvious that neither the expected support of the Whig gentry nor the risings in Cheshire or London were going to take shape. Those who had pledged their support in the plot to rebel failed to act when the time came, and nowhere in England ‘was there a spark of revolt’ except in Somerset where the Duke of Monmouth remained.26 The support of the gentry was, however, Clifton, ‘James II’s Two Rebellions’, p. 28.

Emerson, Monmouth’s Rebellion, p. 53.

24 Lois G. Schwoerer, No Standing Armies! The Antiarmy Ideology in Seventeenth-Century England (Baltimore, 1974), p. 138.

25 Clifton, The Last Popular Rebellion, p. 165.

26 J.N.P. Watson, Captain-General and Rebel Chief: The Life of James, Duke of Monmouth (London, 1979), p. 235.

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crucial to the campaign, both symbolically and physically.

Everything had been staked upon it. Without gentry support, the rebels had few supplies, crucial horses, or arms, despite having the men to fight with. Thus, Monmouth’s ‘greatest disappointment’ was that ‘the upper classes cold-shouldered him and virtually no gentry at all rallied to his cause’.27 In a daring attempt to gain legitimacy in the eyes of the gentry, Monmouth had himself proclaimed king at Taunton on 20 June with a new declaration in which he took ‘upon us our sovereign and royal authority as king’. 28 However, this was clearly too radical for the gentry as it went far beyond his original claims of the legitimacy of active resistance to the king, and failed to win them over. Even declaring that active resistance was justified against the sovereign was fairly radical, and Monmouth’s claim of kingship went far past the line that most gentry were willing to cross when it came to debates of obedience to the true king, James. It was increasingly obvious that Monmouth and his rebel volunteers were on their own, and the ‘sad disillusion’ of wide-spread support for the rebellion was revealed.29 In addition, as Monmouth took the time in Taunton to declare himself king, the royal forces sent by James were converging on the southwest.

It is important to consider the political context of this period as well as James II’s response to the rebellion in order to understand why Monmouth failed to secure enough support or defeat James’s forces. In the first session of parliament at the end of May, the king declared to the House of Commons that ‘he would never depart from any branch of his prerogative’, and would ‘defend and maintain the church’.30 Thus several weeks before the rebels landed, James had already, at least on the surface, dispelled Emerson, Monmouth’s Rebellion, p. 53. See also Clifton, ‘James II’s Two Rebellions’, p. 27.

28 Historical Manuscripts Commission, Bath MSS, II, Duke of Monmouth’s Declaration on Taking the Title of King (Taunton, 1685) 29 Peter Earle, Monmouth’s Rebels: The Road to Sedgemoor, 1685 (London, 1977), p. 26.

30 Burnet, History of His Own Time (vol. III), p. 6.

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the fears of arbitrary rule and popery, which Monmouth was so heavily reliant upon in his declaration. This loyal session of parliament pledged it did ‘rest wholly satisfied in the King’s declaration’, and upon the landing of the rebels, promised to ‘stand by him with their lives and fortunes against that ungrateful rebel [Monmouth]’.31 Parliament also declared Monmouth a traitor and granted the king revenues for life plus £400,000 with which to defeat the rebels. It is clear that James had given the nation a general sense of security and at least dispelled the fears of arbitrary rule, giving the people little impetus to rise up against him in support of the illegitimate, bold Monmouth.

James II also had the entire militia of the nation and the royal army ready at his disposal. The militias of the southwest were summoned to assemble two days after the landing, and it has been estimated that they were capable of raising a total of 20,000 armed men and 2,000 horses. 32 While Paul Seaward’s claim that the militias were ‘firmly under the control of the local gentry’ that remained loyal to James is true, his assertion that they were ‘almost useless’ in the efforts to defeat Monmouth is unfounded. 33 While waiting for the royal forces sent down by James II around a week later under Lord Feversham, the militia were able to successfully and independently secure towns against rebellion – such as Albemarle’s Devonshire militia in Exeter. The militia was also able to detain Lord Delamere to stop the rising in Cheshire, and the arrests are partially responsible for the lack of supporters who joined Monmouth, effectively causing rebel support to be ‘hamstrung’.34 The loyal Duke of Beaufort was able to raise 4,000 militia in Bristol, a suspected target of Monmouth’s due to its previous position as a centre of Whigs support, as well as build up Reresby, Memoirs, p. 396, p. 374.

Christopher L. Scott, The Maligned Militia: The West Country Militia of the Monmouth Rebellion, 1685 (Farnham, 2015), p. 268.

33 Paul Seaward, The Restoration, 1660-1688 (Basingstoke, 1991), p. 31.

34 J. R. Western, The English Militia in the Eighteenth Century: The Story of a Political Issue, 1660-1802 (London, 1965), p. 56.

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defenses, place guns, and arrest rebel suspects before the army could arrive.35 Thus, the king’s ability to raise a substantial, loyal force quickly was an important cause of Monmouth’s failure.

In addition, he was able to send down a substantial force of the army to the southwest, writing to the Prince of Orange in the Netherlands on 19 June that he would send Feversham with ‘three battalions of the foot guards, one hundred and fifty of the horse guards, sixty grenadiers on horseback, two troops of horse, and two of dragoons, to march towards the rebels’.36 James also created a great number of new regiments in June 1685, including forces under the Duke of Norfolk, the Earl of Bath, the Earl of Peterborough and Lord Dartmouth, raising the army from 8,865 in February 1685 to a possible 15,710 with the new regiments by 5 July. 37 Maurice Ashley’s claim that James took all the right precautions by sending reinforcements to the western militia is therefore well-founded. 38 The Tory gentry and military leaders also remained loyal to James, with few deserting as Monmouth had expected. Upon receiving a personal call from Monmouth to fight for him as the legitimate king, the Duke of Albemarle replied: ‘I never was, nor ever will be, a rebel to my lawful King, who is James the Second’.39 Thus, James II had an immediate, loyal response to the rebels that was monetarily and legally backed by the parliament, while Monmouth was forced to spend time training and building up a force.

The final two weeks of the rebellion were marked by Monmouth’s caution and the success of the royal forces and militia Holly McClain, ‘The Duke of Beaufort’s Defense of Bristol During Monmouth’s Rebellion, 1685’, The Yale University Gazette 77/3 (2003), pp.

177 36 John Dalrymple, Memoirs of Great Britain and Ireland, vol. II, Appendix Part I (London 1771-3), p. 130.

37 John Charles Roger Childs, The Army, James II, and the Glorious Revolution (Manchester, 1980), p. 1.

38 Maurice Ashley, James II (London, 1977), p. 174.

39 Watson, Captain-General, p. 223.

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in blocking off his route to the east towards London. After leaving Taunton, the rebels reached Keynsham near Bristol on 24 June, with the intention of taking the city for its supplies and rebel supporters. However, the delays at Lyme and Taunton to build up support had allowed the royal army under Feversham to reach Bristol the previous day and the duke of Beaufort to build up the city’s defenses. After a small clash with the Gloucestershire militia, Monmouth was told that the royal forces were converging around Bristol and decided to flee. This marked a turning point in the course of the uprising, as Monmouth’s decision meant he had ‘abandoned the last strategy that offered even a hope of success’.40 The loss of Bristol to the rebels forced them to continue their march, first towards Bath. They found the city guarded by 500 militiamen who refused to let them through, and were thus again routed by the king’s forces. Forced onwards by the threat of the Dorset militia and Lord Churchill’s royal forces at their rear, the rebels camped in Frome on 28 June, where they received the crushing news of the rebel Argyll’s defeat in Scotland. Blocked to the east by Pembroke’s militia, the rebels were forced back towards the west, eventually reaching Bridgewater on 3 July.

The sheer numbers and strength of James’s militia and army under the leadership of loyal officers like Churchill and Feversham contributed to the downfall of the rebellion. Monmouth was trapped between the militias of Wiltshire and Gloucestershire as well as being flanked by Churchill’s and Feversham’s forces, and it is evident that every attempt ‘to break out of the net was foiled in turn’. 41 The rebels were fenced in. In addition, the militia bands were able to take back rebel support bases, with the Devon militia retaking Taunton on 23 June and Lyme on 26 June. The Earl of Pembroke took back Frome several days after the rebels left, with a drummer in the militia noting that the earl ‘found Monmouth’s declaration set up, which he took down… and made the constable 40 41

McClain, ‘The Duke of Beaufort’s Defense’, p. 189.

Earle, Monmouth’s Rebels, p. 62.

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of Frome… declare Monmouth traitor’.42 In addition, the militia and royal forces remained, for the most part, loyal to James though Monmouth had relied on their desertion. The royal soldier John Martin wrote in a letter on 27 June that he did not find ‘any here about to flock into the Duke as it was thought they would’.43 It was clear that the rebels had lost their initial popularity, and that the rapid reaction of James II’s forces to the rebellion had trapped them in the southwest.

Once they were encamped at Bridgewater, it was clear that the rebels’ options were limited: ‘they must stand and fight or disperse and fly’. 44 On 5 July, Monmouth was informed that the royal forces of Feversham and Churchill as well as a number of militia bands were camped at the nearby village of Weston Zoyland on Sedgemoor. Realizing that he had no options left, he decided to launch a surprise attack early in the hours of 6 July against the royal forces. However, by the time of this battle, the rebels were visibly reduced in size ‘for there had been many desertions’ and some had been cut off by royalist and militia forces.45 Monmouth decided to take bold military action for the first time since landing, but it was too late: the royalist forces had reached the southwest. The rebels did manage to surprise the royalists, and an observer noted that ‘the fight was very sharp for about an hour’ until Churchill brought out his artillery and the rebels ran out of munitions by shooting into the royal camp.46 In addition, it was noted by observers that Grey’s troop of horse ‘gave way before all that charged them’, indicating the ‘inexperience, indiscipline, and inadequacy’ of the

T.H. McGuffie, ‘The Last Battle on English Soil: Sedgemoor, 1685’, History Today 5/1 (1955), p. 56.

43 G. Davies and John Martin, ‘The Militia in 1685’, The English Historical Review 43/172 (1928), p. 605.

44 Earle, Monmouth’s Rebels, p. 2.

45 McGuffie, ‘The Last Battle’, p. 57.

46 G. Davies, ‘Three Letters on Monmouth’s Rebellion, 1685’, The English Historical Review 35/137 (1920), p. 115.

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rebel forces, who lacked trained men.47 The battle of Sedgemoor the morning of 6 July therefore brought an end to the rebellion, and Monmouth was captured several days later and beheaded at the orders of his uncle the king.

It is clear therefore that the failure of Monmouth’s rebellion can be explained by a variety of causes. Firstly, he crucially misjudged the levels of support available to him in England and had to waste valuable time finding funds and supporters. In addition, James II’s rapid response and ability to act legally through parliament convinced the majority of the nation to lay low during the rebellion. As Burnet recorded at the time, his greatest mistake was that ‘he did not in the first heat venture on some hardy action’ in order to ‘gain some reputation by it’, and thus have an initial victory over the royalists.48 Therefore, Monmouth’s indecisiveness, delays, and choice to abandon attacking Bristol meant he was routed by royal forces at every turn, resulting in his final defeat at Sedgemoor.

David Jones, The Life of James II, late King of England, 3rd edition (London, 1705), p. 111. See also Seaward, The Restoration, p. 126.

48 Burnet, History of My Own Time, vol. III, p. 48.

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Here and Now: Fluid Identity in Vona Groarke’s Poetry

I

Emily Van Houten

n this essay, I make the case that Vona Groarke is a placed poet.

Moreover, to borrow a phrase from Catriona Clutterbuck, in her ‘self-presence’ there is a distinction between the literal placed female body and the sense of self-realization a woman with agency experiences. 1 To say Groarke is a poet of the in-between is not comprehensive enough. Yet, the ‘poet of place’ designation seems to be strongly associated with agriculture, especially for an Irish poet, considering the strong pastoral themes usually paired with the nationality. Groarke’s comparison to Heaney, Longley and Muldoon is often mentioned in the same breath as the one introducing her, which is further reason to identify how different her ‘place’ is from theirs—both the literal place of Manchester, where she lives now, and the literary safety she’s found in metaphors of the house and the garden.

In Groarke’s case, the modern woman has moved, has changed. Literally Groarke has moved from the U.K., the U.S. and Norway, and back to the U.K. in Manchester. Literarily, the shifts in her poetic identity are equally as influential and evident in poems like ‘Interval’, where Groarke is ‘beholden to what / has already occurred / or what might be going to’ (3-5) as she moves through life. The journey, physical and psychological, is subject in two senses: a woman’s life is a subject to outside influence, a ‘noun between two verbs’ (6) waiting ‘for the next thing to happen / and be happening again’ (9-10). At the same time, she is the subject who is an agent. She is able to act out her own desires, even if she cannot ‘recall or predict / what plays out over time’(14-15).2 This is the self-presence Groarke inserts throughout her work.

Catriona Clutterbuck, ‘New Irish Women Poets: The Evolution of (In)determinacy in Vona Groarke’, in The Oxford Handbook of Modern Irish Poetry, eds. Fran Brearton and Alan Gillis, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012) p. 657.

2 Vona Groarke, ‘Interval’, from X (Oldcastle: Gallery Press, 2014), p. 88.

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While much of the terminology I will use in this essay is borrowed from Clutterbuck’s essay, the date of publication means that she does not consider Groarke’s newest collection, X (2014). I will discuss newer poems to show there is not a simple binary between exile and sanctuary, just as ‘incompletion is also completion’. 3 In that context, Groarke’s work has less to do with a fixed place and more with how place can change and aid in one’s self-presence.

John Redmond in his essay in Poetry and Privacy notes that Groarke is attempting ‘a long-term project of self-construction which is taking place in a kind of metaphysical void’.4 With this in mind I assert that Groake’s work was and is a process of selfrepresentation as an Irish woman whose place matters in the here and now.

Groarke is a product of a generation that was raised in the Irish Troubles, though they would have started writing in the Celtic Tiger era, in which, as Lucy Collins notes, ‘unquestioned personal independence was. . . the norm’. 5 Because of this, in Groarke’s poetry, there is, in the words of Bonnie Costello, a ‘safer house’ than most Irish poets preceding. The influence of ‘many a formalist’ is unmistakable as Groake’s lines are often carefully metered, recalling Yeats, Fergus Allen, Derek Mahon, and Seamus Heaney. In the same way that Paul Muldoon’s restructuring of Irish rhymes Clutterbuck, ‘New Irish Women Poets: The Evolution of (In)determinacy in Vona Groarke’, p. 667.

4 John Redmond, ‘Brushing Against Public Narratives: the Poetry of Vona Groarke’, from Poetry and Privacy: Questioning Public Interpretations of Contemporary British and Irish Poetry (Bridgend: Seren Books, 2013) p. 182.

5 Lucy Collins, ‘Architectural Metaphors: Representations of the House in the Poetry of Eilean Ni Chuilleanain and Vona Groarke’, in Irish Literature since 1990: Diverse Voices, ed. Scott Brewster and Michael Parker (Manchester, Manchester University Press, 2009), pp. 143-144, quoted in Clutterbuck, ‘New Irish Women Poets: The Evolution of (In)determinacy in Vona Groarke’, from The Oxford Handbook of Modern Irish poetry, ed. Fran Brearton and Alan Gillis, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012).

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about weather developed in the 1970s, Groarke’s new rhymes (and off-rhymes) unearth newer concerns, feminine concerns generally unrepresented before. 6 Costello goes on to explain the ways in which Groarke’s metaphors differentiate her from the Irish tradition she must follow: ‘Where Heaney opened ground on the analogy [of open ground itself] with agriculture, this poet breaks ground with architecture’.7 Groarke’s generation is one—though certainly not the first—to suggest that loss is a part of the cultural identity. Selena Guinness notes the tenuous relationship Groarke has with the Irish inheritance she has received: ‘Groarke has always paid attention to how interiors shape the lives of their inhabitants and has a skeptical engagement with tradition, reflected in the formal intricacies of her lyrics’.8 With this is mind, it is imperative to note that Groake writes away— away from birthplace, place of education, and in the lack of gendered pronouns, away from feminist stereotypes. But being away is still being somewhere.

Even in movement, one is placed, and Groarke is no exception to this. Her physical presence is not set in opposition to emotional connection, especially in themes of regionalism that still appear in her work, recalling the influence of poets like Heaney and Bunting.9 In her succinct introductory poem ‘A Pocket Mirror’, she explores both the uniqueness and unchanging nature of a person or thing in its entirety: The day the first snowdrop in my winter garden insists in its own insistent way that the promise I buried last September would finally come to light, I wake Costello review of Other People’s Houses, p. 52.

Ibid, p. 53.

8 Selena Guinness, ‘Vona Groarke’ in The New Irish Poets, (Tarset: Bloodaxe, 2004) p. 129.

9 Eric Falci, ‘Place, Space and Landscape’, in A Concise Companion to Postwar British and Irish Poetry, eds. Nigel Alderman and C.D. Blanton (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2009) p. 204.

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to the hoops the woodpigeon puts himself through.

Either that or to bells, bells on a loop, going over and over the selfsame crucial news as yesterday.

What is it I keep this tentative record of? For what reason do I step along high words with immeasurable care or list the fanciful logic of one moment, then another?

Is it to do with allegiance, perhaps, with how a snowdrop keeps faith with the world, or a pocket mirror, matt on one side, is true to life on the other?10 The two stanzas are the same form, but the syntax and vocabulary is different in each. There are repetitions of certain words: ‘insists’ and ‘insistent’, ‘bells’, and the phrase ‘over and over’ communicate the ‘selfsame’ that will be mirrored in the second stanza. The first snowdrop mentioned blooms, and a second—either the same as the first or another one altogether—opens its petals. Whether or not the snowdrop is the same as the first is a critical point; the flower could simply be a mirror image of the first, for it’s this ‘true to life’ quality she’s questioning. Repetition like this introduces Groarke’s existential concerns about the consistency or fluidity of her own self—whether she is the ‘selfsame’ that stays the ‘same as yesterday’.

While this poem has clear imagery in the first stanza, the second pulls in abstraction, giving insight into the formation of identity. Earlier poems were criticized, namely by Mac Oliver, as giving details that were ‘arbitrary’. He goes on to say, ‘“Like” is followed by “or”, as though each object might have been something else just as well’.11 But this in fact makes the poem stronger; while Groarke recognizes place as particular, the lack of specifics in these lines adds to the shifting perspective different selves will take on as time passes. If in ‘Domestic Arrangements’ Groarke’s found ‘A Groarke, ‘The Pocket Mirror’, in X (Oldcastle: Gallery Press, 2014), p. 1.

Mac Oliver, ‘Split Seconds: Vona Groarke, Conor O'Callaghan and Justin Quinn’, in Thumbscrew, 15, Winter/Spring, (2000).

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conversation piece’ (1) in ‘a bas relief or urn’ (3) in 1999 it could be irrelevant now, but inversely could still prompt the same questions. This is the paradox of stability and fluidity with which Groarke often experiments; now she has aged and moved, but even this new, mature collection begins with a question.

This is a principle that stands throughout Groarke’s poetry, for both the poet and the place where she is in the moment. From ‘The Garden Sequence’ in X, Groarke’s ‘The Garden in Winter’ offers themes of ephemerality that extend through other poems. The rowan tree, representing the first woman in Norse mythology, symbolizes the female ageing in this poem and gives Groarke the vocabulary needed to talk about growing and moving. She watches ‘dark hours rummage through the rooms’ as she learns. Time runs by, and the poet becomes aware again of her temporary state. Her heart ‘(that dogged, little thing)’ is learning, self-conscious, almost mourning as it (she) confronts her ephemerality. The poem ends with lines of summary: No telling when one thought becomes another; when the very idea of the garden in winter slips into the notion that life, on its own, is not nearly enough.12 (20-26) These are not simply variations on well-worn lines about seasonal change. Rather, she hints at the Platonic difference between the idea and the thing embodied. In comparing ‘one thought’ to ‘another’ and using abstract language (‘heart’, ‘idea’, ‘notion’, ‘life’), Groarke shares her concern with both the consistency and Groarke, ‘The Garden in Winter’, in X (Oldcastle: Gallery Press, 2014), pp.

66-67.

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unpredictability of life itself. The ‘Soon’ that is isolated at the end of a line midway through the poem adds to the tension of the ‘Already’ that begins the next sentence. This sense of being here and now, yet aware of the ‘not yet’ future and the past interests Groarke, especially if ‘life, on its own / is not nearly enough’ (2526). While the deep sense of incompletion is present, so is a compelling self with a strong voice; Groarke’s particular refusal to accept an idea of completion or satisfaction shows her flexibility in finding an identity that is not fixed to one domestic space, inside or out.

‘Mine for now’ (1), Groarke begins another poem from the Garden Sequence. 13 The ephemeral nature of the opening lines implies the understanding Groarke has with her status as a temporary resident, both of the world and of the city that she may leave soon enough. Introduced here is a sort of anthropic principle of poetry: observations in poems imply that there is an agent observing it. Whether or not the agent affects the subject of the poem is not clear in Groarke’s work, as she alternates between selfconsciousness as subject and surroundings as the subject.

In ‘The Garden as Event’, she allows for the natural cycles to continue around her, timed on their own rhythms. Time is immediately grasped at, with ‘the afternoon staked to two kinds of hour’ (2) as ‘someone is keeping time, bald time, / with a persistent heart’ (7-8). The three strong beats of ‘time, bald time’ push the reader to land that much harder on ‘heart’ at the end of the next line—another abstract word Groarke uses to emphasize the sensitive ephemerality of her life. For if time-keeping is kept by the measuring of a beating heart, it will be disrupted as the personified ‘front door holds its breath’ and the heart speeds up. The slant rhyme of ‘itself’ and ‘breath’ in that sixth stanza (both ending a sentence) causes readers to think about the speaker of the poem.

She is not the self in that sentence, but writes of a bowl of fruit that Groarke, ‘The Garden, Over Time’, in X (Oldcastle: Gallery Press, 2014), pp.

69 - 72.

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‘glosses / a composed version of itself’ (22-23). Much of Groarke’s strength in exile comes about because of the vulnerability in the moments captured in poems like this one. Some of her architectural metaphors invoke fortitude, but Groarke’s vulnerability through her self-conscious eases the reader into her self-aware position. As the bowl of fruit is aware of itself and the knives ‘whittle in the drawer’, Groarke reflects: ‘All this happens, is happening / without me’ (25-26). 14 As a passive subject, the poet is limited, both temporarily looking into the house from garden but still cognizant of her presence placed in the garden, however unnecessary she is to the functions of the plants around. Further, the garden here is in one sense the sanctuary for the poet and in another the place where she is least in control—a sort of exile. While the garden served as a sanctuary, a place to escape the dullness of the unchanging house, the ‘I’ of this poem exists in a different ‘kind of hour’ from the one past in the house, one that rewards her as it makes her aware of the ephemerality of her own presence in the flower beds.

While she lives in Manchester now, Groarke’s poems rarely put the reader in specific locations, Manchester or otherwise. This is a strength. Because the embodied poet is grounded in houses, gardens, and various narratives, she is placed, but not fixed in that location. This makes her (the female subject of the poem) a representative for women everywhere, here and now. Through this, Groarke takes her personal history and not only graphs it to understand herself, but withdraws the principle without unnecessarily philosophizing abstractions. The poet is placed, and even rooted, but not incapable of movement. She pulses through time but refuses to sit idly in it.

To clarify, exile does not have to imply unhappiness. Paul Batchelor notes of Groarke: ‘Aloneness (not to be mistaken for loneliness) is the precondition for these poems’ though it is not without cause that the poems were written, even if the actual

14

Groarke, ‘The Garden as Event’, in X (Oldcastle: Gallery Press, 2014), p. 57.

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events aren’t relayed.15 With this in mind, the dark mood of many of Groarke’s poems has to do with isolation in a place of exile (or at least a new place) make sense, not because the poet forces herself into a confessional template, but because she is genuinely exploring questions of identity as a woman aging, moving, and learning. Writing of ‘Storm’, Batchelor suggests Groarke omits the ‘showy, self-dramatising gestures of much contemporary poetry,’ giving her the revelations of confessional work, but without the self-aggrandizing tendency of others. 16 The avoidance of ‘selfdramatising’ Batchelor refers to is critical, for in the words of John Redmond, it recalls the normalcy of Groarke’s most-used metaphor on the ‘crooked road of self-knowledge’ in which Groarke is ‘careful not to seem presumptuous’.17 Most of Groarke’s work struggles to balance the scales between what it means to be self-present as a woman poet and allowing the poem and its narrative to live outside the poet herself.

In the first line of ‘How to Describe a House’ Groarke asserts a selfassurance that tells the maturity of her position as a poet. She instructs the reader: ‘Don’t.’ Instinctively we as readers have tried to break down the architectural metaphors Groarke employs, but Groarke moves beyond typical historical temporality. This means, as Redmond notes, that she ‘evokes a kind of free-floating helplessness’ which gives Groarke the ability to be ‘consolingly distinctive’ while she is deliberating ‘about the boundaries of self’. 18 No longer is she just relying on humour and puns, but further sharpens her use of form and metre to construct (pun intended) the rooms in which a psyche can be contained, if only temporarily. Groarke’s complexity is evident in an evasive statement about her method of building poems: ‘I take bits and Paul Batchelor, ‘Hide and Seek: New Poetry by Rowan Williams, Liz Berry and Vona Groarke’, in The New Statesman, 29 January 2015.

16 Ibid.

17 Redmond, ‘Brushing Against Public Narratives: the Poetry of Vona Groarke’, p. 162.

18 Ibid, p. 182.

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bobs of language and try to sew them up’. 19 The actions of composing through ‘bits and bobs’ implies the work is not done; as Groarke moves, changes, and absorbs new material, it becomes a part of the sewing project that is her corpus.

The ‘located, self-affirming subject’ of Groarke’s poetry is a woman who knows both fluidity and stability well. Coming from Spindrift to X shows a transition from earlier books, a development, but not a conclusion.20 Groarke is, to recall Wordsworth’s phrase, a woman writing to women. Her experience, her movement in and out of places has given her the insight to know she can write about now with the most certainty, even as she allows existential questions to plague her. In her self-presence, she is enough. She writes with knowledge that she is bringing ‘a life that was formed in another culture to a place, to bear on this place’. 21 She writes knowing that ‘tonight there will be two hundred moons / stowed between panes of double glazing / in both my dovetailed dreams of being here’.22 For it is here that Groarke lives, wherever that is; it is now that she is thinking of the past, the present, and the future.

Addendum THE GARDEN AS EVENT

by Vona Groarke, in X (2014) The briars are twined to the fencing post and the afternoon staked to two kinds of hour, the narrow, answered by coffee cups or birdsong run amok, See Deryn Rees-Jones’s introduction to ‘Vona Groake’, from Modern Women Poets (Tarset: Bloodaxe, 2005), pp. 385-389.

20 Clutterbuck, ‘New Irish Women Poets: The Evolution of (In)determinacy in Vona Groarke’, p. 655.

21 Groarke, speaking of the poem ‘Midsummer’, Reading at Rylands Library, 21 June 2014.

22 Groarke, ‘Midsummer’, in X (Oldcastle: Gallery Press, 2014) p. 43.

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the other, stretched to the edge of the city like the skin of a drum on which someone is keeping time, bald time, with a persistent heart.

I could drop a question on its surface and it would bounce, slight answer to what the skyline asks of the sky; the branch, of the cherry tree.

In the milk-white kitchen nothing has changed for an hour or more: the lettuce is upright in the window trough and the cut-glass vase on the table top has nothing to add to the square of light slipping off a neighbourâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s patio door one street to the back.

Knives whittle patience in the drawer and fruit in the fruit bowl glosses a composed version of itself.

The front door holds its breath.

All this happens, is happening without me, in much the same way as the cowslips make sense of their borrowed pot or winter slumps in the green bin or shallow leaves fathom the azalea I earthed and the rowan I did not.

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THE GARDEN IN WINTER

by Vona Groarke, in X (2014) Against the orange of rowan berries, debutante hollyhocks turn dowdy and nasturtiums seem old hat.

I make an hourâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work out of spilling cornflower seedpods out into air without a hint of blue in it all summer.

My antic husbandry. I let the gooseberries rot for not knowing when to pick them and tied sweet peas to driftwood stakes with too much ocean still in them. Soon, it will be time to bring geraniums indoors, marshal them under the console table to sit out weather people fret about.

Already, nights have a seam of frost in which the stitching is coming loose.

Dark hours rummage through the rooms so my heart (that dogged, little thing) learns to accept itself as autumnal in a plangent, bulb-lit sort of way.

No telling when one thought becomes another; when the very idea of the garden in winter slips into the notion that life, on its own, is not nearly enough.

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Red House Nearly Sixty Years Ago Nick Barton

Gap Years

‘J

ust work, good healthy toil. You have led too sheltered a life, Nick, it would do you the world of good to face facts for a bit – look at life in the raw, you know. See things steadily and see things whole, eh?’

And my Headmaster lit another cigarette.371 These words from Evelyn Waugh’s autobiographical novel were similar to those spoken to me when I had failed to get a place at Cambridge and had to face the hard work-day world. My headmaster said, ‘Try Red House School; it will be just the thing.’ John Betjeman, another 371

The original quote is from Evelyn Waugh, Decline and Fall, (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1937), p. 6.

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literary hero of mine, had begun his career at a prep school after failing at Oxford. So this is how my journey began!

Red House – School and Staff Status of School: Boarding Preparatory Salary: £300 per annum Headmaster: Bill Owtram, M.A. Christchurch, Oxford, born 1909, educ. Shrewsbury Deputy Head: Tom Hardwick, Captain (Retired) in King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry (KOYLI) – had served in Iraq and France (1914-18); Rossall School (Former Head) Assistant: Willy Palmer, M.A. Trinity Hall, Cambridge.

English, Music (Organ) Art: Mrs Milner (Non-Resident) Piano: Miss Arnott (Non-Resident) Junior Assistant Master: Nick Barton; Divinity, Latin Games, and Riding Summer Term Gaps: Julian Rawstorne ex. Eton; waiting to go up to Oxford (Tennis, Cricket) Matron: Mrs Kinsman, a kindly Scot

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Hilda: Cook and Housekeeper (27 years service) Mrs Hawkes: kitchen assistant (61 years service; had served the resident Baronet from 1899 three years before it became a school) Mr Noyse: circa 80, general handyman ‘Young’ Billy Noyse: Stoked the huge boiler and cleaned all the boys’ showers every night. He also saddled the horses each day.

The Reverend Mr Cutter, M.A.: Invigilated Common Entrance The Reverend Canon Albert Baker, M.A. (Cantab.): The local vicar at Moor Monkton, aged 87 (wife 86)

The School Buildings – Red House by Marston Moor Red House was a mansion (much was renovated in 1862), which had an early chapel, gallery, staircase, and much stained glass. It also had a museum full of swords as well as armour from the Marston Moor battlefield, which was close by.

The school grounds were twelve acres of playing fields, including a tennis court, a river for swimming, and a two mile drive.

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Slingsby This house had been the home of the Slingsby family until the last baronet drowned crossing the river on a raft whilst hunting. In 1902, the house was sold to a Mr Lemprière, and it became a school in 1902.

In the middle of September 1960, a black taxi negotiated the much rutted drive and deposited Nick at the back door of the school. I was greeted by Hilda, the cook, and Granny Hawkes, who was the kitchen assistant. The previous master hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t lasted long as Bill (Head) had not liked his patent leather shoes or his selection of the R.A.F. for National Service!

I was soon shown into my room, which was very small and had a door leading into a dormitory on each side.

Then I reported to Bill and Joan for my first afternoon tea in the study. It was here that my duties were explained.

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Nick Barton and Mayo—The Riding Master!

Some Memories of Red House – The Daily Ride My appointment as riding master followed my foolish admission that I had done a bit of hacking! I was swiftly given the key to the stables. The life and health of six ponies (one large) and their riders was placed in my hands. The first casualty was the Headmaster’s godson who, at the age of eight, I placed on a leading rein. We had an hour’s ride along the adjacent river bank.

Unfortunately, the local hunt had just ‘found’ in a nearby field. The barks and commotion caused our gallant steeds to bolt, and Giles (the boy’s name) was thrown,

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hitting his head on a stone. He did recover later (after Shrewsbury) and he became my solicitor!

May Day (29 May) Ceremony Many painful jobs awaited the junior master and his progress in the school depended upon their acceptance.

The day went as follows: 1. At 6:30 am, the prefects dressed and picked large bunches of nettles and awaited the rest of the school in the vicinity of two ancient, gnarled oaks (reported to be one thousand years old). These oaks grew some one hundred yards from the rear entrance, and dock leaves were to be found nearby.

2. Each dormitory ran to touch the trees (Adam and Eve), and were stung en route.

3. The final act was about to begin. The whole school, armed with stinging nettles, ranged against the junior usher who, clad only in tennis shoes, sprinted for the trees and was liberally stung en route as a result. This continued long after I clutched the trunk of Adam. My senior colleagues watched all this from an upper window. It was important only to show enjoyment at the inflicted pain which lasted for several days!

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The Hay Rag, 1961.

The Hay Rag After the hay in the surrounding fields had been cut, the whole school met for a picnic in the meadow. At a given signal from the Headmaster Bill, all the boys gathered hay and advanced on the Junior Master with the intention of smothering him. This was a well-kept secret, so I had no inclination of the coming onslaught. One never quite knew what to expect?!

The School Plumbing The only source of drinking water was a well situated near an early pump in the kitchen. Washing up was done with hot water from the range in huge wooden sinks.

Bath water was admitted by a large hand pump operated by two duty prefects. This came straight from the river,

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and was often muddy as a result. War time rationing still existed; only two baths a week and only up to the red line painted on all baths. The boys always bathed in pairs, and water was re-used.

In my second year, the wooden sinks were replaced and new taps installed. This coincided with my half day. I returned at 2 am (after a lock-in at the Wombwell Arms at Wass), only to find that I had been locked out. The only way in was through an open window in the kitchen. I hopped straight into the new sink which, with fresh mortar, came away from the wall. I left a tell-tale size twelve muddy footprint. The Headmaster had waited up and had fallen into an uneasy sleep in his study chair. At 7:45 am in the chapel line, an enraged and sleepy Head cried out, ‘You are fired, Barton.’ I slunk away to pack. An hour later, Bill decided I did too much work to get rid of me, so instead I got a £50 raise and was reinstated.

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Soccer, 1960.

School Characters Mrs Hawkes had entered the service of the last Baronet around the year 1899, and she stayed on when the house became a school in 1902. She married a farm labourer (Hawkes) around 1910, but as she said, ‘I did not like the look in his eye,’ so she came straight back to Red House and remained in the same room until her death in the ’60s. She worked a ten hour day and never spent a shilling. All her wages for over sixty years were found under her mattress. Some of it was in sovereigns. Farmer Hawkes was the beneficiary, though he had not seen her since their wedding day!

Adam and Eve were two gnarled and twisted oaks that had been there even before the Norman Castle, which still existed as a mound and dry moat. The Slingsbys

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were royalists, and Sir Henry had been beheaded by Cromwell during the Regency. The Royal Oak Ceremony became popular after Charles IIâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s escape (hiding in an oak tree after the Battle of Worcester).

The Reverend Canon Albert Baker, an elderly scholar and examining chaplain to the Archbishop of York, lived in a cold and drafty eighteen-room rectory with his wife and widowed daughters. He was the vicar of the nearby village church of Moor Monkton and he died in office at the age of eighty-seven. His wife (86) died exactly a week later. His daughters had little money and no homes to go to. He celebrated in a wheelchair wearing fingerless mittens. His vast house was largely unfurnished and unheated. The family sat in overcoats surrounded by screens and a small fire in the grate. They died during my time at Red House, and we all truly mourned them.

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Epilogue After two very happy years, I left Red House because a call to the church and a place at St Chad’s College had come my way! I had learned so much from colleagues from both wars and from interesting backgrounds. I felt fortunate. This was helped by a T.A. commission, which kept me in touch with the Cold War and a very different world.

St Chad’s Freshers’ Conference, October 1962.

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Nick Barton in uniform!

I did go back to Red House for a three week period before the Michaelmas term of 1963. When I left, the boys raided the school museum (seventeen swords, pikes, and helmets from the rear by battlefield of Marston Moor). A guard of honour stood up around the entrance, and my endearing memory is of the Headmaster chasing the armour-clad boys into the October night as I climbed into my taxi.

I remained friendly with Owtram and Willy Palmer until their deaths in the early years of this century.

Progedere ut proficias. Super antiquas vias. Finis.

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