Remember the Porter! Or the bracket on the 5th of November

I’ve been teaching Volpone today, and, in my preparation for the seminar, discovered the wonderful British Library pages on early modern drama and dramatists. They also showed an autograph letter of Jonson to Robert Cecil, James’ secretary of state, and secret service guy, written just days after the revelation of the Gunpowder Plot in 1605. On 5 November 414 years ago, that is.

In the letter, Jonson, vehemently expresses his loyalty to his country (implying the king), and informs Cecil that he was unable to find the person the latter asked him to look for, namely a certain priest who, it was hoped, would be able to question the imprisoned Guy Fawkes, silent about his accomplices until then. Pre-torture, one assumes.

Jonson, being Catholic at the time, was naturally under suspicion of complicity, and it certainly didn’t help that he frequented pubs and places accompanied by one of the masterminds behind the plot, Robert Catesby. It’s not sure whether Jonson truly was involved, or whether his connection a mere circumstance of the relatively overseeable community of Catholics at the time, or, indeed, whether he was a spy for the other, the official, side. In any case, there’s a letter, and it’s in his handwriting, and I feel touched to see it.

As I was reading it, I realized my eyes naturally looked for punctuation marks, particularly parentheses, of course. And I found five which may tell us some interesting things about their early modern use. What a perfect way of linking all those concerns of the day together, brackets, bombs, and Ben.

Transcript (from the BL page)

My most honorable Lord. /

May it please yo[u]r Lo[rdship] to understand, there hath bene no want

in mee, eyther of labor or sincerity in the discharge of this busines,

to the satisfaction of yo[u]r Lo[rdship] and the state. And wheras, yesterday,

upon the first Mention of it, I tooke the most ready Course (to my

present thought) by the Venetian Ambassadors Chaplin, who not

only apprehended it well, but was of mind w[i]th mee, that no Man of

Conscience, or any indifferent Love to his Countrey would deny to

doe it; and w[i]thall engaged himselfe to find out one, absolute in all

Numbers, for the purpose; w[hi]ch he will’d me (before a Gent[leman] of

good Credit, who is my Testemony) to signifie to yo[u]r Lo[rdship] in his

Name: It falls out since, that that Party will not be found,

(for soe he returnes answere.) upon w[hi]ch I have made attempt

in other Places, but can speake w[i]th no one in Person (all being

eyther remov’d or so conceal’d; upon this present Mischeife) but

by second Meanes, I have receav’d answere of doubts, and

difficulties, that they ^ will make it a Question to the Archpriest, w[i]th

other such like suspensions: So that to tell yo[u]r Lo[rdship] playnly

my heart, I thinke they are All so enwean’d in it, as it will

make 500 Gent[lemen] less of the Religion w[i]thin this weeke, if

they carry theyr understanding about them. For my selfe,

if I had bene a Preist, I would have put on wings to such

an Occasion, and have thought it no adventure, where I

might have done (besides his Maiesty, and my Countrey) all

Christianity so good service. And so much I have sent to

some of them./

If it shall please yo[u]r Lordsh[ip] I shall yet make

farder triall, and that you cannot in the meane time be pro=

vided: I do not only w[i]th all readynesse offer my service, but will

p[er]forme it w[i]th as much integrity, as yo[u]r particular Favor,

or his Maiesties Right in any subiect he hath, can exalt.

Yo[u]r Ho[nour] most perfect

servant and Lover

Ben[jamin] Jonson.

8 November 1605

This is a letter for presentation. The hand is regular and elegant, except for the little insertion, there are no after-thoughts, no mistakes. The brackets, too, must be on purpose.

Jonson carefully structures his letter, moving from an introductory assurance of having done all he could to fulfil Cecil’s request to an explanation of his steps of action, that is, seeing the Venician ambassador to ask advice on which priest to approach, the ambassador being unable to find anyone suitable, Jonson asking around other places, again to no avail, a suggestion he did receive certain answers but not conclusive ones, an impassioned plea of his loyalty to crown and country, and a promise to try again.

The good news we learn from this letter: Jonson is really supportive of the powers that be. The bad news: he didn’t manage to do what those powers had asked him to do, that is, find a guy to cross-examine Fawkes. Jonson couches his admission to this failure in three relatively substantial parantheses, crowding together within the space of 60 odd words.

The parentheses bear adjustments, qualifications, and clarifications to what he’s saying in the “official” lines; they help carry the bad news, but are supposed to help protect the messenger. You can’t be straightforward when talking to the secretary of state! So, it makes sense Jonson is hedging information on his failure between all those visual walls, making the sentence flow stop and start. Every clause expressing a new piece of information is clearly delineated through the brackets, segregating them into discrete chunks which the eye reads one by one. It slows the whole process down, and (I believe) makes the reader linger on, and process through, all the steps that Jonson went through to fulfil his duty, albeit without success.

I’ve got more to say yet about the difference in pace of the passages with and without brackets, but I want to delve in a bit more, and consider their local effect one by one.

Number 1: ‘And wheras, yesterday, upon the first Mention of it, I tooke the most ready Course (to mypresent thought) by the Venetian Ambassadors Chaplin, who not only apprehended it well, but was of mind w[i]th mee’

Jonson tells us, carefully, anxiously, that to him it seemed best to address himself to the ambassador as first port of call. Jonson must have been familiar enough with the ambassador to seek his help, that is, the help of his Chaplin (thanks for this hint to James Loxley!)

In any case, Jonson wants to make clear that he did what seemed most appropriate to him without arrogating to himself the right to decide, and take action – that’s Cecil’s. The bracket makes clear, though, that Jonson does take responsibility. It’s his thought. His action. Then, after having talked to the ambassador, Jonson’s thought becomes official line, and doesn’t require a carefully qualifying bracket anymore. They were ‘of mind’. They think the same. The bracket, in this instance, signals pre-emption of criticism, and possession, his ‘present thought’. It also signals time. Going to the ambassador was a thought from then. Now, Jonson might think differently. But there you go: in the present, then, it seemed to make sense.

Brackets 2, 3, and 4 come as a triplet:

‘and w[i]thall engaged himselfe to find out one, absolute in all Numbers, for the purpose; w[hi]ch he will’d me (before a Gent[leman] of good Credit, who is my Testemony) to signifie to yo[u]r Lo[rdship] in his Name: It falls out since, that that Party will not be found, (for soe he returnes answere.) upon w[hi]ch I have made attempt in other Places, but can speake w[i]th no one in Person (all being eyther remov’d or so conceal’d; upon this present Mischeife) but by second Meanes, I have receav’d answere of doubts, and difficulties, that they ^ will make it a Question to the Archpriest, w[i]th other such like suspensions’

The brackets thick and fast manage the reading flow, and alleviate the gravity of the news, that Jonson was unable to fulfil the thing he was asked to fulfil.

Bracket 2 cuts the sentence into two sub-clauses, introducing an actual break, a physical distance between Jonson (‘me’), and Cecil (‘yo[u]r Lo[rdship]’). It’s clear who is the person in power here. Also, the unnamed person testifying for Jonson is mentioned in passing, in a parenthesis, because he’s exactly that, unnamed, and slightly adjunct to the whole story as it is, but yet important enough to be mentioned, to add to the jigsaw of careful rendition of Jonson’s careful attempt to provide.

The third bracket tries to re-inforce the impression that Jonson did make an attempt to find a priest, but that that attempt has failed partly because of someone else: ‘he returnes answer’. He, not Jonson. He returns, Jonson merely receives.  

The fourth bracket explains, yet again, why Jonson’s mission was fruitless (Catholics lie low at the moment). Time again enters the parenthesis, insisting that the ‘Mischief’ is now, these days, these confusing dangerous days.

Then, an impassioned plea: ‘So that to tell yo[u]r Lo[rdship] plainly my heart’ – and here follows tens and tens of words on Jonson’s loyalty, an honest outpouring of truth that needs no interrupting, hedging brackets. It’s Jonson, the lack of brackets suggests, earnest, naked, promising to keep doing his best. It’s the future, not the now. The future is clear and simple.

I’m not yet sure what to make of all this, but it was fun and illuminating to explore. I’m reading lots about punctuation at the moment, so it’s a relief to look at it in action, too. And such exciting action at that, words and history and all.

2 November 2019: Craving Good News

I went to see Crave by Sarah Kane on Halloween. It’s one of her less violent ones, at least visually so. Emotionally-speaking, it’s tough, of course: four people talking at cross-purposes for 50 minutes, topics ranging from paedophilia, suicide, loneliness, loss, abandonment, and whatever else life throws at people in general, and people at each other.

The stage was a black square two sides of which were clad in transparent foil, the one you use for painting the walls. The actors ripped these apart at the end, just before moving towards the open door whose light enticed them away from the stage of their pain.

To be honest, I understood much too little of the reasons for this or that choice, production-wise, composition-wise…but perhaps it’s enough just to be there and watch, listen, co-suffer.

Studies have found that people around the world are more engaged by bad than good news. Scientists measured heart rate and skin conductance when playing good and bad news clips to an international group of people, and discovered that there is a greater physiological arousal response when the news is bad. They don’t explain this “negativity bias”, but there you go, we’re turned on by disaster. Tragedy, yet again.

It’s curious, though, that this bias is biological, irrespective of culture or language. Tragedy wired in our genes.

It’s also curious that the physiological response does not increase with an increase of bad news. We can only take so much it seems. So your CNN and BBC might as well mix in more good news than they currently do. We’ll keep watching, keep consuming. Keep activating.

In the play, all characters, all four of them, craved love before anything, actually; love from each other, their parents, self-love, as in self-esteem. Even Kane’s bleakest plays always have their protagonists show or want love, even if only a sliver of it, somewhere amid all that chopping off of limbs à la Titus Andronicus.

Redemption, and the impossibility of total waste.

31 October: Damnable Practices?

Damnable Practices, 1619, Pepys collection, via English Broadside Ballad Archive, EBBA 20058.

Google has changed its interface to feature an owl with a witch hat perched on something (dishwasher?), so it’s Halloween, apparently. My wonderful weekly psychology digest included a brilliant gem on why we like being scared – in a safe way. As expected, we learn to manage danger and our responses to it (emotional, cognitive, motor), by seeking out situations of imitation. It’s all a question of preparing for the worst case scenario while not being in the worst case scenario.

The article pointed towards some fascinating knee-jerk responses by our bodies to danger, such as something looking like a spider over-riding inattentional blindness, that is, us not noticing something obvious if we are focussing on something else (that gorilla-basketball experiment). We’ve had to be careful of spiders back in the days, a.k.a. hundreds of thousands of years ago, so it makes sense that the body reacts before consciousness does. Only that spiders and tigers don’t pose real threats to us anymore (at least most of the time, at least in urbanized parts of the world) doesn’t mean our biological warning system changes, particularly considering cities of current sizes are such a recent phenomenon in human history.

The article describes how situations of alternating stress and unstress (trochee, anyone?) develop swift physical responses such as running away when being startled as in peek-a-boo play. We are being made to like those simulations and seek them out in order to prep us. There’s nothing new as such here, but it is worth to keep thinking about the why behind our pleasure for horror.

I’ve been thinking about that in the past couple of days, since I’m teaching Volpone next week, and the tutors of the Renaissance seminar decided to give out a trigger warning for the play, relating to the attempted rape of Celia by Volpone in 3.7. Dubious consent and men trying to persuade reluctant women to sleep with them seemed to be a thread through the set texts as much as humanism and rhetoric were – all thrillingly connected, of course, pedagogy, persuasion, and sex. But reverting to force when words fail really comes home in Volpone. And it’s not easy.

It’s not easy to decide about censuring that scene because it may upset some people, people who have made horrible experiences, or who are particularly sensitive to descriptions of violence.

But then again, how graphic is the description?

Then again, who am I to decide what is graphic and what not?

It’s not easy to explain the choice against censuring. Or maybe it is, but it comes with an acknowledgement that, yes, we as readers and spectators do, somehow or other, like watching a woman in distress. Amend that: watching the representation of a woman in distress. Simulation, imitation, mimesis, again. Katharsis. Tragedy.

I ended up writing to my students about how art, good art, is supposed to include things which we may encounter in life, and which are traumatic, and which we condemn. It does that so that we engage, and condemn, and not ignore. It does that so that we step out of ourselves, and give attention to the plight of someone else, however fictional. Attention, again. Tragedy.

And like a ghost behind all of that the unsettling suggestion that…sweet violence.

For no reason whatsoever.

23 September: Desirable Difficulty

If you can’t read this (easily), that’s exactly what should happen.

This typeface has been named Sans Forgetica by some Jacques aficionado genius, because it’s supposed to help you not forget what you’ve read. It’s got gaps and is back-slanted so that it becomes difficult (though not impossible) to read. It’s been developed by researchers of psychology, cognitive science, and behavioural business people at RMIT University, Australia in 2018, and is freely available here.

The whole idea is based on a sizable number of experiments that explore how retention rate of information is higher if we have some kind of difficulty when acquiring it in the first place. So rather than just reading a text in a smooth highly legible font, it’s better for learning if our eyes and brain stumble a little, and are being teased just that tiny bit.

Quizzes do something similar, or difficult questions, paraphrasing a text, group work, problem-solving: all this helps students remember better and increase comprehension and interpretation of the material. That’s called ‘desirable difficulties’.

There are so many ways to use this for the class room, and I love that it goes against our modern grain of hyper smoothness, and hyper simplicity. Promises everywhere to learn a language in 30 days, and all that. Efficiency, efficiency, efficiency. But we just have to accept that some stuff is hard to get. That’s just the way it is, and it’s supposed to be like that.

It makes me think that, perhaps, we should not offer modern spelling editions of old texts, and perhaps we should not be afraid to use texts in the original blackletter, and even (shriek) secretary hand. I did change the spelling of the Tottel preface I am going to discuss with my students, but only grudgingly so. Will they really be thrown off balance because ‘words’ is spelt ‘wordes’? Or is it a (for now) unnecessary wall between them and comprehension of sense? Should we not say that, yes, universities are place that are supposed to challenge us? Maybe I should go back, and put the preface into Sans Forgetica at least.

Who knows, perhaps Wyatt would have been more successful, amorous-wise, if he had written his poems in the anti-oblivion font. But then again, we wouldn’t have much to remember and think deeply about today. This. Forgotten not yet. In any typeface.

17 September: What’s aught but as ’tis valued

This, the title, is of course from everyone’s favourite play, good old Troilus and Cressida. We had that as our set play in the Cambridge tripos back in the days, so I feel nostalgic about it. I actually quite like it, less in the ‘oh, beautiful’ way, but rather ‘oh, interesting!’. Questions of honour, loyalty, the curious deflation upon fulfilling desire, how the past (or what we think it is) reaches into the present, the entrappings of myth, creating a perpetual loop, the tricks language can be made to play, and of course, most prominently, the relativity (or not?) of value.

Nothing has intrinsic value, Troilus says at the beginning of the play, discussing whether or not to persue the war with his brother Hector who wants to give Helen back to the Greeks. We assign value to something, and so, if we say Helen is worth all the pain and awfulness of war (though is he really convinced that it is so? does it matter?), she is. If we say the annotations and underlinings of the first folio in the Free Library of Philadelphia are made by Milton, then they are so.


An old supervisor of mine, Jason Scott-Warren from Gonville and Caius, Cambridge, has published a blog entry on the Cambrige Centre for Material Culture website a week ago which has made big waves in the scholarly world (and had, dare I say it, a small ripple effect in the cultural scene beyond that, see a Guardian article on the discovery). Having read Claire Bourne’s article describing the marginalia in the book which she locates anywhere between 1625 and 1660, Jason had a look at the handwriting and had a stroke of insight (if he’s right) that the hand looks like Milton’s in the few witnesses we have of him.

The reader of the folio made meticulous corrections to spellings, metrical irregularities, and general textual lacunae such as supplying missing lines from other quarto editions of plays. A proper editor. There are also some mark-ups and underlinings, probably referring to commonplacing, or general highlighting of nice passages. More thoughts, wordish criticism, is absent.

Jason provides some photos of the annotator’s hand and habits of forming letters, and tries to parse these with photos of Milton’s hand. Yes, things do look similar. But is it enough? Is palaeographical evidence sufficient for such a remarkable allegation? Maybe it is. Maybe the informed opinion of experts is enough, and goodness we need to listen to experts in today’s anti-education world. But maybe the wish is father to the thought. A little bit at least.

To Troilus’ case for the relativity of worth (one man’s beautiful is another man’s ugly), Hector replies, not less passionately,

But value dwells not in particular will;
It holds his estimate and dignity
As well wherein ’tis precious of itself
As in the prizer.

There’s something timeless and absolute in things that are worthwhile – and at the same time we choose to invest in it, or not. It’s both, Hector says. Troilus and Paris continue to press for war with, perhaps, somewhat unconvincing unsavoury metaphors (and different designs: Paris wants sex, Troilus wants occasions for glory), and Hector eventually gives in, a bit too fast. He, too, is a soldier, after all. He, too, is trapped in his story that already has an end for him in store.

What is aught but as ’tis valued? If we want this to be Milton’s copy of Shakespeare, we will find proof enough for it in his writings.

What irks me, though, is why do we jump to the conclusion that the hand is a man’s straightaway?

10 September: To periodize, or not to periodize…

Back after a longish summer break. Back with more controversial stuff. A friend of mine, an Anglo-Saxonist, drew my attention to what he called the “Twitter shit storm” about the supposedly racist terminology of “Anglo-Saxon”. The twitter account of the International Society of Anglo-Saxonists was hacked, re-named “International Society of Something or Other” (lol, or what), now posting a barrage of angry one-sided tweets on the rampant racism and protection of sexual predators in the higher ranks of professors of medieval English.

My friend said he thinks he knows which professor they mean, and that it is true that he is approaching young female academics, but adult women should take responsibility in saying no. I countered that someone in a position of lesser power may not be able to do so when pressured, and should not be in such a situation in the first place, unless she consented very clearly indeed before being propositioned. That’s a pretty clear case to me. He needs to be called out, and expelled/punished.

What’s not clear to me is re-naming the period. Those in favour say it is a racist term, and offer a spade of others like “early English” – which doesn’t work since it wouldn’t cover Latin. Insular studies, but what about English literature written on the continent? Anglo-Saxon does not ring racist to my European ears, though it may do in the American “wasp”/white supremacy context. It seems exaggerated to change something that has worked well. I wonder if most black or brown Anglo-Saxonists take issue with the term?

I am using black and brown on purpose. I consider myself brown too. Brownish anyway. My father is Iranian, I have a very strong sense of Iranian identity, and my skin *is* browner than other people’s. But I could just as well be Italian or French, a.k.a. white. I don’t at all think the buzz term “person of colour” is useful. Does it not do the exact opposite it’s hoped to do? It’s a blanket term for literally every single person that is not white (whatever that means). So the experience of an Egyptian is the same as that of a Japanese, Indian, Polynesian, Nigerian, Mexican? I don’t think so.

PoC creates a totally false dichotomy between white and literally the rest of the world, and completely obscures the historical fact that supposedly white Europeans and North Americans are pretty mixed themselves. Were the Ottomans not literally in front of the gates of Vienna at the beginning of the sixteenth century? And the Arabs, were they not in Spain for almost 800 years until 1492? That’s longer than those 500 years since they left it. Surely, then, Spaniards must be PoC, too? We need fewer labels and more engagement with individual identities and experiences.

I’m not following the fortunes of “Anglo-Saxon” on Twitter. I think there is a vote on the name. It’s a bit of a shame that the society gets hijacked by a group of youngish early career scholars who masturbate over their woke-ness (sorry, but not sorry), and describe themselves as witch hunters chasing others down. Speaking of self-righteousness.

I saw a couple of tweets that we should also change the term “early modern”, because it means different things in different contexts. Well, yes, d’uh. Italy’s early modern starts 1300, and I don’t expect an Italian early modern scholar to disregard Petrarca when I meet them at a Renaissance conference. It’s also discipline-specific. “Early modern” for history goes right up to 1830, which it does not at all for literature. Jane Austen would be early modern, imagine!

I feel like we should always always discuss and explore inherited terms, concepts, ways of looking at the world. But we also can’t re-invent the wheel. As long as we know what we’re doing, as long as we consciously use terms, knowing very well that they are unstable, entirely dependent on our point of view, it’s okay. It’s okay. Periodization is okay. Let’s talk about it, it’s exciting and insightful to do so, but keeping it is okay, too. A baby calls both an Irish wolf dog and a pug “dog”. But when she grows up, she’ll learn the difference. She’ll learnt that “dog” is a category you use for thinking, but one that is not representative of the entirety of what the thing is.

I found these two articles on the insufficiencies of the term PoC useful and eloquent. Here, and here.

23 July: ‘This wooden O‘ – The Berlin Globe

Home. I’m home, Berlin, but still going to the Globe. The Berlin Globe. Since the beginning of the year, we’ve had our very own Elizabethan theatre, staging open-air shows in a quiet neighbourhood in the north of the city, and in English, too. Well, it’s not really Elizabethan yet. The investor has bought the construction material right off Roland Emmerich after the film Shakespeare author or not film Anonymous (yep, that film), and the space, but is still in the planning-phase, building-wise. I’m excited to see how things are going to look like in the future. As long as I get Shakespeare in English, I’m happy with any kind of theatre.

My mom and I went, and saw Romeo and Juliet, a lively and touching production, largely owing to the portrayal of the young couple. Juliet was a beautifully forward giddy teenager, taking the matter into her own hands. I was intrigued how the role of the Prince morphed into a kind of chorus that was performed by the entire cast, speaking the lines in unison, and holding up strange ragged pieces of metal that fused into a huge Greek-like mask with eyes and mouth. A gem were the teenagers sitting behind me, aged 17 or so. English course, classic. Naturally, the play was too long for them, but they loved the semi-nudity of Romeo and Jules post-wedding night, and they connected wonderfully when Juliet’s parents wanted to kick her out upon refusing to marry Paris. Priceless.

What I didn’t like was changes in the treatment of the text. Romeo and Juliet, as well as Macbeth, Hamlet, and As You Like It, is one of Shakespeare’s plays that I largely know by heart – not that I could spontaneously recite big chunks of it, yet I know it well enough in order to know what’s not in there. And this production has cut passages, perhaps for reasons of time. But why take away Juliet’s gorgeous ‘Gallop apace, you fiery footed steeds’? Or Romeo’s first reaction upon seeing Juliet at the party of the Capulets?

O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear;
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear! (1.5)

Berlin Romeo collapsed the speech, and simply omitted the Ethiopean reference. I checked the available RJ texts, the Folio and the Quartos of 1597 and 99, and the speech is intact in all of them. So what’s the purpose here? I suspect it’s political correctness. It’s both hard and not hard to argue with this one. The reference is there. Shakespeare wrote The Merchant of Venice. Racist and anti-semitic. One might also say, however, that it’s going too far to censor poetry from 400 years ago, and that policing poetical language is essentially misunderstanding literature, equating it with historical documents, and having a strange absolutist world view that knows no cultural and historical relativity. But to offer these objections runs the risk of countenancing racism, and being accused by the especially woke among us who like to point fingers but not to think.

I obviously incline to the latter, believing in humanity’s power to dissociate literature from reality, and to be able to negotiate that which is, with that which is not, but pretends to be. There’s also, perhaps, a difference between an entire play on a group of people, and a local oblique metaphor that encourages interpretation. I feel like retrospective “cleaning” up of stuff that, today, and only today, makes us squirm because we have different sets of beliefs from the past, is a disservice to the cause of being more vigilant and calling out racism. Maybe at the expense of more obvious more life-threatening racism. Such as American prisons, for one.

To erase and make more palatable means also to erase suffering, and change the past with hindsight until it becomes unrecognizable, and we don’t know what was anymore, and what was not. And that’s a task for Big Brother, not the Berlin Globe.

15 July: Anything worth doing is worth doing badly.

So says Chesterton, that most neglected of 20th century writers. Most neglected, and paradoxically, most prolific, having written 100  (I mean, ONE HUNDRED) books, poems, plays, novels, short stories, 4,000 newspaper essays, and decades of columns. AND he invented Father Brown. Why aren’t we hearing about this guy anymore?

I don’t know. But I do know that I love his aphorisms, and especially the one serving as title for these musings. Anything worth doing is worth doing badly. A passionate plea against perfectionism, and “just doing it”.

The phrase actually comes in a somewhat politicized context, that of us nowadays outsourcing any activity to others, that is, professionals, be it sports, cooking, entertainment, childcare, porn. We prefer watching tennis rather than learning it ourselves, go to restaurants, watch Netflix, dump our children in wards at the age of six months, and visit Gentlemen’s Special Interest websites. That’s of course all related to material conditions and capitalist systems of (monetary) exchange: if you don’t earn enough, you can only watch tennis, because a club is too expensive. And anyway, you won’t have time to visit one, since you’re stupidly slaving away in a soul-crushing office. So, I’d take Chesterton’s criticism with a pinch of salt in terms of people’s proclivities, but rather find reasons in the way things are. Still, it’s true, isn’t it, that we prefer having done for us, rather than doing.

Same goes with literary criticism. We read what other people think about a poem before we read it, and have thoughts ourselves. Not always, but often. That’s to do with anxiety about the new, the uncertain, ambiguity. Something you might not understand. But that’s like eating pre-digested food rather than the fresh stuff. Of course, we need both, the poem and the critics (and the monster), but first, surely, we should always pick the delightful wonder of encountering literature itself, shiny and new. Which is not to speak against experts. Goodness, we do need experts in these our days, and we need to listen to them. But we also need to experience ourselves, however bad a job we are doing, to speak with Chesterton.

I feel like that when I start a new project. Amateurish. I’m doing it badly, and I’m producing lots of waste in the wake of my journey towards better understanding, a journey with plenty blind-alleys to be sure, and at the end of it (though it’s endless, of course), a realization that I still know so little. Everything is the snapshot of a moment, even a monograph coming out of three years intensive research. Of making many books there is no end.

Right now, I’m just reading articles about brackets, I’m reading around topics of punctuation, and typography. That’s all very well and relevant, but I’m not reading the texts themselves. I’m scared of them. I’m scared I’m missing meanings and allusions, so I don’t even start in the first place. I’m scared of not having world-changing thoughts while reading. I shouldn’t be. And I know I’m not really, once I actually open Sidney or Wroth, (re)discovering their crazy way with words. Anything worth doing – reading – is worth doing badly. With time, less so.

7 July: ‘Let the sky rain potatoes! Let it thunder to the tune of Greensleeves!’

Publishing takes a long, long, very long time. A chapter on rhetoric and dance in Shakespeare for the Oxford Handbook of Shakespeare and Dance was my first publishing deal, as it were. I pitched an abstract in July 2014 if memory serves right, just going into my second PhD year. The thing was written exactly 2 years later when finishing the thesis, and was published, guess when, this year. 2019. Five years in the making, it had better be good! Same story (slightly) different name: The Oxford Handbook of Shakespeare and Music. I’m tweaking a small part of one of my PhD chapters on musical repetition in Shakespeare’s plays, exploring how sounds and music (the sound of music?) contributes to senses of identity, be it local, national, or otherwise.

The field of sound studies engages with such questions, for example mapping soundscapes, that is, what can be heard in a particular place at a particular time. I’m writing this sitting at the open window, for instance, so I can hear, the occasional ding dong of the bell of the church at the end of our street, the cars below, the tram, sometimes people chatting, a plane flying by. If I was sitting in my garden, the story would be totally different. Or a library. A café. Another country, say Iran, where I’d be hearing the wonderful call for prayer five times a day. The concept of soundscapes and the practice of documenting sounds (in whatever way, e.g. through recordings, or maps, or diagrams such as these below) stems from ecologists Schafer and Truax, and has been taken over by lots of other disciplines, including urban planning, biology, literature, history.

‘How noisy is your neighbourhood?’ -map.

Regarding the early modern period, Bruce Smith writes so creatively about sounds and identity in his seminal The Acoustic World of Early Modern England. Just think about church bells signalling the boundaries of parishes, street cries in particular parts of London, or ballads travelling up and down the country in the aural memory of people. This, of course, also pertains to foreign sounds as when travellers brought new music books from the continent, and new melodies in their ears and mouths. Imagine a young man (or, more rarely, woman), having just returned from a trip to the Low Lands, walking along the street and whistling a tune that’s all the rage over there. That tune may be picked up by someone with a good ear, a composer, of notated music like William Byrd, or more casual unscripted music like a ballad singer. New words, in English, are being mapped to existing sounds, and there you go: musical intermingling beyond the boundaries of nations, languages, or social classes. Remember Philip Sidney being moved by a scurvy old ballad singer upon hearing ‘Chevy Chase’ in the streets? Something understood between the lowest of the low, and the highest of the high. Music, with its immediacy and magical emotional touching, is capable of doing that.

So. What about Shakespeare and musical ideas of identity, of nationhood? Uses of music in the theatre are hard to track, and we have to re-construct creatively what could have been there. You can consider the kind of playhouse for instance (more singing going on in the indoor playhouses because the boy-actors were more highly trained singers), you can consider the documented presence of professional musicians who might have played in the theatres too, there are cultural habits such as offering a flourish when a king enters, and there are cues in the texts that we have, although these will very often be on the slim side. ‘A song.’ Or ‘Musick’. Sometimes, lots of times, actually, there are quotations of songs, or a character breaks into fully-fledged singing. Duffin’s Shakespeare’s Songbook is a great start to research that.

Falstaff, for example, is full of music. In the Merry Wives of Windsor, just before he is cozened by the two ladies, Falstaff, waiting for his supposed mistress in the park, mentions the most English song imaginable. ‘Let the sky rain potatoes; let it thunder to the tune of ‘Green Sleeves;’ hail kissing-comfits and snow eringoes; let there come a tempest of provocation’. ‘Greensleeves’, a ballad probably going back to the times of Henry VIII, signals Englishness, local culture, perhaps nostalgia to a recent past. It fits this play, Shakespeare’s only comedy set at home, in England. To drop a reference to that ballad is a memory trigger in the mind of the audience who remembers moments when they themselves sung or heard ‘Greensleeves’, something which evokes warm fuzzy memories of home.

But Falstaff, perhaps depending on the different theatrical genre, is also European. Here’s an example from 2 Henry IV:

Falstaff: Well now you have done me right.

Silence: Doe me right and dub me knight, Samingo, Isn’t not so?

Falstaff: ‘Tis so.

Silence: Is’t so? Why then, say an old man can do somewhat.  (5.3)

Samingo is an elision of Sir Mingo, that is, Sieur or Monsieur Mingo (or Domingo), a widely current ballad from the end of the sixteenth century. Silence’s memory has latched onto the jingly feel of the song’s line, the catchy internal rhyme of ‘doe me right and dub me knight’, and it’s an even more felicitous choice since the ballad is a drinking song on  braggadocio Monsieur Mingo. Does that remind us of another showy offy supposedly knighted drunkard? Well, actually, the melody to the Domingo ballad probably comes from a 1570 Franco-Flemish songbook by the famous Orlando de Lassus, tracing something like the aural trajectory that I’ve described above. How English is that song then? How English are the sounds that Shakespeare’s characters and the playgoers are hearing? Perhaps sound negotiates senses of self and senses of community that are more porous than other media, and that foster more generous understandings of one’s place in the world and towards others. What that has to do with potatoes? No idea. Suggestions welcome!

Check out this sound capturing project by the British Library. Love the thought of a sound library! Although catching something as fleeting seems absurd, somehow…

30 June: Family Resemblances

I’m working on a little biographical entry for the Encyclopedia of Renaissance Philosophy (published by Springer, and available online) on Sir Charles Cavendish, the younger brother of William Cavendish, first Duke of Newcastle and husband to the amazing Margaret Cavendish. The Cavendishes were one of the richest and most eminent families of the time and contributed to wonderfully to the life of the sciences and letters both as patrons and performers, as it were. They were not only engaged in the public discourse on natural philosophy in England, but maintained a vast and prestigious network on the continent, communicating with mathematicians and philosophers alike. The European republic of letters.

The Cavendish brothers were very well versed in mathematics themselves, but they also sponsored scholars and practitioners, especially opticians. They collected and commissioned instruments such as telescopes, and worked closely together with England’s best optician Richard Reeves whom they wanted to grind aspheric lenses. Apparently, these create hyperboles which correct aberrations when light enters the telescope (I think? Physics is awfully hard…) and which were all the rage at the time, but incredibly difficult to make. Before the Renaissance, it used to be rare that thinkers and craftsmen were working together like that, closely cooperating on the translation of thought into reality. Theory and practice at its best, mutually influencing each other, very Renaissance that. Just think of Erasmus and Froeben in his shop, or Spenser and Hugh Singleton at work together on The Shepheardes Calendar, correcting the proofs, creating the thing exactly the way they wanted it to be. Or as nearly as possible, anyway.

While Charles Cavendish was perhaps not an original thinker, his great achievement lies in his connections, and his enabling of others’ research. A modern funding body. His brother, of course was married to Margaret Cavendish who suited the family, hungry for modern scientific knowledge as she was. But I want to write about her in a later blog entry, I think. I’d like to mention Elizabeth and Jane, daughters of William’s first wife. They were very well-educated young women, growing up in a household that encouraged learning, and especially writing as self-expression. Sir William was a playwright himself, and the girls will certainly have enjoyed domestic entertainments such as household plays, performed or read. It’s no surprised, then, that they go and write their own plays, a pastoral and a comedy called The Concealed Fancies around 1645 while their royalist father was in exile, and they took care of the estates. The plays only exist in manuscript, although Daniel Cadman of Sheffield Hallam University has transcribed The Concealed Fancies, and written an introduction, both freely online available here. I’m glad the edition and contextual work is online, since we as readers and teachers must diversify the canon and include literary examples from a much wider range of authors and contexts. Thinking of how to sneak this one in into the timetable for teaching this Michaelmas…

Check out this In Our Time session on the Cavendishes and science.