‘Could a rule be given from without, poetry would cease to be poetry, and sink into a mechanical art. It would be μóρφωσις, not ποίησις. The rules of the IMAGINATION are themselves the very powers of growth and production. The words to which they are reducible, present only the outlines and external appearance of the fruit. A deceptive counterfeit of the superficial form and colours may be elaborated; but the marble peach feels cold and heavy, and children only put it to their mouths.’ [Coleridge, Biographia ch. 18]

‘ποίησις’ (poiēsis) means ‘a making, a creation, a production’ and is used of poetry in Aristotle and Plato. ‘μóρφωσις’ (morphōsis) in essence means the same thing: ‘a shaping, a bringing into shape.’ But Coleridge has in mind the New Testament use of the word as ‘semblance’ or ‘outward appearance’, which the KJV translates as ‘form’: ‘An instructor of the foolish, a teacher of babes, which hast the form [μóρφωσις] of knowledge and of the truth in the law’ [Romans 2:20]; ‘Having a form [μóρφωσις] of godliness, but denying the power thereof: from such turn away’ [2 Timothy 3:5]. I trust that's clear.

There is much more on Coleridge at my other, Coleridgean blog.

Saturday, 23 June 2018

Around the World: Favourite Novels

I started this exercise curious to see, really, how large is the gap in my knowledge of world literature. It turns out: it's pretty huge. The majority of nation-states listed below are followed by I have never read any fiction from that country. I am, of course, limiting myself to novels written by citizens of the countries concerned (which is to say, I am not counting fiction merely set in that country, or by people born elsewhere who lived in those countries for a while); and I could mumble something here about the unavailability of translations, the need to pay literary translators more and commission them to do more work. But that's a torn and shabby sort of Get Out Of Jail Free Card. The fact is I am lamentably under-read in non-anglophone literatures and need to do better. K through M is particularly dire, isn't it?

In my own defence, I have read a lot—and I mean: a lot—of British and American fiction, and a fair bit of fiction from some (but, evidently, not all) European nations too. Bleh.

Afghanistan – I have never read any Afghan fiction.
Albania – Ismail Kadare, The Palace of Dreams (Pallati i ëndrrave, 1981). This counts as my favourite Albanian novel by virtue of being the only Albanian novel I have ever read.
Algeria – Apuleius, Golden Ass (Asinus Aureus, c. AD 180)
Andorra – I have never read any Andorran fiction.
Angola – I have never read any Angolan fiction.
Antigua and Barbuda – Jamaica Kincaid's Mr Potter (2002). But see: Albania
Argentina – Jorge Luis Borges, Ficciones (1944/56). Not a novel, I know, but: bite me. It's Borges.
Armenia – I have never read any Armenian fiction.
Australia – Les Murray, Fredy Neptune (1999)
Austria – Franz Kafka, Der Process (‘The Trial’, 1925)
Azerbaijan – I have never read any Azerbaijani fiction.

Bahamas – I have never read any Bahamian fiction.
Bahrain – I have never read any Bahraini fiction.
Bangladesh – I have never read any Bangladeshi fiction.
Barbados – I have never read any Barbadian fiction.
Belarus – I have never read any Belarusian fiction.
Belgium – Hergé, Les Bijoux de la Castafiore (1962)
Belize – I have never read any Belizean fiction.
Benin – I have never read any Beninese fiction.
Bhutan – I have never read any Bhutanese fiction.
Bolivia – I have never read any Bolivian fiction.
Bosnia and Herzegovina – Aleksandar Hemon, Nowhere Man (2002), but: see Albania.
Botswana – I have never read any Batwana fiction.
Brazil – I am surprised to discover that, so far as I can see, the only Brazilian writer I have read is Paulo Coelho. I have to say: I draw the line at listing The Alchemist as in any sense a favourite.
Brunei – I have never read any Bruneian fiction.
Bulgaria – I have never read any Bulgarian fiction.
Burkina Faso – I have never read any Burkinabé fiction.
Burundi – I have never read any Burundi fiction.

Cambodia – I have never read any Cambodian fiction.
Cameroon – I have never read any Cameroonian fiction.
Canada – Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin (2000).
Central African Republic – I have never read any CAR fiction.
Chad – I have never read any Chadian fiction.
Chile – Roberto Bolaño, 2666 (2004)
China – Cao Xueqin, The Story of the Stone (18th century)
Colombia – Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude (Cien años de soledad 1967).
Congo – I have never read any Congolese fiction.
Costa Rica – I have never read any Costa Rican fiction.
Côte d'Ivoire – I have never read any Ivoirean fiction.
Croatia – I have never read any Croatian fiction.
Cuba – I have never read any Cuban fiction.
Cyprus – I have never read any Cypriot fiction, Greek or Turkish, a fact which surprised me.
Czech Republic – Karel Čapek, War with the Newts (Válka s mloky, 1936)

Denmark – Søren Kierkegaard, Either/Or (Enten–Eller, 1843). Don't @ me.
Djibouti – I have never read any Djibouti fiction.
Dominica – I have never read any Dominican fiction.

Ecuador – I have never read any Ecuadorian fiction.
Egypt – Naguib Mahfouz, Palace Walk (بين القصرين 1956)
El Salvador – I have never read any El Salvadorian fiction.
England – Charles Dickens, Bleak House (1853).
Equatorial Guinea – I have never read any Equatoguinean fiction.
Eritrea – I have never read any Eritrean fiction.
Estonia – I have never read any Estonian fiction.
Ethiopia – I have never read any Ethiopian fiction.

Fiji – I have never read any Fijian fiction.
Finland – Tove Jansson, Comet in Moominland (Mumintrollet på kometjakt, 1946)
France – Marcel Proust, À la recherche du temps perdu (1922-31)

Gabon – I have never read any Gabonese fiction.
Gambia, The – I have never read any Gambian fiction.
Germany – Thomas Mann, The Magic Mountain (Der Zauberberg, 1924). Sigh.
Ghana – I have never read any Ghanese fiction.
Greece – Homer's Iliad (7thC BC)
Grenada – I have never read any Grenadan fiction.
Guatemala – I have never read any Guatemalan fiction.
Guyana – E. R. Braithwaite, To Sir, With Love (1959). But: see Albania.

Haiti – I have never read any Haitian fiction.
Honduras – I have never read any Honduran fiction.
Hungary – Arthur Koestler, Darkness at Noon (1940)

IcelandNjáls Saga (c. 1280)
India – Salman Rushdie, Midnight's Children (1981)
Indonesia – I have never read any Indonesian fiction.
Iran – Marjane Satrapi, Persepolis (2003)
Iraq – Ahmed Saadawi, Frankenstein in Baghdad (2014 فرانكشتاين في بغداد‎). But: see Albania.
Ireland – James Joyce, Ulysses (1922)
Israel – Lavie Tidhar, A Man Lies Dreaming (2014). Don't tell him I said so.
Italy – Vergil's Aeneid (4 BC)

Jamaica – Marlon James, A Brief History of Seven Killings (2014)
Japan - Shūsaku Endō, Silence (沈黙 Chinmoku 1966)

Kazakhstan – I have never read any Kazakhstani fiction.
Kenya – I have never read any Kenyan fiction.
Korea – I have never read any Korean fiction.
Kuwait – I have never read any Kuwaiti fiction.
Kyrgyzstan – I have never read any Kyrgyz fiction.

Laos – I have never read any Laotian fiction.
Latvia – I have never read any Latvian fiction.
Lebanon – I have never read any Lebanese fiction.
Lesotho – I have never read any Mosotho fiction.
Liberia – I have never read any Liberian fiction.
Libya – I have never read any Libyan fiction.
Liechtenstein – I have never read any Liechtensteinian fiction.
Lithuania – I have never read any Lithuanian fiction.
Luxembourg – I have never read any Luxembourgian fiction.

Macedonia – I have never read any Macedonian fiction.
Malawi – I have never read any Malawian fiction.
Malaysia – I have never read any Malay fiction.
Maldives – I have never read any Maldivian fiction.
Malta – I have never read any Maltese fiction.
Mauritania – I have never read any Mauritanian fiction.
Mauritius – I have never read any Mauritian fiction.
Mexico – Carlos Fuentes, The Death of Artemio Cruz (La muerte de Artemio Cruz, 1962) Micronesia – I have never read any Micronesian fiction.
Moldova – I have never read any Moldovan fiction.
Monaco – I have never read any Monégasque fiction (I don't count Anthony Burgess).
Mongolia – I have never read any Mongolian fiction.
Montenegro – I have never read any Montenegrin fiction.
Morocco – I have never read any Moroccan fiction.
Mozambique – I have never read any Mozambican fiction.
Myanmar – – I have never read any Burmese fiction.

Namibia – – I have never read any Namibian fiction.
Nepal – I have never read any Nepalese fiction.
Netherlands – I'm astonished to discover I appear not to have read any Dutch fiction at all. How can that be?
New Zealand – Eleanor Catton, The Luminaries (2013)
Nicaragua – I have never read any Nicaraguan fiction.
Niger – I have never read any Nigerien fiction.
Nigeria – Chinua Achebe, Things Fall Apart (1958). I think about this novel all the time.
Northern Ireland – Bernard MacLaverty, Grace Notes (1997)
Norway – Knut Hamsun, Hunger (1890)

Oman – I have never read any Omani fiction.

Pakistan – Mohsin Hamid, Exit West (2017)
Panama – I have never read any Panamanian fiction.
Papua New Guinea – I have never read any Papua New Guinean fiction.
Paraguay – I have never read any Paraguayan fiction.
Peru – Mario Vargas Llosa, The War of the End of the World (La guerra del fin del mundo, 1981). But: see Albania.
Philippines – I have never read any Filipino fiction.
Poland – Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim (1900)
Portugal – José Saramago, Blindness (Ensaio sobre a Cegueira, 1995)

Qatar – I have never read any Qatari fiction.

Romania – Emil Cioran, On the Heights of Despair (Pe culmile disperării, 1934). Yes, I'm bracketing this as fiction.
Russia – Tolstoy, War and Peace (Война и мир 1869)
Rwanda – I have never read any Rwandan fiction.

Saint Lucia – Derek Walcott, Omeros (1990)
Samoa – I have never read any Samoan fiction.
Saudi Arabia – I have never read any Saudi fiction.
Scotland – Walter Scott, The Heart of Midlothian (1818).
Senegal – I have never read any Senegalese fiction.
Serbia – Milorad Pavić, Dictionary of the Khazars (Хазарски речник, 1984). But: see Albania.
Seychelles – I have never read any Seychellois fiction.
Sierra Leone – I have never read any Sierra Leonean fiction.
Singapore – I have never read any Singaporese fiction.
Slovakia – I have never read any Slovak fiction.
Slovenia – I have never read any Slovene fiction. I refuse to recruit Žižek into this category.
Somalia – I have never read any Somali fiction.
South Africa – J. M. Coetzee, Disgrace (1999)
Spain – Cervantes, Don Quijote (1612)
Sudan – Tayib Salih, Season of Migration to the North (Mawsim al-Hijra ila al-Shamal, 1967). But: see Albania.
Suriname – I have never read any Surinamese fiction.
Swaziland – I have never read any Swazi fiction.
Sweden – Astrid Lindgren, Pippi Longstocking (Pippi Långstrump, 1945)
Switzerland – Jean-Jaques Rousseau, Emile (Émile, ou de l'éducation, 1762)
Syria – I have never read any Syrian fiction.

Taiwan – I have never read any Taiwanese fiction.
Tajikistan – I have never read any Tajikistani fiction.
Tanzania – I have never read any Tanzanian fiction.
Thailand – I have never read any Thai fiction.
Togo – I have never read any Togolese fiction.
Tonga – I have never read any Tongan fiction.
Tunisia – I have never read any Tunisian fiction.
Turkey – Yaşar Kemal, Memed, My Hawk (İnce Memed, 1955)

Uganda – I have never read any Ugandan fiction.
Ukraine – I have never read any Ukrainian fiction.
United Arab Emirates – I have never read any UAE fiction.
United States – Dos Passos, U.S.A. (1938)
Uruguay – I have never read any UAE fiction.
Uzbekistan – I have never read any Uzbek fiction.

Venezuela – I have never read any Venezuelan fiction.
Vietnam – I have never read any Vietnamese fiction.

Wales – The Mabinogion (12th-Century)

Yemen – I have never read any Yemeni fiction.

Zambia – I have never read any Zambian fiction.
Zimbabwe – I have never read any Zimbabwean fiction.

Rebecca West, "The Harsh Voice" (1935)

I'm reading West only in part because she's a major if neglected 20th-century author (though she certainly is) and more, if I'm honest, because I have to write this H G Wells biography thing and West loomed so large in Bertie's middle life. To that end I've previously blogged about her first novel The Return of the Soldier (1918) and also had some things to say about her semi-autobiographical novel The Fountain Overflows (1957). And now here's The Harsh Voice (1935), a collection of four novellas.

The first, ‘Life Sentence’, is about a marriage that fails. Sam Hartley is engaged to the beautiful Josephine Houblon, but right at the start of the story he tells her ‘Josephine you'll think me just the dirtiest skunk in the whole world but I can't help it: I've got to tell you. Josie, I can't marry you’ [12]. Josephine however proves disinclined to release him from his promise and so they do get married after all, and both make a material success of life (Sam in business, Josephine by investing in real estate) and have three children, two girls and a boy. But the marriage never really works, and by the halfway point in the story they are divorced. Josephine marries young Jack Lambert (to Sam's disgust: ‘that college boy? You don't want a husband. You want a cheer-leader’ he sneers [39]) and Sam finds contentment in marrying a young girl the story doesn't even name (‘she was the prettiest girl in town and she had a nice steady temper’ [43]). But though Sam and Josephine genuinely dislike one another neither can quite purge the other from their lives. The story's denoument happens after the 1929 crash when they agree to travel to the neutral ground of a Chicago hotel for a meet-up. Sam thinks Jospehine has lost all her money in the crash and resolves to help her financially, telling himself it's for the sake of their kids; but it turns out she thinks exactly the same thing about him. And on that misunderstanding, and the open-ended suggestion that this is not the end for them as a couple, the story closes.

The longest tale here, ‘There Is No Conversation’, is also the best. It starts when our narrator bumps into her old aquaintance, the vain, ageing Marquis de Sevenac on the streets of Paris. He invites her up to his appartment to view his art collection—for the last time, he says, since his personal fortune, all tied-up in US Railway stocks and shares, has just been wiped out. Hélas! But how? He spends thirty pages telling our narrator the circumstances. It all has to do with an affair he recently conducted with a visiting American woman: Nancy Sarle, plain and middle-aged, but with piercing blue eyes, an affair the Marquis engaged in partly through pity, partly because it flattered his vanity to be able to show her around his city, partly on mere whim. He understands only belatedly that she is herself a wealthy railway magnate, but doesn't care about that since he is himself so well-off. Then, though, she falls in love with him and things become tiresome; he has a new belle now and so he breaks things off with l'Américaine quite ruthlessly. Later he discovers Sarle has used her position to destroy the value of his stock, and that he is ruined. The narrator dislikes de Sevenac for his self-centredness, his desperate clinging to his long-vanished youth, but indulges his complaining narrative. When she later finds herself in New York she tracks down Nancy Sarle, befriends her and eventually hears her side of the story from Sarle's own mouth.

Sarle is an interesting piece of characterisation, actually, especially for 1935: a highly successful businesswoman, plain-talking and no-nonsense, entirely unillusioned about her own lack of pulchritrude (‘I wasn't dolled-up like the women he went with, I never had as much looks as a street car’). She assumes at first that he's after her for her money, and is content to play along while she's enjoying herself; but when she discovers he is, himself, immensely wealthy her self-possession takes a knock. If he's not after her for her money, then why is he with her? Might it be that his professions of undying love were not just French amorous convention, but actually heartfelt? And when this idea occurs to her it creates the equal-and-opposite reaction: maybe she's in love with him? The story's subplot has to do with Sarle's complicated Wall Street strategy to ruin the value of her rival's stock, something she's been planning for years: but this strategy is suddenly threatened: because these are the shares upon which Etienne de Sevenac's wealth depends, and she doesn't want to ruin the man she is in love with. There are two twists at the end: one, when Sevanac angrily insists he never had feelings for her it makes her abruptly and unexpectedly happy: it clarifies the situation and means she can go ahead with her stock-market play. The second twist has to do with the narrator, and I won't spoil it here.

The complex ironies of this story don't only have to do with its portrait of two people talking, as per the title, at such profound cross-purposes that they're not really talking at all. There's also a compelling account of the radical opacity of erotic motivation: not just the, at the end, unanswered question as to why Sevenac was ever attracted to the unalluring Sarle, but also what both Sarle and (we discover) the narrator ever saw in the preening, egotistical and melodramatically-posturing Sevenac.

The other two novellas in this volume aren't, I think, quite up to the standard of these first two.‘The Salt of the Earth’ is a pen-portrait of Alice Pemberton, a sensible, middle-class, middle-aged Englishwoman, self-declared salt of the earth, who interferes with the lives of those around her for, she thinks, the best reasons, but who—spoiler—dies, having been handed a fatally poisoned cup of hot chocolate by those very friends (‘nobody likes having salt rubbed into their wounds,’ one of them tells her, ‘even if it is the salt of the earth’ [171]). The mix of ordinariness and melodrama, here, is only intermittently successful. Then there's ‘The Abiding Vision’ the story of Sam Hartley, a successful businessman, who loves his wife Lulah in a rather distant way, gets something more immediate from his relationship different out of his relationship with his mistress Lily, and who eventually cracks under the pressure of it all. It's a good piece of writing, although perhaps lacks the expressively oblquity of the first two in the collection.

There are a few places where the writing wobbles. Here's West's description of a character called Judy Mandeville:
A girl of twenty-one who had come to them to rest up after her first divorce. a slender creature who has the bright colour and the air of being coated with syrupy juices characteristic of canned fruit. [33]
Er ... what? And here's Josephine—a regular, indeed a beautiful, woman, and not as you might think from this description a scoliolis-blighted cripple:
Jospehine was standing in the doorway. There was always a suggestion of something spiral about her, as if under her clothes and her flesh there coiled up a spring, and the long dress she was wearing made this seem more so than ever. [49]
I think moments like these (and, in amongst some very finely written passages, there are various examples throughout the book) bother me more than they might otherwise because West is trying for a series of quite precise effects, and indeed affects. There's still a sense, here, that her instrument isn't calibrated to quite the Nabokovian exactness her larger themes need. Still a very memorable and powerful collection of stories, though.

Thursday, 21 June 2018

Some Thoughts on Fantasy and Violence


R F Kuang’s The Poppy War (HarperVoyager 2018) is a fluently-written fantasy novel set in a China-alike realm struggling, as real China did in the 19th-century, to prevent powerful external naval powers flooding their society with opium. The drug in the novel actually is opium, and many elements of the novel's chinoiserie are so close to their actual prototypes as to make the reader wonder why Kuang has written fantasy at all, rather than historical fiction—the imperial capital is called ‘Sinegard’, students study ‘Sunzi’s Principles of War’, a Red Emperor rules over a coalition of provincial warlords, and so on. Of course, Fantasy allows Kuang to introduce elements of magic into her story, and to reorient historical actuality to underline her main points in the service of her larger story, but there are losses as well as gains in that strategy.

The story is linear: Fang Runin, known as Rin, is a scrawny orphan and outcast from the provinces who manages, by sheer determination, to win a spot in the elite Imperial college in Sinegard, where her abilities with magical ‘Lore’ single her out for future greatness. The first half the novel is Rin’s training, and the rest a series of crunchy and rather icky accounts of battlefield ultraviolence.

Rin starts out likeable and engaging, although the novel perhaps leans too heavily on the ‘badass’ aspect of her character—badass, here as in much other popular culture, is a euphemism for ‘energetically homicidal in a manner untroubled by conscience’, which has never seemed to me a human virtue, in man or woman. And, particularly in its later stages, violence in this novel is troped as exciting with only minor drawbacks for the perpetrators (so, Rin kills a shape-shifting monster called a chimei, ‘she smashed the blunt of the torch into his face … his face lost shape altogether. She beat out those eyes, beat them bloody … when he struggled she turned the torch around and burned him in the wounds’—and afterwards ‘Rin climbed off the corpse and sucked in a great, heaving breath. Then she vomited’ [p.366]). But the cause is just, the enemy are monsters both figuratively and in some cases literally, so (as it might be) torturing prisoners is a justified and effective strategy and so on and so forth. ‘The jammed boats began to burn in earnest … the soldiers on the boats began to scream in earnest. It was utter carnage. It was beautiful’ [p.313].

My problem here is more than just squeamishness—though I concede I am squeamish, and I very much disliked reading these later sections. I have, in point of fact, become more squeamish the older I have gotten, with a coastal-shelf step-down into Deep Squeam when my kids were born. After that doubled event I found it much harder to bear representations of torture and mutilation in my art, especially where kids are concerned. But there is a less subjective element here too, I think. My problem is that the novel’s violence is all sealed away inside the structure of the story. This is a novel about making war, but in itself it prefers not to make war on cliché, that formal and stylistic war to which all authors, without exception, are called. Clichés, as Martin Amis says, are symptoms of used thinking. A writer of Chinese birth and upbringing, now American, reworking the hackneyed European biases of Heroic Fantasy is a commendable and exciting development, but it really (I think) ought to be a more disruptive—a more textually violent—matter than this smoothly-written and easily-paced read. It’s a text that records but doesn't embody violence, something that's there in the chatty, distinctly 21st-century dialogue that makes up a good third of the whole, in the descriptions (‘Winter descended on Sinegard with a vengeance. The icy weather was the last straw for most of the class’ [p.105: italics mine] … there are hundreds of similar examples), in specific scenes and also in the overall shape of the narrative: the orphan/chosen one is trained by the wise old mage to become a major player in world-wide war to combat the external wickedness of, and so on, and so forth.

Descriptions (and depictions) of violence tend to evoke a strong response in audiences, and it’s easy to mistake that intense affect for disruption. There’s a whole mode of gore-lit, ultra-violent horror shows, especially dominant in culture over the last quarter-century: in cinema with the whole Saw/Hostel sub-genre and everything from Tarantino to Omaha Beach at the beginning of Saving Private Ryan; in literature too, as with the whole post-Martin Grimdark Fantasy tradition, in which Kuang’s account (for instance) of the invader’s atrocities can be situated:
I saw women disembowelled. I saw the soldiers slice off their breasts. I saw them nail women alive to walls. There was a pregnant woman in the house with us …the general howled and grabbed at her stomach. Not with his knife. With his fingers. His nails. He knocked her down and he tore and tore. And he pulled out her stomach and her intestines and finally the baby, and the baby was still moving … the general ripped her baby in half the way you’d split an orange. [p.425]
This, though, flattens all possible response into an ugh. Atrocities such as this are recorded as happening in the Rape of Nanking; but what was hideous in actual history, and might be edifying (in an appalling way) in a historical novel, loses moral force in a Fantasy novel. The Japanese soldiers who committed war crimes in Nanking were ordinary human beings, from which fact the ethical imperative of this terrible episode takes its force. The Federation soldiers who commit the crimes in Poppy War are ciphers for wickedness. By conflating three or four historical contexts from the nineteenth- and the twentieth-centuries in one made-up Fantasy conflict, Kuang muddies the ethical as well as the dramatic waters to the point of actual opacity. The historical record tells us anybody—you, me, any person—is capable of atrocity. Poppy War says that atrocities are horrible, and that we should feel an intense affect of slyly-eroticised revulsion and rage about that fact, up to and including genocidal revenge. But it also says that the perpetrators are the outsiders, the invaders, the Others, and the way to combat atrocity is to take the Empire’s most badass kids and train them into the further reaches of combat badassery in the Empire’s most ruthless training college. Since the narrative encourages us to identify with Rin and her friends this is as much as to say: atrocities exist in this text to license and encourage our counter-atrocities. After all, look how bestial our enemies are! Super-bestial reprisals are proportionate responses. It’s emotionally coercive to write this way, I  think, although I'm aware that, whilst I dislike being coerced by my books, many people don’t.

The Poppy War has been well-reviewed in SF/Fantasty circles (I can see why) and has generated a good deal of positive buzz. And it is in many ways an impressive achievement, especially for a first novel. My beef is not with this one novel, but with what seems to me a particular aesthetic of somatic ultraviolence that is very widespread in contemporary culture. This, I think, is something distinct from other modes of representing violence. There are plenty of graphic and stomach-turning accounts of wounding and killing in the Iliad (say), but those, in their clinical precision and the counter-intuitive way they coolly describe the heat of battle, work very differently on the reader to a passage like the one quoted above. Homer never describes torture, or gratuitous violence. And for all that he gives us, in Simon Weil’s resonant phrase, a glimpse into Hell, a world ruled entirely by Force, Homer really isn’t interested in cruelty.

No: the source for that particular fascination in later literature is Sadean, and the vibe of contemporary body horror and atrocitypunk owes an unmistakeable, if sometimes subterranean, debt to Les 120 Journées de Sodome. Guillaume Apollinaire predicted that de Sade would ‘dominate the 20th century’ and I tend to think he's been proved right, at least so far as the constellation of eroticised violence and cruelty so prevalent in our culture texts nowadays is concerned. Are we crueller, in our art, than we used to be? Why might it be that our collective preferences where art is concerned is crueller than our actual lived experiences? It’s a move that predates the relative deracination of social interaction occasioned by social media, I think. But I wonder if our ubiquitous social media have acted as an accelerant.


All this may have something to do with cinema's ‘electricity problem’. So: electricity is a major part of modern life (and continues to play a major part in cinema's various SFnal futures). Ah, but here's the thing: electricity is invisible. Since cinema recoils from the visually unrepresentable a convention has grown up such that ‘electricity’ means: ‘sparking electrical discharge’. That's pretty much the height and breadth of the way all electricity is represented in popular cinema, from the animation of Frankenstein's monster, to the Jawas zapping R2D2. Much as, in The Simpson's celebrated movie gag, cows have to be painted to look like horses because ‘horses don't look like horses on screen’, the movie convention for the representation of electricity is a kind of white-blue matrix of shimmering and sparking firework light-effects.

We know this isn't now electricity works in real life, but we accept the visual convention by whcih something internal and invisible is externalised and visualised in order to fit the representational logic of the medium. And that's fine, just as long as we don't confuse a representational convention with reality.

I suspect violence is like this. The thing to bear in mind is: the fact that physical violence is simpler to represent visually than other kinds of violence doesn't make physical violence the truth of violence as such, especially in the 21st-century world. I'm not of course denying that actual physical violence happens in the world: not denying that men beat women, that people injure and kill people. But I am suggesting that, outside actual warzones, other forms of violence are more pervasive and intrusive. A punch to the gut hurts for a while; growing up female, or gay, or Black in a sexist, homophobic and racist society presses violently upon your very soul the whole time. Some rape involves the sort of additional physical violence that leaves bruises on the skin or bones broken. Most rape does not do this. But only a fool would suggest that a rape victim who emerges from the trauma without bruises and broken bones has not suffered. On the contrary, such a person is likely as badly, or even more severely, traumatised by the experience because the violence of rape is not essentially the violence of broken bones but of broken spirits: domination, violation of personal space, invasion of personal integrity, degradation and breaking of peace of mind.

To the extent visible, somatic modes of violence come to stand-in, as a representational convention, for the larger and more malign trauma of internalised, systemic and invisible violence, they run the risk of actually supplanting violence as such in the popular imagination—so as it might be, people end up making the (false) distinction between ‘rape’ and ‘real rape’, reserving the latter category for instances where physical violence has been added to the fundamental violence of the traumatising invasiveness of the act as such. Sometime post-facto justifications are added to this prejudice, such that bruises show a victim ‘fought back’ or ‘resisted’, a datum treated as justifying our compassion as the expensive of implying that a victim who does not garner such addition, visible markers of violence somehow doesn't deserve our pity. Germaine Greer recently argued that our collective understanding of rape needs to shift away from its tendenct to connect rape with external physical violence, something for which she was (and not for the first time) vehemently criticized by many. It seems to me, for what it's worth, that her actual proposals have a lot to recommend them (‘rape trials are foundering and not ending in convictions as lawyers argue over the issue of consent; why not believe the woman and lower the penalty?’) but I wonder if there is a one-dimensionality in the way she uses the term violence: so that when she says ‘most rapes don’t involve any injury whatsoever’ she is consicously or unconciously conflating externally-evident physical injury (where her statement is probably true) with internal less-evident injury (where her statement is, clearly, simply wrong).

This all speaks to what is, I think, a widespread belief that physical violence is more ‘real’ (more important, more terrible, more worthy of representation) than psychological or conceptual violence. This, though, is the wrong way about. Physical violence is horrible, but psychological violence tends to be both more profoundly traumatising and longer-lasting. A gunshot wound may heal in weeks, and PTSD last many years; the domestic goods stolen by a burglar can be replaced on the insurance, but the sense that a malign stranger has been in your house lingers, and makes you feel unsafe and unhappy for a long time. That's a psychological reaction (though no less devastating for that), but I wonder if it is conceptual violence—by which I mean, whatever does violence to the principles, assumptions and mental models by which we navigate this complicating and alarming universe—that is the most radically destabilising.

In either case, there is a bias against the invisible. It's not true that bodily illness is more real than psychological illness, or that conceptual violence is a mere chimera.  It's just that people's responses are more easily recruited by the somatic. Trans activists I know trend to stress the physical dangers trans men and women tend to face: the risks of being actually beaten-up and murdered. Those risks are real, and undeniably higher for trans people than the general population, and that is not something to brush under the carpet. But might it be that the conceptual violence people endure when their sense of self is denied by the communities to which they belong is, because it is continual, vastly more pervasive, and internalised in ways that are psychologically violating, more significant? Ive always thought ‘sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me’ is exactly the wrong way around. It is terrible to be beaten-up for being gay, but being beaten up will lead you to the hospital for a poultice, where decades of verbal taunts, societal invalidation, disdain and rejection can lead you to suicide. It's not that sticks and stones won't break your bones; it's that it's the stuff that gets inside your head that kills you.

Nor is this state of affairs ideologically neutral. Indeed, I'd suggest it is on the contrary precisely how ideology as such works. There may be a temptation to think of ideology as a sort of add-on, in some sense less importat than the brute existential facts of living, finding food and shelter and all that. But, again, I think this gets things the wrong way about. ‘Ideology’ is a shorthand term for those structures of belief, those attitudes to mind and habits of living, by which we orient ourselves in our social world. These beliefs can sustain us, and motivate us to acts of great kindness or courage; but they can also prompt us to atrocity, and can even overwhelm such basic biological drives as self-preservation, as the anorexic starves herself to death or the suicide-bomber blows himself up. Given this, something we see all the time around us in small as well as large ways, it strikes me as foolish to treat ‘ideology’ as a kind of afterthought, or as somehow secondary to the biological, somatic fundamentals of life.

I'm not, of course, the first to say so. A lot of Žižek's oeuvre is more-or-less disposable Extruded Lacanian Product, but I've always had quite a lot of time for his 2008 book Violence.

Žižek argues that we fixate on ‘subjective violence’ (assault, murder, terror and war) at the expense of other, more important modes of violence: Z. is particularly interested in what he calls ‘objective’ violence (‘the symbolic violence embodied in language and its forms’) and ‘systemic violence’ (the ‘often catastrophic consequences of the functioning of our economic and political systems’). This isn't quite the distinction I'm trying to make in this post, actually, but Z and I are at least in the same ball-park. So, for instance, despite the professed conviction that it's actual violence that is the traumatic and destructive kind, Žižek is surely right to note that Western society remains absolutely unruffled by the actual violence of its armies and police forces (in reality and as reflected in our hyper-violent popular culture-texts) whilst at the same time being highly agitated by the merely conceptual violence offered to hetrosexual norms by (say) gays in the military. The people unfazed by the 270 million firearms sloshing around the civilian population of the USA and 30,000+ deaths annually these weapons facilitate—actual violence, by any measure—are often the same people genuinely rattled by the purely conceptual violence offered to the dominant social (ideological) logics of heteronormativity, gender fixity and racial homogeneity by the mere existence of gay, trans and non-white segments of the population.

Now: it ought, I think, to be possible to think and talk about the pervasiveness and damage of conceptual violence without in effect crowding-out the concrete horribleness of actual violence. That women are beaten and murdered around the world in horrifying numbers every day is a ghastly fact of our collective life. The thing is: some women are victimised by this kind of crime, but all women live under the conceptual coercion of fear of it—all women have to curtail their freedom of movement and hobble their peace of mind, live existences constrained within the procustean bed of this conceptual space.

That said there is, I think, a correlative here. If we take conceptual violence seriously, then we need to take it seriously across the board. There is, of course, an asymmetry to the way marginalised groups suffer, and the inertia of history and privilege determine a steep gradiant of oppression from privilege downward. But being born into a privileged group is not the same thing as being born wicked. We can certainly say that the pervasive social and cultural pressure telling gay or trans people that they are disgusting, unnatural, shameful and so on enacts a violence upon those people worse, because it is both ubiquitous and liable to be internalised by the victim, than bruised skin and broken bones. But we might also want to ask ourselves: is there anything to learn from people whose atttudes are shaped by conscious or unconscious homophobic or transphobic views? Maybe your answer to this question is: no, such people are just bad, and should be dismissed. Most people aren't bad, though; and cleaving to a different set of life-values is not in itself an index of moral turpitude. Imagine somebody for whom fixity of gender was one of the conceptual props that helps them navigate the various shoals and whirlpools of everyday life, perhaps as a function of a larger religious faith supporting and maintaining the stability of their life. Lets's say the performance of gender fluidity by others enacts a degree of conceptual violence upon these assumptions, and makes the person unhappy and upset and unnerved. You may think: good, they deserve it. You may go further (fuck their feelings, this is right-and-wrong and they're wrong. It's possible they think the same of you). Maybe that's justified. But it's hardly an approach calculated to end hostilities. How might negotiation look, in this particular situation? How to defuse a stand-off in which both sides' strategies boil down to loud declarations of fuck your feelings? To say ‘their feelings don't matter, only mine do’ is self-evidently unsatisfactory, even given the aysmmetry of the social status quo. My point is, retreating to ‘it's not really violence, it's not as though I'm punching them in the face’ also isn't load-bearing. Which backs us, rather, into the situation of believing something along the lines of: ‘though it would be bad if it happened to me, it's good for them to have their values challenged’. I find this really difficult to process, I'll be honest. It seems to me ‘it's good for them, but not me, to be on the receiving end of violence’ both ethically untenable and not a probable position from which a mutually satisfactory compromise could be negotiated. Of course, it may be that neither side is interested in compromise.

I don't mean to be hyperbolic. It may be that the facility with which people from all over the globe and from every position can now rub-up against one another has increased the friction, which is to say the potential for psychological and conceptual violence. By the same token the evidence strongly suggests that actual violence today is at its lowest level in human history; and recent studies show that human beings are bad at actual violence, inflicted on the bodies of actual people. We don't like it, and with good cause. It's sickening. People have to undergo lengthy training, both physically and psychologically (in Full Metal Jacket stylee), to acquire the remoteness from normal human empathy to be able to do it at all. It's a process that's very time- and resource-intensive. More, even after centuries of honing this technique, it is surprisingly ineffective: up to 70% of soldiers in combat don't even shoot their weapons, let alone confirm any kills.

This is one reason why the modern military is so fond of remote-control warmaking, drones being the most prominent example of what I mean, and this surely point the way future belligerance will go. It's not just that it's cheaper and reduces your own casualties; it is also much easier to persaude soldiers to do it. A person who would have genuine, humane difficulty sticking a bayonet into somebody's chest can be blithe about sitting in a room in front of a monitor playing war as if it were a video game, directing drones to dismember and kill men women and children.

This is to speak of ‘actual’, somatic violence. The point is: when it comes to conceptual violence, the way online interaction has shifted the centre of gravity of our manifold intersubjectivities includes, baked-in as it were, a great deal of precisely this remote-controlling. People who boast online about relishing the tears of their ‘enemies’ would, in almost all actual cases, be genuinely distressed to see somebody driven to weeping in front of them in real-life. People in real-life are generally nice to one another; people on Twitter are, generally, horrible to one another. And this, of course, is precisely the problem.

This brings me back to my earlier point about de Sade. In art, violence can indeed be cathartic. It's just that we need to be clear what manner of catharsis we're talking about. The violence represented in King Lear is extreme and sometimes disgusting, but the invisible forces it makes physically manifest are social and political. Something similar is true of Julius Caesar, War and Peace and Ubu Roi. I think, though, that the Sadean tradition entails something different, and the present-day success of this mode says something more worrying about who we are. Sadean catharsis operates via an eroticised cruelty and dominance that is, in turn, individuated and fixated on specific bodies, and ultimately on one specific body, one's own. It is not a template for actual erotic interaction so much as it is a hyperbolic projection of violent masturbatory fantasies back onto the body of the consumer him- or herself. De Sade is about withdrawing from the wider world, into a fantasy of sealed bourgeois individualism: the four aristocratic libertines of Les 120 Journées de Sodome seal themselves away for four months in an inaccessible castle in the heart of the Black Forest with their 36 victims. ‘An enjoyment shared is enfeebled,’ de Sade writes: ‘there is no passion more egotistical than lechery; there is none that must be served more severely; one must absolutely think only of oneself.’

This solipsistic and eroticised quality is the logic of much of the grimdark and body-horror that plays such a prominent part of contemporary culture: Bret Easton Ellis's American Psycho (1991) or Tarantino's grisly set-pieces are Sadean exercises: apolitical and individualised, exercises in a reversionary solipsistic excess. So, despite its larger ensemble cast and pretentions towards realpolitik, is Game of Thrones: ‘Tits and Dragons’ as Ian McShane memorably called the show, after appearing on it (‘Peter Stringfellow's Lord of the Rings’ is Stewart Lee's pithy put-down). Here physical violence, lavishly illustrated on screen via distressingly lifelike special effects, combines wth a good deal of nudity and sexual activity to create a distinctlty Sadean Fantasy flavour. To pick one example from many: Ramsay Bolton's lengthy, ghastly sexualised torture of Theon Greyjoy that ends in the creation of a wholly subjugated Untermann called ‘Reek’, a process so drawn-out and egregious it overshadowed pretty much the whole of series 3.


One defence for all this Sadean excess might be the same one a couple of late-20th-century philosophers advanced with respect to de Sade himself: not that he was a nice person (since he very clearly wasn't) but that his fantasy, by manifesting the oppressive logic concealed in all sexual interchanges under patriarchy, can be recruited to revolutionary ends.

In The Sadean Woman (1978) Angela Carter argued that de Sade was ‘a terrorist of the imagination’ whose works ‘turn the unacknowledged truths of the encounters of sexuality into a cruel festival at which women are prime sacrificial victims’ (‘the pornographer as terrorist may not think of himself as a friend of women…but he will always be our unconscious ally because he begins to approach some kind of emblematic truth, whereas the lackey pornographer, like the devious fellows who write love stories for women’s magazines, that softest of all forms of pornography, can only do harm’). For Carter de Sade functions as a sort of way-station on the road from oppressive-repressive sex to a more inclusively pornotopian vision of ‘a world of absolute sexual licence for all the genders’. Not everyone was convinced: Andrea Dworkin threw shade on Carter's book by calling it ‘pseudofeminist’. For her Sade's rape fantasy was all about the rape and not even a fantasy, because for Dworkin there is nothing hidden or, as it were, aspirational about male rape. It's all front and centre all around us, it's written in letters of fire on the forehead of the patriarchy.

A more nuanced defence of de Sade is Simone de Beauvoir's ‘Must We Burn Sade?’ (1952), which argues that de Sade ‘posed the problem of the Other in its most extreme terms’. Beauvoir has interesting speculations about the extent to which cruelty establishes the relationship between the self and the other (‘cruelty reveals us to each other in the particularities and ambiguities of our conscious and fleshed existence. The tyrant and victim are a genuine couple. They are united by the bonds of the flesh and freedom’). She does concede that de Sade fails to work through this dynamic, becoming snared in his own erotic self-absorption and moral myopia, but refuses to give up on, or censor (‘burn’) him. I'm not so sure.

And actually, to be quite frank, I could care less about de Sade, who has always struck me as plain dull (other people's monomaniacal obsessions are almost always boring, of course). But I am interested in, and I do care about, the Sadean turn in modern culture. Because although I take the force of Beauvoir's attempt to renovate his reputation as a radical thinker of Otherness, the fact remains that his mode of fantasy is of an interaction with the Other that cannot comprehend the Other as anything other than a reversion of the subject's erotically intensified cruelty of affect. It's not that de Beauvoir is wrong to suggest that ‘Sade is trying to communicate an experience whose distinguishing characteristic is, nevertheless its will to remain incommunicable’; it's just that his incommunicable is never God—the least compelling and most adolescent elements in de Sade's writing is his febrile fist-shaking at God—and always only the Other as projection. It's not even, really, that de Sade hates women; you can't really hate something that barely impinges on your egoism. De Sade desires to do certain things to, never with, women (and men) but de Sade cannot comprehend women and men, and so not only his erotic energy but his whole universe reverts into an close-walled existential echo-chamber. His works are masturbatory not only in the instrumental sense that they have been used as handbooks for that harmless human activity, but in the aesthetic sense, that they construe an aggressively hostile withdrawal from the Other as such.

That's the worrying aspect of the modern Sadean Fantasy. De Beauvoir is quite right to identify something cruel about the Other, or more spefifically something cruel about the ethical and practical demands the Other necessarily places upon us, whether we like it or not. The pain of the other—the weeping child torn from her mother and placed in a camp, say—cannot make allowances for your convience or ease. But de Beauvoir is not suggesting that cruelty is the whole theatre in which our encounter with the Other takes place. Grimdark, in effect, is suggesting that. This, it seems to me, doesn't critique the contemporary political turn to the right as to translate it into the representational logic of fantastika. The one thing that unites today's Brexit agitators, and Trumps, and Viktor Orbáns, the basic Brexitrumpbán premise, is that the world is dark and full of horrors, and that the polity must pull up the drawbridge and arm the cannons in the face of these things. This is the world of TV SFF, the Game of Thrones and Westworld and True Blood vibe (something also true of recent rape-and-sandals hit epics like Spartacus and Rome) is that it embroiders a fundamentally Sadean-Hobbesian world: nasty, brutish and sure-to-include-female-nudity.

I'm not suggesting there's a disconnect between the larger political context and these Sadean-masturbatory fantasies of bourgeois hermeticism (sealed in our livings rooms with our box-sets whilst all these beautiful young people are sexually tortured for our pleasure, like de Sade's aristocrats). On the contrary, the two are clearly intimately linked. We are at the moment plagued, we are absolutely ridden, by a ghastly political discourse of toughness, that horrible euphemism for ‘sadistic’. Our taste for bad-ass (that is, psychotic) heroes and heroines exactly mirrors our electorate's perverse fascination with ‘tough’ (that is, psychotic) leaders like Trump and Putin. American voters elected a President who promised to lock immigrant children in concentration camps, and so it has come to pass. Be honest: when I confessed, early on in this post, how squeamish I am about the representation of violence in art, did you nod in agreement with me? Or, on the contrarym did you find yourself thinking: really? you don't have the stomach for this kind of art? You must be some kind of weakling, Adam. The political logic of ‘toughness’ is that we need to ‘toughen up’ (to ‘grow a pair’, to ‘man the fuck up’) whenever our conscience prompts us to show compassion for our fellow human beings. That we need to harden our hearts, like pharaoh. ‘Le crime’, swoons De Sade in Les 120 journées de Sodome: ‘n'est-il pas toujours plus sublime, n'a-t-il pas sans cesse un caractère de grandeur et de sublimité qui l'emporte et l'emportera toujours sur les attraits monotomes et efféminés de la vertu?’ Fuck that.

Sunday, 3 June 2018

Fragments of Fantasy

Yesterday I was one of the speakers at a workshop called ‘Reconstructing & Adapting Ancient Greek Fragmentary Tragedy: Methodologies & Challenges for Classicists and Theatre Practitioners’, courtesy of the Centre for the Reception of Greece and Rome of the Department of Classics at Royal Holloway, University of London; funded by the Classical Association and organised by Andriana Domouzi. It was a fascinating day. My contribution was to talk about three Euripidean plays I restored: Hypsipyle, Phaethon and Telephus. What's that, you ask? What do I mean, restored? Well: eighteen complete Euripidean plays have survived from antiquity to the modern age, but the old boy actually wrote ninety or more plays in his long life. Of the seventy-plus that have not survived some have disappeared completely (such that we only have their titles), where others have survived in fragmentary form.

Such fragments as we have come from various places. Mostly what we have are lines or short passages from the plays that were quoted by other, later authors, usually to illustrate a metrical pattern or perhaps an unusual word. We also have a number of actual tattered bits of papyrus dug out of the sand at Oxyrhynchus or elswhere, in various states of decay, and with various bits of various plays on them. Other evidence includes summaries of play plots, adaptations into Latin, illustrations on pots and so on.

The amount of material we have varies: for the Hypsipyle we have 600 lines (not in one lump of course: a passage here, another there and lots of stray and fugitive lines from who knows where), which is probably almost a third of the whole. With the Phaethon and Telephus we have less—although with the latter we have another sort of source: because Aristophanes mocked and parodied Euripides' Telephus in various of his plays, especially Acharnians (425 BC) and Thesmaphoriazusae (411 BC). The Telephus is about a Mysian king who, having been injured by Achilles with a wound that continues to fester, is told by an oracle that ‘the one that wounded you will heal you’; so he travels, in rags, to Argos to seek a cure (in the event, filings from Achilles' spear, sprinkled on his wound, make him all better). But Aristophanes thought it was outrageous and incompatible with the dignity of royal authority to show a king on stage in rags, and he repeatedly attacked Euripides for doing so. The ways in which he parodied the Telephus tell us, I think, something about the Telephus. That, at any rate, is what I decided when I wrote my reconstruction.

Why did I undertake such a labour, you ask? Well: I'll tell you. My first degree, back in the depths of the last century, was English/Classics and it was on that course that I first really encountered and fell in love with Attic tragedy. After that I did a PhD on Browning and the Classics. That thesis, and later research, involved quite a lot of detailed work on RB's translation of the Agamemnon, as well as his versions of the Herakles and the Alkestis. In addition to the extant plays, Browning (like Shelley, Arnold and Swinburne) was intrigued by the surviving fragments of Greek tragedy, and began a reconstruction of his own: perhaps a speculative version of Euripides's Hippolytos Stephanophoros (Ἱππόλυτος στεφανοφόρος, ‘Hippolytus Crown-wearer’) although in the event all he produced was a prologue, published in 1842 as ‘Artemis Prologizes’. My fascination with the fragmentary dramas has stayed with me, and the reason why that's so raises interesting (for me at any rate) questions about my larger aesthetic fascinations, as a writer and a critic. At any rate, I wrote my English reconstructions of Hypsipyle, Phaethon and Telephus. These were set to be published by a London-based small press ten years or so ago, but the company went bust and I haven't done anything else with them—I should go back to them, actually.

So, that's what I talked about at the colloquium. Although to be honest, I didn't really talk about my own dabblings in reconstruction. Instead I tried, in the time allotted me, to make a more ambitious point about the fragmentary as such. If I'd had more time I would have made the point broader still: because at the moment a friend and I are working on (‘working on’, at this stage, is still a matter of more or less wide-ranging conversation) a critical history of Fantasy as a mode, and I find myself interested by the way that all fits into this picture.

So, with my right hand I write crticism and academic scholarship and so on, and most of that has to do with the Romantic and Victorian periods (my job title at Royal Holloway, University of London, is ‘Professor of Nineteenth-Century Literature and Culture’). I do view the contemporary age as in crucial ways ‘post-Romantic’, in that I think Romanticism revolutionised literature and culture in ways that still shape things today. There are various (big) ways in which this is true, I think; but for now my interest is in the way Romanticism valorised the fragment as such. I'd say we're still living with the consequences of that conceptual and aesthetic celebration.

This is a very large topic, and I'm going to risk distorting it by rattling through at speed. But very broadly: there was no particular cult of the fragment before the German Romantics, but from them, and Schlegel in particular, a fascination with the fragmentary spread to English Romanticism. This had, amongst other things, to do with the invention of archaeology in more-or-less its modern form in the later eighteenth-century, and the habit wealthy Grand Tourists got into of bringing partly-broken statuary and the like back from Greece and Italy to ornament their stately homes. But it was Schlegel who created a conceptual armature for the celebration of fragments as such. Here's Allen Speight:
The fragment is among the most characteristic figures of the Romantic movement. The fragment as employed by Schlegel and the Romantics is distinctive in both its form (as a collection of pieces by several different authors) and its purpose. For Schlegel, a fragment as a particular has a certain unity (“[a] fragment, like a small work of art, has to be entirely isolated from the surrounding world and be complete in itself like a hedgehog,” Athenaeumsfragment 206), but remains nonetheless fragmentary in the perspective it opens up and in its opposition to other fragments. Its “unity” thus reflects Schlegel's view of the whole of things not as a totality but rather as a “chaotic universality” of infinite opposing stances.

If a literary form like the fragment opens up the question of the relation between finite and infinite, so do the literary modes of allegory, wit and irony—allegory as a finite opening toward the infinite (“every allegory means God”), wit as the “fragmentary geniality” or “selective flashing” in which a unity can momentarily be seen, and irony as their synthesis. Although impressed with the Socratic notion of irony (playful and serious, frank and deeply hidden, it is the freest of all licenses, since through it one rises above one's own self, Schlegel says in Lyceumfragment 108), Schlegel nonetheless employs it in a way perhaps more reminiscent of the oscillations of Fichtean selfhood. Irony is at once, as he says in Lyceumfragment 37, self-creation, self-limitation, and self-destruction.
This is, at root, religious move, and connected to the invention of the modern category of the Sublime by Burke, Kant and others (this same Sublime runs right through into later science fiction, as our much prized ‘sense of wonder’: the total perspective vortex of awe, wonder and terror that the sheer scale of the cosmos evokes in us). God is infinite, whereas we are finite and mortal. This entire world in which we live, big though it is, is only a fragment of the divine totality and harmony, and though our finite brains cannot apprehend actual infinity we can, as it were, get a glimpse out of the corner of our eye. So: fragments, by not pretending to unity and harmony, are not only more honest, they actually generate more intense affect than do well-wrought-urns, because they gesture at their implicit greater greatnesses, with (often) the added pathos of that greatness having been lost. It's Shelley's traveller from an antique land in ‘Ozymandias’. It's Fuseli's The Artist Moved by the Grandeur of Antique Fragments (1780):

From this it's a short step to the deliberate prefabrication of fragmentary forms as art. Schlegel famously said ‘the works of the ancients have become fragments; the works of the moderns are fragments at their inception’. It's why the craze for architectural follies swept England and France: constructing the pre-ruined tower of a castle that never existed on your country estate was so much more en vogue than building a complete and finished structure.

This is the climate in which Coleridge publishes ‘Kubla Khan’—a poem that personally I consider one of the most finished and perfect in the language (I mean: have you read it?) but nonetheless a poem published as a fragment, with a lengthy prefatory note spinning Coleridge's whole Porlockian story as to why it's allegedly unfinished. It's why he was happy to publish the unfinished ‘Christabel’, or why the Prelude (a mere shard of the mega-epical Recluse Wordsworth originally planned) stands as one of the signature masterpieces of the age. This feeds through into High Modernism (a much more fundamentally Romantic literary movement than is often realised, I think) as the apotheosis of the fragment: Eliot's Waste Land assembled out of orts and scraps, quotations and original lines: ‘these fragments I have shored against my ruins—why then Ile fit you’:—fit as the fragmented consciousness of the epileptic, but also fit as the jigsaw-puzzle assemblage of the myriad broken bits and pieces into a mosaic. See also: Joyce & Pound, Picasso & Braque, montage & mass-reproduction, Art of & Noise (this last example bringing ‘postmodernism’ into the mix: similarly enamoured of the brittle joys of shinily tesselated surfaces comprised of a bricolage of quotation, allusion and fragmented sensibility).

Saying all this is not saying anything very new. Thomas McFarland's Romanticism and the Forms of Ruin: Wordsworth, Coleridge, the Modalities of Fragmentation eloquently explored this subject all the way back in the 1980s, and though some more recent studies have had various issues with McFarland's influential book (Marjorie Levinson’s recent The Romantic Fragment Poem: A Critique of a Form is very good, for instance) the consensus remains that the fragment is the characteristic form of Romantic and post-Romantic art.

And to move back towards the question of the classics, it has real-world consequences too. Go into any museum, and you'll see artefacts from the ancient world presented to punters as fragments: ridiculously so, really. There's no way that a face with its nose sheared off (say) will look anything other than lamentable, and such a ruin certainly doesn't convey what the original sculptor was trying to get at: but museum directors will under no circumstances repair the broken fragments of statuary in their collections, let alone paint them in their original colours. The organiser of yesterday's symposium recently submitted her PhD on fragmentary Euripidean plays: she passed, I'm pleased to say, but her examiners insisted she remove any and all speculation, no matter how expertly informed, about how the plots of the complete plays might go. Only the pure and absolutely unvarnished fragments themselves were allowed to stand. We make a fetish of our fragments.

This brings me to my left-hand, the one that does the non-academic writing: science fiction and fantasy and imaginative engagement. The hand that took this fragmentary project by Anthony Burgess and completed it. The hand that yearns one day to complete Coleridge's unfinished Opus Maximum, or confect a complete, 24-canto Don Juan. That hand.

To be clear: I have no beef with the Romantic, Modern or Postmodern fragment. On the contrary, art produced under its aegis remains my favourite art. I could recite pretty much the whole of The Waste Land by heart, for instance. But nonetheless my creative allegience belongs not to High Modernism and its literary-experimental high culture descendants, but on the contrary to the derided pulp shadow of that High Modernist tradition. Let's take for example Tolkien, for the simple reason that I love him. For all the problems with his writing, all the limitations of his representation of women, the racial cast to his imagination, his small-c (and large-C) Conservatism, I love him. I read him as a kid, and have re-read the Lord of the Rings every year through my life. He was my gateway drug into Fantasy and therefore SF.

Now one way we might want to take Tolkien is as anti-matter to the matter of High Modernism. Joyce wrote one short, accessible and widely-read book (Portrait of the Artist), one much longer and more challenging novel about language and myth that featured some of the same characters (Ulysses) and one mad giant unreadable book (Finnegans Wake). Tolkien, of course—The Hobbit (1937), The Lord of the Rings (1954-5) and The Silmarillion (1977)—did the same. But Joyce became the cornerstone of the academy's sense of what the novel in the 20th-Century means, and Tolkien, still largely academically neglected, became instead the favourite of the general non-academic reader, as per Tom Shippey's polemical, and wonderful, study: Tolkien: the Author of the Century. In many ways Tolkien, and the pulp-SF inheritors of H G Wells, shadow the trajectory of Joyce, and the high-art inheritors of the tradition of Henry James, through this period.

And that's peculiarly relevant to the broader argument I'm trying to pull together for this blog-post. Because the core fact about Tolkien, really the starting-point from which everything he wrote and imagined derived (even more fundamental than his deep philological passion for inventing languages) was his stated desire to reconstruct a mythology for England.

He felt the need to do this because, in Tom Shippey’s words, ‘England is the most de-mythologised nation on Earth’. Where the Greeks still have access to a more-or-less coherent sense of their body of ancient myths and religions, where the old Japanese myths and legends can still inform Japanese life and sense of self, where Native American or African ancient rituals and stories are still alive—and so on around the world—the aboriginal body of myth and religious practice of the English are barely recuperable (this state of affairs is a little less extreme for the Welsh, Scots and Irish). This has two causes: one, the Norman Invasion and the subsequent ruthlessness with which the invaders suppressed native culture in the service of maintaining their own stranglehold on power; and, two, the later Puritan revolution when, with Taliban-like single-mindedness, Cromwell’s regime went about the country extirpating as much of the old, pagan culture as they could (Tolkien added a third purgation to this narrative: the Industrial Revolution. But I’m not sure I agree with him on this. Mass industrialisation certainly had a deracinating effect on British culture and society, but my sense is that at such times people are more, not less, likely to revert to ancestral stories: and there was no focused attempt to destroy the ancient culture in the 19th-century—on the contrary this century saw the florescence of antiquarianism that began to search systematically into our lost past).

All we have left of our ‘original’ pre-Roman, pre-Norman culture and mythology are fragments. Sometimes these fragments snake their way into new forms. Arthurian myth and legend is all very fine and wonderful, but it is French, not English (Lancelot du Lac and so on) imported by the conquerors and written down for the benefit of an aristocratic audience of the ruling caste. But something of the ancient aboriginal myths of England surely inform the oral (rather than written) and peasant (not aristocratic) stories of Robin Hood, a kind of avatar of the Green Man of the Woods. Although the fuller understanding of what that character meant to the pre-conquest English is hard to pin-down. Why are there so many pubs across England called The Green Man? The people drinking in them couldn't tell you, although there is, presumably, something with quite deep roots in the collective-alcoholic-sacramental folk-history of this country that explains it.

Similarly, if we go back to our pre-conquest literature to try and understand the older picture we're faced with the fact that, though some Anglo Saxon literature has come down to us whole, lots hasn't, and much of this latter makes little sense because its context has been destroyed.

Tolkien found these shards extraordinarily compelling, and he accreted his own stories about those orphaned references. For example: Eärendil the Mariner who in The Silmarillion sails his magic boat across the sky with a shining Silmaril upon his brow, derives from the lines Tolkien found, orphaned from their larger Old English mythic or cultic context, in the Exeter Book:
éala éarendel      engla beorhtast
ofer middangeard      monnum sended ...
‘Hail Earendel! Brightest angel sent to man throughout middle-earth ...’ Who's this dude and what's his story? We just don't know. Tolkien took his expert's sense of what Earendel probably meant to the pre-conquest English, and fleshed out a story that makes him the son of men and of elves (‘Aiya Eärendil, elenion ancalima!’, ‘Hail Eärendil, brightest of stars!’) that ties in to his larger mythography of magic jewels and the battle against evil. And, in a larger sense, the whole of Tolkien's legendarium is this: the restoration of a full mythic, cultural and narrative context for the bits and pieces or orphaned Anglo-Saxon that so moved him.

This is part of a much larger project for Tolkien. He saw the world as broken, but his interest was in trying to making it whole again. He believed healing is possible (specifically, he believed healing is possible through Christ, because his Catholic faith was a central part of who he was) and he wrote his fantasy to explore that conviction. This is the core thing that separates his art, and therefore the promiscuous body of commercial fantasy written in imitation of his art, from the High Modernist stream. And it's this that brings me back to Greek tragedy, and the reason why it so captured my spirit back when I was young: an individual broken, in my various unexceptional if painful ways, as I was and am; living in a society fragmented in a larger and more dangerous manner as we all are. The thought that healing might be possible evidently spoke to me profoundly, as it continues to do.

Because that's the thing about Greek tragedy: it almost always establishes a breach in order to heal the breach. Telephus is a play about a wounded king dressed in rags. Compare it with, let's say, King Lear: also a play about a wounded king dressed in rags. The difference is that the whole point of the Telephus is that the king is healed, and so the world is; where the point about Shakespeare's towering but remorseless masterpiece is that neither of those things can happen—the king's wits are permanently shattered when his pride crashes against the anvil of a world that won't bend to it—the kingdom is divided into pieces—Gloster's eyes are pulled out—and so on, and on. Euripides' play ends with a numinous wonder of the god himself, appearing on stage to seal the reconciliation; Shakespeare's ends with the few survivors unable even to speak what they ought to say, and trudging off in misery.

What's sometimes forgotten about Attic tragedy is that it was an integral part of a collective religious festival, a ritual by which the whole polis (except women, slaves and foreigners; but let's not get into that at the moment) came together to work vicariously through the way trauma is superceded by reconciliation, all presided over by the deity Dionysis, god of drama and also wine, that intoxicating and therefore sacramental quantity. Aeschylus's Agamemnon is a play about a rupture violently inflicted on the worlds of marriage, family and polis; but it is a mistake to treat this one drama in isolation, since the larger point of the Oresteia is tracing how, with what difficulties and compromises, the rupture is healed, and the terrors of the cosmos converted to kindly ones.

The Attic tragedy we have is fragmented in multiple ways: passages, singed and worn and pulled from the ground at Oxyrhnchus, lacking the rest of their play; individual plays missing the rest of their trilogies; drama missing the religious and political (versions of the same thing for ancient Greeks) contexts of ritualised communal coming-together. And we should not leave them, like those dead-eyed bleached-bone-coloured broken statues in the British Museum; we should restore them, give them back their wholeness and colour, as an act of devotion of the imagination.

To speak for myself, briefly, finally: Romantic and post-Romantic art has profoundly shaped who I am. I love Coleridge and his forms of ruin; I love High Modernism and postmodern irony. The three plays I picked out to restore were one early-ish, one mid-career and one late, but they also speak to this point of the fragment as such, the Schlegelian valorisation of it and the magic by which it can be healed. The Phaethon reaches back to the Romantic period in quite a specific way: since it was in 1820 that a papyrus containing almost all of the play's first choral ode was dug out of the desert sands, one of the first major finds of its kind—Goethe was so excited by this that he immediately translated the fragment (he went on to wrote something more complete on the subject). The Telephus, as I've been saying, is a play about a king with an unhealable wond who is magically healed by the weapon that injured him; and the Hypsipyle, which draws on a whole range of mythic sources, from Jason and the Argonauts to the Seven Against Thebes, tangles men and war, the death of a child (killed by a serpent at a holy spring) and the threatened death of an innocent old woman, to bring them all at the end into a sacred and harmonious conclusion, with Dionysis himself, theatre's own god, appearing as the play's deus ex machina to compel the order with which the play ends.

This is where, if I had patience, I'd move the argument into a new direction. Because my hunch is, and the case is, I think, there to be made, that 20th- and 21st-century Fantasy picks up on this Tolkienian (and we might say: this Attic) project of finding ways to heal. That Fantasy as a genre is in some sense about the tiny torn up pieces of our world as the ground out of which some manner of wholeness can, magically, be created. But that would be a lengthy argument and this post is lengthy enough. Whole sight, as the man once said, or all the rest is desolation.

Sunday, 27 May 2018

Circe: Homer and Miller; Ovid and Vergil


First, some thoughts on Madeline Miller's Circe (Lee Boudreaux US/Bloomsbury UK 2018), the follow-up to her internationally-lauded and bestselling debut, The Song of Achilles. That novel retold the story of the Iliad from the point of view of Patroclus. This new novel casts its net a little wider: Circe is our narrator, but Odysseus’s dalliance with her is only a small part of the tale's larger ambition.

Circe is a book of two halves, of unequal quality. The first is a rattle-bag of Greek myths, from Circe’s birth, fathered by the sun-god Helios, to her witnessing first-hand the punishment of Prometheus, from the turning of Scylla into a whirlpool monster who devours sailors (this metamorphosis is Circe’s doing: Miller follows Ovid 14 quite closely in her retelling here), to Daedalus, the birth of the Minotaur and the building of its labyrinth, to Theseus, and finally—on p.175 of this 340-page novel—to Odysseus's coming to stay. But his time on Circe’s island interests Miller relatively little. Although Circe responds to him as a lover and companion, by page 200 he's buggered off, back on his travels again.

And it’s after it has got this episode out of the way, as it were, that Miller's novel becomes considerably more interesting. Circe bears her departed lover a son (in some versions of her myth she has three sons by Odysseus, but Miller narrows to just the one, Telegonus). Athena tries to kill the lad, but Circe manages to protect him, and he grows to adult independence and sails off to find his father. This meeting doesn’t go well, as you’ll know if you’ve ever come across the fragmentary Greek epic the Telegony, by Eugammon of Cyrene—a poet whose name, it seems, means “good weddings” and not as I initially thought and I can be honest hoped, “a happy pig”.

Indeed, so markedly is Circe a book of two halves, and so much better is it in the second of those two, that I almost wish Miller had just cut the first eight or nine dozen pages altogether. What we get in that opening act is Circe’s first-person perspective on being a sort of outsider goddess, not quite divine enough for the Olympians or the other nymphs, mocked for her various inadequacies, unhappy and unrooted. She falls in love with a human fisherman called Glaucos (Miller’s transliterations from the Greek are, I have to say, not consistent between -os and -us) who is dazzled by her when he’s a mere mortal, but once she wangles an apotheosis for him he loses interest and goes gallivanting after more beautiful goddesses, breaking Circe’s heart in the process. Men, eh?

The problem with the first half is not just that it is bitty—although it is bitty, and indeed tessellates into so many barely consecutive episodes that I wonder how easily a reader unfamiliar with the original myths will follow the storyline. The problem I had was that Miller’s gods are just so underwhelming: so vain and hedonistic, petty and vapid. As characters they are thin as faces printed on gilt-edged cardboard. They glitter, but they lack all deeper splendour, and I think deliberately so.

Now: it’s not that this is invalid as a reading of the Greek gods as such. It’s just that actual Greek myth and literature leavens the shallowness of the gods as subjects with something numinous, something that hovers on the edge of the terrifying. Miller’s gods never really achieve this. Instead there’s a lot of Dallas/Dynasty décor: ‘the floors, the shining walls and inland tables’ [5]; ‘huge torches carbuncled with jewels glowed from the walls’ [14]; ‘my father gathered us across the sea in his golden chariot to Minos’ great palace at Knossos. The walls were new-plastered …’ [26]; a nymph ‘holding her pearls, big as apples, up to my face’ [46]; Aeëtes sitting ‘serene on his couch drinking from his wrought-gold cup’ [61] ... there is, indeed, a lot of gold (‘golden sandals gleamed’ 79; ‘I set the golden basin on the floor’ 143; ‘her golden eyes pierced mine’ 147 and so on) together with all the bag and baggage of Russian-oligarch or dictator-in-aviator-shades aesthetic kitsch. It’s fun, in its way, but it’s also as depthless as an episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians.

At first Circe is a reporter on the sidelines of this shallowverse, this parade of supernaturally empowered vanity and appetite. But in the second half of the novel the centre of gravity of the storytelling shifts away from the Olympians towards the ordinary day-to-day of Circe on her island, raising her son, cooking and cleaning, getting on with things. What starts as a fable about exile becomes a story about how we make and maintain a home, and when Circe welcomes Penelope, now widowed, and Odysseus's son Telemachus to share the island with her it becomes a story about the solidity of companionship in contrast with the sharper ups-and-downs of the novel's earlier representation of erotic love. What works particularly well here is Miller's expert way with banality. It could have backfired, but somehow it doesn't. After all the gold and monstrosity of its first half, the novel's shift to describing the world in terms of a wet bank holiday weekend by the seaside is surprisingly effective:
I set out lunch and we ate in near silence. The rain tapered off. I could not bear the thought of being shut up all afternoon and drew my son out for a walk along the shore. The sand was hard and wet, and our footprints looked as thought they had been cut with a knife. I linked my arm through his and was surprised when he let it stay. It was only a little after midday, yet something in the air felt dusky and obscuring, like a veil across my eyes. [Circe, 275]
The novel ends on a pair of deliberate withdrawals from the world of gods and magic. In the original myth, the fates of Telemachus and Telegonus are bound-up with Aeneas's settlement of Italy and the future glory of Rome (Telegonus supposedly founded Tusculum, and Telemachus, depending on which mythographer you follow, was either the father of Aeneas's future father-in-law Latinus, or the husband of Aeneas's future daughter Roma). And near the end of Miller's Circe, Pallas Athena manifests in a cloud of ‘aureate sparks’ to pronounce to these men their manifest destiny:
Her voice changed, gilding itself. ‘Zeus has foretold that a new empire will arise in the West. Aeneas is fled there with his remnant Trojans, and I would have Greeks balance and hold them at bay. The land is fertile and rich, thick with beasts of the field and forest, overhung with fruits of every kind. You will found a prosperous city there, you will build stout walls and set down laws to hold back the tide of savagery. You will seed a great people who will rule in ages to come. I have gathered good men from across our lands and set them on a ship. They arrive this day to bear you to your future.’ [Circe, 304]
But here Miller goes off piste from her mythic sources. Telemachus's unexpected non serviam (‘he did not flinch from her gaze: “I do not desire such a life”’) absolutely infuriates Athena: ‘if you refuse me all glory will leave you ... there will be no songs made of you. No stories. Do you understand? You will live a life of obscurity. You will be without a name in history. You will be no-one.’ Miller's point is that a creature like Athena is simply incapable of comprehending that the conscious acceptance of such erasure is one of the strengths available to mortals.
‘I choose that fate,’ he said. Disbelief shone on her cold, beautiful face. How many times in her eternity had she been told no? She could not parse it ...

‘You are a fool,’ she spat. ‘You are lucky I do not kill you where you stand. I spare you out of love for your father, but I am patron to you no more.’

The glory that had shone upon him vanished. He looked shriveled without it, grey and gnarled as olive bark. I was as shocked as Athena. What had he done? [Circe, 305]
Though initially shocked, it's not long before Circe herself is also withdrawing from the world of the gods, repudiating her father, sun-god Helios.
‘You have always been the worst of my children,’ he said. ‘Be sure you do not dishonour me.’

‘I have a better idea. I will do as I please, and when you count your children, leave me out.’

His body was rigid with wrath. He looked as though he had swallowed a stone, and it choked him.

‘Give Mother my greetings,’ I said.

His jaw bit down and he was gone. [Circe, 313]
I liked this ending very much: it reminded me, in a way, of Eliot's beautiful narrative elusion at the end of Middlemarch, where we step away from stories to untold, unhistoric acts and life lived faithfully as a hidden thing that ends in an unvisited tomb.

Now, although in one sense (a real consideration, this, I think) this defeats the purpose of the novel as a whole—because the bulk of Circe is in complicated love with exactly the glory and glamour here repudiated—it does at least bring things to a formally appropriate conclusion. After all, the proper business of the novel is the mundane (just as that of epic verse is grandeur and divinity), and that's where Miller eventually steers her ship.


Nonetheless, I finished Circe with a sense of something missing, an opportunity missed. This is, I daresay, my problem rather than the novel's; and what I'm about to say might be thought to miss the very obvious (and very commendable) feminist point of Miller's exercise, to give a voice to a woman otherwise marginalised, to re-centre the masculinist bias of the original mythos. She certainly achieves that. But something of the limitation in her representation of her Olympians seeps into her central portrait too. Circe as the dangerous witch, skilled in potions and a terror to men, is told rather than shown. If Miller's Circe ends up as a homely character that's, in part, because Miller is specifically setting-out to tell a story about a woman who makes her own home. Still: I wonder if Circe becomes just too likeable. Likeability is part of the logic of ‘the novel’ as such, too, I suppose; but it dilutes the force of this work as a whole, I think.

Homer's account of Circe (with which Miller is of course in dialogue here) is the most famous; but it's not as detailed as Ovid's account, in Metamorphosis book 14; and Miller draws on that lengthier and more detailed account for her novel too. By expanding the Homeric episode, and with her fascination with the shining surfaces of things, the aureate gleam of gods' skin, the shifting argent of the surface of the sea, Miller is much more an Ovidian than a Homeric artist, I think. Not that that's a bad thing! But (having read Circe, and thinking about my reaction to it) it has brought home to me something important about my own aesthetic. I like Ovid plenty, I should say; and given how deeply imbued in Ovid our greatest writer was, and seeing what marvels Shakespeare was able to forge out of that source material, owning an Ovidian influence is nothing to be ashamed of. But still: Ovid doesn't reach the depths of me the way Vergil does. Why might that be, I wonder?

Does mentioning Vergil, here, look like a non-sequitur? It shouldn't. Circe also appears, if briefly, in the Aeneid. In book 6, Aeneas visits the underworld, having seen both the punished distorted into tortuous shapes by the consequences of their sinfulness, and the blissful existence of the blessed. Book 7 starts by addressing one more dead person: Aeneas's old nurse Caieta. He buries her on a piece of coastline that subsequently becomes the promontory and town of Caieta. Then he sails off:
At pius exsequiis Aeneas rite solutis,
aggere composito tumuli, postquam alta quierunt
aequora, tendit iter velis portumque relinquit.
Adspirant aurae in noctem nec candida cursus
Luna negat, splendet tremulo sub lumine pontus.
Proxima Circaeae raduntur litora terrae,
dives inaccessos ubi Solis filia lucos
adsiduo resonat cantu tectisque superbis
urit odoratam nocturna in lumina cedrum,
arguto tenuis percurrens pectine telas.
Hinc exaudiri gemitus iraeque leonumv
vincla recusantum et sera sub nocte rudentum,
saetigerique sues atque in praesaepibus ursi
saevire ac formae magnorum ululare luporum,
quos hominum ex facie dea saeva potentibus herbis
induerat Circe in voltus ac terga ferarum.
Quae ne monstra pii paterentur talia Troes
delati in portus neu litora dira subirent,
Neptunus ventis implevit vela secundis
atque fugam dedit et praeter vada fervida vexit
. [Aeneid, 7:5-24]

So pious Aeneas, having performed those last rites,
and smoothed the mound over the grave, as a hush
lies over the high seas, unfurls his sails and leaves the harbour.
Breezes blow through the night, white light speeds them on
a gift of the Moon, the sea glitters with a tremulous radiance.
Soon they are skirting the shoreline of Circe's land,
where the rich daughter of the Sun makes
her untrodden groves echo with ceaseless song;
nightlong her shining palace is sweet with burning cedarwood,
as she drives her shuttle, weaving delicate textiles.
And from far away you can hear angry lions
chafing at their fetters and roaring in the deep night,
and bears and bristle-backed hogs in their pens,
raging, and huge-bodied wolves howling aloud;
these are men who, eating her magical herbs,
the deadly divine Circe had disfashioned into beasts.
To save the good Trojans from so hideous a change,
prevent them from stopping on those ominous shores,
Neptune fills their sails with favourable winds,
and hurries them, sweeping them past the seething shallows.
That's my line-by-line translation; and inadequate as it is, it gives some indication of the quality, the vibe, of alluring-terrifying otherness in Circe's presence in the world that Miller's novel, for all its merits, smooths out. The eerie calls of the magically bestialised men, resounding over the moonlit sea; a yearning and strangeness in the very heart of things. Sunt lacrimae rerum is one of the most famous of Vergilian tags, but Vergil's great poem has always struck me as much more about strangeness than sorrow. It understands, on a deep level, how strange it is that newness comes into the world at all: how empires are created anew out of their fall; how widowers, though wholly dedicated to the memory of their beloved wives, nonetheless fall in love again, marry again, have new children. How strange it is that death, which really ought by definition to be the end of things, somehow—isn't. The Latin novitas means both ‘novelty, newness, freshness’ and also ‘strangeness’, and Aeneas's Troynovant is as much Strange-Troy as it is ‘Troy renewed’. More, this is for Vergil all bound up on his apprehension of the weirdness of the ways divinity interacts with the mundane. The strange ways it manifests, the stranger fact that it manifests at all (this also obsessed Graham Greene: a good half of his novels are about what Brighton Rock calls ‘the appalling strangeness of the mercy of God’).

Poking around online, trying to get my thoughts in order to write this blogpost, I came across the following letter, written by Charles Martindale to the London Review of Books in June 1984, responding to Tom Paulin's (fascinating) review of various books on poetry and translation. One of the books Paulin reviews is Charles Tomlinson's Poetry and Metamorphosis (Cambridge University Press 1983), and Martindale isn't sure Paulin has been quite fair to it.
Tom Paulin, in his interesting if rather churlish review of Charles Tomlinson’s admirable Poetry and Metamorphosis, at times resorts to just that species of urbane cultural waffle of which he seems to accuse Tomlinson. I do not know what it means to say that Dryden’s Virgil is more important than his Ovid because he wrote it for his country’s ‘honour’, or because, ‘perhaps, all verse translation must begin and end with a version of the Aeneid.’ I do know that the Ovid translations are at once truer images of their original and more alive as English verse. It is hard to find in the Virgil a passage to match the imaginative energies of the englishing of (say) the Flood or Daphne’s metamorphosis into laurel. The reason is not far to seek: however much Dryden may have aspired to be the English Virgil, he was anima naturaliter Ovidiana – the glittering surfaces of the Metamorphoses were closer to him than the numinous opacities of Virgil could ever be. Moreover, Ovid had been a far more pervasive presence in English letters, from Chaucer to Milton, than Virgil, who, as R. M. Ogilvie has remarked, is perhaps too religious for the majority of Englishmen and too little Humanist. (Significantly, it was the Anglo-Catholic T.S. Eliot who, in a potent piece of myth-making, re-asserted the claim for Virgil’s ‘adequacy’ and cultural centrality.)
Reading that, the phrase, ‘the glittering surfaces of the Metamorphoses were closer to him than the numinous opacities of Virgil’, went through me like a spear. Exactly! Or to be precise, that's it in reverse: irreligious as I am, the numinous opacities of Vergil speak to me much more forcefully than Ovid's glittering surfaces. And numinous opacity is precisely what's missing from Margaret Miller's otherwise fascinating novelistic dramatic monologue of her not-quite-goddess.