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Archives, Authority, Aura:

Modernism’s Archival Turn
Introduction

The modernist scholar increasingly engages in work in the

archive. Yet, as much as it is a place of work, it seems also to
function domestically, as Jacques Derrida remarks: the archive is
“house, a domicile, an address” (2). An address for what? Janine
Utell argues the archive is “the resting place of the authority
of the author, […] the site of origins, order, stability, history”
(53-54). At the same time as archives are sites of satisfyingly solid
physical slog and of a stabilizing foundation in materiality, they
also seem to prompt dream-work. Part of the enchantment of
the archive emerges from its multiple narrative possibilities, as
Alice Yaegar Kaplan suggests: will the researcher find herself in
an epic, a gumshoe novel, or an adventure story? The mixed ge-
neric qualities of archive work “cross over, multiply, intertwine,”
says Kaplan (102). As a result, archive work proffers complex
and multiple affective responses and possesses, as Philip Larkin
once stated, a “magical value.” (99)
As J. Matthew Huculak has recently argued, archives “shape,
have shaped, and will shape the study of modernism” (“What Is
a Modernist Archive?”)—not only, I might add, in terms of our
interaction with the material institution of the archive, but in
the insistent historicism that has been enshrined at the heart of
modernist studies since the turn of the century. Elizabeth Yale
writes that archives are “sources of history, but they are also its
subjects, sites with histories and politics of their own” (332). So
what precisely is the archive for the scholar of the modernist
period: an office, a locus of authority, a home, a heritage, or a
“place of dreams” (Steedman 69)? This special issue of Papers

3
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on Language and Literature draws together narratives of material

encounters and close readings of specific archival objects in order
to investigate and interrogate the archival turn in new modern-
ist studies. In so doing, the essays gathered here contribute to
central debates germane to modernist studies, broadly defined,
regarding the ethics, politics, affects, and poetics of the (or an)
archive and reaffirm the importance of manuscript and textual
studies to the work of the modernist scholar.
J. Hillis Miller maintains that “All meanings have a material
base—cultural meanings as well as meanings embodied in written
or printed texts” (282). For literary critics, this statement suggests
a means and methodology of scholarly work that attends to the
contexts of a writer’s life and oeuvre and to the material evidence
of print and autograph materials. The physical location where the
scholar engages in this material work is pre-eminently the archive,
and it is in the archive that the political work of scholarship also
takes place: assigning or ignoring value, dismissing or highlight-
ing discoveries. Éilís Ní Dhuibhne outlines the ways in which a
writer’s archive “offers the researcher biographical, historical
and sociological information of a kind nowhere else available”
(165). Literary scholars have tended, as Carole Gerson notes, to
“regard the archive as a neutral zone” (7), a chaotic collation of
both treasure and trash that, through the interpretative action of
the scholar, acquires the coherence of a narrative. Crucially, how
we construct hierarchies of this information—manuscripts over
ephemera, autograph over typescript, writer over reader—is as
informed by currents in critical history and personal systems as
it is by inherent value of this evidence. As influenced by Michel
Foucault, Arlette Farge, and Derrida, the archival turn in the
humanities draws attention to work itself, to the labor of the
researcher, and to the hierarchies of institutional authority, fore-
grounding practice, power, and process. Moreover, the archival
turn recognizes and critiques the powerful role archives have
played in shaping modernity as we know it. “From sixteenth-
century Spain to early twenty-first century South Africa,” Yale
 PLL 5

writes, “archives and archival practices have stood at the heart of

empires, nations, commercial companies, and religious orders,
institutions that have defined the modern world” (333). We can
add the university to that list, too.
Archives give scholars a place to work and offer a legitimating
function: working in the archives has a comforting solidity that
may be less tangible in theory-based work and is thus more easily
legible for those non-specialists, funding committees, and ad-
ministrators that we’re often so eager to please. As Morag Shiach
writes, many modernist texts animate a tension between “labour
as self-fulfilment and labour as self-sacrifice” (16). A similar ten-
sion emerges in archival work, which requires sacrifices of time,
relationships, and money even as it often comprises a central
aspect of the individual’s scholarly identity and carries with it
a romance or “allure,” to use Farge’s term. An archive can also
be the means by which we create opportunities for recalibrating
our scholarship, as Derrida has argued: these material traces
of the past also contain the “promise” and “responsibility for
tomorrow” (36). Understanding the ways in which collections
and archives have been used in the past is, likewise, significant
for mapping out the future of a discipline. Wim Van Mierlo
maintains that understanding an author through the archives
enables scholars “not only to understand the effect of history
on literature but also the effect of literature on/as history, […]
to understand the [writer’s] past, and to understand how past
generations understood that past, is a fitting tribute” to the
literature that is collected in our culture (59).
While archives are a workplace and a site of history, they
are, more centrally in literary studies, a source of evidence for a
writer’s working life and process. In amongst the paper scraps and
pencil scratchings, modernist scholars can imagine the writer at
work through the medium of draft manuscripts and typescripts,
publishers’ correspondence, corrected proof copies, errata slips,
cover designs, or sales records. To take an example from my
own archival adventures: a typescript copy of Evelyn Waugh’s
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first novel, Decline and Fall, held at the Huntington Library in

California (the MS is at the Harry Ransom Center, University
of Texas at Austin). The Decline and Fall typescript shows much
about Waugh’s early way of working, including providing evidence
to unsettle the general account of Waugh’s intertextual cues
in a novel that he himself described as “excessively derivative”
(qtd. in Heath 63). For instance, reams of scholarly paper have
been spent on the novel’s Spenglerian theme, as evidenced by
the title. But the typescript confirms that the published title is
an extremely late decision. Here, the novel is titled “FACING
FACTS. A STUDY IN DISCOURAGEMENT” followed by a series
of alternatives in pencil:
DISCOURAGEMENT/ or/ THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN
PICARESQUE or THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN
PICARESQUE: A STUDY IN DISCOURAGEMENT (Box 1[3.1], Evelyn
Waugh Papers, The Huntington Library)

What does it mean to know that, in this late stage, Waugh viewed
his own novel not as a whirling narrative cycle of decline and fall,
but in terms of the baggy episodic structure of the picaresque?
Or, indeed, that Waugh’s satiric version of late-twenties doom
and gloom—witnessed in the novel’s chaotic violence, dynamic
destruction, and gleefully sadistic satire—was originally conceived
far more bathetically as simple discouragement?
The Waugh papers at the Huntington likewise index a writer
at work, in their collection of publishers’ memos and profes-
sional correspondence. These show the breadth of Waugh’s
interest in the material conditions of professional authorship,
including issues of production and marketing. The Huntington’s
Waugh correspondence comprises six boxes in total, largely to
and from editorial staff at Chapman & Hall, Waugh’s publishers
(Boxes 3-8, Evelyn Waugh Papers), and mostly from the nineteen
sixties. Many of these letters detail Waugh’s often painstaking
involvement in the production of his late books, such as in deci-
sions regarding the design of A Little Learning (1961), includ-
ing dustwrapper color (carrot orange), illustration plates, and
 PLL 7

typesetting. Frequent outbursts appear in Waugh’s continual

displeasure with the “obstructions” (Box 7.258) of Chapmans’
regular printer/binder, “Spotty” (potentially a nickname of
Waugh’s for Eyre & Spottiswood), and his minute attention to
errata in the revised Sword of Honour trilogy. In this recording of
the professional trivia of writing and publishing, Waugh’s archive
parallels much larger collections that evidence the activities,
transactions, and decisions that underwrote literary culture in
the early-to-mid twentieth century. Here, Lise Jaillant’s work,
most recently in Cheap Modernism (reviewed in these pages by
Eliza Murphy), is key to understanding modernist print culture
beyond the usual story of coterie publishing and elite reader-
ships. Using the evidence from several publishers’ archives
including Jonathan Cape, J.M. Dent, and Chatto & Windus,
Jaillant demonstrates the ways in which modernist literature
was produced, disseminated, and consumed alongside popular
fiction through the medium of cheap reprint series: the ways,
in other words, in which modernism was a commercial and
material, as well as an aesthetic, concern.
In modernist studies, whole institutions and sub-disciplines
are devoted to genetic criticism and manuscript study, in particu-
lar centered upon figures like Joyce, Woolf, Eliot, and Beckett,
and facilitated by the wonderful wealth of archival material to
be found in North American and British research libraries. This
facet of archival work has proved extremely fruitful for modernist
scholarship, resulting in major digital humanities projects such
as Woolf Online, the Beckett Digital Manuscripts Project, and the
Modernist Archives Publishing Project (detailed in the co-authored
book Scholarly Adventures in Digital Humanities, reviewed in this
issue by Michael Shallcross). Such DH projects proffer hitherto
unimagined global, democratic access to auratic modernist
manuscript papers, those drafts and doodles that detail the
writer’s creative mind at work, as well as to the trivium evidencing
the professional networks that underpinned the institutions of
modernism, to borrow Lawrence Rainey’s formulation (itself no-
8 PLL

tably the product of innovative archival research). Such projects

also proffer the means towards important scholarly recovery, as
suggested in Issue 3 of Feminist Modernist Studies, devoted to the
feminist possibilities of digital humanities (that this journal also
includes a regular section, “Out of the Archives,” aimed towards
publishing and glossing otherwise neglected texts likewise sug-
gests the archive’s radical potential).
Yet as Lisa Stead has argued, in spite of the achievements
and potentialities of DH, there cleaves in literary studies an “in-
sistence that ‘manuscripts still matter’ in their material incarna-
tion” (6). A 2015 special issue of Textus edited by Daniela Caselli
and Caroline Patey, “The Archival Turn in Modern Literature,”
offered multiple readings of modernist texts and writers, includ-
ing Richard Aldington, Katherine Mansfield, Laura Riding, and
Virginia Woolf. One function of the manuscript archive, and
one outcome of the archival turn, is to affirm and refresh what
might be termed “analogue” modes of historical and textual
scholarship. As many recent returns to the archive show, paper
and ink still captivate. In this issue, W. Todd Martin offers a
genetic reading of Katherine Mansfield’s short story “The Fly.”
As Martin demonstrates in this encounter with the avant-texte,
what a literary manuscript pre-eminently reveals is the writing
itself, the crossings-out and substitutions, that may otherwise be
invisible in a cleanly published text. The marks, erasures, blanks,
and blackings—the “material manifestations of the author at
work” as Martin describes—find their eerie double in the plot
of “The Fly.” In this story, the titular insect, landing on a piece of
blotting paper, is drowned in ink, thus becoming a stand-in for
both the body of the protagonist’s dead son, lost on the Western
front, and a visible writerly trace. As Helen Freshwater writes,
the “allure of the archive” arises primarily from our desire for
the authentic thing, the material source that can “substitute for
the lost […], unrecoverable past.” (735)
In many humanities-based archival narratives, these appar-
ently raw materials of the archive are invested with a Benjaminian
 PLL 9

aura of authenticity, standing in for the mind, heart, or body

of the writer herself. Yet quite clearly, an archive is neither a
stable and transparent source of truth about the writer, nor is
it merely a dustpan-sweeping of biographical materials waiting
to be “discovered” by the gumshoe-cum-literary scholar. As Mi-
chelle Caswell cogently argued in her 2016 introduction to the
Reconstruction special issue “ARCHIVES ON FIRE,” in spite of the
important political work that has been achieved by the archival
turn in the humanities, literary scholars have rarely acknowledged
the “the intellectual contribution of archival studies as a field
of theory and praxis in its own right” (4). As Caswell writes, for
archival studies scholars and practicing archivists, an archive is
not simply a “hypothetical wonderland” or a monolithic embodi-
ment of state-sponsored violence. Archives are collections: “of
records, material and immaterial, analog and digital […] the
institutions that steward them, the places where they are physi-
cally located, and the processes that designate them ‘archival’”
(3). Caswell’s affirmation of archives as collections is crucial
to a renewed material engagement with particular archives
and the idea of “the archive” in modernist literary studies. As
such, we should read an archive and its materials in terms of
the way these reveal and conceal acts of “selection, evaluation
and subjectivity” and interpretation (Gerson 7), on the part of
the collector-donor and on the part of the archive or archivist.
As Chris Townsend argues in these pages, modernist collec-
tions themselves can become more or less visible and thus be
repositioned as central (or marginal) to modernist studies. In
the case of the archives associated with the POOL group and
their influential publication Close Up, modernist scholarly focus
on one canonical figure (H.D.), largely influenced by the im-
portant bequest of the Bryher archive to the Beinecke Library,
has led to a neglect of the contributions of industry-facing and
professional figures like the reviewer Robert Herring, and the
filmmaker, journalist, and assistant editor Oswald Blakeston. As
Townsend shows, the reading of Close Up as a traditional coterie
10 PLL

publication “elides the productive exchange between modernism

and mass-culture that Close Up openly proposed [… and] passes
over the journal’s innovative attempts to examine ‘cultures of
difference.’” In re-examining the archival collections relating
to POOL—but also attending to other types of evidence, such
as trade publications—Townsend shows the ways in which the
history of this apparently avant-garde group is in fact far more
complex, with far-reaching networks that sought to position
Close Up as not only a coterie magazine but a viable industry
venture attentive to a range of film products beyond those of
the Anglo-American avant-garde.
Archives speak to some of the signal concerns of modern-
ist studies. Archive work seems simultaneously mundane and
infused with a kind of sacral quality, of contact with the auratic
object—“silhouettes of the past, be they faltering or sublime,” as
Arlette Farge describes (46). “In research libraries and special
collections,” Susan Howe writes, “words and objects come into
their own and have their place again” (59). In attending to the
specificity of the word and the object, archive work is intensely
interior (the manuscript is a portal, perhaps, into an inner world),
yet it is nevertheless physically located in a semi-public realm,
the reading room. David Ferry’s poem “In the Reading Room”
captures in its opening stanza the monkish conventuality (both
alone and uncomfortably together, both sacred and profane)
of working in libraries and archives: “Alone in the library room,
even when others / Are there in the room, alone, except for
themselves: / There is the illusion of peace” (1-3). The stillness
of the room, like the scholars’ solitude, is also illusory and be-
trayed by the multiple gerund verbs of the poem: “looking” (4-5),
“reading” (4-5), “studying” (6), “understanding” (6), “saying”
(7), “waiting” (9). These activities, in Ferry’s poem performed by
strangely lively things (lamps, pages) as well as human scholars,
bespeak the profound intersection of public and private, action
and stasis, in the archive: an intersection that likewise emerges
 PLL 11

in much modernist literature, paradigmatically concerned with

the differential and subjective experience of time and space.
As in Ferry’s poem, both modernism and the archival turn
are attentive to the dynamism of objects. The very physicality
of the material archive “reveals the possibility,” as Joy Palacios
argues, “of apprehending the archive as a network composed
of both human and non-human participants” in which docu-
ments “do” (63). In the material archive documents assert their
“thing-power” (to borrow from Jane Bennett), performing as
well as recording: through their provision of representational
space; their embodiment of abstract selfhood; and their ability
to confound the reader through paleographic difficulty, formal
strangeness, or other somatic challenges of size, colour, smell,
and so on (Palacios 64-65). Thingness, as Bill Brown argues,
“names […] a productive function” (31), and the turn to the
archive speaks to modernism’s interest in solid objects, as to
modernist studies’ signature concern with the intersections of
history and literary and material culture.
In attending to the material world, archive work is, of course,
also deeply ordinary: bounded by the prosaic rhythms of daily
opening and closing times, by the everydayness of house rules
and coffee afternoons, by the banality of waiting. As scholars,
our experience of manuscript materials can be fragmented
by time or by the idiosyncrasies of the collection’s cataloging
procedures, which may bundle documents together by size or
document type rather than more conventional biographical
categories such as date or genre. The work of the archival re-
searcher is rarely completed; as Carolyn Steedman memorably
remarks, more often than not we finish our work at the archive
because our bus or train or plane is leaving the next day, not
because we have mastered the collection (18-19). These archival
experiences thus parallel some of the paradigmatic themes of
literary modernism and echo modernism’s formal movement
away from clarity, linearity, or closure. The divine banality of ar-
chives, as well as the potential therein for inspired, paper-based
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play, is evident in Emily Ridge’s lucidly ludic contribution here.

In “Close Reading an Archival Object,” Ridge applies the signal
literary studies methodology of close reading to an analysis of
an object both fascinating and everyday: a postcard sent from
Salvador Dalí to Stefan Zweig, its picture face (reprinted as the
cover image for this issue) all lurid colour and sun-soaked lei-
sure, the letter filled with wilful misprisions and inside jokes. In
Ridge’s account, the postcard “presents a paradoxical profusion
of conflicting images and suggestions,” at once vivid and dismal,
its surface picture of cosmopolitan exchange overshadowed by the spectre
of widespread dislocation and dispossession in the lead-up to the outbreak
of the Second World War, its visual rhetoric caught between the holiday mes-
sage of the postcard and the ominous portents of the telegram.

Such objects, flimsy and throwaway, are nevertheless deeply

transportative, exemplary of the fraught contigency of life in
the twentieth century.
Huculak argues that “more than any other space in the
modern university, ‘archive’ is a term that truly stands as an
interdisciplinary, contested space of intent and use.” Indeed, the
contestation of the archive between archivists and humanities
scholars that has emerged since the advent of Derridean theory
has, as Caswell argues, “suffered from a failure of interdisipli-
narity” (4) and a breakdown in productive dialogue between
humanities scholars, archival studies scholars, and archivists.
It is heartening to see renewed efforts towards dialogue and
interdisciplinarity occurring in modernist studies, as evidenced
in the pages of Feminist Modernist Studies and in Modernism/
modernity’s Print+ feature, most recently Amy Hildreth Chen’s
August 2018 piece “Finding the Modernist Archive: Why UX
Matters.” For Hildreth Chen, the modernist archive can be
usefully conceived as “a networked set of collections across
many repositories.” This networked vision underlines the
crucial role of collaboration in 21st century modernist archive
encounters—including increased openness of digital records,
improved communication between archive repositories, and
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training literary studies scholars in archival methods—and re-

iterates the central role of digitized collections in prompting,
as Caselli and Patey argue, “more cooperative forms of scholar-
ship” (10). We can see this explicitly outlined in the Modern-
ist Archives Publishing Project and its monograph justification
Scholarly Adventures in Digital Humanities, as well as in the 2014
“Manifesto of Modernist Digital Humanities” (Christie et al.),
its insistent first person plural voice emblematic of its call to
a revolutionary digital methodology for modernism. We can
also look for it in renewed approaches to working with liter-
ary manuscripts and archival objects that recognize, rather
than elide, archival labor. Although, as Battershill et al note,
“collaborative work in the humanities has traditionally been
discouraged, both institutionally and as an affective category
bred in the bone of academic reward systems” (54), working
with archivists in a collaborative spirit can authorize exciting
new methodologies, discoveries, adventures, and dreams.
The essays included in this special issue, and the books re-
viewed herein, are cognizant that their work on these archives
could not take place in the absence of the professionals whose
work is these archives. It’s my pleasure that the essays gathered
here all approach the “expanding, searchable, and radiating
labyrinth of modernist archives” in what Finn Fordham advises
is the “proper spirit—sceptical, fearless, rational, imaginative”
(60). It’s at this moment that I would like to join them in thank-
ing not only the institutions that have facilitated my work with
fellowships and access to materials, but also those archivists and
librarians who prompted and propelled my work through their
generosity, knowledge, and enthusiasm for the literary archive:
in particular, Richard Oram (Harry Ransom Center), the late
Nicholas Scheetz (Georgetown Special Collections), and Sara
“Sue” Hudson (The Huntington Library). I dedicate this special
issue to you.
Naomi Milthorpe
Guest Editor
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