De Quincey and the Cursed Crocodile's Kisses

Dreams always baffle and interest us. They are products of our own minds, but products we do not ourselves form and therefore psychologists and laymen alike are drawn to make more or less inspired interpretations of them. To try to make sense of what is, in most cases, nonsensical mental frolicking is one way to approach dreams. Another one is to savour the liberation nonsense provides.

One who at least initially did so was the Romantic essayist and legendary druggie Thomas De Quincey. Author of "Confessions of an English Opium-Eater" (1821), one of the earliest specimen of addict literature, he was known to consume copious amounts of opium in laudanum form and wrote the book he is famous for partially to feed his drug habit. Despite this, with his Romantic colleagues died young; Keats from tuberculosis at 26, Shelley from drowning at 30 and Byron from a fever obtained while attempting to make himself king of Greece at 36, De Quincey died at 74 surrounded by his grandchildren. This is surprising, given his intake of drugs, described by himself thus:

my daily ration was eight thousand drops. If you write down that amount in the ordinary way as 8000, you see at a glance that you may read it into eight quantities of a thousand, or eight hundred quantities of ten, or lastly, into eighty quantities of one hundred. Now, a single quantity of one hundred will about fill a very old-fashioned obsolete teaspoon, of that order which you find still lingering amongst the respectable poor. Eighty such quantities, therefore, would have filled eighty of such antediluvian spoons — that is, it would have been the common hospital dose for three hundred and twenty adult patients (1).

This naturally gave him some fairly vivid nightmares and in the paragraphs below he tries to understand these, much like the novel in itself is an attempt to understand his addiction. Still, the colourful surrealism of his nightmares offers the liberation not having to understand, which is the essential liberation of sleep.

"

Thomas De Quincey

I remember about this time a little incident, which I mention because, trifling as it was, the reader will
soon meet it again in my dreams, which it influenced more fearfully than could be imagined. One day a Malay knocked at my door. What business a Malay could have to transact amongst English mountains I cannot conjecture; but possibly he was on his road to a seaport about forty miles distant. The servant who opened the door to him was a young girl, born and bred amongst the mountains, who had never seen an Asiatic dress of any sort; his turban therefore confounded her not a little; and as it turned out that his attainments in English were exactly of the same extent as hers in the Malay, there seemed to be an impassable gulf fixed between all communication of ideas, if either party had happened to possess any. In this dilemma, the girl, recollecting the reputed learning of her master (and doubtless giving me credit for a knowledge of all the languages of the earth besides perhaps a few of the lunar ones), came and gave me to understand that there was a sort of demon below, whom she clearly imagined that my art could exorcise from the house. I did not immediately go down, but when I did, the group which presented itself, arranged as it was by accident, though not very elaborate, took hold of my fancy and my eye in a way that none of the statuesque attitudes exhibited in the ballets at the Opera-house, though so ostentatiously complex, had ever done. In a cottage kitchen, but panelled on the wall with dark wood that from age and rubbing resembled oak, and looking more like a rustic hall of entrance than a kitchen, stood the Malay—his turban and loose trousers of dingy white relieved upon the dark panelling. He had placed himself nearer to the girl than she seemed to relish, though her native spirit of mountain intrepidity contended with the feeling of simple awe which her countenance expressed as she gazed upon the tiger-cat before her. And a more striking picture there could not be imagined than the beautiful English face of the girl, and its exquisite fairness, together with her erect and independent attitude, contrasted with the sallow and bilious skin of the Malay, enamelled or veneered with mahogany by marine air, his small, fierce, restless eyes, thin lips, slavish gestures and adorations. Half-hidden by the ferocious-looking Malay was a little child from a neighbouring cottage who had crept in after him, and was now in the act of reverting its head and gazing upwards at the turban and the fiery eyes beneath it, whilst with one hand he caught at the dress of the young woman for protection.

My knowledge of the Oriental tongues is not remarkably extensive, being indeed confined to two words—the Arabic word for barley and the Turkish for opium (madjoon), which I have learned from Anastasius; and as I had neither a Malay dictionary nor even Adelung’s Mithridates, which might have helped me to a few words, I addressed him in some lines from the Iliad, considering that, of such languages as I possessed, Greek, in point of longitude, came geographically nearest to an Oriental one. He worshipped me in a most devout manner, and replied in what I suppose was Malay. In this way I saved my reputation with my neighbours, for the Malay had no means of betraying the secret. He lay down upon the floor for about an hour, and then pursued his journey. On his departure I presented him with a piece of opium. To him, as an Orientalist, I concluded that opium must be familiar; and the expression of his face convinced me that it was. Nevertheless, I was struck with some little consternation when I saw him suddenly raise his hand to his mouth, and, to use the schoolboy phrase, bolt the whole, divided into three pieces, at one mouthful. The quantity was enough to kill three dragoons and their horses, and I felt some alarm for the poor creature; but what could be done? I had given him the opium in compassion for his solitary life, on recollecting that if he had travelled on foot from London it must be nearly three weeks since he could have exchanged a thought with any human being. I could not think of violating the laws of hospitality by having him seized and drenched with an emetic, and thus frightening him into a notion that we were going to sacrifice him to some English idol. No: there was clearly no help for it. He took his leave, and for some days I felt anxious, but as I never heard of any Malay being found dead, I became convinced that he was used to opium; and that I must have done him the service I designed by giving him one night of respite from the pains of wandering.

This incident I have digressed to mention, because this Malay (partly from the picturesque exhibition he assisted to frame, partly from the anxiety I connected with his image for some days) fastened afterwards upon my dreams, and brought other Malays with him, worse than himself, that ran “a-muck” at me, and led me into a world of troubles (2).

"

"

The sublime circumstance, “battlements that on their restless fronts bore stars,” might have been copied from my architectural dreams, for it often occurred. We hear it reported of Dryden and of Fuseli, in modern times, that they thought proper to eat raw meat for the sake of obtaining splendid dreams: how much better for such a purpose to have eaten opium, which yet I do not remember that any poet is recorded to have done, except the dramatist Shadwell; and in ancient days Homer is I think rightly reputed to have known the virtues of opium.

Cover of the 2nd Edition

To my architecture succeeded dreams of lakes and silvery expanses of water: these haunted me so much that I feared (though possibly it will appear ludicrous to a medical man) that some dropsical state or tendency of the brain might thus be making itself (to use a metaphysical word) objective; and the sentient organ project itself as its own object. For two months I suffered greatly in my head, a part of my bodily structure which had hitherto been so clear from all touch or taint of weakness (physically I mean) that I used to say of it, as the last Lord Orford said of his stomach, that it seemed likely to survive the rest of my person. Till now I had never felt a headache even, or any the slightest pain, except rheumatic pains caused by my own folly. However, I got over this attack, though it must have been verging on something very dangerous.

The waters gradually changed their character—from translucent lakes shining like mirrors they now became seas and oceans. And now came a tremendous change, which, unfolding itself slowly like a scroll through many months, promised an abiding torment; and in fact it never left me until the winding up of my case. Hitherto the human face had mixed often in my dreams, but not despotically nor with any special power of tormenting. But now that which I have called the tyranny of the human face began to unfold itself. Perhaps some part of my London life might be answerable for this. Be that as it may, now it was that upon the rocking waters of the ocean the human face began to appear; the sea appeared paved with innumerable faces upturned to the heavens—faces imploring, wrathful, despairing, surged upwards by thousands, by myriads, by generations, by centuries: my agitation was infinite; my mind tossed and surged with the ocean.

May 1818
The Malay has been a fearful enemy for months. I have been every night, through his means, transported into Asiatic scenes. I know not whether others share in my feelings on this point; but I have often thought that if I were compelled to forego England, and to live in China, and among Chinese manners and modes of life and scenery, I should go mad. The causes of my horror lie deep, and some of them must be common to others. Southern Asia in general is the seat of awful images and associations. As the cradle of the human race, it would alone have a dim and reverential feeling connected with it. But there are other reasons. No man can pretend that the wild, barbarous, and capricious superstitions of Africa, or of savage tribes elsewhere, affect him in the way that he is affected by the ancient, monumental, cruel, and elaborate religions of Indostan. The mere antiquity of Asiatic things, of their institutions, histories, modes of faith, etc., is so impressive, that to me the vast age of the race and name overpowers the sense of youth in the individual. A young Chinese seems to me an antediluvian man renewed. Even Englishmen, though not bred in any knowledge of such institutions, cannot but shudder at the mystic sublimity of castes that have flowed apart, and refused to mix, through such immemorial tracts of time; nor can any man fail to be awed by the names of the Ganges or the Euphrates. It contributes much to these feelings that southern Asia is, and has been for thousands of years, the part of the earth most swarming with human life, the great officina gentium. Man is a weed in those regions. The vast empires also in which the enormous population of Asia has always been cast, give a further sublimity to the feelings associated with all Oriental names or images. In China, over and above what it has in common with the rest of southern Asia, I am terrified by the modes of life, by the manners, and the barrier of utter abhorrence and want of sympathy placed between us by feelings deeper than I can analyse. I could sooner live with lunatics or brute animals. All this, and much more than I can say or have time to say, the reader must enter into before he can comprehend the unimaginable horror which these dreams of Oriental imagery and mythological tortures impressed upon me. Under the connecting feeling of tropical heat and vertical sunlights I brought together all creatures, birds, beasts, reptiles, all trees and plants, usages and appearances, that are found in all tropical regions, and assembled them together in China or Indostan. From kindred feelings, I soon brought Egypt and all her gods under the same law. I was stared at, hooted at, grinned at, chattered at, by monkeys, by parroquets, by cockatoos. I ran into pagodas, and was fixed for centuries at the summit or in secret rooms: I was the idol; I was the priest; I was worshipped; I was sacrificed. I fled from the wrath of Brama through all the forests of Asia: Vishnu hated me: Seeva laid wait for me. I came suddenly upon Isis and Osiris: I had done a deed, they said, which the ibis and the crocodile trembled at. I was buried for a thousand years in stone coffins, with mummies and sphynxes, in narrow chambers at the heart of eternal pyramids. I was kissed, with cancerous kisses, by crocodiles; and laid, confounded with all unutterable slimy things, amongst reeds and Nilotic mud.

I thus give the reader some slight abstraction of my Oriental dreams, which always filled me with such amazement at the monstrous scenery that horror seemed absorbed for a while in sheer astonishment. Sooner or later came a reflux of feeling that swallowed up the astonishment, and left me not so much in terror as in hatred and abomination of what I saw. Over every form, and threat, and punishment, and dim sightless incarceration, brooded a sense of eternity and infinity that drove me into an oppression as of madness. Into these dreams only it was, with one or two slight exceptions, that any circumstances of physical horror entered. All before had been moral and spiritual terrors. But here the main agents were ugly birds, or snakes, or crocodiles; especially the last. The cursed crocodile became to me the object of more horror than almost all the rest. I was compelled to live with him, and (as was always the case almost in my dreams) for centuries. I escaped sometimes, and found myself in Chinese houses, with cane tables etc.. All the feet of the tables, sofas, etc. soon became instinct with life: the abominable head of the crocodile, and his leering eyes, looked out at me, multiplied into a thousand repetitions; and I stood loathing and fascinated. And so often did this hideous reptile haunt my dreams that many times the very same dream was broken up in the very same way: I heard gentle voices speaking to me (I hear everything when I am sleeping), and instantly I awoke. It was broad noon, and my children were standing, hand in hand, at my bedside—come to show me their coloured shoes, or new frocks, or to let me see them dressed for going out. I protest that so awful was the transition from the damned crocodile, and the other unutterable monsters and abortions of my dreams, to the sight of innocent human natures and of infancy, that in the mighty and sudden revulsion of mind I wept, and could not forbear it, as I kissed their faces (3).

"

Bonus fact: Just prior to the last segment, De Quincey recalls Samuel Taylor Coleridge, another famous Romantic junkie, describing some plates by the Italian artist Giovanni Battista Piranesi. These, he finds gives a good pictorial expression to his initial, drug-induced nightmares, although he mistakes the title of the collection, "Imaginary Prisons", as "Dreams". Published from 1750 to 1761, the capricci, which is the art term used for fanciful exaggerations, would later inspire Romantic and Surrealist art and bears an uncanny resemblance to Escher for modern viewers. Piranesi, therefore provides the link between De Quincey's delirium and the Surrealism movement.

The "Imaginary Prisons" can be seen here. My earlier post on David Mitchell's and Kurt Vonnegut's take on addiction can be accessed here.

Sources: De Quincey, Thomas: Confessions of an English Opium-Eater, London 2009, (1) 169, (2) 160-162, (3) 190-192, Pic1, Pic2

The Pope's Erotic Novel

One of the most popular books of the 15th century was the Historia de duobus amantibus or the Story of two lovers, written by Enea Silvio Piccolomini from Siena in 1444. It was first published in Cologne in 1468 and then in Rome in 1476, whereupon it followed a meteoric increase in publication. One reason for its popularity could be that it is one of the first notable erotic novels, only preceded by Petronius Arbiter's Satyricon and Boccaccio's Decameron, and the first epistolary erotic novel. Another reason could be that Piccolomini went on to become Pope Pius II in 1458.

Piccolomini in his older, more frumpy times

The novel follows the adulterous love of Lucretia, a married woman in Piccolomini's native Siena, and Euryalus, companion of Sigismund, the visiting Duke of Austria. Their relationship progresses from the search for reciprocal affection following a chance meeting, through love letters and secret meetings to a tragic finale. This plot has often been likened to that of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, and the popularity of the novel might have made it available to Shakespeare 153 years later.

Euryalus and Lucretia meeting on the title page of
an edition from 1500 (click the image to zoom)

Interestingly, the novel is in many ways highly transitional. It occured at a time of budding Renaissance, including a topic and imagery which, save for Boccaccio, had been taboo in Medieval times. Whereas modern readers might find that the relative absence of sex and the poetically introspective and psychological approach to love remind them more of romance than of erotica, contemporary ones would relish in the novel's deviance from the religious rigidity of a waning era.

Euryalus delivers a love letter. 
The illustration breaks with standards of Medieval illumination. 
These were kept alive in Venice, but the Florentine printers 
developed this style because they were printing for
a larger, less wealthy public. (click the image to zoom)

No one exemplifies this change more distinctly than the author himself, albeit in unexpected ways. As a young Poet Laureate of Gaspar Schlick, the Chancellor of the Holy Roman Emperor (Sigismund of Austria...), Piccolomini seems to have embraced the ideals of the Renaissance. In the novel, one of Euryalus' last resort for gaining access to Lucretia, her husband's cousin Pandalus, points out that "Why, she is so changed by love, you would not think her the same person. Alas for piety, alas for grief! No one, until this happened, in all the city was chaster than she, no one more modest. It is indeed amazing that nature has given to love so much power over men’s thoughts." (i). Nature, as Fransesco de Sanctis points out, and in particular human nature, is now what is right (ii). Lucretia and Euryalus are clearly meant to be together, while the laws of society, which were the prevailing good in Medieval texts and the authority behind Lucretia's faltering marriage, is now what is wrong. While Dante viewed nature as evil and Medieval literature tended to view love as something granted by external, supernatural powers, Piccolomini places love in human nature. This Renaissance humanism which focuses on man and nature rather than religion and religious concepts saturates the novel and rules of society and honour which causes the tragic end to their relationship confirms this attitude.

The lovers, in a fond embrace, are being warned by a servant that
Lucretia's husband is at the door. The print is probably 
re-used from some other work. (click  the image to zoom)

However, Piccolomini soon became Pope, resulting in a remarkable volte-face. As Pope Pius II, he famously stated "Aeneam rejicite, Pium suscipite!" ("Reject Aeneas, accept Pius!"). He distanced himself from the favourable descriptions of nature, and particularly that of Lucretia, as well as the success of his younger self, albeit unsuccessfully. In this sense, upon ascending to the top of the Holy See, Aeneas returned to pre-Renaissance sentiments, luckily for us, to no avail.

The erstwhile poet had already made his mark, providing posterity with lyrical and heartfelt descriptions of love and the experience of it. The English translation, introduced by the below paragraphs, makes for a delightful read and a story which remains as engaging and vivid today as it did almost six hundred years ago.

"

THE city of Siena, your native town and mine, did great honour to the Emperor Sigismund on his arrival, as is now well known; and a palace was made ready for him by the church of Saint Martha, on the road that leads to the narrow gate of sandstone. As Sigismund came hither, after the ceremonies, he met four married ladies, for birth and beauty, age and ornament, almost equal. All thought them goddesses rather than mortal women, and had they been only three, they might have seemed those whom Paris, we are told, saw in a dream. Now Sigismund, though advanced in years, was quick to passion; he took great pleasure in the company of women, and loved feminine caresses. Indeed he liked nothing better than the presence of great ladies. So when he saw these, he leaped from his horse, and they received him with outstretched hands. Then, turning to his companions, he said: ‘Have you ever seen women like these: For my part, I cannot say whether their faces are human or angelic. Surely they are from heaven.’ 

They cast down their eyes, and their modesty made them lovelier. For, as the blushes spread over their cheeks, their faces took the colour of Indian ivory stained with scarlet, or white lilies mixed with crimson roses. And chief among them all, shone the beauty of Lucretia. A young girl, barely twenty years of age, she came of the house of the Camilli, and was wife to Menelaus, a wealthy man, but quite unworthy that such a treasure should look after his home; deserving rather that his wife should deceive him or, as we say, give him horns. 

This lady was taller than the others. Her hair was long, the colour of beaten gold, and she wore it not hanging down her back, as maidens do, but bound up with gold and precious stones. Her lofty forehead, of good proportions, was without a wrinkle, and her arched eyebrows were dark and slender, with a due space between. Such was the splendour of her eyes that, like the sun, they dazzled all who looked on them; with such eyes she could kill whom she chose and, when she would, restore the dead to life. Her nose was straight in contour, evenly dividing her rosy cheeks, while nothing could be sweeter, nothing more pleasant to see than those cheeks which, when she laughed, broke in a little dimple on either side. And all who saw those dimples longed to kiss them. A small and well-shaped mouth, coral lips made to be bitten, straight little teeth, that shone like crystal, and between them, running to and fro, a tremulous tongue that uttered not speech, but sweetest harmonies. And how can I describe the beauty of her mind, the whiteness of her breast?

"

The remaider of the novel can be found by clicking here.

What do you think?

What is your opinion of the about-face of Pius the poet pope? He could have distanced himself from his earlier work either because of the requirements of office, because of old age and changed values but also for a number of other reasons. What do you think these might be and can you sympathise with his choices?

Also, an erotic novel more or less without sex: is that a contradiction in terms? Is it an erotic novel at all or would you classify it as something else? If so, what and why?

Finally, the personal aspect. Love, romance and sexuality are highly personal themes. Could this be the reason for the novel's popularity back then? What is your personal reaction to the novel? Who deserves your personal sympathy, Aeneas or Pius?

Comments on The Tale of Sir Bob are always welcome! 

Further reading: A quick but good introduction, a thorough analysis, a look at illustrations and a young literate's reactions

Sources: (i), (ii), Pic1, Pic2, Pic3, Pic4

"Tiger" Jack Moran and his Enemies - Doyle, Fraser and Gaiman Ride a Bicycle Made for Three

"

"I have not introduced you yet," said Holmes. "This, gentlemen, is Colonel Sebastian Moran, once of Her Majesty's Indian Army, and the best heavy-game shot that our Eastern Empire has ever produced. I believe I am correct, Colonel, in saying that your bag of tigers still remains unrivalled?"
The fierce old man said nothing, but still glared at my companion. With his savage eyes and bristling moustache he was wonderfully like a tiger himself.

 "What business have you got at your time of life to be trying to slaughter a man fifteen years younger than you are, in the middle of civilised London, especially when he’s a high-tailed gun-slick with a beltful of scalps who can shoot your ears off with his eyes shut? For that’s what Tiger Jack Moran was, and no mistake." 

"My shoulder, touched by the Queen, continues to improve; the flesh fills and it heals. Soon I shall be a dead-shot once more"

"

"Tiger" Jack Moran first appeared in the Sherlock Holmes short story The Adventure of the Empty House in Arthur Conan Doyle's 1903 The Return of Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes had just been resurrected due to public pressure only to face another threat. A lieutenant of his now conquered nemesis Professor Moriarty was after his blood. This lieutenant was Colonel Sebastian Moran, famed tiger hunter and marksman. The first quotation is from this story.

Colonel Moran
as portrayed by Sidney Paget

Arthur Conan Doyle’s novels and short stories inspire in mysterious ways, however, and 96 years later a different short story converged with Doyle’s by the hand of George MacDonald Fraser. Fraser was at this time nearing the end of his Flashman series and the short story Flashman and the Tiger from the book of the same name saw Sir Harry Paget Flashman encounter Moran, whom he calls “Jack” at the infamous battle of Insandhlwana in 1879. However, their paths cross again when Moran manages to draw the old yellow-bellied shirker to confrontation. What he did to provoke this stupendous feat is better enjoyed from Fraser’s pen, but suffice it to say this puts Moran, Holmes, Watson and Flashman in the same room. The second quotation is Fraser's.

Then, in 2006, that master of plot twists and twisted plots Neil Gaiman added the short story A Study in Emerald to his collection Fragile Things. While clearly appropriating Doyle’s A Study in Scarlet, there is a twist to the story which really strengthens Moran’s position as one of Moriarty’s lieutenants in the Sherlock Holmes corpus. The third quotation is from Neil Gaiman's short story. While it takes a tremendous Sherlock Holmes addict who has studied the novels and short stories in depth (twice) to identify Moran’s position in the short story, Neil Gaiman once more manages to make his story expand beyond the mere 9 pages on which it is written. It also makes said addict revisit said corpus.

If you enjoyed the first two seasons of BBC’s television revision and update of the Sherlock Holmes stories, aptly named Sherlock, you will be delighted to know that there is a third season in the works. Although not expected to air until 2014, the first episode is expected to build on The Adventure of the Empty House as the last episode of the second series saw Holmes fall to his death. There is hope though, because if you find the wait for The Empty Hearse long and unbearable, you can discover these three short stories in the meantime.

Feel free to read them in any sequence you like, but in retrospect, this one would be highly recommended:

Arthur Conan Doyle - The Adventure of the Empty House

George MacDonald Fraser - Flashman and the Tiger (starts on p. 179)

Neil Gaiman - A Study in Emerald

What do you think? 

Which story did you like the best? Which author would you like to read more by? Are you looking forward to the third season of Sherlock? Do you know of any other good literary constellations like this one where plots and characters merge surreptitiously? See also my post on the appeal of the villain!

Comments on The Tale of Sir Bob are always welcome!

Sources: As given, Collage, Frame, Pics

The Quality of Copies

I have a question for you. If availability and price were not an issue, which would you choose:

1. An original painting or a reproduction?
2. A concert with your favourite band or a local cover band?
3. The Twilight/ Lord of the Ring trilogy or the films based on them?
4. An Armani suit/ Louis Vuitton bag or a Chinese copy?
5. Attending Woodstock in August 1969 or hearing your parents talk about it?

My guess is you chose the first alternative more often than not. Also, I wager your argument for doing so was that the first is better, but why is that? What makes an original better than a copy, and is the original really what you think it is?

Original and Copy

When a painting is being made, it represents reality. When your local cover band performs, they play already existing songs. The films adapt the readily available books, the Chinese copies mimic the originals and your parents tries to present reality as it was in 1969. The arts' role in representing reality emphasises the distinction between original and copy and Graham Allen, professor of literal and cultural theory at University College Cork, examines the nature of this relationship in Intertextuality in reference to Walter Benjamin's seminal essay The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction:

In an age before the mass publication of books, possession of an individual text was extremely rare and of enormous value. The prices still paid for original classic paintings also attest a residual attachment on contemporary society to the aura of the original work of art. Technological society, however, is dominated by reproductions of original works. The signed copy of the novel may be preferable to the unsigned copy, an original painting by Van Gogh may seem priceless, attendance at a dance performance may seem preferable to viewing it on video, but in contemporary society our experience of these and all other arts are generally of their technological reproductions. New artistic media of the twentieth century such as film, video and television, are, indeed, based on technological methods of reproduction. The aura which surrounds The Mona Lisa or the eight-century Book of Kells in Trinity College Library, Dublin, is unavailable to, and indeed an irrelevance for, these kinds of art forms (i). 

Allen, of course, neglects to mention that by their very nature the original painting by Van Gogh, the Mona Lisa, the Book of Kells and even the dance performances are themselves reproductions. Each of them mimics either natural entities, persons, stories probably already in existence, a dance script or an earlier performance.

Not original

With licence to copy (©)

Dance, by accompanying and illustrating originals such as music, narration or in hunter gatherer societies the movement of animals, necessarily has to imitate an original through body movement (ii). The hunter gatherer would accompany the rhythm of a primitive drum and dance to give a representation of his genesis myth through body movement. He might also dance to mimic the hare which he caught earlier. In these cases, the hunter gatherer tries to adapt cultural expressions like music into another art form, reproducing music and myth narration as dance, or he is imitating the world, reproducing the movement of its animals.

Still not original

The signed copy of a novel is arguably just that, a copy. The Mona Lisa is a static reproduction of the visage of a real person and the Book of Kells is a reproduction of Christian sacred documents and a summing up of contemporary religious discourse.

The basic argument still stands, though, because in the original-reproduction dichotomic relationship the original is the source from which the reproduction borrows and as such truly original within that relationship. Likewise, by being a part of a cultural context, the original appears as a segment of reality, however many earlier sources it may have imitated. Thus, art is always to some extent a copy of reality and it is this copy which is generally encountered in contemporary society.

Copy of Kells

This, in a simple and applicable form, is exemplified by news media. As soon as we do not experience an event first hand, we miss reality because any other way of becoming aware of the event after its passing has to be through a reproduction. This could be in terms of someone having experienced the original event and then reproducing it by narrating his or her experience. Alternatively, it could be in terms of a newscast reporting a real event, its content and form edited and adapted in order to be presentable through a different medium, film (iii). As representative for an age of multi-media, this latter case is symptomatic for the emergence of the field of adaptation where narratives are adapted into new technological modes of expression.

"Do I have an original thought in my head?"

So if everything is inspired by something and nothing is original, does that mean that everything is of poorer quality than some mythical source?

Well, it depends on how you look at it.

A pessimist would say that you cannot create anything new and original and by borrowing, willingly or unwillingly, you make a patchwork which is less coherent and less consistent and therefore of lower quality. Since you cannot help drawing your inspiration from your experience, you are doomed to reproduction and, at best, repetition. The pessimistic approach is expertly exemplified in the opening monolgue of Adaptation:

The pessimist would say that the film takes what you read in the book, leaves out the bits it finds irrelevant and adds bits it thinks should be there, like music or moving images. The chances of these corresponding with what you would think appropriate are slim to none and the rest of the audience faces similar odds. Because of this gap between priorities and between expectations, any new cultural product would in fact be a poorer one.

An optimist, on the other hand, would argue that the novelty is in the combinations. By combining cultural products, like film music, moving images and a story from a novel, the new film could be so much more than each individual product could. You would understand the book differently, listening to the song would never be the same again and seeing that actor play out his part would modify the way you look at both him and other films in which he has appeared.

The optimist would say that because everything is a copy and because you cannot do anything without copying several other copies, you make something original. There are so many elements which inform your creation process, that the likelihood of all those elements having been put together before is as small as the pessimist's priority odds.

An original copy

Let us revisit the list we started with.

1. The reproduction would be more than a poorer imitation of the painting. It would include all the colours, all the interpretations and experiences of the reproducing painter and all the history of the original painting.
2. The cover band concert would update the original song and give it a local flavour. It would reflect not only each musician, but also the musical tradition of the area in addition to what were there "originally".
3. The trilogies could only communicate through symbols or the occasional static image. The films, on the other hand, can tell you things through the sequence of images, through what's in these images and through sound (which includes music, noises, dialogue, voiceover etc.). These would give you experiences you could never create based on just the text.
4. The Chinese imitations would use different materials, different techniques and would probably be more affordable and available. This combination would greatly expand the impact and implications of all these products.
5. By combining the Woodstock experience with all their history after the event, nostalgia and modern sensibilities, your parents will have created a new Woodstock, one which is different from the one they actually experienced. In time, you might tell your children about Woodstock and your story will, with almost complete certainty be a different one.

Oh no! That cannibal from Sin City, Jonathan Safran Foer, has got the ring!

The copy, therefore, is original because it is a combination which did not exist before. Considering it as a poorer version just because it is based on something else might have more to do with the psychological fear of being wrong, of having backed the wrong thing. Psychologist Elliot Aronson wrote:

Far from being a sign of intellectual inferiority, the capacity to err is crucial to human cognition. Far from being a moral flaw, it is inextricable from some of our most humane and honorable qualities: empathy, optimism, imagination, conviction, and courage. And far from being a mark of indifference or intolerance, wrongness is a vital part of how we learn and change. Thanks to error, we can revise our understanding of ourselves and amend our ideas about the world (iii).

So next time you catch yourself thinking that someone has destroyed your favourite book or piece of music, keep Aronson's words in mind and then ask yourself what you have lost, why it was precious and what you have gained.

What do you think? 

How do you react to copies like a film adaptation of your favourite book? Is a copy always poorer than the original? Does the knowledge that you probably are not creating anything new as such take the fun out of creative work? If so, why? Is the alternative that we stop producing cultural expressions or should we open the floodgates and create for the lowest common denominator? Make your contribution to the discussion!

Comments on The Tale of Sir Bob are always welcome!

Sources: (i): Graham Allen: Intertextuality, 2nd edn (Oxford and New York: Routledge, 2011): 176
(ii): Ann C. Albright and Ann Dils (eds.): Moving History/ Dancing Cultures: A Dance History Reader (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 2001): 119-120
(iii): Elliot Aronson: The Social Animal (New York: Worth, 2012)
Pic1, Pic2, Pic3, Pic4

A Proper Curse

In Laurence Sterne's Tristram Shandy, Dr. Slop cuts his finger in the presence of Tristram's father and his Uncle Toby. Since "small curses [...] upon great occasions [...] are but so much waste of our strength & soul's health to no manner of purpose" (chapter II) Tristram's father produces "FIT FORMS of SWEARING suitable to ALL CASES" and the good doctor reluctantly reads a proper curse aloud:

"

'By the authority of God Almighty, the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, and of the holy canons, and of the undefiled Virgin Mary, mother and patroness of our Saviour.' I think there is no necessity, quoth Dr. Slop, dropping the paper down to his knee, and addressing himself to my father—as you have read it over, Sir, so lately, to read it aloud—and as Captain Shandy seems to have no great inclination to hear it—I may as well read it to myself. That's contrary to treaty, replied my father:—besides, there is something so whimsical, especially in the latter part of it, I should grieve to lose the pleasure of a second reading. Dr. Slop did not altogether like it,— but my uncle Toby offering at that instant to give over whistling, and read it himself to them;—Dr. Slop thought he might as well read it under the cover of my uncle Toby's whistling—as suffer my uncle Toby to read it alone;—so raising up the paper to his face, and holding it quite parallel to it, in order to hide his chagrin—he read it aloud as follows—my uncle Toby whistling Lillabullero, though not quite so loud as before.

'By the authority of God Almighty, the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, and of the undefiled Virgin Mary, mother and patroness of our Saviour, and of all the celestial virtues, angels, archangels, thrones, dominions, powers, cherubins and seraphins, and of all the holy patriarchs, prophets, and of all the apostles and evangelists, and of the holy innocents, who in the sight of the Holy Lamb, are found worthy to sing the new song of the holy martyrs and holy confessors, and of the holy virgins, and of all the saints together, with the holy and elect of God,—May he' (Obadiah) 'be damn'd' (for tying these knots)—'We excommunicate, and anathematize him, and from the thresholds of the holy church of God Almighty we sequester him, that he may be tormented, disposed, and delivered over with Dathan and Abiram, and with those who say unto the Lord God, Depart from us, we desire none of thy ways. And as fire is quenched with water, so let the light of him be put out for evermore, unless it shall repent him' (Obadiah, of the knots which he has tied) 'and make satisfaction' (for them) 'Amen.

'May the Father who created man, curse him.—May the Son who suffered for us curse him.—May the Holy Ghost, who was given to us in baptism, curse him' (Obadiah)—'May the holy cross which Christ, for our salvation triumphing over his enemies, ascended, curse him.

'May the holy and eternal Virgin Mary, mother of God, curse him.—May St. Michael, the advocate of holy souls, curse him.—May all the angels and archangels, principalities and powers, and all the heavenly armies, curse him.' (Our armies swore terribly in Flanders, cried my uncle Toby,—but nothing to this.—For my own part I could not have a heart to curse my dog so.)

'May St. John, the Praecursor, and St. John the Baptist, and St. Peter and St. Paul, and St. Andrew, and all other Christ's apostles, together curse him. And may the rest of his disciples and four evangelists, who by their preaching converted the universal world, and may the holy and wonderful company of martyrs and confessors who by their holy works are found pleasing to God Almighty, curse him' (Obadiah.)

'May the holy choir of the holy virgins, who for the honour of Christ have despised the things of the world, damn him—May all the saints, who from the beginning of the world to everlasting ages are found to be beloved of God, damn him—May the heavens and earth, and all the holy things remaining therein, damn him,' (Obadiah) 'or her,' (or whoever else had a hand in tying these knots.)

'May he (Obadiah) be damn'd wherever he be—whether in the house or the stables, the garden or the field, or the highway, or in the path, or in the wood, or in the water, or in the church.—May he be cursed in living, in dying.' (Here my uncle Toby, taking the advantage of a minim in the second bar of his tune, kept whistling one continued note to the end of the sentence.—Dr. Slop, with his division of curses moving under him, like a running bass all the way.) 'May he be cursed in eating and drinking, in being hungry, in being thirsty, in fasting, in sleeping, in slumbering, in walking, in standing, in sitting, in lying, in working, in resting, in pissing, in shitting, and in blood-letting!

'May he' (Obadiah) 'be cursed in all the faculties of his body!

'May he be cursed inwardly and outwardly!—May he be cursed in the hair of his head!—May he be cursed in his brains, and in his vertex,' (that is a sad curse, quoth my father) 'in his temples, in his forehead, in his ears, in his eye-brows, in his cheeks, in his jaw-bones, in his nostrils, in his fore-teeth and grinders, in his lips, in his throat, in his shoulders, in his wrists, in his arms, in his hands, in his fingers!

'May he be damn'd in his mouth, in his breast, in his heart and purtenance, down to the very stomach!

'May he be cursed in his reins, and in his groin,' (God in heaven forbid! quoth my uncle Toby) 'in his thighs, in his genitals,' (my father shook his head) 'and in his hips, and in his knees, his legs, and feet, and toe- nails!

'May he be cursed in all the joints and articulations of the members, from the top of his head to the sole of his foot! May there be no soundness in him!

'May the son of the living God, with all the glory of his Majesty'—(Here my uncle Toby, throwing back his head, gave a monstrous, long, loud Whew— w—w—something betwixt the interjectional whistle of Hay-day! and the word itself.—

—By the golden beard of Jupiter—and of Juno (if her majesty wore one) and by the beards of the rest of your heathen worships, which by the bye was no small number, since what with the beards of your celestial gods, and gods aerial and aquatick—to say nothing of the beards of town-gods and country- gods, or of the celestial goddesses your wives, or of the infernal goddesses your whores and concubines (that is in case they wore them)—all which beards, as Varro tells me, upon his word and honour, when mustered up together, made no less than thirty thousand effective beards upon the Pagan establishment;—every beard of which claimed the rights and privileges of being stroken and sworn by—by all these beards together then—I vow and protest, that of the two bad cassocks I am worth in the world, I would have given the better of them, as freely as ever Cid Hamet offered his—to have stood by, and heard my uncle Toby's accompanyment.

—'curse him!'—continued Dr. Slop,—'and may heaven, with all the powers which move therein, rise up against him, curse and damn him' (Obadiah) 'unless he repent and make satisfaction! Amen. So be it,—so be it. Amen.'

I declare, quoth my uncle Toby, my heart would not let me curse the devil himself with so much bitterness.—He is the father of curses, replied Dr. Slop.—So am not I, replied my uncle.—But he is cursed, and damn'd already, to all eternity, replied Dr. Slop.

I am sorry for it, quoth my uncle Toby.

Dr. Slop drew up his mouth, and was just beginning to return my uncle Toby the compliment of his Whu—u—u—or interjectional whistle—when the door hastily opening in the next chapter but one—put an end to the affair.

"

On the left, the curse as drawn by Martin Rowson in his graphic novel version. Click the image to zoom.

For those of you keen to read this in latin, the preceding chapter provides the curse in that lingo.

Sources: Text, Graphic novel

My New Book: Marie Phillips' "Gods Behaving Badly"

I recently finished reading Christopher Brookmyre's All Fun and Games Until Somebody Loses an Eye and as the book had been my constant companion since I bought it from a Copenhagen antiquarian bookseller who had not realised it was signed. Feeling slightly bereaved like I tend to do after good reads, I despreately browsed my bookshelf for something as sardonic as Brookmyre, preferably with the same level of clinical violence as AFaG.

I randomly picked Marie Phillips' Gods Behaving Badly, a book I had picked up after finishing Neil Gaiman's American Gods hoping for more of the same but never quite getting started on. As it turns out, it is currently being adapted into film starring Christopher Walken as Zeus, according to the author. What sold it to me, however, was not as much the prospect of being ahead of the film for once but the first chapter. Here it is, courtesy of the publisher, for your enjoyment and if you like it, buy the book.

Cover

 

Chapter One

ONE MORNING, WHEN Artemis was out walking the dogs, she saw a tree where no tree should be.

The tree was standing alone in a sheltered part of the slope. To the untrained eye, the casual passerby, it probably just looked like a normal tree. But Artemis's eye was far from untrained, and she ran through this part of Hampstead Heath every day. This tree was a newcomer; it had not been there yesterday. And with just one glance Artemis recognized that it was an entirely new species, a type of eucalyptus that had also not existed yesterday. It was a tree that should not exist at all.

Dragging the mutts behind her, Artemis made her way over to the tree. She touched its bark and felt it breathing. She pressed her ear against the trunk of the tree and listened to its heartbeat. Then she looked around. Good; it was early, and there was nobody within earshot. She reminded herself not to get angry with the tree, that it wasn't the tree's fault. Then she spoke.

"Hello," she said.
There was a long silence.

"Hello," said Artemis again.

"Are you talking to me?" said the tree. It had a faint Australian accent.

"Yes," said Artemis. "I am Artemis." If the tree experienced any recognition, it didn't show it. "I'm the goddess of hunting and chastity," said Artemis.

Another silence. Then the tree said, "I'm Kate. I work in mergers and acquisitions for Goldman Sachs."
"Do you know what happened to you, Kate?" said Artemis.

The longest silence of all. Artemis was just about to repeat the question when the tree replied.

"I think I've turned into a tree," it said.

"Yes," said Artemis. "You have."
"Thank God for that," said the tree. "I thought I was going mad." Then the tree seemed to reconsider this. "Actually," it said, "I think I would rather be mad." Then, with hope in its voice: "Are you sure I haven't gone mad?"
"I'm sure," said Artemis. "You're a tree. A eucalyptus. Subgenus of mallee. Variegated leaves."
"Oh," said the tree.
"Sorry," said Artemis.
"But with variegated leaves?"
"Yes," said Artemis. "Green and yellow."
The tree seemed pleased. "Oh well, there's that to be grateful for," it said.
"That's the spirit," Artemis reassured it.
"So," said the tree in a more conversational tone. "You're the goddess of hunting and chastity then?"
"Yes," said Artemis. "And of the moon, and several other things. Artemis." She put a little emphasis on her name. It still hurt when mortals didn't know it.
"I didn't know there was a goddess of hunting and chastity and the moon," confessed the tree. "I thought there was just the one God. Of everything. Or actually, to be honest, I thought there was no God at all. No offense."
"None taken," said Artemis. Unbelievers were always preferable to heretics.
"I have to say you don't look much like a goddess, though," added the tree.
"And what does a goddess look like, exactly?" said Artemis, a sharpness entering her voice.
"I don't know," said the tree, a little nervously. "Shouldn't you be wearing a toga or something? Or a laurel wreath?"
"You mean, not a tracksuit," said Artemis.
"Pretty much," admitted the tree.
"Times change," said Artemis. "Right now, you don't look like somebody who works in mergers and acquisitions for Goldman Sachs." Her voice indicated that the clothing conversation was closed.
"I still can't get over the fact that you're a goddess," said the tree after a pause. "Wow. Yesterday I wouldn't have believed it. Today ..." The tree gave an almost imperceptible shrug, rustling its leaves. Then it seemed to think for a bit. "So does that mean, if you're a goddess," it said, "that you can turn me back into a person?"
Artemis had been expecting this question.
"I'm sorry," she said, "but I can't."
"Why not?" said the tree.
The tree sounded so despondent that she couldn't bring herself to reply, as planned, Because I don't want to. "A god can't undo what another god has done," she found herself saying instead, much to her own surprise. She hated admitting any kind of weakness, especially to a mortal.
"You mean that guy was a god too? The one who ... did this. Well, I suppose it's obvious now. I kind of hoped he might be a hypnotist."
"No, he was a god," said Artemis.
"Um," said the tree. "Could you do something about that red setter? I don't really like the way it's sniffing around me." Artemis pulled the idiot dog away.
"Sorry," she said. "So what happened exactly?"
"I was just taking a walk yesterday and this guy came up to talk to me-"
"Tall?" said Artemis. "Blond? Almost impossibly handsome?"
"That's the one," said the tree.
"What did he say?" said Artemis.
The bark on the tree seemed to shift slightly, as if the tree were making a face.
"I, um ..."
"What did he say?" Artemis asked again, allowing a hint of command to enter her voice.
"He said, 'Hello. Do you want to give me a blow job?' "
A blow job. Why did people do these things to each other? Artemis felt faintly sick.
"I said no," continued the tree, "and then he said, 'Are you sure, because you look like you'd be good at it and I think you'd really enjoy it.'"
"I'm very sorry," said Artemis, "about my brother. If it were up to me he would not be allowed outside unsupervised."
"He's your brother?"
"My twin. It's ... unfortunate."
"Well, anyway, I just walked off, and he followed me, and I got a bit scared and I started running, and then the next thing I knew ... here I am."
Artemis shook her head. "This isn't the first time something like this has happened," she said. "Rest assured, we will be having words about it."
"And then he'll turn me back?"
"Absolutely," lied Artemis.
"No need to tell my family back home what happened, then," said the tree. "Good. Maybe I should call in sick at work though. I can't really go in like this. I had my phone with me; it should be around here somewhere. Could you dial my boss's number and hold the phone to my trunk?"
"Mortals aren't going to be able to understand you, I'm afraid," said Artemis. "Just gods. And other vegetation. I wouldn't bother talking to the grass, though. It isn't very bright."
"Oh," said the tree. "Okay." Artemis gave the tree time to absorb this information. "Why aren't I more upset about this?" it said eventually. "If you'd told me yesterday that I was going to be turned into a tree, I'm sure I'd have been really, really upset."
"You're a tree now, not a human mortal," explained Artemis. "You don't really have emotions anymore. I think you'll be much happier this way. And you'll live longer, unless it gets very windy."
"Except your brother's going to turn me back."
"Of course he is," said Artemis. "Right, then. I'd best be getting on. I've got to get these dogs back to ... my friends." "It was nice meeting you," said the tree.
"Likewise," said Artemis. "Bye, then. See you soon. Maybe."

The pleasant look on her face vaporized before her back was even fully turned. The dogs saw her expression and whimpered as one. But they had nothing to fear from Artemis. It was time to go home and find Apollo.

Sources: Text, Pic 

Genotext and Phenotext

Lately I've been concerned with the dynamics of literature and the context in which it figures. Elements of a hypertext may resemble elements of a hypotext (Genette's terms) but the issue on my mind is which of these elements are specific to the cultural context of the hypotext and which are specific only to the hypotext. Literature enters into a contemporary cultural discourse in which several elements, be it motifs, plot structures, issues or conflicts to name a few, are pervasive. Based in this, I wondered what in a hypertext would be elements of direct literary intertextuality and what would be a result of inherited cultural norms, principles and perspectives.

To state it blatantly, is Kurtz in Coppola's Apocalypse Now an echo of Conrad's Kurtz or is he a representation of the cultural stereotype of the brilliant but misguided outcast inherent in Western culture? Is Nick Hornby's socially challenged and alienated protagonists representative of a cultural type or do they hark back to earlier literary social outcasts (Frankenstein, Heathcliff, Dorian Gray etc.)? The main issue is, succinctly stated, whether there is a real, direct intertextual connection between hyper- and hypo-text or whether both are in fact echoes of the same cultural signified.

One approach to resolving this issue which I found helpful was distinction between the semiotic and the symbolic mode of language in Julia Kristeva's split subject, especially as represented through the terms genotext and phenotext. Building on the work of Jaques Lacan's dichotomy of the imaginary and the symbolic and Freud's work on primary processes, Kristeva's split subject concerns concepts of symbolic representation and infancy. The semiotic mode prevails is the infant state where the subject, unable to distinguish himself from the significant other (the mother), understands his environs without the use of language. This state comes to an end as the subject interacts and has to make sense of the world. This can only be done through the language logic inherent in society and thus represents the onset of the symbolic mode of language.

Transferring the focus to texts, Kristeva offers the terms genotext and phenotext. Genotext refers to those elements in a text which appeal to the psychological processes from the semiotic mode, be they love, despair, alienation or other drives. Phenotext, on the other hand, is those elements which tie in with the symbolic mode of language, i.e. those dependent on language, presentation, logic and which try to convey meaning.

This distinction, then, might assist somewhat in the above intertextuality problem area. If we assume a connection between genotext and those latent values, principles etc. in the culture with which hypo- and hypertext engages, phenotext would then be those elements specific to the text. This cojunction, of course, requires an understanding of culture as a form of socially shared psychology and it also represents the extremes of a sliding scale but taking this into account it might assist the researcher of intertextual dynamics in establishing the nature of relevant elements. Thus, when reapproaching an issue such as that of the Kurtz character, we might find that while the elements of character confidence and resistance might be products of culture, Kurtz's situation, action- and reaction patterns are specific to Conrad's hypertext. The social alienation felt by Hornby's protagonists would appear to be an echo of culture, while their interaction with that society could be an echo of earlier literature.

Source: Allen, Graham: Intertextuality, New York 2001

Two Satirical Poems About One Man

Jonathan Swift's A Satirical Elegy on the Death of a Late Famous General and Robert Southey's After Blenheim both take a satirical approach to John Churchill, 1st Duke of Marlborough. One of Winston Churchill's ancestors, he served as a general in the British Army, most notably in the War of the Spanish Succession (1701-1714) where he famously won the Battle of Blenheim in 1704.

Both poems give interesting comments on war and warmongering contrasting the glory and skill of soldiering with the death and devastation of war. They both exhibit the tone which would appear more prominently in war poets such as Wilfred Owen two hundred years later.

A few notes...

A Satirical Elegy

• The poem is written in iambic tetrameter. In English, heroic verse, a form traditionally used in epic and dramatic poetry, is iambic pentameter. The missing iamb, then, signifies a lack and reflects the satirical content in form. The rhyme is masculine end rhyme in couplets (aabbccdd...)
• The elegy as a poetic composition usually laments and pays tribute to someone who has died. However, Swift does the opposite, making this the second formal reflection of satirical content. For my post on the mock-epic, click here.
• Swift's satires were, in general, Juvenalian ones. These are opposed to Horatian satires, which are gently mocking folly. Named after Horace, the Horatian satire is fairly sympathetic while Juvenalian satire, named after Juvenal, takes a more scornful view of its target, which is evil rather than folly. Juvenalian satires are more likely to use dark humour and sarcasm and see no hope where Horatian satires do. Swift's comments on Marlborough here are distinctly Juvenalian.
• A few explanatory notes:
• Swift takes a scornful view of the life and achievements of Marlborough which is shown amongst other things in the lines mentioned below.
• Line 6-8: This refers to the final judgement. According to Swift, Marlborough will not do well at the last trump.
• Line 16: Swift emphasises the physical and unpleasant for satirical effect. This he commonly did, perhaps most notably in The Lady's Dressing Room. For my discussion of this satire, click here.
• Line 17-22: Nobody grieves for him because he caused enough grief "in his day".
• Line 26: The praise of the general is like a bubble; seems substantial , but is hollow and easily undone.
• Line 32: This line refers to Genesis 2.7 albeit with a twist. While Genesis states that "[...]God formed man of the dust of the ground [...]", Swift claims that Marlborough sprung from dirt, which has slightly different connotations. See my note on line 16 in relation to this.

After Blenheim

• The poem is written in alternating iambic tetra- and trimeter. The final couplet consists of two lines of iambic tetrameter, decisively ending the stanza but also disrupting the metric pattern. The masculine end rhyme follows an abcbdd pattern in all stanzas, except the second which plays a disruptive role. Here, the word found is repeated in the fourth and fifth line, adding tension and changing the rhyme pattern to abcbbb.
• The ballad was originally sung, which accounts for the first four lines, corresponding to the four line ballad stanza. This, coupled with alliteration, also accounts for the relatively harmonious feel of the poem.
• Where Swift uses the properties of the elegy to create a sense of the uncanny and grotesque, Southey does so with those of the ballad. Incidentally, Freud's "uncanny" is discussed in these three posts.
• The effect of the poem stems largely from the combination of the peaceful, sunlit setting, the violent events discussed and the old farmer's repeated insistence that the victory was supposedly great and famous.

What do you think? 

In both these poems, structure is used as much to produce an emotional response as content. What do you think of this strategy? Is it a necessity of satire? Does it help the satire along or does it obscure the message of the poems and mar their content? On a slightly different note, do the reader have to be aware of standards of structure to be affected by the form of the poem? If so, how much awareness or literary competence is required?

The Tale of Sir Bob appreciates your input!

"Lionizing" by Edgar Allan Poe

This is Edgar Allan Poe's fable Lionizing from his 1840 Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque, most notable for the previously published The Fall of the House of Usher. Read it, then analyse your reaction. Perhaps my comments at the end might help.

"

Lionizing

-all people went
Upon their ten toes in wild wondernment.
Bishop Hall's Satires.

I AM, that is to say I was, a great man, but I am neither the author of Junius nor the man in the mask, for my name, I believe, is Robert Jones, and I was born somewhere in the city of Fum-Fudge.

The first action of my life was the taking hold of my nose with both hands. My mother saw this and called me a genius:-my father wept for joy and presented me with a treatise on Nosology. This I mastered before I was breeched.

I now began to feel my way in the science, and soon came to understand that, provided a man had a nose sufficiently conspicuous, he might by merely following it, arrive at a Lionship. But my attention was not confined to theories alone. Every morning I gave my proboscis a couple of pulls and swallowed a half-dozen of drams.

When I came of age my father asked me, one day, if I would step with him into his study.

"My son," he said, when we were seated, "what is the chief end of your existence?"

"My father," I answered, "it is the study of Nosology."

"And what, Robert," he inquired, "is Nosology?"

"Sir," I said, "it is the science of Noses."

"And can you tell me," he demanded, "what is the meaning of a nose?"

"A nose, my father," I replied, greatly softened, "has been variously defined by about a thousand different authors." [Here I pulled out my watch.] "It is now noon, or thereabouts-We shall have time enough to get through with them all before midnight. To commence then: The nose, according to Bartholinus, is that protuberance-that bump-that excresence-that-"

"Will do, Robert," interupted the old gentleman. "I am thunderstruck at the extent of your information-I am positively-upon my soul." [Here he closed his eyes and placed his hand upon his heart.] "Come here!" [Here he took me by the arm.] "Your education may now be considered as finished-it is high time you should scuffle for yourself-and you cannot do a better thing than merely follow your nose-so-so-so-" [Here he kicked me down stairs and out of the door.]-"So get out of my house, and God bless you!"

As I felt within me the divine afflatus, I considered this accident rather fortunate than otherwise. I resolved to be guided by the paternal advice. I determined to follow my nose. I gave it a pull or two upon the spot, and wrote a pamphlet on Nosology forthwith.

All Fum-Fudge was in an uproar.

"Wonderful genius!" said the Quarterly.

"Superb physiologist!" said the Westminster.

"Clever fellow!" said the Foreign.

"Fine writer!", said the Edinburgh.

"Profound thinker!" said the Dublin.

"Great man!" said Bentley.

"Divine soul!" said Fraser.

"One of us!" said Blackwood.

"Who can he be?" said Mrs. Bas-Bleu.

"What can he be?" said big Miss Bas-Bleu.

"Where can he be?" said little Miss Bas-Bleu.-But I paid these people no attention whatever-I just stepped into the shop of an artist.

The Duchess of Bless-my-Soul was sitting for her portrait; the Marquis of So-and-So was holding the Duchess' poodle; the Earl of This-and-That was flirting with her salts; and his Royal Highness of Touch-me-Not was leaning upon the back of her chair.

I approached the artist and turned up my nose.

"Oh, beautiful!" sighed her Grace.

"Oh, my!" lisped the Marquis.

"Oh, shocking!" groaned the Earl.

"Oh, abominable!" growled his Royal Highness.

"What will you take for it?" asked the artist.

"For his nose!" shouted her Grace.

"A thousand pounds," said I, sitting down.

"A thousand pounds?" inquired the artist, musingly.

"A thousand pounds," said I.

"Beautiful!" said he, entranced.

"A thousand pounds," said I.

"Do you warrant it?" he asked, turning the nose to the light.

"I do," said I, blowing it well.

"Is it quite original?" he inquired, touching it with reverence.

"Humph!" said I, twisting it to one side.

"Has no copy been taken?" he demanded, surveying it through a microscope.

"None," said I, turning it up.

"Admirable!" he ejaculated, thrown quite off his guard by the beauty of the manoeuvre.

"A thousand pounds," said I.

"A thousand pounds?" said he.

"Precisely," said I.

"A thousand pounds?" said he.

"Just so," said I.

"You shall have them," said he. "What a piece of virtu!" So he drew me a check upon the spot, and took a sketch of my nose. I engaged rooms in Jermyn street, and sent her Majesty the ninety-ninth edition of the "Nosology," with a portrait of the proboscis. That sad little rake, the Prince of Wales, invited me to dinner.

We are all lions and recherches.

There was a modern Platonist. He quoted Porphyry, Iamblicus, Plotinus, Proclus, Hierocles, Maximus Tyrius, and Syrianus.

There was a human-perfectibility man. He quoted Turgot, Price, Priestly, Condorcet, De Stael, and the "Ambitious Student in Ill-Health."

There was Sir Positive Paradox. He observed that all fools were philosophers, and that all philosophers were fools.

There was Aestheticus Ethix. He spoke of fire, unity, and atoms; bi-part and pre-existent soul; affinity and discord; primitive intelligence and homoomeria.

There was Theologos Theology. He talked of Eusebius and Arianus; heresy and the Council of Nice; Puseyism and consubstantialism; Homousios and Homouioisios.

There was Fricassee from the Rocher de Cancale. He mentioned Muriton of red tongue; cauliflowers with veloute sauce; veal a la St. Menehoult; marinade a la St. Florentin; and orange jellies en mosaiques.

There was Bibulus O'Bumper. He touched upon Latour and Markbrunnen; upon Mosseux and Chambertin; upon Richbourg and St. George; upon Haubrion, Leonville, and Medoc; upon Barac and Preignac; upon Grave, upon Sauterne, upon Lafitte, and upon St. Peray. He shook his head at Clos de Vougeot, and told with his eyes shut, the difference between Sherry and Amontillado.

There was Signor Tintontintino from Florence. He discoursed of Cimabue, Arpino, Carpaccio, and Argostino-of the gloom of Caravaggio, of the amenity of Albano, of the colors of Titian, of the frows of Rubens, and of the waggeries of Jan Steen.

There was the President of the Fum-Fudge University. He was of the opinion that the moon was called Bendis in Thrace, Bubastis in Egypt, Dian in Rome, and Artemis in Greece.

There was a Grand Turk from Stamboul. He could not help thinking that the angels were horses, cocks, and bulls; that somebody in the sixth heaven had seventy thousand heads; and that the earth was supported by a sky-blue cow with an incalculable number of green horns.

There was Delphinus Polyglott. He told us what had become of the eighty-three lost tragedies of Aeschylus; of the fifty-four orations of Isaeus; of the three hundred and ninety-one speeches of Lysias; of the hundred and eighty treatises of Theophrastus; of the eighth book of the conic sections of Apollonius; of Pindar's hymns and dithyrambics, and of the five and forty tragedies of Homer Junior.

There was Ferdinand Fitz-Fossillus Feltspar. He informed us all about internal fires and tertiary formations; about aeriforms, fluidiforms, and solidforms; about quartz and marl; about schist and schorl; about gypsum and trap; about talc and calc; about blende and horn-blende; about micaslate and pudding-stone; about cyanite and lepidolite; about haematite and tremolite; about antimony and calcedony; about manganese and whatever you please.

There was myself. I spoke of myself;-of myself, of myself, of myself;-of Nosology, of my pamphlet, and of myself. I turned up my nose, and I spoke of myself.

"Marvellous clever man!" said the Prince.

"Superb!" said his guests;-and next morning her Grace of Bless-my-soul paid me a visit.

"Will you go to Almack's, pretty creature?" she said, tapping me under the chin.

"Upon honor," said I.

"Nose and all?" she asked.

"As I live," I replied.

"Here then is a card, my life. Shall I say you will be there?"

"Dear, Duchess, with all my heart."

"Pshaw, no!-but with all your nose?"

"Every bit of it, my love," said I:-so I gave it a twist or two, and found myself at Almack's.

The rooms were crowded to suffocation.

"He is coming!" said somebody on the staircase.

"He is coming!" said somebody farther up.

"He is coming!" said somebody farther still.

"He is come!" exclaimed the Duchess, "He is come, the little love!"-and, seizing me firmly by both hands, she kissed me thrice upon the nose.

A marked sensation immediately ensued.

"Diavolo!" cried Count Capricornutti.

"Dios guarda!" muttered Don Stiletto.

"Mille tonnerres!" ejaculated the Prince de Grenouille.

"Tousand teufel!" growled the Elector of Bluddennuff.

It was not to be borne. I grew angry. I turned short upon Bluddennuff.

"Sir!" said I to him, "you are a baboon."

"Sir," he replied, after a pause. "Donner und Blitzen!"

This was all that could be desired. We exchanged cards. At Chalk-Farm, the next morning, I shot off his nose-and then called upon my friends.

"Bete!" said the first.

"Fool!" said the second.

"Dolt!" said the third.

"Ass!" said the fourth.

"Ninny!" said the fifth.

"Noodle!" said the sixth.

"Be off!" said the seventh.

At all this I felt mortified, and so called upon my father.

"Father," I asked, "what is the chief end of my existence?"

"My son," he replied, "it is still the study of Nosology; but in hitting the Elector upon the nose you have overshot your mark. You have a fine nose, it is true; but then Bluddennuff has none. You are damned, and he has become the hero of the day. I grant you that in Fum-Fudge the greatness of a lion is in proportion to the size of his proboscis-but, good heavens! there is no competing with a lion who has no proboscis at all."

THE END

"

Comments

The reader may well feel uneasy while reading this fable. For a modern reader, the title of the volume signals the very notion, although the words grotesque and arabesque also refer to the complicated pattern of decorative art found in Roman and Arabic architecture. This thus also reflect the complicated and interwoven nature of the story.

The unease could have a number of causes. Freud explains the term uncanny or unheimlich ("unhomely") in his essay on the term from 1919 as the snag that makes something familiar and safe unfamiliar and scary. He does, amongst other examples, explain how the eyes are understood as vital from a very early age and that any deficiency in these would promote the feeling of the uncanny. (See for instance Neil Gaiman's Coraline.) What makes Lionizing uncanny is the warped sense of reality, biology and the use of a familiar mode of narration to relate this warped sense.

Beginning with the last, the narrative structure looks very much like that of fairy tales and fables (hence my labelling in the introduction). These genres are generally used to teach, that is induce certainty, and entertain, which would induce ease and a feeling of belonging and safety. The subject matter of Lionizing on the other hand does neither.There is very little consistency in the characters and very little exposition of setting and yet the characters are shown to be highly important through massive use of references and emphasis of their comments. This makes the reader feel at a loss. Furthermore, while the structure of repetition would normally promote a feeling of stability and unity, the fragmentary nature of the narrative (especially in terms of setting) and the subject matter undermines this. The fable does, however, rather surprisingly have a lesson at the end.

There is a warped sense of reality which keep appearing. References are given to real life scientists etc. but many of the matters of discussion and the protagonist's area of expertise are nonsensical. Also, the protagonist undergoes an unnaturally rapid development and consorts with an unlikely array of figures who acts in ways uncalled for. The fable contains several references to reality which, each on their own, can be accepted but which in combination makes the text uncanny.

Finally, the warped sense of biology. Notice a child's fascination with any kind of physical deformity and deficiency. This is an aspect of the same feelings Freud discussed. The protagonist is uncommonly smart and has an uncommonly attractive nose. As long as this is proven by the other characters through their exaggerated attention to the nose, the sense of unease is maintained, because the natural has become unnatural.

As a closing side note, Poe is not really known for being humourous. Perhaps the unease may stem from a rather unsuccessful attempt at comedy and the whole uncannyness was unintentional? For humourous nonsense, I guess you would have to look to Lewis Carroll or Roald Dahl, or perhaps Tim Burton's The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy & Other Stories.

Sources: Text, Pic., Uncanny