‘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.

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 least) 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. As Jenny Turner notes, 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 write 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.


  1. Fragmentary comments...

    It was Rilke's "Archaic Torso" that came to mind when I read the passage about the cultural power of fragmentary ruins; Rilke was rather late to board that particular bus, but I think there's something similar going on there.

    The Green Man as a cultural reference point only really dates back to the turn of the 20th century and the original convergence of folklore and New Age beliefs (plus ça change eh?). I forget who it was named him, but you certainly won't find a capital G capital M Green Man in the literature. (Wild men, maybe.) There's a theory - I don't know how well grounded - that the ecclesiastical foliate heads on which much of the contemporary mythos of the GM is based actually represent the horror of the (unsaved) flesh returning to the earth: make sure your soul goes to the right place, otherwise this could be you! Anyway, inn signs and pub names of any sort barely go back as far as the Reformation; in pre-modern times the woman of the house would brew the beer, when she wasn't baking the bread and doing everything else.

    I think Tolkien was on to something wrt the Industrial Revolution, though. Firstly, religion and folklore aren't just about the stories - they're embedded in social practice, and when that goes the stories dry up and blow away. You may know all about "what happens at New Year", but if you don't actually do it - say, because you're living in a tenement in Manchester and your neighbours all have different ideas about what to do when - that knowledge is unlikely to survive. Secondly and more importantly, the big change the Industrial Revolution made to England was to increase its carrying capacity. The population of England in 1801 was 1.6 times the size it had been in 1701; the 1901 population was 3.6 times the size of 1801. (Then back to a multiple of 1.6 for 1901-2001, for a total expansion of 9x.) Most of the time, the answer to the question "what would I have been in Georgian England?" is "you wouldn't". Playing the tape forward, the 19th century gives you lots, and lots, of new people - and new people living new lives don't tend to tell old stories.

    The thing about Tolkien's mythographic project, though, is that it was bonkers. Pre-Conquest texts may have included references to Earendil (poss. rel. to Orvandil?), but it sure as hell wasn't Earendil the Elf. As I'm wont to say at folk clubs when the time comes for seasonal songs, there was once an Old Religion in this country, which was observed throughout the land for hundreds of years and infused everything from poetry to everyday life, even though now it's vanished without a trace; it was called "Christianity" (Catholicism to be precise). Shouldn't Tolkien have been writing lives of the saints or non-canonical quests and angelic visitations, instead of all this anti-historical made-up stuff? How much making-whole can you possibly do if you're starting from the wholeness of an imagined creation (or the wholeness of a blank page), putting in the gaps as you go along (cf. the unnamed blue wizards)?

    Perhaps it's temperamental. I picked up Tyler's Tolkien Companion once (well, I bought it, albeit second-hand) but put it down quite rapidly once I realised that the author was playing along with the conceit that Tolkien was a historian of the Third Age, etc, etc. That 'extended universe' approach just doesn't work for me. What I like about le Guin's archipelago (not to mention Priest's Archipelago) is the lack of wholeness, the sense that we may never find out anything about what goes on on Osskil or Lorbanery.

    Which is a rather long-winded way of saying that the appeal of the fragment is just as much a presence in the fantasy genre (going back to the Arabian Nights) as the seamless-robe appeal of the well-built world. Surely?

    1. Phil, thanks as ever for your typically intelligent and thoughtful reaction to this post. I mean, I disagree with most of it, and disagree with some of it quite profoundly, but ... you know. Clearly Tolkien is not some kind of 'true historian', gifted by a magic with a vision unavailable to other historians. But, man: nor does he ever claim to be. It's Blake (also a creator of mad, internally coherent, much-more-powerful-than-they-have-any-right-to-be Fantasy "novels") and his injunction to Create A System, or be Enslav'd by Another Man's. The fault-line this blog is trying to peer into is that between the hard-core 'fragments must he respected as fragments, Just The Facts M'Lud' caste, and the group that thinks where the facts end the imagination might, possibly, have a role. But de gustibus, and so on. Rilke is great. We can agree on that, at least.

      On Green Men --- yes, well, of course, there's a Ploughman's Lunch element to some of this ('why are so many pubs called The Green Man? Well because that's the kind of thing you call a pub, innit: like The King's Head'). But without getting sniffy I'd say that there's a difference between "pub" as a house in which a housewife had brewed-up another batch of weak ale, and where she'd stick the business end of her broom out the window to let the world know (because we all had to drink weak beer back then, because drinking the water would give us dissentery) and the "pub" as a village hub, a communal space, a place where people gather under the baleful eye of a Landlord, the sterner and more judgemental the better, such that we can take our beery sacrament and bond with one another against the Night outside. There were less of the latter, but there were many nonetheless, and I wonder if they don't represent a stubborn hangover from an aboriginal ritual-pagan beer-god anglo-dionysus culture. You don't get pubs on the Continent, after all. Or you do, but they're always called "ENGLISH PUB".

      On population, yes it does get bigger. But I have to say it strikes me as fallacious to say: "there are a million more people alive this decade than the last and therefore those million can have no connection with what has gone before!" The excess population are still born into families, still hear their grandmothers' oral stories at bedtime etc etc.

    2. First point: apparently I've completely misunderstood your post, as - rather than taking a position between rival views of the fragmentary - it appeared to be setting up an opposition between the post-Romantic cult of the numinous fragment (identified mainly with Literature) and a project of making culture whole again by re-weaving a broken web of myth and legend (identified mainly with SF&F). If the latter - and Tolkien, I'm afraid - leaves me cold, it's not out of a lack of sympathy with the project but because I can't see how it could possibly work: wander the realms of Peladon and Silurë as long as you like, it's not going to tell you anything about the matter of England (or anywhere else you might actually live). Both Lewis and Charles Williams tackle that question head-on; Tolkien fairly assiduously avoids it, not even joining any Judeo-Christian dots in the Silmarillion (as far as I'm aware). (But then, neither Lewis nor Williams was the founder of an entire genre of imaginative literature, so Tolkien was clearly doing something right.)

      Second paragraph: I suspect we aren't going to agree on this either. A guy called Steve Roud has recently published a big history of folk song - and it's riling a lot of people, because he sticks to verifiable sources & refuses to speculate beyond those. So we end up with a large % of folk songs known to have been written for a variety of purposes (usually commercial) in C19 and smaller %s known to date from C18 and C17; about all the songs he hasn't pinned down, he basically says "there isn't any evidence, but chances are they were written in much the same way". Believers in songs composed by the 'folk' are left looking like believers in UFOs - "ah, but what about the rest? what about the ones you haven't explained?"

      I've got a more-than-sentimental attachment to folk songs (some of which seem far too distinctive, and far too weird, to be the product of some broadside hack), so I sympathise with the idea that there's something about the English pub, something that might go back to who knows when... Ultimately I'm on the side of the sceptics, though - we just don't know that much. What we do know about is a history of continuous change, and one which is really hard to trace back any earlier than the Reformation.

      Third point: a million more people alive? There were a million more people in England in 1811 than in 1801 - and that was a 15% increase. Between 1801 and 1901 the population rises from 8,000,0000 to 30,000,000. That's not just a case of laying another couple of places at table - that kind of growth brings big social changes with it, migration to the cities not least.

  2. This two most interesting parts of this blog post are, for me, the idea of creating a wound in order to heal it. Makes the tragedians sound like they had a solution in search of a problem, or like they were somehow a bit reactionary.

    The other part is the idea of an indigenous English speculative/fantasy fiction, and an 'original' trauma or some kind of erasure against which Tolkien was working; and by extension against which fantasy writers after Tolkien are working.

    This is useful in the senses of being able to explore both continuity and trauma as drivers of knowledge production. I'd especially like to see how both maps, and the idea of the map, is itself a kind of fragment or trope that allows for 'seeing' the continuity/filling of the breach better, the better to construct the healed (and now whole) world.

    Excellent post!

    1. Thank you, Gwilym!

      I'm not sure I'd say the Attic tragedians were pedling a solution in search of a problem: the world is full enough of sorrow, after all. But not every reader of these plays nowadays understands, I think, that they were originally produced in a particular collective and religious ritualised celebration of the way the divine intervenes in the world, and often in the case of restoring harmony. But your point about how this line of thinking can become reactionary is very well taken. A version of this, after all, is what Jordan Peterson is offering his legions of angry young men: surrender your lives to the logic of these reactionary, unchanging mythic archetypes and you'll be healed. The post had gone on long enough, or I would have said more about the political implications of all this.

      The maps point is really interesting. Both in general (as in the way the mercator projection enacts a violence upon the integrity of the actual globular dispositon of land and sea in order to make something manageable) and in relation specifically to Tolkien.

    2. "...creating a wound in order to heal it." Is exactly what self-harm is all about, because there is a held trauma, which requires some kind of expression to be processed. Just a thought as I reread all this :) That Shakespeare leaves Lear and all he touches at the stage before that makes the play more about how trauma is passed generationally because it's not dealt with. The healing stage comes later, if anyone ever gets to it. Perhaps they pass it on too. That's my take on it. I really enjoyed reading this.

    3. I'm glad you enjoyed it, Justina! Your points are v. interesting. I see what you mean about self-harm, although I suppose I wonder whether there isn't something distinctively contemorary about it, in its individualising focus: the individual is traumatised, hurts, and has to take it on him/herself individually to hurt themselves in order to feel and, in some sense, heal. But conceivably the individual's trauma has to do with the fact that they are separated from the whole, that modern existence is so atomised and deracinated. I'm not sure.

  3. My undergraduate thought about "Kubla Khan" is that it was a fragment that completed itself by asserting its incompleteness.