Are musards farblondget? A sketch of a lexicographical note on Yde and Olive


From Peau d’âne, the Lilac fairy tells Donkey Skin that “On n’épouse jamais ses parents”

I’m so grateful to the Medieval Feminist Forum for publishing Mounawar Abbouchi’s edition and translation of Yde et Olive, a portion of the massive Huon de Bordeaux cycle. This section feature a cross-dressed hero (Yde) who, after some chivalric adventures, finds herself, reluctantly, married to Olive, daughter of the Roman emperor; after some awkward moments of attempted intimacy, Yde confesses all, Olive promises her fidelity, but a servant (“garchon”) gossips to the emperor; Yde’s faced with execution for having deceived the emperor, but an angel rescues her by granting her everything a man requires for his humanity (tout chou c’uns hom a de s’umanité; 1048). It’s a reverse castration miracle, with gender transformation (or realization) added.

Yde sets out on this path because her widowed father, Florent, wants to marry her. It’s a familiar story, from Marie de France’s “Les deus amants” (where it’s only hinted at), to Chaucer’s Squire’s Tale (interrupted), to Peau d’âne, and one I typically teach with reference to Gayle Rubin’s classic “The Traffic in Women: Notes on the ‘Political Economy of Sex.'” In essence, girls in such a system are meant to sex trafficked to other families: it’s not as if the normative marriage model is any better for them. King Florent’s advisers are horrified, unsurprisingly, at this insult to the system:

Sire,” font il, “Damledix vous en gart!
Onques n’avint, ne jamais n’avenra;
Or n’est il hom que, s’il vous escoutast,
Ne vous tenist de tel coze a musart. (256-59)

“Sire,” they said, “God keep you from this!
It has never been done, nor will it ever come to pass.
No man who hears you
Would not take you for a deviant. (Abbouchi trans)

“Musart” is a hard word, and “deviant” works well enough in this context, primarily for etymological reasons. In modern English, “deviant” has a slightly statistical quality to it, and, as a noun, a sense of sexual deviance from the norm that feels anachronistic to the Middle Ages. But the word deviant comes from the Latin for going off the way (de + via), that is, wandering; and “musart” has, among its meanings, a similar quality of going astray.

For in modern French, a musard is a flâneur, an idler, a libertine; in Middle French too; In Middle English, idleness, too, although with more than a whiff of general dissipation: one of the MED’s examples sees Dindimus, the ascetic philosopher, accusing Alexander the Great “Of fornicacion & filth & many foule synnes, / Maumentry, & manslatir, mosardry & pride, Þat dose ʒow dompe to þe devill.”

The word also has a more general quality of “fool” or even “jerk,” as it seems to function as an all-purpose insult. The Anglo-Norman Dictionary offers this example:

Que dites vus, mal musard, felon mescreant? Quidez vus sustenir la guerre entretant Contre sire Edward, un tiel prince pussant?

Which we might translate, very loosely, as “What are you saying, you jerk, you asshole? Do you want to go to war against Lord Edward, who’s such a powerful prince?”

Or is a mustard perhaps just an unfortunate, or a fool, as with Yde and Olive’s son Croissant:

Or vous dirons de Croissant le musart
Qui par poverte est alés en essart
[Now we speak to you about Croissant “le musart,” who because of poverty went into a forest clearing; 1149-50, edition Elena Podetti]

And there’s also a proposed historical sense of the word having to do with certain travelling musician/versifiers, who go about, so to speak, with their muzzles (museaux) in the air (E. Rostand, Les musardises; yes, that’s the Cyrano de Bergerac Rostand).

Does the word come from these musicians? From people who muse too much, that is, who think to no particular end? If musards are étourdi, scatterbrained, are they farblondget?

There’s surely much more to say here! Florent’s advisers clearly think their king is up to no good. The poet — not terribly accomplished anyway — may be using “musard” less because of its lexicographical precision than because it fits the laisse’s scheme of assonance. And, anyway, the word doesn’t seem to have much specificity.

Without endorsing Florent’s horrible aims, we might spend some time with the word, taking it up as an early witness to the foolishness of having no particular plans, no fixed address, of wandering by the wayside, of holding open a position for no good to be done. Florent’s court wants him to be productive; they want an heir; but he’s not going to be productive on the terms they require. He’s a bad deviant, but Yde, his daughter, and eventually, his son, is also a bit of a deviant too.



“Los dreitz que tenon l’amador” [The Laws that Lovers Hold]: Initial Notes on the Political Imaginary of the Trobairitz, or, What’s Wrong with Neofeudalism

Although Aristotle’s Politics begins by insisting that “the qualifications of a statesman, king, householder, and master” are, whatever their apparent resemblances, not the same, he effectively erases this very caution in his next passage, which considers political life at what he claims as its foundation: political life begins with the union of male and female, because of their “natural desire,” shared with animals, “to leave behind them an image of themselves,” but also because of that union of “natural ruler and subject.” Having said this, Aristotle has to distinguish between women and enslaved people (of whatever gender, presumably): though both are made to serve, women have other uses, presumably having to do with the future.

And though Aristotle takes some time before he imagines how households, joined together, form a state with a ruler, we still see his imagination of politics here in miniature: it is the order of ruler and subject, motivating force and object, or, we might say, form and matter, a kind of social hylomorphism.

I offer this by way of contrast to the political imagination of the Trobairitz, although I’m sure what I’m about to say is equally applicable to the roughly 2500 surviving troubadour songs (Bruckner et al, xliii). And, as it’s been perhaps 17 years since I last dipped into this material, I’m certain I’m making points that have been made before, for centuries, many times. Bear with me.

While Aristotle’s political imagination neatly splits ruler from subject, the Trobairitz poetry intermingles them. They do this because their political imagination is essentially that of mutual obligation between local rulers, none with a claim to being the single lord of an entire region or an entire people. Those who were ruled, at least if they possessed the political clout that made their loyalty desirable, could complain, resist, and even betray, leaving their lord for another one, because another castle, another city might be a better home. The permanent claims and obligations of citizenship made to those born to a nation state — and, recall, that “nation” comes “nasci,” that which has been born — are not at all applicable here.

It is for this reason that I have been grumpily resisting claims that our present era of capitalism, characterized by temporary labor (or “at will” employment, where the will is exercised only by the employer), non-disclosure agreements, the privatization of the public sphere for the benefit of the few, and especially the “hardening of divisions in society,” between rich and poor, has much to do with “feudalism,” with all due respect to Jurgan Habermas, and with somewhat less respect to The National Review. To claim that the hardened divisions between rich and poor, and indeed the increasing immiseration of working people after a few decades of postwar prosperity in the industrialized, colonial powers, is a reversion to a “medieval” state of politics is to ignore both the terrible condition of working people through much of the 18th and 19th centuries — a category that includes both colonial subjects and enslaved people — and the characteristically modern tendency of Neoliberalism. “Neofeudal” aims to catalyze resistance to present misery by likening it to the Middle Ages, but insofar as it’s a misdiagnosis, the metaphor offers little guidance, or worse, for any practical reimagining of political and economic life. The diagnosis works only for those who disdain the “medieval” so much that they don’t bother to learn anything about it.

For if we examine the actual language of actual people living under feudalism, we find a language worried about secrets, betrayal, loyalty, and obligation, organized around contracts. Of course, the Trobairitz are poems of elites talking to other elites. They represent no one who is not in possession of property and a band of armed supporters to defend the exploitation to preserve it. Yet the elites do vary slightly in power, enough so that the elites imagine their meeting as something other than equals. And in that slight inequality, we see something other than a mere hardening of social divisions, and something other than a political relationship of form to matter.

“Fin ioi me dona alegranssa” worries about “li lausengiar,” the gossips, who might draw others into alliance with them (the word is “acordamen,” and apologies for not knowing Occitan!) (Bruckner et al, 13). “Ia de chantar non degra aver talan” speaks of ladies and knights, each obligated to plead with each other to prove their love (17), as one might in any legal or social dispute in court: pleading, after all, implies that power doesn’t lie only in the one person. “Amics, s’ trobes avinen” builds sensitive, somewhat fragile mechanisms of contracts:

I will never hold you worthy
nor will I love you with good and faithful heart
until I see if it would help me
to have a harsh or evil heart toward you. (19; see also 27, 31, 45, 51)

Or, this, the opening stanza of “Mout avetz faich lonc estatge,” so easy to read in a political register:

You’ve stayed a very long time away
from me, my friend, since you departed,
and I find it harsh and grim,
because you pledged and you swore
that all your days
you’d have no lady besides me;
and if you’re attending to another,
you have murdered and betrayed me [mi avetz morta e trahida]
for in you I had my hope
that you would love me without wavering. (23; see also 31)

The same poem talks about love having “seized me so” (m’a amors sazida, 23), which I imagine might be military language. I suspect there’s a great deal of other legal or quasi-legal language I’m missing because of my ignorance about the field: for example, one speaks of a lover who wants to “summon” (convenir) her friend (21); another of “maltraich e.l damptnatge” (damage and harm, 25). Another, “Bona dona d’une re” ends with a description of the perfect lover, which also might be a description of the perfect vassal:

Friend Betran, a lover must act nobly
if he is honest, faithful, and no deceiver. (53)

Now, we might say that all of this is simply metaphorical support for love. Since the poets used this language of obligation, submission, and loyalty only because this the material on hand, it might be said that this love language tells us very little about actual political life. But actual political life is not simply a matter of economic relations; it cannot be reduced, in its final analysis, to a play of numbers (for a parody of such analysis, see Jonathan Swift’s “A Modest Proposal,” which I just taught in another class). Actual political life is necessarily ideological, and ideology is not only the “false consciousness” of actually existing political relationships; it is also consciousness, as such, because all consciousness is necessarily an inadequate negotiation with the actually existing disorder of things (with measured respect for Slavoj Zizek, who made this very point repeatedly before he derailed himself). That is, we can learn something about “feudal” life, if this is what we want to call this play of petty, local lordships, by reading how they metaphorized their political life.

And, by extension, we can imagine that the gradual disappearance of troubador poetry through the later middle ages, and its general absence from medieval England — which my hunch tells me is the case — has less to do with changing tastes, and perhaps little to do with the submission of Toulouse to Northern France, than it does with the gradual transformation of political life into one that didn’t allow for the (slightly) free play of gossip, betrayal, and loyalty required for anyone to imagine their erotic life as analogous to a political life. Powerful kings, in short, killed courtly love.


Brucker, Matilda Tomaryn, Laurie Shepard, and Sarah White, ed. and trans., Songs of the Women Troubadours. New York: Garland, 2000.

Sayf Ben (or ibn) Dhi Yazan: the maverick motif

Lena Jayyusi knows how readers unfamiliar with Arabic medieval romance are likely to approach her translation of The Adventures of Sayf Ben Dhi Yazan, namely, as a repository of narrative motifs. She provides one herself. We will be tempted to index the work still further against the Thompson motif index, for example, or perhaps, more relevantly, against those found in E. H. Ruck’s An Index of Themes and Motifs in Twelfth-Century French Arthurian Poetry, Anita Guerreau-Jalabert’s Index des motifs narratifs dans les romans arthuriens français en vers (published the same year as Ruck’s volume!), or even those in the Thesaurus Exemplorum Medii Aevi (ThEMA).

We will do this because so much is so familiar, even to those of us, like me, whose medieval education concentrates only on Middle English, Old French, and Latin works. Readers of medieval romance, from whatever place in whatever language, will know not to look for forms of characterization particular to the modern novel. Characters vary, slightly, but only in a very narrow band: the men are all brave, some wicked, some good, and pagan men never win, though the best fighters among them convert; wizards can be good or wicked, but they are mostly wicked; women might connive, and they are, for the most part, extraordinarily beautiful; and, in the first half of the work, they might creep along beside their beloved — as Shama does with Sayf Ben Dhi Yazan — in full armor, rescuing him from danger. All of this is (mostly) expected, and so too are the elements of the plot (mostly), distinguished from the romance of Latin Christendom (mostly) only by the “local flavor” of the divine and spiritual assistance: no eucharistic miracles, no talk of hell, but instead the great, gigantic, and airy force of the jinn. So we turn to the motifs to organize this episodic, yet (mostly) familiar work into some further, perhaps meaningful pattern.

For example: Sayf is abandoned as an infant by a wicked ruler who fears he will supplant them. He’s left to the elements, though not before being bedecked with jewels that will identify him, much later, as a man of quality, and as the offspring of his bad parent. A gazelle finds him in the wilderness, and feeds him from her teat. The earliest such story dates to the Akkadian account of the childhood of Sargon; and then next earliest, quite similar, that of Cyrus of Persia, abandoned, rescued by dogs (or a human named “dog”), who then reveals his quality as an adult. A later one, a few centuries prior to this Arabic romance (15th or 16th century?) is Marie de France’s lai of “le Fresne.” Such stories at once attest to the innate rather than merely inherited quality of the hero, letting him (and it’s mostly a him) claim his power through his own might, while also speaking, contrarily, of the ineradicable presence of his natural, aristocratic inheritance. Nothing much distinguishes Sayf’s childhood from this pattern, except, perhaps, the acquisition of a new, jinn foster-mother, superior in power and loyalty to the wicked, supplanting concubine, Qamariyya, his mother.

So much weight in that except! For normally the mother in the “feral foundling” story is erased, her child stolen, her mothering shoved aside in favor of the new parent. Romulus and Remus’s mother, or Moses’s, or any number of other, more obscure mothers: they generally don’t matter much. As I write in my forthcoming book:

Typically, as with Cyrus, Romulus and Remus, or Wolfdietrich, the foster mother drops from the narrative altogether, as does the birthmother, whose typical narrative function is only to be impregnated, to flee, to give birth, and to lose her child. The standard feral child story thus erases both mothering and its labor twice, first by cutting off the child from its birth mother and what he owes her for her labor, and then by cutting off the child from the mother who raised him.

Provided with knowledge like this, knowing what normally happens, and knowing how Sayf differs, we have to wonder at the limited use of the motif index. Tracking similar narrative elements across texts has its uses, not least of all that of undoing the supposed distances — linguistic, religious, geographic, and so on — that supposedly separate one region from another. The boundaries later formed by colonialism and European worldwide dominance prevented no transmission of good stories, or similar encoded anxieties and hopes, in the centuries prior. But we might also want an index of modified motifs, records not just of the similarities, but of the key variations, surprises. And, in response to such an index, we would ask whether a variation actually marks more narrative agency on the part of the work, which thus serves as a mark of significance in the otherwise unchosen, even unthinking flow of narrative motifs; or we might ask whether the variation, and with it, that element of “singularity,” really merits that kind of admiration: because isn’t the belief in the particular significance of singularity a kind of cultural mystification too, like our supposed love of individuals, rebels, and mavericks? What’s more important culturally, the standard model, or the one-off? The Prick of Conscience or Pearl?

Further discussion in class!

Pleasure and Rhetoric: On Matthew of Vendôme and Geoffrey of Vinsauf

Grammar, personified, can be perfectly innocuous, bearing nothing but a wax tablet, as she does in twelfth-century illustrations for what is probably either The Marriage of Mercury and Philology or The Consolation of Philosophy: see the image to the right, for example, or, from the same manuscript, here, or this illustration from a fifteenth-century Boethius. Writing is just what she does, and whatever the difficulties we might encounter in learning how to do it, none are apparent in her placid face or her accoutrements. Yet many medievalists will also know the famous Grammar on the West Facade of Chartres Cathedral, who looms over her young charges with her ferule; underneath her are Donatus or Priscian, backed up by the authority of classroom corporeal punishment. None of the facade’s other seven liberal arts carry a weapon; Music is ringing bells, for example (note: I need to check this more carefully!). Learning to write, the facade says, is difficult, unpleasant, an invitation to pain.

Which is why it’s surprising to find such a focus on pleasure in Geoffrey of Vinsauf’s Poetria Nova and Matthew of Vendôme’s Ars Versificatoria: whatever their differences–and the Ars merits its reputation for tedium. while Geoffrey’s perhaps merits its enormous popularity–each work aims to teach writing primarily to ward off boredom, disgust, and creeping feelings of dissonance. Or, to put this another way, each aims to create equilibrium and harmony, to increase our pleasure in reading.

Those of us who teach English Composition may be surprised at this goal: I do, and I certainly was. As I understand it, training in writing in the twenty-first century American college classroom tends to focus on grammatical rules, not to preserve or increase the pleasure of the reader, but for clarity of expression, and, especially, to serve as a sign that the writer has been credentialed. The college-educated writer knows the rules of commas and semi-colons in English, and can at least the fake the manner of being to the manor born by spelling each word correctly. Arguments are the other thing we teach: students have to have something to say, and have to know how to get that across. We want them to learn to think, to make an intervention, to join an existing conversation. And we want them to abandon the habits they acquired in earlier, bad teaching: the standard, pointless openings — the dictionary definition, the inverted triangle, and so on. If pleasure has anything to do with this approach to teaching, I don’t know where it is.

But in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, pleasure was all! On metaphor, Geoffrey writes “When you transpose a word whose literal meaning is proper to man, it affords greater pleasure, since it comes from what is your own” (44). Later, on transposition, he observes “When meaning comes clad in such apparel, the sound of words is pleasant to the happy ear, and delight in what is unusual stimulates the mind” (50). On metonymic expressions of cause, “There is greater pleasure and satisfaction for the ear when I attribute to the cause what the effect claims as its own” (51). In warning against “ineffective” word use, Matthew of Vendôme speaks of “suitable” repetition, which “is formed in three ways: for the purpose of an addition, for the purpose of clarification, and for the purpose of greater expressiveness” (95): the first two options are practical, the kind of advice that one might encounter in the tens of thousands of English 1010 classes currently being run right now; the last, though a woolly and uncertain thing, points to the pleasure of being overwhelmed, a little, by what one reads. The so-called “reversible” metaphor, the antistrophe, has, Matthew explains, “a singular pre-eminance among the other tropes, and should be used especially by verse-makers: for it adopts a special beauty to the metrical arrangement”  (86). Or — one more example — Matthew likens effective versification to a bejeweled object:

there are some expressions which are, as it were, substitutes for jewels; from skillful positioning of these the whole meter will seem to be celebrating. For multiform ornamentation of them imparts by positioning the benefit of its beauty to other expressions, and by association, as it were, applies the attractiveness of a certain festive character. (64)

Each writer dedicates themselves to teaching the avoidance of fault. Grammar is taught elsewhere, whereas Geoffrey and Matthew are interested in vocabulary, the arrangement of words and clauses, and, above all, elegance and harmony. In their examples, we encounter a certain social harmony, where the young women who so often serve as objects to illustrate character, are at once the objects of desire and paragons of demureness. Matthew’s disdain for enslaved people, inherited from a Roman slavocacy, further attests to the cruelties and exclusions of the fantasy of social harmony. Men have to be men; matrons have to be wise; the old cannot love, and the young must be full of energy. The avoidance of grammatical fault is the avoidance of social fault. I am reminded, necessarily, of Marcos Gonsalez’s writing about racism and English composition, for example, “When ‘Good Writing’ Means ‘White Writing’”.

Gonsalez writes about the ignorance of his colleagues, and their largely unconscious subjugation of their students to grammar’s ferrule:

In their radically liberal and progressive and student-centered pedagogies [phrases, I should emphasize, Gonsalez is using with merited disdain –ks], the students are the ones who have to adapt, to change according to a professor’s shifting standards. The underlying assumption beneath my colleague’s question is that my student’s use of language, with their specific ways of speaking, writing, knowing, and experiencing the world, is not of the university and the writing classroom. This implies to students that their everyday speech and their everyday forms of composing the written word is not intellectual, is not appropriate for sharing with others on the page. The words in Spanglish, the humorous inversions of logic at the end of a thought, the hard accent and emphases of a student born and raised in the South Bronx, the means of interpreting the world unique to their kind of body and their bodily history, is deemed not good enough.

Avoiding fault means becoming standardized; avoiding fault means becoming harmonious, which means not standing out. Medieval techniques of rhetoric persist.

Yet there’s something to be said, still, in favor of Geoffrey and Matthew’s dedication to the pleasure of reading and writing. They don’t really want to rock the boat, of course; they don’t see writing as a kind of thinking, and they certainly don’t see thinking as a form of social transformation. But then again, the same holds true for most instruction in writing, even now, which, as Gonsalez argues, is so poorly fitted to drawing out the artistry and actual experience of our students’ lives. What happens to writing instruction when we put pleasure at the center? And what happens when we find in Geoffrey and Matthew that wellspring of pleasure — surprise, excess — which introduces a certain thrilling disharmony into the smoothness of a rhetorical order that rests on the deadly harmonies of the existing social order?

Intro to Medieval Studies, Class 2, Norse Sagas, Free Write

(going to do this every Thursday so help me God, and thank to the Most Dangerous Writing App)

Anyone familiar with Marie de France’s Lais, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, or Parsifal will recognize narrative elements from the Saga of Hrolf Kraki and the Volsung Saga: the outsider to court who, like a fool, neither knows nor respects the rules of courtesy and the underlying social hierarchies that they sustain, but who reveals himself to be a greater, less self-conscious hero than anyone already lodged in court, like Svipdag and Bodvar in Hrolf; the strange figure who comes from the outside, a man older or at least more imposing than the usual run of men, who arrives to turn a feast to worry and wonder with his uncanny demands, like Bertilak or Odin; and then, birds that enter through windows, assume the forms of humans, and then have sex with humans longing for a mate, like Marie’s Yonec, or any number of stories in Hrolf Kraki and the Volsung Saga about transformations into fierce, forest carnivores — bears or wolves — and the difficulty of living as both human and beast. Even the bear mate material appears in the late vernacular literature of Christian England. Much of this material belongs to still more widespread narrative traditions, like women who interpret dreams correctly, tell the terrible future, and get ignored, a trend we can identify running from Cassandra’s to Pertelote in the Nun’s Priest’s Tale (where Chaucer parodies the tradition by making Pertelote a misreader) to Hilary Clinton herself.

My hunch is that we might want to avoid calling these elements “folkloric,” although I offer this hunch without any strong grounding in the scholarship of folklore. I am more inclined to mark these elements as common narrative elements belonging to generally non-literate forms of transmission. The kinds of narrative, and what they supposedly say about either a people or the purported “deep structures of human thought,” probably matter less than the technologies of transmission, first of all, and secondly, how the spread of these stories say about the supposed ethnic unities of ancient peoples. If these stories can be so widely told, then what matters is the stories, not the “people,” if that makes sense.

Finally, however, I am interested in what drops out from this material as it makes its way into the storytelling in the later medieval continent, in, say, French, Middle English, and Latin. The question of fate remains important, of course; but now fate becomes wrapped up with the philosophical problem of “free will.” Women warriors do not entirely disappear, but they are far more often outliers; eating the flesh or drinking the blood of the powerful no longer grants the eater the power of what they had eaten. As professional, supervised religious monocultures emerge, we get a new notion of the outside, no longer organized simply between the Hall and the Forest: the outside might be a civilization too. We might do well to consider, then, not the “survivals of the ancients” but rather what does not survive, and what social and economic transformations lead to their disappearance and transformations.

Bret Stephens, Mosquitos, and the Fantasies of Freedom

Bret Stephens, a 45-year-old white man who is currently a New York Times columnist, was recently called a “bedbug” by a faculty member at the George Washington University.  His bizarre reaction to this stimulus: to write both the George Washington University Provost and the Director of its School of Media and Public Affairs, to invite the GWU professor to his house to insult him, personally, in front of his wife and child, and to complain on national television that “there’s a there’s a bad history of being called uh of being analogized to insects that goes back to a lot of totalitarian regimes in the past.”

As others have observed, this “bad history” (double entendre no doubt unintentional) goes back to 2013, in Stephens’ column for the Wall Street Journal. He was then not quite 40. There, in a column someone titled “The Boring Palestinians,” he wrote:

Only the Palestinians remain trapped in ideological amber. How long can the world be expected to keep staring at this four-million-year-old mosquito?

Outrageous and pathetic, and, had Stephens stuck to the Wall Street Journal, the column would have remained undiscovered and unread. But as the Times saw fit to translate him to a higher post, I’m going to briefly point out the antisemitic roots of Stephens’ analogy, and then suggest, just as briefly, a few points about the problem of freedom, which I’m considering for my book-in-progress, The Irrational Animal.

Ralph Waldo Emerson’s chapter on “Race” in his 1856 English Traits argues that the particularly mixed nature of the English, comprising Celtic, Germanic, and Nordic blood, creates in them a freedom of character that has suited them for mastery of the world; what Emerson sees as particularly American, he implies, derives from just this mixture. It’s a telling moment in this history of racism: Emerson isn’t arguing for racial purity, but rather for something more foundational to the dream of racial purity, namely, the dream of natural superiority, and the freedom of culture and self-invention that comes with it.

By way of contrast, Emerson observes, predictably enough: “Race in the negro is of appalling importance”; “the Arabs of to-day are the Arabs of Pharaoh”; and “Race is a controlling influence in the Jew, who, for two millenniums, under every climate, has preserved the same character and employments.”

One race is free: free of compulsion, free of history, and, paradoxically enough, free of racial instincts. The others are constrained to be what they are, forever: trapped in amber.

Medieval European Christian thinkers would generally not have said such things about “Negroes” or “Arabs” (and I use generally advisedly: of course they did, sometimes, but not as often, or with the same political effects, as a nineteenth-century European Christian). They would have said such things about Jews, often. The classic treatment is Jeremy Cohen’s Living Letters of the Law: Ideas of the Jew in Medieval Christianity (1999), published when Bret Stephens was 26, by which point he was already working as assistant features editor at the Wall Street Journal. To read Cohen’s book in its entirety is to realize that medieval Christian intellectuals often portrayed Jews as unchanging, sclerotic, as trapped in a kind of perpetual animal obedience to their Law, incapable of true thought. They were intellectual peasants, and peasants were, essentially, beasts. Twelfth-century Christian scholars, in speaking to Rabbis, as they sometimes did, imagined they were speaking directly to the “Old Testament.” One might imagine the same, mutatis mutandis, of scientists able to extract the DNA from the mosquito frozen in amber.

The trick is not, however, to insist that Palestinians are free political actors, and that Jews are rational too, like Christians, although I do recognize the occasional local political utility of such claims. The trick is to push back against the underlying claim of freedom. Stephens’ insistence that the Palestinians are mosquitos frozen in amber — and his implicit claim that Israeli Jews, in their attachment to the Holy Land, are somehow exercising their rational will — relies on an unexamined certainty that certain kinds of people have freedom, and that others do not. It relies on what were already outmoded ideas by the time young Stephens was doing his undergraduate degree at the University of Chicago in the early to mid 1990s: for ideology can’t be escaped; the claim to “reason” is never anything more solid than a self-justifying fantasy; and nothing is more delusional than the man who sees himself as free of the weight of history’s incubus, speaking truths that no one else dares to voice. Such a man is, in essence, a bedbug dreaming of being a human. Like us all, I suppose.



Saint Ephigenia: when did she become a Black saint?

Recently, at the Cathedral Fortress of Tui, in Galicia, my companions alerted me to what I guess is a 17th- or early 18th-century statue of Ephigenia, an Ethiopian saint associated with Saint Matthew who seems to have first appeared in the thirteenth-century Golden Legend of Jacobus de Voragine. Maybe 30 minutes of research so far shows that she’s well known to scholars of colonialism, race/racialization, and piety. But my suspicion is that this same body of research hasn’t communicated much with the medievalists. I’m certain I’ve missed something, and I’d be shocked if the Hispanicists weren’t on this already. So consider the above statement a hunch.

[next day edit: h/t to Cynthia Hahn for turning me on to Erin Rowe’s work on this. Looks like she has it covered. Two of her articles, which are, presumably, preparatory for her next book, are:

“After Death Her Face Turned White: Blackness and Sanctity in the Early Modern Hispanic World,” American Historical Review, Vol. 121, no. 3 (June 2016): 726-754. [ebsco link, but prob works only for CUNY]

“Visualizing Black Sanctity in Early Modern Iberia.” Invited contribution to: Envisioning Others: Race, Color, and the Visual in Iberia and Latin America, edited by Pamela Patton. Leiden: Brill, 2016.]

Here’s the statue:

DSCF9061 (3)

Saint Yphigenia, Cathedral of Tui, Galicia, photo by Karl Steel, July 23, 2019

I’ve tried to make the image as clear as possible, but for someone else’s photo, with more of a snapshot feel, see here.

My hunch was that she’d be light-skinned in her first medieval appearances. The hunch seems to be, at least in part, correct. Examples:


Golden Legend, Bruges, Morgan Library, MS M.672-5 IV, fol. 92 (1445-1455).

The Morgan’s caption explains: “Within second room of architectural setting, Iphigenia and virgins gather as man, standing outside, holds bucket of flames to walls of enclosure.”

This one is a bit harder to spot, but I think she’s among the nuns in the upper left-hand corner. From the Morgan’s description: “Hyrtacus denied Iphigenia — Hyrtacus, crowned, with arms crossed on his breast, stands behind five seated nuns, all looking toward Evangelist Matthew, nimbed, preaching from pulpit.”

This post couldn’t be more preliminary. I’m hoping to explore all this further in my Fall Intro to the Medieval Studies seminar at the CUNY Grad Center, by which point, I trust, I’ll have found more images and also, I expect, the scholarship that’s already thoroughly explored what I’m playing with here.

My goal here is to further tease out the history of racialization, and the intertwined histories of gender and sexuality (as I suspect that were Efigenia an Ethiopian male saint, she’d be dark-skinned in the Golden Legend), less for my own scholarship, and more for my teaching.

Further reading includes:

Cheek, Sheldon, “The Black Saint Who Embodied Christianity for the African Masses,” The Root, April 29, 2014.

Maddocks, Hilary Elizabeth, The Illuminated Manuscripts of the Légende Dorée: Jean de Vignay’s Translation of Jacobus de Voragine’s Legenda Aurea (PhD Thesis, U of Melbourne, 1989) (pdf)

Sánchez, Roberto. “The Black Virgin: Santa Efigenia, Popular Religion, and the African Diaspora in Peru.” Church History 81, no. 3 (2012): 631-55 (JSTOR)

Valerio, Miguel Alejandro. 2016. “The Queen Sheba’s Manifold Body: Creole Black Women Performing Sexuality, Cultural Identity, and Power in Seventeenth-Century Mexico City.” Afro – Hispanic Review 35 (2): 79-98

What Hanne Darboven can tell us about the Middle English ‘Names of the Hare in English’


And here’s my last paper for Spring 2019, and by far my most tentative. It’s for Session 157, “Forming Character: Between Personhood and the Nonhuman,” for the International Congress on Medieval Studies at Kalamazoo, assembled by Ingrid Nelson and Julie Orlemanski. Here’s the Powerpoint, but the images will be below as well. None of the images are essential for understanding my paper.

The Middle English “Names of the Hare in English” appears, with its French title, amid a host of other works in a famous late thirteenth-century miscellany, Digby 86. Its 63 lines begin with a warning to anyone who encounters a hare: he will never fare well unless he drops what he’s carrying in his hand, be it a staff or a bow, and then bless himself with his elbow — whatever that could mean — and then “say an orison in worship of the hare” to ward off bad luck. Then follows the orison: 77 names of the hare, running from the expected, like the first, which is simply “the hare,” to more fanciful ones, many hapax legomena, including “the steal-away,” “the evil met,” “the grass biter,” “the friendless,” “the sitter, the grass hopper,” “the fold sitter,” “the sittest-ille,” which I suppose might be translated as “the worried sitter,” and finally “the animal” — the Middle English here is der — “that all men scorn / the animal that no man dare name.” The poem finishes by freeing the transfixed unfortunate man: once you have recited these names, it says, then you can move on, east or west, south or north. The poem itself then wishes the hare “good day,” and hopes that the hare is next encountered as a nice, cooked meal.

Commentators routinely mark the poem as the earliest English witness of the legendary, and widely cross-cultural bad luck attributed to hares. I’m reminded too of a belief as old as Plato and repeated at least through the seventeenth century, which held that a human would be rendered speechless if seen first by a wolf, and that they could regain their speech only if they stripped themselves naked. The belief attests, of course, to a certainty that human supremacy is a zero-sum game – as it may well be in a wilderness meeting with a wolf – that locates human supremacy in language itself. See the wolf first and know it, and it has been made subject to your rational classification; failing that, reboot your humanity by getting naked, and try again.


With that in mind, it’s easy to take the Hare poem as a contest of mastery. But it’s as if the primordial Adam, commanded to name the animals, found himself compelled to keep going, as if the very act of naming, and the slightly worried humanity that that singular capacity to name offered, had got the mastery of him. For the very excess of the poem – again, 77 names – suggests either a poet who’s not in control of what they’re doing, or – and this is my preference – one whose principles of composition and description are either irrecoverable or irreducible to a single system.


Why so many names? It’s not that the poem just needs to fill up space. It runs in two columns, with the first 11 lines on 168 recto, and the rest, which is all the actual names of the hare, minus the first line, on the verso. But after it stops, there’s sufficient space to squeeze in, somewhat clumsily, Digby 86’s second copy of “The Dolorous Days of the Year,” and we can guess that the theme of bad luck inspired this recopying, even if we have to wonder why the recopying. Why not take that space, instead, to keep coming up with more hare names? There’s room, by my count, for about 26 more. Why so many? Or why so few?


Nor, so far as I can discern, do the poem’s names follow any particular order. The introductory and closing materials are, mostly, octosyllabic couplets; the names themselves use end rhymes, but according to a varying and unpredictable pattern. The rhymes are always more than a couplet, with the most common being the -art rhyme – akin to the -ard suffix, think dotard, which tends to be derogatory: 14 lines in all, 9 at the beginning, and then 5 more towards the end. Most lines have two names, but seven have only one.

Metrically, the poem is just as unpredictable. To my knowledge, no one has attended to the poem with more sensitivity than Carolynn van Dyke, whose formal aspects she treats towards the tail-end of her monumental article on medieval “animots.” As she observes, the poem’s “strong but varied rhythms suit the movements of an alternately wind-swift, lurking, scuttling, leaping ground-sitter,” or, as I’ll say, its “strong but varied rhythms” attests to a poem that follows patterns, but never just one at any given time.

Ultimately, I would propose that the effect of “The Names of the Hare” far exceeds its seemingly express aims of either describing the hare or at evading the bad luck of encountering one. Once at the end of the list of names, we don’t have that clear a view of what a hare does, or what we should think of it. And if the point is to ward off unluck, the requirements are so far in excess of the possible — are we supposed to have these 77 names on hand, just in case, and is the hare meant to wait while we recite them — that the work can function only as a burlesque of actual utility. Remember the rules for encountering a wolf: comparatively speaking, those are eminently practicable.

An accumulation that runs for an arbitrary, but excessive, length; that takes much longer to recite than could ever make it useful; the seeming gesture towards something in the real world that, through its excess and heterogeneity, refers far more clearly to its own bravura, but seemingly pointless, act of creation: these are the features that compelled me to try, finally, to think these poem through the monumental, overwhelming, durational art of Hanne Darboven.

Born in Munich in 1941, Darboven trained as a pianist, became an artist, and moved to New York City in 1966, where she stayed for several years, interacting with several key New York conceptual artists, like Sol LeWitt, before moving back to Germany in 1969. She died in Hamburg in 2009 on her family estate.

A classic Darboven piece might fill several gallery walls with repeated, framed images that seem based on calendrical calculations. But, and this is key, there is never just one principle that generates her figures. Dan Adler offers a reading that could be drawn from any number of her critics: she “habitually disrespects the parameters of subgroups within all her sequential arrangements….there is never simply only one series at work, but rather an entangling of sequences and overlaid progressions — the number of the page, the number of the grid, the date, the handwritten number, the roman numeral.” If Darboven’s work has in common with pop and conceptual art its “deskilled” and even “bureaucratic” techniques, it diverges from both, the uniform and anonymized reproduction of pop art, and the intellectualism of conceptual art, which, at times, relied upon another kind of anonymity, that of the systematic generation of form and line, almost independent of the actual artist. Instead, her work requires her presence, her labor, and above all her time, and arguably references nothing but these things, and her interruption, and generation, of ultimately irrecoverable sequences.

I’m drawn to the hare poem and to Darboven because of my developing interest in irrational forms of reason, and because I’m finding Darboven a rich conceptual resource. How do eminently human activities, like animal onomastics, or collecting and presenting images, become inhuman through seemingly compulsive repetition? Ultimately, they no longer reference what they claim to reference — hares, or, in Darboven’s case, Cultural History, 1880-1983 — and instead point only to the work itself. In both case, what they reference is not any abstract principle of creation, but only the time of their recitation and labor themselves. And I’m hoping you might help me find out where else I might take this.

Thank you.


Hanne Darboven:
Dan Adler. Hanne Darboven: Cultural History, 1880-1983. Afterall Books / MIT, 2009.

Ernst van Alphen. “Staging the Archive: Ydessa Hendeles and Hanne Darboven.” Journal of the Taipei Fine Arts Museum 28: (2014): 108-133

Briony Fer, “Hanne Darboven: Seriality and the Time of Solitude.” Conceptual Art: Theory, Myth, and Practice. Ed. Michael Corris. Cambridge University Press, 2004. 223-234.

Names of the Hare in English”:
John Andrew Boyle. “The Hare in Myth and Reality: A Review Article.” Folklore 84.4 (1973): 313-326.

Simon Carnell. Hare. Reaktion Books, 2010.

Carolynn van Dyke. “Names of the Beasts: Tracking the Animot in Medieval Texts.” Studies in the Age of Chaucer 34.1 (2012): 1-51.

Margaret Laing. “Notes on Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86: The Names of a Hare in English.” Medium aevum 67.2 (1998): 201-211.

A. S. C. Ross, “The Middle English Poem on the Names of a Hare.” Proceedings of the Leeds Philosophical and Literary Society, Literary and Historical Series 3.6 (1935): 347-77 [edition]

Be Reasonable: Animality and Personifications of Reason, Loosely through Langland


Here’s the talk I’m giving [or have given, depending on when you’re reading this, at NYU, 6:30pm, May 1, 244 Greene Street in Manhattan]. I’m posting it so that people can read along with it as I read. You’ll note, perhaps, that my title is slightly different.

Hi everyone. Thanks for being here, and thanks to Jessica Chace and Katie Clark for the honor of the invitation, and to NYU’s Medieval Forum for making all this possible. What you’ll witness today is my second time talking in public about what might be my third book; the first time was last month, in Miami, for the International Piers Plowman Conference, and, as promised, I’m going to talk about some Langland here too, eventually.

(As you’ve just heard) My first book dealt with systematic medieval thinking about human/animal difference. My second, coming out, I hope, towards the year’s end, with the University of Minnesota Press, is How Not to Make a Human: Pets, Feral Children, Worms, Sky Burial, Oysters. The chapters follow a trajectory from a slight indifference to the human/animal boundary — that’s the pets chapter — to a maximal indifference, with oysters. A bit on that, to whet your appetite: at least from Plato to the Enlightenment Encyclopedists, oysters were the animal at the bottom end of the scale of animals. They weren’t plants, but they were only just not plants, because they possessed sense alone, but nothing to sense with. The fifteenth-century commentary on Plato’s Philebus by Marsilio Ficino characterized these minimal animals as having “a life of pleasure without wisdom . . . the lowest form of life, the one closest to death.” The life of pleasure, the one closest to death! Eventually, I try to re-imagine human existence through this form of bare life, to suggest that we too might recognize ourself as also being like oysters — and here I quote Chaucer’s translation of The Consolation of Philosophy — “such things as feed clinging to rocks.” And that’s my pitch for the book! I’m happy to chat further about it during the q & a or at the reception that follows this talk.

Book three’s title might turn out to be The Irrational Animal. It’ll track “animal irrationality” as a master trope for justifying subordination. As the word “animal” could simply mean any living thing — since the word derives from “anima,” soul — medieval writers often used some form of the phrase “irrational animal” to distinguish nonhuman from human animals. Most humans don’t benefit from that distinction, however. Dominant humans tend to judge subordinated groups — Jews, women, the mentally ill, peasants, and so on — as wanting in reason, and therefore as more animal than human, with all that implied for whether they have what ethicists term moral or legal considerability.

Challenging the hierarchies of that distinction between irrational and rational requires digging into what medieval people meant by Reason, and also paying attention to the ways that the supposed humanity of Reason could go awry. I’ve long been guided by Derrida’s question “whether what calls itself human has the right rigorously to attribute to man, which means therefore to attribute to himself, what he refuses the animal”: key attributions include language, free response—contrasted with a merely instinctual reaction—and, of course, reason itself. A doctrinaire deconstructionist reaction would point out that all abstract concepts fail when subjected to a sufficiently rigorous investigation. So, perhaps predictably, I’m going to follow how claims to Reason collapse when we try to make them live up to their pretensions. My two chief medieval case studies will be Marguerite Porete’s Mirror of Simple Souls and then the autobiographical self-justification from the C version of Piers Plowman.

Humans are called the rational animals because they, uniquely among mortal life, are recognized as having the rational soul. Mainstream medieval Christian thought held that all living things had souls: thus, in the thirteenth century, Roger Bacon scoffed, in audible frustration, at the “mob of uneducated people who still believe that only humans have souls,” who “mock clergymen who say that dogs and other beasts have souls” (Immo vulgus laicorum in multis regnis adhuc credit quod soli homines animas habent, unde derident clericos qui dicunt canes et cetera bruta habere animas”). Clergymen got their beliefs ultimately from Aristotle’s treatise on the soul, which observed that although plants, animals, and humans are all alive, they don’t seem to possess the same form of life. The solution to that problem is a tripartite soul, three different forms of life, all three of which are gathered in humans: plants have the vegetative soul, through which they can feed and grow; nonhuman animals have that soul as well as the sensitive soul, through which they can sense things and, for the most part, move; and the human animal has these first two as well as the rational soul, “added,” as Bacon observes, “from without and by an act of creation” [ab extrinseco et a creatione], by which he presumably means not through merely material processes. The rational soul was generally thought to be able to act without a body or sensory organs; in other words, it had, and needed, no material component. Proving its existence, and that humans had it, was therefore no simple matter.

I’ve long been interested in Augustine’s solution to this problem in his On the Free Choice of the Will. He needs to establish that humans possess reason, because without reason, we have no free choice, and without free choice, we have no moral culpability, and without moral culpability, there’s no point to the whole economy of salvation. What sense could the ideas of sin and merit have if humans couldn’t choose to do good or bad? To prove we have reason, and thus, ultimately, to save the meaningfulness of Christ’s sacrifice, Augustine surprisingly doesn’t point to what we might typically think of as rational actions. He doesn’t talk abut us writing laws, or engaging in acts of altruism, or philosophizing: rather, he talks about how we dominate animals. Augustine admits that animals do sometimes get the better of us, but in the long term, we overmaster them. He concludes, “something is not present in their souls (and so we tame them) that is present in ours, so that we are better than they are. Since it is apparent to anyone that this is neither insignificant nor trivial, what else shall I call it more rightly than ‘reason’?”

I’m struck by the vagueness of what counts reason here, and what that says about what the claim is for. Perhaps a decade later, in his Literal Commentary on Genesis, Augustine’s notably no more eager to nail down precisely what reason is: “man,” he writes, “was made to the image of God in that part of his nature wherein he surpasses the brute beasts. This is, of course, his reason or mind or intelligence, or whatever we wish to call it.” Medieval thinkers could, of course, be more specific about what reason was, or what it allowed us to do: it allowed us, for example, to form abstract concepts. But what about animals that seem to be able to do the same? When sheep run from wolves, are they frightened of only that particular wolf, or by lupinity as a whole? Dogs are neutral, even excited, about sticks; but beat a dog with a stick — that’s a medieval example, from Avicenna, not from me — and the dog grows generally frightened of sticks: does the dog now have an abstract sense of universal stickiness?

A key resource here is Anselm Oelze’s recent book on later medieval theories of animal rationality. Oelze demonstrates that medieval thinkers recognized a subtle range of quasi-rational capacities in nonhuman animals, but underlying all that recognition is an unwavering commitment to denying animals reason, so that reason can be preserved as a faculty proper only to humans and to spiritual beings, like angels. Derrida calls the list of qualities proper to humans “nonfinite” in the mainstream philosophical tradition: they’re nonfinite, not so much infinite, because there’s always just one more. For whenever animals seem to be acting human — by universalizing about sticks, for example — the definition of what counts as rational activity shifts slightly, and defensively, to keep humans on the inside, and to keep animals out. So, here’s my first conclusion, one whose implications I explore at length in my first book: the claim to human rationality is less about claiming a particular set of capacities for humans, than it is about claiming both human difference and human superiority, and laying claim to everything that follows from that. The claim to have reason, like the claim to “the absolutism of reason,” is primarily a hierarchical one, rather than a description of a particular kind of thought, necessarily weaponized against both nonhuman animals and most humans.

But what does reason look like? What does it want us to do? With all due respect to Thomas Paine, I’m tempted to call the Middle Ages the Age of Reason. Personification — of the soul, the body, the virtues, the vices, wine, anything imaginable — are figures common to medieval writing, personifications of Reason among them. I’ve started to collect these figures, and, while I haven’t yet read some of what might be your favorites — the Reason personification from The Pilgrimage of the Life of Man chief among them — I’ve read enough to get a sense of what they tend to do and to advise us to do. I’ve been surprised to discover that in this tradition Reason tends not to be a figure of free will, or skepticism, or meta-analysis, or independence from tradition, nor even logical induction. I’ve been surprised, as I’ll describe at length soon, at a certain animality to Reason in this tradition. As the inheritors or victims of our own “Age of Reason,” all our expectations of what Reason is are bound to be disappointed.

The Reason of Augustine’s Soliloquies is probably the closest we get to familiar ground among these personifications. This early dialog sees Augustine talking to Reason to try to find a way to know God. He offers fascinating material on the truth and falsity of art — an actor’s truth, Reason and Augustine observe, lies precisely in his able feigning — and an insistence that nonhuman animals — his examples here are fleas and bugs — have only animal life, but no life — that is, no rational life — worthy of being loved. Ultimately, what Augustine wants is as certain a knowledge of God as he has of abstract geometric truths, that is, a knowledge independent of the senses, and thus sure, steady, and unchanging, like God. Augustine turns to Reason because Reason’s capacity for immaterial abstraction can free Augustine from sensory limitations.

By contrast, the twelfth-century Anticlaudianus of Alan of Lille has its personified Reason know the the origins of material things, pure Form, independent of matter, and especially the constant motion of Form’s mingling with matter, which is always necessarily a degenerate imitation of Form’s supermaterial ideal. Alan based Anticlaudianus on Claudian’s fourth-century Against Rufinus, which characteristics a certain Flavius Rufinus as the worst possible man; Alan of Lille’s poem in turn imagines the best possible one: hence, Anti-claudianus. Alan’s presentation of Reason is therefore as good as it gets, but, even so, it suffers from limitations: its chariot falters as it tries to rise to knowledge of the divine, and only Theology — that’s with a capital T — can take things further. One of the works medieval French adaptations adds a scene where, as Reason drives the chariot headlong to flee the vices, her passengers, Prudence and Religion, cry out, “Reason, look out!…You’re going to roll the chariot!” (“Raison, prenez garde … Vus et le char verrez tumer,” 2945-2947). Reason knows things; it’s essential to being human; but it can go only so far, and it’s even reckless in its confidence: it’s to this particular branch of the personification tradition that my first sustained examples belong.

If you’re interested in the limitations of reason in medieval thinking, the place to look are spiritual guidebooks. I’m going to compare two, one of which gives us a standard picture of things, and the other, a surprising preservation of reason’s hierarchical and defensive functions, but now under another name. The first is the Middle English, anonymous Cloud of Unknowing, from the fourteenth century, and the second, Marguerite Porete’s Mirror of Simple Souls, from the late thirteenth. Neither work was unread in their era, even though Porete was burnt as a heretic in Paris in 1310. The Cloud would be translated from French into Latin several times in the fifteenth century, and, the Mirror, once safely stripped of the taint of its author’s name, into English, Italian, and Latin. Both works advise the spiritual practitioner to gradually empty themselves of all sensation and knowledge, and with this, all attempts to understand or comprehend God; because God is infinite, we cannot comprehend God, so the best, indeed the only way, to get close to him is through a process of self-abandonment and a gradual unloosing of the mind from all ways of knowing suitable for mere mortal, bounded things.

Apart from their own particular program of spiritual training, the two works differ chiefly in their use of allegorical personification: the Cloud, written in a single voice, doesn’t use it, and the Mirror, written as a set of sometimes contentious conversations, does. In the Cloud, Reason is chiefly a human capacity, and it functions as it typically does outside of such apophatic works; there’s nothing unusual, in other words, about how the Cloud uses reason. “Reason,” it explains, “is the faculty through which we separate bad from good, bad from worse, good from the better, the worse from the worst, and the better from the best” (Reson is a myght thorou the whiche we departe the ivel fro the good, the ivel fro the worse, the good fro the betir, the worse fro the worste, the betir from the best; Chapter 64). Reason is not without its limits: as it has been “blinded” by original sin, it now requires the illumination of Grace to properly do its work (Chapter 64). Having described Reason as a faculty of what we might call either general evaluation or moral judgment, the Cloud then describes the mind’s other capacities according to usual divisions of medieval faculty psychology: will, imagination, and sense-perception. Elsewhere, the Cloud explains that while Imagination and sense-perception are “secondary faculties,” because they “work bestially in all bodily things” (Ymaginacion and sensualité worchin beestly in alle bodely thinges, Chapter 63). Reason and Will are “principle faculties, because they work purely spiritually, without anything corporeal” (“principal mightes, for thei worchen in pure spirit withouten any maner of bodelines”). Reason divides us from animals, because animals don’t possess it; reason is incorporeal, because it functions without sense-perception, which, in the Middle English, is “sensualité,” a word that is, at this point, just starting to acquire its slightly disreputable connotation; Reason judges, and it also knows the “virtue and conditions” of material creation (“vertewe and the condicions of bodely creatures”), and what sustains their being or caused them to come to be, knowing them not as they present themselves to the senses, but according to their origins and ultimate purposes. For the Cloud, as in much other medieval thought, reason is thus a particularly human, and even ascetic, capacity that knows and judges things, which is no way impedes the techniques of prayer and meditation, the “work of contemplation,” through which it tries to bring the soul close to God.

On the other hand, Reason in the Mirror is an ass. That’s Porete’s metaphor, not mine, in its French original, and the Middle English translation. Despite its sometimes incomprehensibility, I’m using the Middle English for my talk, to emphasize that Porete’s ideas circulated: though Porete’s treatment of Reason may be obscure, as the Mirror was neither isolated, unread, nor unused, it can stand as representative of at least one strain in late medieval thought.

So: “Truly,” Porete has Love explain to Reason, “the unsophistication and burden of those who are governed by reason surpasses all description. Reason’s teachings are a donkey’s work” (“Soþeli, seiþ sche, þei þat ben guerned by reson, þe rudenesse ne þe combringes of hem no man may seie. At her techinges it schewiþ an asse deede,” 317). For Porete, Reason is, astonishingly enough, bestial. “Ah Sheep,” shouts Soul at Reason, “how bestial is your understanding! You take the chaff and leave the grain” (“A, schepe, schepe, seiþ þe fre soule, what 3oure vndirstandynges ben beestli. 3e taken þe chaf and leuen þe greyn,” 309). People who follow Reason’s guidelines, says Soul, are “donkeys who seek God in creation” (“Suche folkis, seiþ þis soule, þat I clepe asses, seken God in creatures and bi hilles and dales,” 306). Those who listen to Reason’s advice “are so bestial and so asinine” that Soul wants nothing to do with them (“To alle þo, seiþ sche, þat lieun by 3oure counseil, þat ben s bestial & so assed þat me bihoueþ for her rudenesse answere my langage,” 304).. And late in the treatise, Soul offers to clarify a division of the spiritual practice to make sense for “the bestial understanders” (“bestials vndirstanders,” 331). Amid all this, Reason has been at least implicitly lumped in with merchants, here understood as “thralls,” servants or slaves, because they “meddle in merchandise,” and to a churl who shows up at a gentleman’s court, without the lineage that would justify his presence (“Þis peple, seiþ þis soule, ben marchauntes þat in þe world ben clepid þrallis, for þralles ben þei, for it falliþ not for no gentelman to kunne medle of marchaundise ne to be oon of hem. But shal seie 3ou, seiþ þis soule, whereynne I me apeese of þis peple. Of þis, lady loue, þat þei ben put out of þe curt of 3oure secres, ri3t as a cherle is out of a gentelmannes court in iugement of Parise, for þere may noon be hadde but if he be of gentel lynage and nameli in þe kynges court,” 302).

Porete’s Reason simply doesn’t know what it’s doing. In her Mirror, its chief role is to exclaim in dismay as it’s assailed with one paradox after another, occasionally stopping to suggest that Love or its other interlocutors have gone too far. Reason is incredulous, committed to obedience to the virtues — surely as is appropriate for a faculty of moral judgment — and angrily befuddled whenever it has to abandon the principle of non-contradiction. Porete’s Reason, in sum, represents her reader prior to receiving the techniques of meditation and prayer she teaches; a perfectly good Christian, but merely rule bound, without much access to grace or God’s infinitude.

That Porete thinks Reason inadequate for her techniques is not unusual. But typically, the problem is understood to be the human limitations of reason. Dante’s Letter to Cangrande, for example, in talking of his Paradiso, speaks of the “intellect in its ascent passing beyond human reason,” humanam rationem…transierat” (XIII.80), and in the Paradiso itself,Dante speaks of Richard of Saint Victor, “as he whose meditation made him more than man” (“che a considerar fu più che viro,” X.132). Richard’s own twelfth-century contemplative manual, his Mystical Ark, speaks of a level of contemplation that “rises above reason,” and one that goes still further “by admitting no human reason,” humanam rationem, “at all” (I.ix). And The Book of Privy Counseling,also by the Cloud author, interprets the Biblical Rachel’s death, in giving birth to Benjamin, as demonstrating how “human reason completely dies” “as soon as the soul is touched with true contemplation.” In all these treatments, reason retains its human character, and because of that, it must be abandoned by the contemplative as they move beyond the limitations of being a merely created, human being.

I do recognize that there are differences of technique between, say, Porete and Richard and the Cloud author that are of enormous importance to both the scholars and practitioners of contemplation, but for my present purposes Porete’s difference from her fellow contemplatives is not so much in her contemplative schema as it is in her characterization of reason. For in teaching her readers to be better Christians, Porete is also teaching them to realize their full humanity, and does this — in the paradox characteristic of such spiritual guidebooks– by demanding that her readers recognize their rational humanity as actually bestial.

But, after a fashion, Porete still preserves the prejudices of Reason. Yes, Porete wants her readers to abandon Reason and enter into a superrational realm where the dull boundaries of created Being no longer apply. But as she does so, she also preserves the characteristic structural division between Reason and Irrationality, but, in this case, by demoting what she calls “Reason” to the side of irrationality. The contemplative is not moving beyond human reason, but moving beyond a reason now understood to be bestial. Submissive to the virtues, Reason is rule-bound, without freedom. Attentive to the created world, including its own self — for the human rational soul is a created thing – it is bound to this world so long as it refuses to allow itself to move past itself towards the infinite. By reading only for the literal sense, Reason “takes the husk and leaves the grain”: this medieval metaphor of bad exegesis could hardly be more widespread, and here means that Reason can understand no more than what is right before it.

That is, Porete’s Reason reads like an animal thinks. Or, for that matter, like a Jew, according to a common Christian antisemitic prejudice. I’ll offer but one typical example of this Christian collapse of Jewishness, animality, and literal interpretation, from the twelfth-century autobiography by a convert to Christianity who calls himself “Hermann, the Former Jew,” where he says of his former coreligionists that “the Jews, like certain brute beasts of burden, are contented, in these things, by the letter alone, like unto chaff, [while] Christians, as men who use reason, may be refreshed by spiritual understanding, like unto the most sweet kernel within the chaff” (“ut scilicit Iudeis tamquam brutis quibusdam iumentis sola in his littera velut palea contentis, Christiani ut homines ratione utentes spirituali intelligentia velut dulcissima palee medulla reficerentur”).

It’s not that Porete lets go of reason, then, so much as she preserves its standard function under another name, and thus allows us to understand the function of the category of reason without getting hung up on what we suppose reason does,or on our own self-regard as rational creatures. For in the Mirror of Simple Souls,and, I suspect, more generally, Reason might well describe a particular set of activities — calculation, judgment, analysis, and so on — but above all, it describes a particular boundary. That boundary places the so-called rational actor on the side of freedom: freedom from the body, freedom from stolid animality, and freedom from those humans who might as well be animals, in this case, merchants and peasants — the Third Estate that is — and Jews. Porete’s animalized Reason has thus smuggled in the ideological function of Reason through its liberatory practice of mysticism, and, as much as she claims to be devaluing or moving past what she calls “Reason,” she preserves the distinctions that typically travel under the titles of Reason and Irrationality. The implications are equally typical: those on the wrong side of the boundary might be able to read, but they’re unable to think; they can read, but only mechanically, without true understanding; what they mistake as thinking is actually only obedience; and, at best, they are made to serve. Ultimately, it little matters that Porete scorns what she calls Reason as “bestial understanding,” as she’s preserved Reason’s hierarchies, prejudices, and self regard when she presents herself, and her practice, as the only proper activity for truly liberated, free-thinking people. Or, to put this another way, for the only people.

That’s how personifications of Reason work in spiritual handbooks: they claim to abandon or move beyond Reason, but they preserve the prejudices of reason so long as they preserve the binaries of freedom versus instinct, transcendence versus immanence, and especially liberation versus being rule-bound. These are personifications that seek to help to achieve the Self reach beyond itself, to achieve what its immortal soul just barely makes possible.

But another tradition of Personification, that of Rational Consolation, is about following the rules: it doesn’t demand freedom. Rather, it constrains the addressee, by demanding that they “be reasonable,” which is to say, by demanding they accommodate themselves to the prevailing circumstances, where any analysis it offers always draws its interlocutor to a foreordained conclusion of just getting along with things as they are. Isidore of Seville’s Synonyms is the key early text in this tradition. Middle English scholars perhaps know this work from Hoccleve’s fifteenth-century paraphrase of it in the first of his Series, when he turns to it to make sense of his own period of mental illness: Hoccleve doesn’t focus on the section where Isidore has Reason spell out an appropriate way of life for virtuous men according to their professions, but instead on the section where Reason helps the unconsoled penitent understand that his sorrow is a divine gift of punishment. He has to learn to be happy not only with his madness, but also with the social ostracism he suffers, because that, Reason tells him, has been sent to him from God. In essence, the consolation Hoccleve temporarily finds in Reason is one of learning to endure his suffering by convincing himself that God has sent it, that, in other words, of convincing himself that someone else must be doing the reasoning on his behalf.

The Reason of Jean de Meun’s Roman de la Rose continuation, perhaps the chief of these Consolation Personifications, is the hingepoint to my final example, and a perfect example of the unthinking, sclerotic Reason of the Consolation tradition. Jean has has Dreamer encounter a successive set of figures, some of them allegorical personifications, to advise him about love and seduction: an old woman, a scheming man, “False Seeming,” and first of all, Reason herself, who urges the Dreamer to abandon his erotic goals and, by extension, all his attachments to the temporary gifts of fortune. Desire comes and goes, and is, by its nature, mobile. What Reason advises in response is immobility. Reason insists that the life of perfect rational virtue can be found in Socrates, “whose expression,” Jean writes, “always stayed the same and was found unmoved even by those who killed him with hemlock.” The ultimate source for Jean here is Solinus’s third-century Collectaneum rerum memorabilium, his Collection of Memorable Things. But the Roman de la Rose has Reason give the common story a subtly but significant twist: Solinus is one of many writers who has Socrates remain imperturbable in the face of his impending death. Reason’s Socrates, on the other hand, has an unchanging face, “whatever happened to him.” Not in the face of danger, but in the face of everything, Socrates never reacts. Although Socrates had become, in Christian storytelling, martyred for his contempt for idols, he here has taken on a face of absolute fixity, whose living expression is, one imagines, indistinguishable from a unmoving, carved one. Here is miniature is Reason’s advice to the Dreamer: Reason does not suggest analysis, nor does it move the spirit at least partially upwards towards God, as it does in Alan of Lille, nor does it use the knowledge of unchanging, abstract things as a helpful analog for knowledge of the divine, as in Augustine. Instead, Reason offers this consolation to ward off not only love, but all sensation: a kind of numbness of simply not caring about what happens, or, to put this another way, of making peace with things as they are.

It’s with that in mind that I turn to my last example, the Reason of William Langland’s Piers Plowman, which I think offers a particularly sharp example of the political cruelties of the demand to “just be reasonable.” As many of you already know, Langland revised Piers Plowman over the course of decades, unsystematically and more than a little obsessively, in response both to political events, and to his attempts to imagine both a perfect politics and the right route to salvation. There are three major versions of Piers: the A, B, and C texts, and although personifications of Reason are important to every version of Piers, it’s the C text that’s going to concern me tonight.

The classics of criticism are very interested in situating Reason within Langland’s own version of faculty psychology. Reason can do things that Kind Wit and Conscience can’t. I’m happy that critical tradition exists, and have no interest in correcting it; but neither do I have any interest in expanding it. Instead I’m going to try to open a new path. I wonder at bit at Derek Pearsall’s note in his C-Text edition, where he explains “Reason is the personification of the waking dreamer’s own rational self-analysis“: that’s slightly circular reasoning, yes? Reason is Rational is Analytical is Admirable, because of course self-analysis is admirable: only by leaning harder on reason itself as a category can we break that circle’s track.

The key point in Langland is that Reason is, at least for a while, top dog in the hierarchy of psychological qualities: a host of qualities crowd into the king’s court in Piers B and C Passus 4, but Reason’s ultimately left in charge. In the C Text, Passus 5, the Dreamer meets both Conscience and Reason, but Conscience drops out: it’s only Reason that rebukes him. Whatever the specific functions of Reason might be, we can simply mark its preeminence in these passus, while also recalling how it must function as a kind of placeholder or even a kind of encampment for human difference from nonhuman life, or at least as a principle of superiority.

In a passage unique to the C text, after having finished a dream in which Reason finally establishes himself as the chief of the King’s advisers, the Dreamer awakes, in Cornhill, a somewhat disreputable London locale, where he meets Conscience and Reason again. There Reason accosts him, because he sees the Dreamer as a good-for-nothing vagabond. Reason conducts a mean-spirited job placement interview: can you serve in a church? can you cook? load a cart? bail hay? can you stay out in a field all night, guarding grain against thieves? Can you “shep or kyne kepe” (C.17)? Do you have “eny othere kynes craft that to the comune nedeth” (C.20)?

I’m struck by how “kyne,” livestock, is echoed in “kynes,” kind of. Might we hear “kynes craft,” a kind of occupation or skill, as the shadow of a phrase we could also hear as animal labor? What is it actually that Reason is demanding the Dreamer do? What does “being Reasonable” actually look like? And does it look anything at all like thinking?

Many of you no doubt know Anne Middleton’s analysis of C-5 in the context of the September 1388 Cambridge Parliament’s legislation on beggars and vagabonds. That Reason wants the Dreamer, primarily, to take up some kind of agricultural labor is, no doubt, due to the 1388 statute’s effort to regulate precisely that: it wasn’t concerned with guildspeople. But, as Middleton also observed, the 1388 Statute, in its somewhat desperate attempt to force farmworkers back to the conditions of labor they had before the Black Death arrive, also tended to make all other occupations seem to be built on the base of agrarianism, so that, I would add, it tends to make all labor servile: people needed to know their place, to be put in it, and to remain in it, which is precisely what the Dreamer’s apologia ends up agitating for. Reason is about becoming useful, according to whatever seems most reasonable.

Which brings me, inevitably, to Max Horkheimer, especially his Eclipse of Reason, lectures he delivered at Columbia University in 1944, as he anticipated both the Nazi defeat and the dangers industrial rationality would continue to pose to free thought and free action in postwar democracies. Without getting into the dialectical history of Reason Horkheimer offers — the death of objective reason, the rise of subjective reason, and the negation of reason itself by the latter — I’m interested in his critique of how “in the view of formalized reason, an activity is reasonable only if it serves another purpose, e.g. health or relaxation, which helps to replenish his working power.” Reasonable action, reasonable thought, is made to have purpose; that purpose is neither thought nor critique, but rather just the preservation and renewal of the subject for socially useful practice. “Pragmatism” is a word Horkheimer can scarcely say without spitting.

Although I started with reason as the chief of human characteristics, the one that separates us from nonhuman animals, I gave you one form of animalized reason, from Marguerite Porte, and end with another, from Piers Plowman. For in Piers C-5, Reason is not a principle of thinking, but of social quiescence. To behave “reasonably” is to be made productive for the existing order. And in his encounter with Reason, that fundamental quality of being human, the Dreamer loses the flexibility–what we might call the capacity for vagabond thought–that we think of as essential to human freedom. And if the prevailing social order is understood as fundamentally agricultural, then living reasonably means being made to live productively, which means being made to feed the system in a quite particular way. And that particularity is where I hear, without much straining, the echo of “kyne” in “kynes craft,” of cattle in work. For what Reason demands of the Dreamer, and thus in a larger sense of everyone it addresses, is a brute rationality, of making oneself useful. Like a cow is made to be useful. This is a Reason that, as always, animalizes most people; it’s just that in this case, to the degree that we let ourselves be hailed by its demand for rational activity, that is, by its demand for productive labor, by its demand that we be reasonable on its terms, we are agreeing to precisely that bovine animalization.

Thank you.

“Posthumanism” Entry for Chaucer Encyclopedia

Wrote a thing I agreed to write, and no doubt what I’m publishing here is going to be wrung through the editorial mangler, as is its duty. So here’s what I hope is the penultimate draft of what I hope manages to find its way into the home built for it.

What follows are basically the same ideas as my “Medieval” chapter for the Cambridge Companion to Literature and the Posthuman, with different texts and slightly modified emphases.

The “post” in posthumanism would seem to demand a state that comes after being human, in a sequence that runs animal, then human, and finally posthuman, with the latter category requiring some technological development that enables abandoning outmoded or inefficient conditions of individuality, mortality, and dependence on the body and its needs. Posthumanist thinkers, however, tend to label this technological dream, or nightmare, as “transhumanism,” while “posthumanism” can indicate, instead, a more general skepticism about what it means to be human, and, in particular, skepticism about traditional claims of human superiority to or separation from all other sublunary things. Posthumanism thus need not await some technological transformation. Rather, posthumanist engagement means raising questions about the unexamined characteristics generally held to be unique qualities of being human. In the Middle Ages, these include the possession of the rational soul, which, unlike the vegetative and sensible souls, would live forever; free will, enabled by the rational soul; articulate, meaningful language; and above all, human dominance over all other life. Poshumanist questioning of these qualities can enable other forms of ethical obligation, based on something other than a presumption of shared rationality, while also discovering the limits to human fantasies of freedom.

The final stanzas of Troilus and Criseyde illustrate a transhumanist fantasy. Before the walls of Troy, the hopeless Troilus dies, and, as his spirit rises through the heavens, it looks down on “this litel spot of erthe”  and laughs at everyone who weeps for his death. Freed from earthly love, the spiritualized Troilus now knows the mutable world to be nothing but “blynde lust, the which that may nat laste.”  With his shifted perspective of time and space, his old loyalties and desires appear ridiculous, and anyone still entangled in them, contemptible. In other words, he has achieved the transhumanist dream, as everything that he once was seems to him pathetically constrained by bodies, their desires, and their brevity, while Troilus believes he has transcended all that by becoming a free spirit. The spirit functions like a technological liberation of the self from its limits, insofar as the spiritualized self reaches past its temporal and spatial constraints to enjoy invulnerability, freedom of motion, invisibility, and “subtlety,” that quality that allows spirits to pass through walls or travel from place to place in an instant (ST Suppl., Q 81-85).

“The Former Age” offers as clear a contrast as imaginable to Troilus’s journey into liberated scorn, yet it too does little to dislodge the certainties of traditional humanism. The poem’s eight stanzas describe the “Golden Age,” that period in human development before the inevitable arrival of commerce, war, money, private property, and meat-eating. Nothing in that now lost era suffers any deliberate injury: not just animals, which have yet to know “offence of egge or spere,” but everything else too — neither vines, as yet “unkorven and ungrobbed [unpruned and untilled],” nor spices, not yet ground in mortars, not the sea, not yet “karf” by ships, nor the ground, not yet “wounded with the plough.” Although Chaucer purports to admire these gentle folk, he describes what they eat as “mast,” the forest food that fattens domestic pigs for winter slaughter. He calls them a “lambish people,” recalling the animals that enabled him to work as controller of the wool custom at the Port of London. From Chaucer’s perspective, these humans, having not yet taken up the practice of human superiority, are as yet little better than animals, unwitting, exploitable resources.

Troilus’s ascent and the “Former Age”‘s immersion in animality offer two fantasies of innocence and perfection: the first an immunity from contact with others, and the other an immunity from conflict, labor, resource scarcity, and the hard decisions these conditions require. Each imagines the human perfected and unpolluted and, through that perfection, somehow beyond what is recognizably human. Neither really challenges the pretensions of traditional humanism. A better posthuman practice might lead humans away from these fantasies by opening them to a more general compassion, so that they experience not innocence, but entanglement. This we find in Chaucer’s Squire’s Tale, where Canacee, Genghis Khan’s daughter, has received a ring that allows her to understand avian language. Entering her garden, she hears a falcon piteously crying out. She takes it in her lap, and only then do she and the falcon begin to talk. Even prior to the production of rational language, and without requiring any magical gadget, Canacee lets the the bird impose itself on her as an ethically considerable subject. And though the falcon tells her story of betrayed love, she never ceases to be a bird, for at last Canacee furnishes her with a velvet-lined “mewe,” a coop: by laying aside her human supremacy, if not her nobility, Canacee and the falcon meet each other not as “rational subjects,” with the bird “elevated” into being human-like, but as bird and human, each worried about the compulsions of love.

But Canacee is still making a choice to succor the falcon. That capacity for free choice is the most cherished capacity of being human, as it liberates us from the instinct and chain of mere cause and effect to which nonhuman animals and inanimate objects alike are subjected. Chaucer challenges even this human quality, at the very beginning of The Canterbury Tales. For there, April, the West Wind, and Springtime’s general renewal inspire birds to sing all night, and people to go on pilgrimage. What seems to be a conscious human choice may be driven primarily by ecological forces, so that what is felt as a spontaneous, even holy motive is also a kind of migration. That what these pilgrims do is instinctual does not, however, devalue them: Chaucer no more intends that we scorn the “smalle foweles” than we should scorn his pilgrims. Though we have language, spirit, and technological mastery over other creatures, if we think past our human pretensions — as posthumans — we pilgrims can recognize ourselves anew as dependent creatures like others, constrained and enabled by the world we all inhabit and make.