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Architectural Space and The Imagination Houses in Literature and Art From Classical To Contemporary by Jane Griffiths, Adam Hanna, 2020
Architectural Space and The Imagination Houses in Literature and Art From Classical To Contemporary by Jane Griffiths, Adam Hanna, 2020
Architectural Space
and the Imagination
Houses in Literature and Art from Classical to
Contemporary
Editors
Jane Griffiths Adam Hanna
Wadham College School of English and Digital
University of Oxford Humanities
Oxford, Oxfordshire, UK University College Cork
Cork, Ireland
© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer
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Contents
Christina’s World ix
Jane Griffiths
1 Introduction 1
Jane Griffiths and Adam Hanna
Part I Foundations
v
vi CONTENTS
Index 227
Christina’s World
(after Andrew Wyeth)
ix
Notes on Contributors
xi
xii NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS
Late Medieval France [OUP, 2008]), she now explores more broadly
questions of narrative voice and identity. Representing the Dead: Epitaph
Fictions in Late-Medieval France (D. S. Brewer, 2016; runner-up, Society
for French Studies R. Gapper Book Prize) examines challenges to the
construction of identity posed by voices speaking from beyond the grave.
Jelena Todorović is a full professor of Early Modern Art at the Faculty
of Fine Arts in Belgrade. In addition to her academic duties she is, since
2006, head of the research project into the State Art Collection in the
Royal Compound in Belgrade, for which she received the highest Euro-
pean award for cultural heritage, the Europa Nostra Award, in 2018.
Her main research interest is the culture of the Baroque, on which she
has published widely. Her latest book is on the liminal spaces of the
Baroque, The Spaces that Never Were in Early Modern Art: Exploration
of Edges and Confines (Cambridge Scholars, 2019).
Sabine Vogt is Professor of Greek and Latin Languages and Literature
at the University of Bamberg, Germany. She studied Classical Studies at
Munich, Oxford, and Cambridge. From 2002 to 2012 she worked as
an editor for the Classical and Ancient Near Eastern Studies programme
of the De Gruyter publishing house in Berlin. In October 2012 she
took up her present position. Her publications include a monograph and
commentary on Ps-Aristotle, Physiognomonica; she is currently preparing
a commentated translation of this text for the Loeb Classical Library.
List of Figures
xv
xvi LIST OF FIGURES
Introduction
His progress from one character to another was colouring his thinking as
well as initiating new trains of thought […] A week spent inside Peter Pan
was different from what it might have been had he not first spent a week
in Sigmund Freud.1
1 Andrew Lanyon, The Only Non-Slip Dodo Mat in the World (privately published,
2013), p. 16.
J. Griffiths
Wadham College, University of Oxford, Oxford, Oxfordshire, UK
e-mail: jane.griffiths@ell.ox.ac.uk
A. Hanna (B)
School of English and Digital Humanities, University College Cork, Cork,
Ireland
e-mail: adam.hanna@ucc.ie
2 Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space, trans. by Maria Jolas (Boston: Beacon Press,
1994); Martin Heidegger, ‘Building, Dwelling, Thinking’, in Poetry, Language, Thought,
trans. by Albert Hofstadter (New York: Harper Colophon Books, 1971), pp. 141–60.
3 Heidegger, ‘Building, Dwelling, Thinking’, p. 147.
4 J. H. Prynne, ‘Huts’, Textual Practice, 22 (2008), 613–33 (p. 628).
4 J. GRIFFITHS AND A. HANNA
5 Although Bachelard’s work has recently attracted criticism on the grounds that it is
based purely on his own essentially middle class experience (see Gerry Smyth and Jo
Croft, Our House: The Representation of Domestic Space in Modern Culture [Amsterdam:
Rodopi, 2006], pp. 14–15), his work seeks specifically to discover the complex relationship
between the personal and the universal.
6 Bachelard, Poetics of Space, p. 6.
7 Bachelard, Poetics of Space, p. 8, p. xxxvii.
8 Maurice Merleau-Ponty and John F. Bannan, ‘What Is Phenomenology?’ CrossCurrents
(1956), 59–70.
1 INTRODUCTION 5
the wind, but that, as he followed the wind on its course, he unexpectedly
discovered a dovecote in its path. In consequence of this encounter:
Wind moves in a new direction. Within moments the dovecote has become
a small cottage, to which rooms, stairs and wings are rapidly added. While
wind is pouring down the chimney, this building is already changing from
a substantial house into a mansion and by the time wind bursts into an
attic, the place is teetering on the brink of being opened to the public.12
This series of transformations continues as the wind that pours down the
chimney turns into a maid who is leaving her room and in doing so cre-
ates the stairs which she descends to encounter a piano tuner who later
composes a tune for her and, in the process, calls into being a further
addition to the house: ‘an uncurtained glass conservatory’ that completes
the imaginary structure with a flourish.
Lanyon’s jeu d’esprit thus brings together a number of possible rela-
tionships between house and mind. His house is, explicitly, a ‘thought-
house’: a house that is the direct expression of mental activity. It also
creates a space in which further creation occurs, in the form of the piano
tuner’s composition, and that creation in turn feeds back into the shape
of the house, making it not the result of a single thought process, but a
collaborative effort. In addition to representing the creative process, the
house is the visible form in which that process results; indeed, the great
glass conservatory that is the culmination of the edifice is explicitly said to
realise ‘the link between inside and out’—that is, it symbolises the way in
which a private, internal thought is made publicly manifest.13 As Lanyon
describes it, there is no distinction between form and content: the mind
imagines a house that gives shape and direction to the mind’s own subse-
quent imaginings and simultaneously results in a physical presence in the
outside world. Moreover, Lanyon not only writes that this is what hap-
pens, but also lays out his text so as to allow the reader to share in the
experience. The dovecote that so unexpectedly interrupts the passage of
the wind of thought and provides the foundations for the elaborate manor
house is given physical representation on the page by the insertion of a
small black and white photograph of a foursquare stone dovecote. This
quite literally interrupts the text, to the extent that the sentence ‘This
15 The quotation is from one of the most popular rhetorical treatises, the Rhetor-
ica ad Herennium, trans. by Harry Caplan (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press,
1954), III.xvi.29. Cf. Quintilian, Institutio Oratoria, XI.2.1; and Thomas Bradwardine,
‘On Acquiring a Trained Memory’, trans. by Mary Carruthers, The Book of Memory: A
Study of Memory in Medieval Culture, 2nd edn (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2008), pp. 361–68.
16 See further Carruthers, Book of Memory, pp. 37–55.
17 Carruthers, Book of Memory, pp. 38–39.
1 INTRODUCTION 9
literary imagination differently when they are rented than when they are
owned, Dasgupta argues that imaginative engagement with the rented
house significantly informed the plots of the nineteenth-century Bil-
dungsroman, or coming-of-age narrative. Focusing particularly on David
Copperfield (1849–50) and Great Expectations (1860–61), she demon-
strates how this genre proselytises for a certain kind of domestic ideology:
at the end of a novel, the protagonist is rewarded for his unflagging sense
of aspiration with a stable and private home. He may only move into this
kind of home when he finds his place in society, and when he finds him-
self. Rented houses are thus crucial to the very textures of narration, as
Dickens’s metaphors of rented space indicate how his narrators perceive
the world around them, make sense of their lives, and express themselves
on paper; in David’s and Pip’s cases, specifically, they reveal two imagi-
nations gripped by tenancy. Like Swift, Dasgupta is concerned with the
location of the self; like Chaudhuri she examines ways in which the house
may be imagined as a kind of self, while the self in turn is understood in
terms of the domestic sphere.
In the final essay of this section, Jelena Todorović’s chapter discusses
another writer for whom representations of architectural space are central
to the imagination. Focusing on Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities (1972),
her concern is with imagined architectures as a form of literary inheri-
tance; she traces consonances between Calvino’s fluid, open-ended built
spaces and the plural, liminal spaces of a series of Baroque texts, paintings,
architectures, and artefacts of the seventeenth century, showing that they
have close parallels with Calvino’s presentation of the city as dream-scape.
Todorović’s interdisciplinary approach decisively connects his literary city
to material culture, yet at the same time shows how imagined architec-
tures may reveal a fundamental disbelief in what she terms ‘the solidity
of our realities’. Like Chaudhuri’s and Dasgupta’s chapters, her concern
with imaginative representations of a sense of transience and unbelonging
challenges and extends the Heideggerian and Bachelardian foundations
of this volume; the architectures that she explores serve as a means of
envisaging un-dwelling, un-housing, unbelonging.
Whereas the chapters thus far suggest ways in which Bachelard’s and
Heidegger’s understanding of the house might profitably be extended
through engagements with imaginary architectures, those in the final part
of the volume indicate ways in which house, mind, and literary produc-
tion become coterminous. Archie Cornish’s chapter examines how very
different relationships with their dwellings are reflected in the work of two
1 INTRODUCTION 13
poets who wrote in Ireland, albeit in very different eras: Edmund Spenser
and Seamus Heaney. He argues that, for Spenser, building is antecedent
to writing: in consequence of his dubious title to Kilcolman Castle and its
estate, the provisionality of the former enables the deliberation of the lat-
ter. In Heaney’s work, however, building is not antecedent to the writing
of verse, but its equivalent: for Heaney, poetry ought not to outstrip the
bricolage of building, but take it as its model. Cornish asks how the mes-
sages transmitted by and the ideas ascribed to dwelling places are affected
when memories of bloodshed and contestation rise like damp from the
very land on which they are situated. He shows that the methods and
circumstances by which built spaces were created form the imaginings of
their inhabitants, changing the texture of writing itself.
As Adam Hanna shows, the connection between Yeats’s writing and
his dwelling place is still more intimate. In his chapter, Hanna suggests
that the forms that Yeats frequently wrote in for the dozen-or-so years
from 1919—grand, architecturally constructed octave stanzas—shape and
influence the imagery in the poems themselves. The role of built space in
Yeats’s poetry—its limits, effects, and possibilities—are of a piece with his
writings in his essays, diaries, and letters on the effects on his work of
employing regular, stanzaic poetic forms. Yeats started writing in these
great forms at around the same time as he moved into a renovated
medieval fortification in the rural west of Ireland, a fact that suggests
how close the relationship between writing and dwelling can be. Making
reference to Yeats’s letters and journals as well as his poems, this chapter
therefore argues for the existence of a greater self-referentiality in his later
work than has been discerned hitherto. Like Andrew Lanyon’s dovecote
that is both made of a metaphorical creative wind and inspires further
creation, Yeats’s stanza-forms give rise to the images that fill the stanzas
themselves.
Turning from real houses that inform the writerly imagination to
spaces that reflect the structures and processes of the writer’s mind,
Sarah Cawthorne’s chapter examines the extended conceit of nature’s
cabinets in Margaret Cavendish’s 1653 verse miscellany, Poems and Fan-
cies, as a metaphorical use of the constructed environment. Describing
the brain as one such cabinet (a term that in Early Modern English
was synonymous with ‘chamber’), Cavendish draws on the realities of
domestic and scholarly space to integrate the poetic faculty into a coher-
ent cognitive and sensory anatomy and construct a natural philosophy
that recognises the poetic imagination as an active philosophical tool.
14 J. GRIFFITHS AND A. HANNA
Using the conceit to tease out the connections between mind, body,
chamber, and world, Cavendish not only illustrates how the cabinet was
a potent structure in the early modern natural philosophical imagination,
and how spatial poetics could enable natural philosophical inquiry, but
also how they provide a metaphor for Cavendish to understand the
workings of her own mind. Like Lanyon’s chapter, Cawthorne’s shows
how persistently the imagination is envisaged in architectural terms. It
not only demonstrates how models of the mind drawn from classical
memory arts both informed and were modified in seventeenth-century
thought, but also considers Cavendish’s work as an early exploration of
the phenomenological imagination.
A comparable architectural imagining of the creative process is
explored in Jane Griffiths’s chapter, which centres on a single poem by
Elizabeth Bishop. In ‘The End of March’, Bishop imagines an alternate
life in a house she sees by a beach, interpreting the makeshift quality
and liminal position of the house as conveying freedom from everyday
responsibilities. Her poem thus strongly recalls the theory advanced
in Bachelard’s Poetics of Space that the house is a shelter that enables
daydreaming, yet at the same time presents the house as impossibly out
of reach. Griffiths argues that the conflicting features of this dream-space
are intimately connected with the poet’s mental processes. Drawing both
on classical and medieval memory arts, and on the consonances between
Bishop’s work and the shadow boxes constructed by the artist Joseph
Cornell, she posits that Bishop’s dream houses do not just enable the
creative process, but are coterminous with it; ultimately—like the cabinets
discussed in Cawthorne’s chapter—they come to stand for the poetic
imagination itself. Like Lanyon’s, Cawthorne’s, and Todorović’s chap-
ters, Griffiths’s cross-period approach reveals the persistence with which
connections between architectural structures and the imagination recur;
it echoes Lanyon’s in particular in showing how imaginary architectures
provide a means of envisaging the structures of thought.
The volume concludes with an exploration of how that process of asso-
ciation works in practice, as the poet Stephanie Norgate examines ways in
which a glimpsed house may be mentally inhabited. Norgate describes
how houses that she sees—beginning with another derelict house on
a beach—come to embody certain emotions and states of being. From
this opening, in which she examines correspondences between her own
responses and Bachelard’s ideas of refuge, Norgate goes on to describe
the process of creating the poems in her sequence ‘The Fallen House’,
1 INTRODUCTION 15
18 Jane Griffiths, ‘House Painting’, in Another Country: New & Selected Poems (Tarset:
Bloodaxe Books, 2008), p. 52.
PART I
Foundations
Andrew Lanyon
A. Lanyon (B)
Independent Artist, Porthleven, UK
they leave signs for the waiting companies, so that when these break camp,
having a clear trail to follow, they will move faster. Thus the scouts kick
up dust, knock off bonnets and crack twigs, which fall, so men collecting
them for their fires will light beacons to guide wind at night.
Is this metaphorical wind helping? Surely, a single thought only
requires to be driven by a single force, but the wind has already split
into a small marauding advance guard and gathering regiments of gales.
However, maybe a thought’s driving force is like this and it too makes its
way by dividing its energy.
Now that these wintry riders are underway, they course ahead like
hares, marking a route for the lumbering tortoises who will drag thun-
der’s battering rams and lightning’s trebuchets behind. While the smaller
force darts ahead, chancing its arm, the larger one waits. The first is fast,
like vision, the second slow, like speech (Fig. 2.1).
Fig. 2.1 Having divided into sight and sound, a bifurcated thought reunites
The intention had been to present a single thought as the main topic,
employing wind as a brief metaphor for its motive force. But within
moments wind had swept up and absorbed the thought. This now fused
unit—a wind-driven thought—was moving so fast, it was all the author
could do to keep up. But suddenly, it seemed as if wind’s headlong charge
was to be halted, for an obstacle lay in its path (Fig. 2.2).
2 BIFURCATED THOUGHT: REFLECTIONS ON INVENTIVE THINKING 21
Fig. 2.3 Like the universe itself, or a single thought, the building expands
exponentially. Here is the lobby
1 See Laurence Sterne, The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman, ed. Tim
Parrell (London: J. M. Dent, 2000), p. 507.
2 BIFURCATED THOUGHT: REFLECTIONS ON INVENTIVE THINKING 23
As she descends the stairs, the maid fashions its measured treads with
her feet, while a handrail flows out behind her. Because one of these two
extreme choreographed forms is made of straights, the other of curves,
they are easily turned by a pianist’s left hand into supporting chords, and
by his right into a fanciful tune (Fig. 2.5).
Like any house, this one has sensitive spots, where emotions are most
likely to be experienced, vented or bottled. One particular architectural
24 A. LANYON
erogenous zone exists in the living room, through which the maid makes
her way while the piano tuner tightens the grand. Fully aware of his
feelings for her, she veers towards him as he commandeers the roar of
the velvet curtains pulled on their brass runners, a contrast to the single
more hesitant notes made by any tuner tuning any grand. And he copies
the movements of her hands as they open curtains, sweeping his to and
fro over the keys to produce arpeggios. On a music score, these ‘almost
circles’ begin to echo the handrail. As the maid moves further down and
through the house opening curtains, the first gale arrives and snow starts
to fall. As each flake floats from side to side, it looks like someone reaching
this way and that, opening curtains. By the time the maid arrives in the
kitchen, light is reflected onto its ceiling from the snow-covered ground,
the dazzling whiteness a contrast to the dark oven dotted with black-
ened kettles and pots. ‘Black-and-white’ as an idea is being stretched to
its extremes by the weather, until it bursts into all the colours on a tray
of breakfast: the warm yellows, reds, and browns of butter, marmalade,
eggs, bacon, kippers, coffee, and toast.
As the maid arrives back in the room, she is divided into functional
and decorative halves, like the stairs.
Holding the tray with one hand, the other is free. With this free hand,
she mischievously closes the curtains which she had opened earlier. Inten-
sified in the dark, the smells of breakfast assail the tuner. The scents of
bacon, kippers, coffee, and toast evoke the faint smoky fragrance he had
sensed on her as she passed him earlier, smells linked in his mind to her
lingering. And these movements and smells touch chords, so that in the
dark, the tune takes shape. As well as his searching for this melody, the
maid challenges him to play her the tune at night, a scene from Romeo
and Juliet springing to her mind. When closing the door, she tells him
where her room is.
Realising the living room is directly below the maid’s bedroom, the
tuner returns that night and plays the tune through the network of flues
(Fig. 2.6). As she listens, she notices that the warm colours of the embers
in the grate are the same as those that frame the setting sun outside.
Suddenly, as the link between inside and out is taken up by the architect of
this imaginary domain, an uncurtained glass conservatory is built. In this
see-through vestibule, exterior variables are connected by wires so that at
a glance they can be gauged from within. Wind speed and direction are
indicated within a chandelier joined to a weather vane above, while a pipe
running from a cave far below allows the rising tide to push air up, to fill
a balloon concealed beneath a miniature sea (Figs. 2.7 and 2.8).
2 BIFURCATED THOUGHT: REFLECTIONS ON INVENTIVE THINKING 25
In this table-top model, when the balloon expands, the water creeps
up a sloping beach, thus conveying the state of the real tide, as well as
its direction. Here, in this slightly moving still-life devoid of heroes and
heroines, inside and out combine.
This tempest’s residence, built in a moment by a wind-driven thought,
happens to be the second dwelling in which the seeds of thoughts
have been planted. For twenty-five years, another house—the imaginary
Rowley Hall—has acted as a catalyst for a number of narratives about its
occupants: Walter, Mervyn, and Vera Rowley. Such houses are able to be
adjusted instantly, in order to nurture a new thought or embrace fresh
pairs of extremes. Such structures are as happy to be flesh and blood as
bricks and mortar. And they are also as likely to be fashioned by forces
acting on them from without, like the wind, as from within, by a maid
moving along corridors opening curtains.
2 BIFURCATED THOUGHT: REFLECTIONS ON INVENTIVE THINKING 27
Fig. 2.12 A conversation between Mervyn and Walter about surrounding hills
Fig. 2.13 A coloured x-ray taken by Walter to see whether a camera he had
not used for years contained any film
I was unaware that this earlier imaginary hall had evolved from the
differences between two places I often visited, places which exhibited
very clear differences. For example, having no servants, the occupants
of the larger house had developed an ability to project their voices with a
throaty resonance along corridors, downstairs, out through open doors,
and across fields. Because the era in which these people lived happened
to fall between maids and mobile phones, they had to rely on their lungs.
However, sounds in a cottage full of objects were muffled and hushed.
To follow its largest occupant as he shuffled along a narrow passageway
like a badger was to be drawn quietly behind, as if in a vacuum, because
he swept the roof and sides like a leather washer in a pump.
If the fictitious stories that we write are nearer to reality than we
suppose, then they might well provide answers to questions. So it could
be worth looking closer at something one has written, say something
2 BIFURCATED THOUGHT: REFLECTIONS ON INVENTIVE THINKING 31
about an invented hall. Might the imagery one selects, particularly when
searching for a metaphor, give the memory its big chance, allowing it to
slip an appropriate slide from its collection into the carousel? (Fig. 2.14).
Fig. 2.14 Vera’s watch with 9.5 mm film ‘strap’—film being a medium capable
of speeding, slowing, stopping, and reversing time
rolling them back, in order to draw out the time she spends beside the
tuner. Adjusting the fabric of Rowley Hall to embrace such a lengthened
chore, we learn how in the late sixteenth century its master had fallen
out of favour with his sovereign. The royal personage, having set off on
her ‘rusticated progress’, sent a herald ahead to announce that together
with one hundred courtiers she would be arriving for a week. Any victim
of such a precipitation into penury might prefer to face an advancing
army, choosing rather to be killed outright in honest slaughter than to be
stretched gradually on the rack of hospitality. This early Rowley knew how
the imminent Queen would tease loose a golden thread to his pocket and
tie it to her fastest dog before the hunt. This Rowley, refusing to suffocate
in his own politeness while biting his tongue, before expiring in a fit of
patriotism, hurriedly created a dozen ersatz halls, each in its own grounds,
scattering these identical mansions around the genuine one. Each fake
had dozens of silken threads running to the real hall, so that when a real
window was opened or a real fire lit, simulated windows and fires in the
phony abodes were also opened and lit. (All this simply to slow down
some old curtains.) This explains why prospective butlers and maids were
required to pass trials of strength. When raising a single sash window,
twelve others had to be raised as well. What’s more, birds from a nearby
rookery were fond of gathering on the silken threads, contributing to the
effort required to open a cupboard. An early rate-collector estimated that
there were as many as nineteen mock halls, including a couple of dupli-
cates in Kent. The instigator of this architectural deceit hugely enjoyed
having many sets of things, like chefs, because such a surfeit meant alter-
native broths. It was rumoured that in the false halls there lodged at one
time dozens of false Rowleys. But it is more likely that the sounds and
movements of the genuine scrapings of their boots and their scufflings
were piped through tubes, while their real shadows were projected onto
the walls and floors.
While Rowley Hall had sprung in part from the differences between
two actual houses, all the narratives arising from it have been built with
the assistance of extremes, like images and words or people who repre-
sent extreme types, like Mervyn, an artist, and Walter, a scientist. Maybe
when the imagination has real houses for anchors, invention is accessed
by running the mind to and fro between their differences, so that elec-
tricity sparks as if between plus and minus. If there are several contrasted
elements, the mind is offered more options. While this adds excitement,
the greater mobility also aids invention.
CHAPTER 3
Christian Illies
1 Some investors have specialised in buying this kind of property in order to sell it or rent
it out to tenants who are more relaxed about this aspect of property, especially to foreign-
ers from Europe or the USA, or to doctors or nurses (‘who are used to working around
the dead’ as the real estate agent Eric Wong observes). Peter Shadbolt, ‘Hong Kong’s
Hot Market in “Haunted” Houses’, CNN, available at http://edition.cnn.com/2011/
11/22/world/asia/hong-kong-haunted-houses/index.html [accessed 20 January 2018].
C. Illies (B)
University of Bamberg, Bamberg, Germany
e-mail: Christian.illies@uni-bamberg.de
Fig. 3.1 ‘Holmes’ Castle’, welcoming its guests (Picture from Wikimedia Com-
mons, available at https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?title=File:H._
H._Holmes_Castle.jpg&oldid=330893935 [accessed 12 January 2019])
One intuitive response is to feel that such buildings can hold and
emanate evil. There are many stories (and, of course, films) concerning
ongoing curses, such as that of the Pharaohs, cast upon anyone who enters
an ancient Egyptian tomb, archaeologist or grave robber alike. In general,
however, it seems that time diminishes this magical power of a building
in the eyes of most. If the event has occurred a sufficiently long time ago,
it may horrify people no longer. The reality-TV series Most Haunted was
a great success in the UK and English Heritage, to beguile visitors, even
lists stories of all ‘hauntings’ and unexplained events recorded at its sites.
Such stories can also increase the attraction, and thus the market value,
of a building. One real estate agent advertises stigmatised houses on the
internet for people who are in the ‘Halloween spirit’. They are all houses
with a ‘nefarious past’, which he calls ‘spooky spots that take our love for
all things otherworldly to the next level: ten homes that are wonderfully
creepy to their core’.3
Buildings can energise people in positive ways. The Chinese cultural
tradition of Feng Shui, for example, claims to identify architectural fea-
tures (such as the orientation of buildings, shapes of rooms, and so on)
which harmonise human beings with their environment—or, in the case
of bad design, set them at odds with it. There are temples, churches,
and tombs considered holy by many people, and which seem to demand
respect. The ancient Romans identified and worshiped the genius loci of a
place, its protective spirit. Today the term ‘genius loci’ generally refers to
the distinctive ambience or atmosphere of a place or building, and is usu-
ally used in a positive way to refer to a friendly or welcoming impression.
A staircase with sophisticated lighting, such as the one by Peter Zumthor
in the Kunsthaus Bregenz, invites the visitor to climb it (Fig. 3.2).
Most people seem to grasp these effects of architecture. That is why
artists feel the liberty and desire to construct imaginary edifices. Piranesi’s
etchings exploit this reaction by presenting inescapable carceri; expres-
sionists and surrealists delight in depicting extremely alienating dwellings;
and Claude Debussy famously composed a piece about a sunken cathedral
(La cathédrale engloutie, 1910) based on an ancient Breton myth.
3 Kelly Chronis, ‘Real Estate’s 10 Most Haunted Houses on the Market’, avail-
able at MyDomaine, http://www.mydomaine.com/real-estates-10-most-haunted-houses-
on-the-market [accessed 21 June 2018].
36 C. ILLIES
the garden in order to make life easier to control. Soon afterwards, the
house and garden take over and become intractable non-places for his
now orphaned children.
Not all literary childhoods are as miserable. The German poet Theodor
Storm had a happier one. In ‘The Town’ (‘Die Stadt ’), a poem from
1851, he articulates how early memories can transform a ‘grey town’
into an attractive and magical place. He is fully aware of the rather
monotonous, charmless ambience of his hometown Husum, which is
close to ‘the grey shore, by the grey sea’ and where ‘The fog rests heavy
round the roofs’—but all of that does not matter:
In his 1909 novel Die andere Seite (The Other Side), Alfred Kubin,
the symbolist and fantasy-artist avant-la-lettre, imagined and illustrated
a dream city, Perle, behind a curtain of clouds. In many ways this city
seems to correspond closely with its inhabitants. It begins, for example,
to go mouldy at the same time the manners and morals of its inhabitants
decay. This work heavily influenced Franz Kafka whose unfinished novel
Das Schloß (1926, English: 1930: The Castle) depicts a village with an
inaccessible castle that expresses, among other things, a mysterious and
alienating deeper structure of reality than that which is intelligible to us.
To give a more recent (and again rather dark) example: the description of
a labyrinthine bunker-city with an almost autonomous power to expand
ever further in Sebald’s Austerlitz (2001) seems to correspond with the
world-view of its builders and inhabitants. They have created in stone a
heartless labyrinthine approach to reality and to fellow human beings—an
approach that finally takes over their minds. Buildings permeate human
beings.
4 These lines are translated from Theodor Storm’s ‘Die Stadt ’. The original is available
in A Book of German Lyrics, ed. by Friedrich Bruns (New York: D. C. Heath & Co.,
1921), p. 93.
38 C. ILLIES
way meaningful and relevant to the observer and which asks for (or even
triggers) a response. Three aspects of this experience can be identified in
all the above examples: (i) a meaningful quality experienced in or around
the building, that has (ii) relevance for the observer, and corresponds with
(iii) the observer’s responsiveness.
(i) Meaningful quality. This occurs when we attribute some peculiar
quality to the town, house, room, or other architectural space. The build-
ing seems to offer not merely sense-data (such as yellow, square, dark,
and so on) but to offer them with meaning attached to them. The stig-
matised house communicates a warning, a genius loci refers to a specific
power of a place, and Feng Shui identifies ‘spiritual forces’ which influence
human beings. This peculiar quality cannot be understood without both
components: on the one hand the physical structure, the features of the
building, and its architectural context; on the other hand, its mental ele-
ments, such as stories, memories, and ‘spiritual forces’. Only when these
come together does a new meaningful quality arise in the experience of
the observer.
(ii) Relevance for the observer. This peculiar quality is not neutral. How-
ever obscure and vague, it pertains to something we should be attentive
to. The high priest experienced the Most Holy Place as a part of the tem-
ple that he should not enter; Scandinavian cultures feel that it is impor-
tant for them to appease the sprits of the trees; knowledge about a murder
transforms a property in ways that matter to potential buyers. We may not
be able clearly to articulate this meaning, but perhaps simply feel uneasy,
uplifted, or lured by some building, as Margaret Schlegel does in Howards
End. The building may seem to have some peculiar importance, some rel-
evant information to grant us, for better or worse. Certainly, the relevant
message is usually not directly legible and remains rather Sybilline, but at
the very least it reveals some direction, attraction, or aversion. Such mes-
sages may usefully be contrasted with the Isthmian stela from the Gulf
of Mexico, which we cannot decipher at all; it may contain merely the
scores from some Mesoamerican ballgame or the exact date of the world’s
end—we do not even know whether it matters for us. Our experience of
the other side of architecture involves at least some kind of directionality
and therefore does have some relevant meaning.
(iii) Responsiveness. It is important to note that we are generally open
to this kind of experience. We are ready to give some emotional or
practical response. Our reactions to these experiences are not like sober
risk assessments, as they might be in case of a building that is structurally
40 C. ILLIES
5 Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space, trans. by Maria Jolas, 2nd edn (Boston: Beacon
Press, 1994), p. 7.
3 MURMURING HOUSES FOR THE MYTHICAL MIND 41
Narrative Architecture
Architecture as a kind of language is a very old metaphor, even though
there are obvious differences between visual and linguistic forms. Archi-
tectural design can, however, contain meaningful signs, very much like
language. Heike Delitz (2005) and Joachim Fischer (2010) have there-
fore interpreted architecture in general as a ‘medium of communication’,
that makes some ‘offer of meaning’, for example, by suggesting a cer-
tain relation between things or their overall order (such as private/public,
or holy/profane). Paul Ricoeur argues that there is a close parallelism
between narrativity and architecture; a verbal story is a ‘process’ of putting
time ‘into narrative form’, while architecture puts space in a narrative
form.6
Ricoeur’s approach to architecture is a helpful way of understanding
the experience of the other side of architecture. Proper narratives, he
argues, can be divided into three steps: the first is the ‘prefiguration’ or
grounding of narratives in daily life (the little stories that we exchange in
gossip, for example).7 The second is the ‘elevation from daily life to a nar-
rative level’, which he calls ‘configuration’.8 Events in time are selected
and synthesised into a plot someone tells: that is, into a chronological
order or arrangement where ‘cause, motive or reason’ are important. It
makes some aspects of the unclear events of life more intelligible, relates
them to others, and looks for influences or juxtapositions. Thirdly, a narra-
tive must have a responding audience. It is here that the narrative ‘unfolds
its capacity to illuminate or clarify the life of the reader; it has both the
power of discovering, of revealing the hidden, the unsaid of a life shielded
from Socratic scrutiny, and that of transforming the banal interpretation
that the reader makes according to the bent of day-to-day life’.9 This
response is what Ricoeur call the ‘refiguration’ of the narrative.
Architecture, similarly, begins with a prefiguration, namely its man-
ner of dwelling or inhabiting; as Ricoeur writes: ‘Before any architec-
tural project, humankind has built because it has inhabited’.10 Inhabiting
6 Paul Ricoeur, Time and Narration (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984),
p. 31.
7 Ricoeur, Time and Narration, p. 31.
8 Paul Ricoeur, ‘Architecture and Narrativity’, Ricoeur Studies, 7 (2016), 31–41.
9 Ricoeur, ‘Architecture and Narrativity’, p. 39.
10 Ricoeur, ‘Architecture and Narrativity’, p. 32.
42 C. ILLIES
includes our tracks and paths, how and where we undertake individual or
corporate tasks, and spaces used for certain activities; all of these things
reveal that: ‘Inhabiting is made of rhythms, stops and starts, settlement
and movement’.11 In Ricoeur’s second step (configuration) architecture
turns inhabitation into buildings, where ‘the constructed space consists
in a system of gestures, of rituals for the major interactions of life’.12
Ricoeur emphasises that architecture is not about ‘the three-dimensional
geometrical space in which each point is some place’ but the ‘places of
life that surround the living body’.13 Places of life are environments that
hold importance. This renders constructing a space rather like finding a
plot, a ‘synthesis of the heterogeneous’ which brings together not only
events ‘but points of view, as causes, motives and chance occurrences’.14
All of these need finally to be understood as ‘inscribed signs’; this is the
refiguration.15 A house can be read ‘from the point of view of our way
of inhabiting’—which is to say that we read it by using or inhabiting it.16
This is a practical ‘response, even an answer to the building’.17 Accord-
ing to Ricoeur, our practical response can range ‘from passive reception,
subdued, indifferent reception, to hostile and angry reception’.18 Michel
de Certeau was the first to emphasise that our movements and activities
reveal are part of this reception and create the importance of a place. As
he puts it:
ignore others that seem banal. Polarities are central in such built narra-
tives, as they often concern elemental ambivalences: holy or profane, light
or dark, public or private, sometimes positive or negative, or, following
Michel Foucault, both in- and ex-clusion.25
These narratives can vary widely. Some, such as those concerning ‘at-
mosphere’, are rather fragmented, minimal, and often reflect merely the
‘murmur of a place’, to use Rafael Moneo’s expression.26 Other stories,
such as murder stories, can be spelt out more clearly; and may even grow
in the telling. The stories can be more or less trivial, can concern earthly
or divine events, and the meaningful order they provide can be of narrow
reach or cover the whole world. This is the case when a building expresses,
or attempts to express, an entire world-view. Many religious buildings do
so. Stonehenge, for example, attempts to embody the principles of the
whole cosmos and of light itself. In the Pythagorean tradition certain pro-
portions, numbers, and (importantly) musical ratios refer to the harmony
of the entire cosmos (the music of the spheres) and are used as patterns
in the design of buildings and cities. (Krakow, for example, is built upon
a Pythagorean system.)27
If, then, buildings are ‘fragmentary and inward-turning histories’, how
can we read that narrative and how does it affect us?28 It is useful to
consider the circumstances in which a building and its narrative become
uncanny. That happens, I shall argue, when they are important for our
own identity.
25 Michael Foucault, ‘Des espaces autres’, in Dits et Ecrits (Paris: Gallimard, 1994),
pp. 752–62.
26 See Francisco Gonzalez De Canales, and Nicholas Ray, Rafael Moneo: Building,
Teaching, Writing (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2015).
27 Boguslaw Krasnowolski, ‘Muster urbanistischer Anlagen von Lokationsstädten in
Kleinpolen, Forschungsstand, Methoden und Versuch einer Synthese’, in Rechtsstadtgrün-
dungen im mittelalterlichen Polen, ed. by Erich Mühle (Köln: Böhlau, 2011), pp. 275–322
(p. 321).
28 De Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life, p. 109.
46 C. ILLIES
Charles Taylor, Alasdair MacIntyre, and Paul Ricoeur. In brief, the the-
ory states that we are what we are because we tell certain stories about
ourselves (to us and to others). More technically, human beings form
and stabilise their individual identity by connecting personal experiences
into an internalised, evolving narrative that provides them with a sense
of unity and meaning or purpose. The individual’s story is embedded in
the larger story of a certain culture and of a certain time, perhaps told by
religions, philosophies, or the sciences but also more simply by traditions,
books, films, etc. (Or by soap-operas, in which the individual’s story can
be too deeply embedded, as we learn from Woody Allen’s Midnight in
Paris (2011): ‘Does art imitate life, does life imitate TV?’).
Consider, for example, our temporal identity. As human beings we
enjoy subjectivity and reflexivity. The subject of this reflexivity, however,
must endure or have some inner continuity in its experiential world. In
order to live a meaningful life—or possibly any life at all—we must know
that we are the same being: a consistent homogenous ‘I’. Whatever this
identity might (or might not) mean metaphysically, for us it takes the form
of a meaningful sequence which connects events experienced at different
times by according them all to one agent. That is exactly what stories do.
If I ask myself whether the happy child in the sandpit in the photo is me,
I can find out only by recollecting and retelling the narrative of my life,
of what I did as a little child, what I experienced and how I felt, and by
seeing myself in the long narrative which began then and still continues.
The more I can contextualise individual life events into one overall story
the more I experience meaningful identity. That is why life is, as Ricoeur
sums it up, ‘an activity and a passion in search of a narrative’.29 Stories
(and identities), however, can be rich or poor, meaningful or banal, good
or bad, approximately true to the facts and events of one’s life, or illu-
sionary and unrealistic. And occasionally, no unifying story can be found.
Some people fail to find a meaningful order in their life and experience
mere incoherent fragments.
This narrative activity of identity-constitution or self-formation may
have a counterpart at the cultural level. Ernst Cassirer argued along
these lines and Jean Gebser looked at cultural developments of forms of
30 Ernst Cassirer, Philosophie der symbolischen Formen, 2: Das mythische Denken (Berlin:
B. Cassirer: 1925); Jean Gebser Ursprung und Gegenwart (Schaffhausen: Novalis, 1979),
published in English as The Ever-Present Origin (Athens, OH: Ohio University Press,
1985).
31 Ricoeur’s three steps of dwelling, building, and responding are meant to echo the title
of Heidegger’s great 1951 lecture Bauen Wohnen Denken (Building Dwelling Thinking ).
48 C. ILLIES
reveals her or his personality with startling accuracy. (Listen to the estate
agent who claims that choosing a bride and buying a house are emo-
tional equivalents.32 ) Sigmund Freud considers houses to be important
elements in dreams, as they reveal much about the dreamer’s personality.
And of particular interest is the role dark basements play in our dreams.
For Carl Gustav Jung houses are archetypical symbols of the soul—some-
thing echoed by Bachelard when he writes: ‘The house image would
appear to become the topography of our intimate being’ and therefore
‘a tool for analysis of the human soul’.33 That might also be a reason
why we tend to see human faces or bodies in buildings (see Fig. 3.3).
As Gestaltpsychologie has observed, a house is like an alter ego. (This is
one aspect of a more general psychological phenomenon, called pareidol,
where we perceive even vague visual stimuli as significant, for example
when we see faces in clouds.)
It is no wonder, then, that we are inclined to approach houses from
the reference point of their narrative or to give them a place in our own
personal narratives. Houses are elements of stories particularly well-suited
to helping us find meaning in the world, a meaningful place for ourselves,
and thus a place where our identities may be formed.
That explains why the anxieties one might feel when entering a stigma-
tised house or the disturbing buildings or districts of Berlin’s Marzahn,
for example, are uncanny: They are close to our own selves. The experi-
ence of architecture is often not like that of a subject observing an object,
but rather a kind of self oberservation; and that is why the phenomenon
(for example the atmosphere of a building, the sacredness of a place, or
the horror of a haunted house) gets somehow ‘under the skin’. Often the
implicit narrative overcomes the dichotomy between ourselves and our
surroundings and makes us act. A delightful atmosphere sheds its light
on many things and raises our mood such that we want to climb the
staircase in the hope of reaching beyond where we are. An oppressive or
sinister atmosphere, by contrast, threatens to suck us in such a way that
we feel both strangely attracted and repelled at the same time (an ambiva-
lence exploited by true-crime reports and the horror-genre). That is why,
to use Walter Benjamin’s term, we can become ‘enveloped’ by buildings.
32 Katharina Dippold, ‘Die Wohnungssuche ist vergleichbar mit der Partnerwahl’, Icon-
ist, available at https://www.welt.de/icon/design/article173100621/Immobilienmakler-
Ziegert-Wohnungssuche-ist-wie-Partnerwahl.html [accessed 2 February 2018].
33 Bachelard, The Poetics of Space, p. xxxvii.
3 MURMURING HOUSES FOR THE MYTHICAL MIND 49
36 This is from the debate ‘Contrasting Concepts of Harmony in Architecture: The 1982
Debate Between Christopher Alexander and Peter Eisenman’, Katarxis, 3 (September
2004), available at http://www.katarxis3.com/Alexander_Eisenman_Debate.htm [accessed
2 February 2018]. Though their positions are more complex than this suggests, in broad
terms Eisenman agrees that modernity is accompanied by an anxiety which cries out for
change but, following Adorno, does not want to mellow this revolutionary spirit: ‘I do
not believe that the way to go, as you suggest, is to put up structures to make people feel
comfortable, to preclude that anxiety. What is a person to do if he cannot react against
anxiety or see it pictured in his life? […] And so the role of art or architecture might be
just to remind people that everything wasn’t all right’.
3 MURMURING HOUSES FOR THE MYTHICAL MIND 51
37 Karsten Harries, The Ethical Function of Architecture (London: MIT Press, 1997),
p. 362.
CHAPTER 4
1 This paper emanates from a research project on the Perception of Atmospheres in ancient
4 At least, this seems to be true for ‘normal’ people. According to Oswald Mathias
Ungers, however, architects bring many other modes of perception to the design of a
building (‘Designing and Thinking in Images, Metaphors and Analogies’, in Quellentexte
zur Architekturtheorie: Nachdenken über Architektur, ed. by Fritz Neumeyer and Jasper
Cepl [Munich: Prestel, 2002], pp. 531–39). The experience of one of the authors of this
paper, who is an architect, confirms his findings.
5 In his inaugural lecture at the University of Leipzig in 1893, the art historian August
Schmarsow defined architecture as ‘the art of space’. See August Schmarsow, Das Wesen
der architektonischen Schöpfung, http://www.cloud-cuckoo.net/openarchive/Autoren/Sch
marsow/Schmarsow1894.htm [accessed 7 February 2018]. Literally he speaks of ‘the
art of space’ (‘Raumkunst ’) and ‘architecture as the designer of space’ (‘Architektur als
Raumgestalterin’); Cf. also Ulrich Müller, Raum, Bewegung und Zeit im Werk von Walter
Gropius und Ludwig Mies van der Rohe (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2004). This mode of
having a house in the mind is thus not an invention of the late nineteenth century, and
is not limited to a certain period.
6 See Sigfried Giedion, Space, Time and Architecture: The Growth of a New Tradition,
5th edn (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2008); Cf. also Müller, Raum,
Bewegung und Zeit.
56 M. DÜCHS AND S. VOGT
is, as it were, not only about being in a certain room but also about
getting to this room. Le Corbusier engaged with the space-time aspect
of architecture explicitly, rejecting a conception of architecture that puts
a more or less mathematical and abstract understanding of space at its
centre, or one that derives from a primarily visual approach.7 Like many
standard works of modern architectural theory, Le Corbusier focuses on
the visual experience of space in time.8 This entails a topological under-
standing of space where the place of the observer of architecture becomes
important. Le Corbusier reflects on this point as follows:
7 See Le Corbusier, Towards a New Architecture (New York: Dover Publications, 1986),
pp. 213ff. Le Corbusier acknowledges and stresses the importance of the plan, but at the
same time he warns against what he calls the ‘illusion of the plan’, which he sees in its
formalistic usage.
8 Examples of other architects or artists who emphasised the importance of experiencing
spaces in motion or speed include Adolf Loos and Filippo Marinetti. Cf. Adolf Loos,
‘Architektur’ (1909), in Trotzdem. Adolf Loos Gesammelte Schriften 1900–1930, ed. by
Adolf Opel (Vienna: Prachner, 1997), pp. 90–104.
9 Le Corbusier, Le Corbusier Talks with Students, trans. by Pierre Chase (New York:
Princeton Architectural Press, 1999), pp. 44–45. The first words of the quotation in the
original text read: ‘An architecture must be walked through and traversed […]’.
10 See Auguste Choisy, Histoire de l´Architecture (Paris: Gauthier-Villars, 1899). The
famous sketch combining a plan of the Acropolis with the visitors’ view appears on
p. 415. Le Corbusier uses this drawing in his Towards an Architecture twice: first
on p. 115 as a sort of frontispiece to the chapter ‘Three Reminders to Architects:
4 THE HOUSE OF THE SENSES: EXPERIENCING BUILDINGS … 57
III: Plan’, and again on p. 222 to illustrate his thoughts in the chapter ‘Architec-
ture: II: The Illusion of the Plan’. Le Corbusier uses another of Choisy’s drawings on
p. 121: a drawing of the contemporary plan of the Acropolis (Choisy, p. 412). See
also Turit Fröbe, ‘Weg und Bewegung in der Architektur Le Corbusiers’, Wolkenkuckuck-
sheim 9 (2004), http://www.cloud-cuckoo.net/openarchive/wolke/deu/Themen/041/
Froebe/froebe.htm [accessed 12 February 2018].
11 Our understanding of the concept of ‘atmosphere’ is based upon Gernot Böhme,
Architektur und Atmosphäre, 2nd edn (Paderborn: Fink, 2013), published in English
translation as Atmospheric Architectures (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2017). Also
Gernot Böhme, Atmosphäre, 7th edn (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2013); Hermann
Schmitz, Atmosphären (Freiburg and Munich: Karl Alber, 2014).
58 M. DÜCHS AND S. VOGT
12 Besides the obvious reference to Bachelard’s Poetics of Space, one could point to
almost any outstanding book in the history of literature that contains a description of a
building. One obvious example, which deals specifically with architecture is Italo Calvino,
Invisible Cities, trans. by William Weaver (New York: Harcourt Brace & Company, 1974);
Cf. Chapter 9 in this volume. For an introduction to the field of architecture in literature,
see Winfried Nerdinger and Hilde Strobl, Architektur wie sie im Buche steht: Fiktive Bauten
und Städte in der Literatur (Salzburg: Pustet, 2006).
4 THE HOUSE OF THE SENSES: EXPERIENCING BUILDINGS … 59
This implies that any (literary) text about houses could be used as an
example of our hypothesis that texts create houses in the mind in five
dimensions. Why, then, do we focus on just two texts by two authors as
different and seemingly randomly chosen as the Roman senator Pliny and
the contemporary Swiss architect Peter Zumthor? Our choice was moti-
vated by three reasons. First, from a historical perspective, we wanted to
juxtapose the earliest extant extensive description of a real house—not
an imaginary or fictitious one—in (Western) literature with a contempo-
rary one, so as to demonstrate the surprising consonance between their
approaches, and thus to suggest that this consonance is due to the content
and focus of the text rather than to its genre, epoch, or socio-historical
background. Second, we were looking for texts which describe houses
or buildings and (almost) nothing else; this criterion excluded all clas-
sical texts before Pliny the Younger’s so-called ‘villa letters’. Third, we
wanted to have the opportunity to compare the description of the house
with a real-world experience of the building. This last can be achieved
by visiting the thermal baths Peter Zumthor built in Vals, Switzerland—
though unfortunately not in the case of Pliny’s villa, which could be
visited by his contemporary readers, but is lost to us.
Pliny (61/62–circa 112 CE) was a Roman senator who wrote the
first Western autobiography in the shape of Epistulae, a collection of
246 purportedly private letters intended for publication. As was common
among Roman aristocrats, he owned several villas in fashionable places
in Italy, in which he spent his leisure time far from busy Rome. Two of
those villas he describes in the so-called ‘villa letters’ (ep. 2.17 and 5.6),
the earlier of which, ep. 2.17, was probably published in the years between
97 and 100 CE. In this letter, he invites his friend Gallus to visit him in
his seaside villa at Laurentum, on the shore of the Tyrrhenian Sea south
of Rome, close to ancient and modern Ostia. In order to explain why he
cherishes this seaside-villa, and why Gallus should visit, Pliny gives him a
verbal guided tour through his estate. His letter leads its readers up the
same road as the approaching owner, seventeen miles out of the city of
Rome, on a road which ‘is partly sandy, making it rather too heavy and
long for a coach and pair, but short and soft on horseback’ (§2)13 —an
early hint that it is not the objective distance or route that matters, but
13 Unless otherwise stated, all English translations of Epistula 2.17 are quoted by para-
graph number from Pliny the Younger, Complete Letters, trans. by P. G. Walsh (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2006), pp. 47–51.
60 M. DÜCHS AND S. VOGT
the sense impressions and their effects on the feelings and emotions of
the traveller. Thus we, as readers, are included in the narrator’s perspec-
tive. First we see the landscape changing, the road and view narrowing
and widening: ‘the view is varied at different points, for at one moment
woodland confronts you and the road narrows, and at the next it widens
and extends through the broadest meadows’ (§3). Only then does the
villa come into focus.
The same personal, emotional approach is present throughout the
letter. If anyone tried to draw a map of the villa from Pliny’s description,
they would soon get entirely lost.14 He neither refers to the positions and
sizes of the rooms in relation to others, nor does he describe what a room
looks like as if it were seen from a distance or from the outside. Instead
he leads his readers from one room to the next, linking his sentences
by temporal or local copula—such as ‘then’, ‘the next’, ‘after this’—and
presenting the rooms as if they were pearls on a string. He thus mirrors
in the text the progression of the visitor in space and time; in our termi-
nology, the villa is described using a four-dimensional approach from the
point of view of the (imagined) reader-visitor. Yet this four-dimensional
movement in space and time merely provides the framework for the fifth
dimension: in entering each new room, Pliny verbalises the special sensual
‘feeling’ to it. He draws particular attention to the effects of changing
daylight and seasons and weather phenomena, focusing especially on a
room’s warmth or cold, shadow or light, fresh air, silence or noise and
identifying different kinds of sense experience in different rooms: one
may be perfect for studying books in (§8), another’s ‘height renders it
a summer room, and its protective walls a winter room, for it is shel-
tered from all the winds’ (§10),15 while in another room he praises
the silence from household noise as well as from the murmuring sea
or growling tempest (§22). The sensual phenomena he emphasises are
extremely diverse, and—in some cases—incompatible with one another,
14 Scholars have expended much energy on the attempt; see for example Reinhard
Förtsch, Archäologischer Kommentar zu den Villenbriefen des jüngeren Plinius (Mainz:
Philipp von Zabern, 1993). But these attempts are doomed to be fruitless, because, as
the most recent commentary on ep. 2.17 points out: ‘Though we have no reason to
doubt that Pliny’s villa really existed, to read 2.17 purely for documentary value misses
much of its meaning: this is, above all, a textual villa’ (Christopher Whitton, Pliny the
Younger, Epistles, II [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013], p. 218).
15 The translation is by Sabine Vogt.
4 THE HOUSE OF THE SENSES: EXPERIENCING BUILDINGS … 61
yet all of them are presented as impacting upon the same individuals: the
explicit narrator Pliny and his implicit invited visitor.
What Pliny enables his readers to experience by narrative means is
exactly what the architect Peter Zumthor, in his essay on ‘atmospheres’
describes as his favourite approach to buildings: drifting, moving forward
in time and space in a leisurely manner, open to new sense experiences at
every new step:
I’d be standing there and might just stay a while, but then something
would be drawing me round the corner – it was the way the light falls, over
here, over there and so I saunter on – and I must say I find a great source
of pleasure. The feeling that I am not being directed but can stroll at will
– just drifting along, you know. And it’s a kind of voyage of discovery. As
an architect I have to make sure it isn’t like being in a labyrinth, however,
if that’s not what I want. So I’ll reintroduce the odd bit of orientation,
exceptions that prove the rule – you know the sort of thing. Direction,
seduction, letting go, granting freedom.16
A place of great learning for me in this respect is the cinema, of course. The
camera team and directors assemble sequences in the same way. I try that
out in my buildings. So that appeals to me. So that it appeals to you, too,
and more specially, so that it supports the uses of the building. Guidance,
preparation, stimulation, the pleasant surprise, relaxation – all this, I must
add, without the slightest whiff of the lecture theatre. It should all seem
very natural.17
The beginning was easy. Going back in time, bathing as one might have a
thousand years ago, creating a building, a structure set into the slope with
an architectural attitude and aura older than anything already built around
it, inventing a building that could somehow always have been there, a
building that relates to the topography and geology of the location, that
responds to the stone masses of Vals Valley, pressed, faulted, folded and
sometimes broken into thousands of plates—these were the objectives of
our design.18
Fig. 4.1 The main facade of the Therme Vals, Switzerland. Picture by Micha L.
Rieser, licensed under Wikimedia commons. Readers are invited to scroll through
more photographs of the Therme Vals on its official website www.7132.com and
on the Wikipedia article relating to it
18 Peter Zumthor, Sigrid Hauser, and Hélène Binet, Therme Vals (Zurich: Scheidegger
& Spiess, 2007), p. 18.
4 THE HOUSE OF THE SENSES: EXPERIENCING BUILDINGS … 63
The series of sketches on this page explores the sequence of spaces, from
entering the baths to the first point on the gallery that affords an overview.
Guided movement through masses of stone, changing light from above.19
One might object, though, that this drawing still shows nothing but
the neoclassical ‘promenade architecturale’ or, in our terms, the four-
dimensional architectural thinking associated with Le Corbusier and
Giedion. It focuses on a sequence of different spatial arrangements that
are meant to appeal to the visual sense by means of carefully staged light.
However, both Zumthor’s description of ‘guided movement through
masses of stone’, and the experience of the spaces as they were actu-
ally built, show that he very consciously sought to trigger or engage all
senses, not only the visual one. Anyone who walks down this passage,
past the carefully staged light, will experience the noise and the feeling of
water, the different surfaces of stone, concrete, leather, coloured lacquer
and so on. As Zumthor writes in the catalogue on the thermal baths in
Vals, from the very beginning of the project, he intended to address the
visitors in exactly such a holistic sensual way:
From the beginning, our design philosophy was also a bathing philosophy.
In the earliest sketches, facilities and resources were already experimen-
tally embedded in the landscape of blocks: pools of water, warm and cold
gushing waters for contrast bathing in the slope at the back, waterfalls,
rivulets.20
example the exact measurements of a room and its ceiling, or the posi-
tions of its doors and windows) are, on the other hand, exactly those
which literary texts tend to omit, for these mere facts do not help to
create a vivid image of a ‘house in the mind’ and its atmosphere—as the
sensual, emotional, judgmental and semantic resonances of the fourth and
fifth dimensions do. Thus, we hope to have indicated how the dimen-
sional approach to literary descriptions of buildings offers a new tool for
literary critics not only to profitably engage with architects, but also to
understand and interpret literary ‘houses in the mind’.
PART II
Meg Boulton
The above quotation, taken from Gaston Bachelard’s The Poetics of Space
(1958), seems a fitting place to begin this consideration of an imag-
ined ‘house’, which centres on the imaginary and imagined spaces of the
scripturally present(ed) but no-longer extant Tabernacle and Temple as
envisioned in both the physical and metaphysical contexts of a monu-
mental manuscript produced in Northumbria in Anglo-Saxon England,
1 Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space, trans. by Maria Jolas, 2nd edn (Boston: Beacon
Press, 1994), p. 8.
M. Boulton (B)
Edinburgh College of Art, University of Edinburgh, Edinburgh, Scotland, UK
e-mail: mboulton@ed.ac.uk
2 Much of the discussion below relies on the understanding that the Old Testament
structures of Tabernacle and Temple and the New Testament structure of the Church
(and individual churches) were viewed as being typological ‘houses of God’: places where
God dwelt amongst his people in a physical space. For ways in which the Tabernacle
may have been understood in Anglo-Saxon England see Nicholas Howe, Migration and
Mythmaking in Anglo-Saxon England (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989), and
Writing the Map of Anglo-Saxon England: Essays in Cultural Geography (New Haven,
CT: Yale University Press, 2001); Flora Spiegel, ‘The Tabernacula of Gregory the Great
and the Conversion of Anglo-Saxon England’, Anglo-Saxon England, 36 (2007), 1–13.
3 Important readings of the Codex Amiatinus include R. L. S. Bruce-Mitford, The
Art of the Codex Amiatinus (London: British Archaeological Association, 1967); J. J.
G. Alexander, Insular Manuscripts, 6th to the 9th Century (London: Harvey Miller,
1978), pp. 32–35; Jennifer O’Reilly, ‘The Library of Scripture: Views from Vivarium
and Wearmouth-Jarrow’, in New Offerings, Ancient Treasures: Studies in Medieval Art for
George Henderson, ed. by Paul Binski and William Noel (Stroud: Sutton, 2001), pp. 3–39,
and ‘“All That Peter Stands For”: The Romanitas of the Codex Amiatinus Reconsidered’,
in Anglo-Saxon/Irish Relations Before the Vikings, ed. by James Graham-Campbell and
Michael Ryan (Oxford: British Academy, 2009), pp. 367–95; Celia Chazelle, ‘Ceolfrid’s
Gift to St. Peter: The First Quire of the Codex Amiatinus and the Evidence of Its Roman
Destination’, Early Medieval Europe, 12 (2003), 129–57; Christopher de Hamel, Meet-
ings with Remarkable Manuscripts (London: Penguin, 2016), pp. 54–95; Conor O’Brien,
5 BEHOLD THE HOUSE OF THE LORD … 71
Bede’s Temple: An Image and Its Interpretation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015),
and ‘Tabernacle, Temple or Something in Between? Architectural Representation in Codex
Amiatinus, fols. IIv –IIIr ’, Leeds Studies in English, 48 (2017/2018), 7–20; see also the
forthcoming volume All Roads Lead to Rome: The Codex Amiatinus in Context, ed. by
Jane Hawkes and Meg Boulton (Turnhout: Brepols, 2019). Although the manuscript
itself has not been available for general scholarly consultation for some years, the recent
production of excellent facsimiles (both the CD-ROM and the physical version by La
Meta Editore) now allow for close and detailed study of its pages.
4 This diagram has received much scholarly attention, with scholars divided between
those who identify it solely as an architectural replica or plan of the historic structure of
the Tabernacle in the Wilderness and those who consider it to be a multivalent composite
of several ecclesiastical structures and Old Testament spaces that represents a layered
amalgam of Tabernacle, Temple, Church, and the Heavenly City yet to come. For the
former, see for example O’Brien, Bede’s Temple. For the latter, see O’Reilly, ‘The Library
72 M. BOULTON
the space of the monumental Codex, it shows the past earthly architec-
ture of the Church, (re)presenting and (re)constructing the house of God
that was built to the divine measurements specified by God to Moses.5
Yet it also presents a shadowy and multivalent space akin to the lurking
memories which linger in the corners of Bachelard’s houses. The various
spaces of the Tabernacle image both present an architectural reality and
of Scripture’; Bianca Kühnel, ‘Jewish Symbolism of the Temple and the Tabernacle and
Christian Symbolism of the Holy Sepulchre and the Heavenly Tabernacle’, Jewish Art,
12–13 (1986–1987), 147–68, and From the Earthly to the Heavenly Jerusalem: Represen-
tations of the Holy City in Christian Art of the First Millennium (Freiburg im Breisgau:
Herder, 1987). In the reading of the Tabernacle Diagram given here, I follow the work
of O’Reilly. Thus, the bifolium is understood to function as a representation of the
Universal Church in all its earthly temporal guises and geographical places, also recalling
and representing the Heavenly Jerusalem to come.
5 See Exodus 25.
5 BEHOLD THE HOUSE OF THE LORD … 73
6 For the wider iconographic issues surrounding these miniatures, see Meg Boulton,
‘From Cover to Cover: (Re)Presentations of Ecclesia and Eschatology in the Codex
Amiatinus’, in All Roads Lead to Rome, ed. by Hawkes and Boulton.
7 It is important to note, however, that this mapping of a hypothetical, phenomeno-
logical viewpoint onto medieval material is intended as a framework: a suggestion of one
possible approach to such imagery, rather than a direct template for understanding all such
images and objects. For selected reading around this type of phenomenological approach
see E. Husserl, Logical Investigations, trans. by J. N. Findlay, 2 vols. (London: Rout-
ledge & Kegan Paul, 1970); Franz Brentano, Psychology from an Empirical Standpoint,
trans. by Antos C. Rancurello, D. B. Terrell, and Linda L. McAlister (London: Rout-
ledge, 1995); Martin Heidegger, The Basic Problems of Phenomenology, trans. by Albert
Hofstadter (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1982); Dermot Moran, Introduction
to Phenomenology (Abingdon: Routledge, 2000); Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Phenomenology
of Perception, trans. by Donald A. Landes (London: Routledge, 2012); and Dan Zahavi,
The Oxford Handbook of Contemporary Phenomenology (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2012). See also Sara Ahmed, Queer Phenomenology: Orientations, Objects, Others (Durham,
NC: Duke University Press, 2006).
8 See further Meg Boulton, ‘“The End of the World as We Know It”: The Eschatology
of Symbolic Space/s in Insular Art’, in Making Histories: Proceedings of the Sixth Interna-
tional Insular Arts Conference, ed. by Jane Hawkes (Donington: Shaun Tyas Publishing,
2013), pp. 279–90; ‘(Re)Viewing “Iuxta Morem Romanorum”: Considering Perception,
Phenomenology and Anglo-Saxon Ecclesiastical Architecture’, in Sensory Perception in the
Medieval West: Manuscripts, Texts, and Other Material Matters, ed. by Simon Thomson
and Michael D. J. Bintley (Turnhout: Brepols, 2016), pp. 206–26, and ‘Art History in
74 M. BOULTON
Indeed, images such as those found on the pages of the Amiatinus possess
object-identities that transcend the lived experience of their making and
display or use; they outlast the finite knowledge and intentions of their
makers and viewers. By continuing to exist outside their socio-cultural
temporalities, they present a multifaceted encounter with both past and
future, rooted in the moment of their making, but surviving long beyond
it. They thus speak of places other than and beyond both then and now,
as well as of faith in things that are long gone or yet to come in a Chris-
tian eschatological setting. In this way, the Amiatinus miniatures have the
potential to offer an experiential encounter with the spaces they preserve
and present—albeit one that is more often actualised than actual.
Medieval artefacts as they are encountered today frequently exist as
decontextualised, anonymous objects, largely effaced and partially erased
by being (presented as) fragments or facsimiles that occlude the original
from view. Yet despite this distancing, such objects, images, and fragments
are still possessed of an object-oriented monumentality, even when viewed
across centuries and even, at times, in the absence of the original. In such
cases, it is difficult definitively to connect the locus of meaning with a
viewer’s response to, or encounter with, the original object. This clearly
applies to the Amiatinus manuscript, which, as part of the collection of
the Biblioteca Laurenziana, is almost entirely inaccessible in the orig-
inal.9 Instead, it is available as a digital image or as a facsimile. Both, in
different ways, provide invaluable access to the book—but with the conse-
quence that, for a modern viewer, to some extent the manuscript becomes
its copies: it is irrevocably associated with, and encountered through, its
simulacra.
Despite—or perhaps because of—the difficulty of encountering the
monumental and material presence of its original, the Codex—like much
ecclesiastical medieval material—is a dynamic object, suffused with a
visual eschatological ideology. Whether as original or simulacrum, it is
the Dark Ages: (Re)Considering Space, Stasis and Modern Viewing Practices in Relation
to Anglo-Saxon Imagery’, in Stasis in the Medieval West? Questioning Change and Conti-
nuity, ed. by Michael D. J. Bintley, Martin Locker, Victoria Symons, and Mary Wellesley
(London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2017), pp. 69–86.
9 The loan of the Codex to the British Library for the Anglo-Saxon Kingdoms:
Art, Word, War exhibition, 19 October 2018–19 February 2019, did, however, offer
unprecedented access to the Codex.
5 BEHOLD THE HOUSE OF THE LORD … 75
informed and shaped by concerns that may seem alien to the modern
viewer. Eschatological artefacts from a medieval ecclesiastical context are
explicitly tied to a set of societally derived signifiers and symbolic under-
standings that may seem at variance to our own largely more secularised
age. In contrast, modern scholarship, with its very different epistemo-
logical framework, tends to shift attention from systemic structures of
belief towards the processes of meaning-making by author, audience, and
indeed object.10 This can result in a gap between medieval and modern
ways of understanding, articulating, and viewing images and objects. With
the Amiatinus, whose illuminated spaces are depicted in two dimensions
and are seemingly delineated and limited by the planar surface of the
page, differences between medieval and present-day perceptions of space,
plane, and surface come into play.11 These do not arise solely from
the inevitability of anachronistic viewing practices when encountering
the spaces of sculpture, panel, or page in a time and place far removed
from those in which they were made, but also stem from a fundamental
difference in the way space is depicted and conceived at different times.
That is to say, in looking at medieval spatial images, we are dealing with
different stylistic modes of depicting space, but also with perceptions of
the way our conceptualisations of space differ from those of other periods.
This spatial difference is thus at once both real and perceptual. Medieval
images, created before the Renaissance (re)discovery and implementation
of perspective as the overarching spatial system for visual representation,
are frequently defined in terms of what they are not. Because they lack
formal perspective, they are assumed also to lack spatial sophistication.
This, in turn, has led to a relative lack of attention to the complex rela-
tionalities of space and surface, viewer and viewed object, within early
medieval art. The presupposition exists that because the medieval method
of depicting space is planar rather than perspectival, the method of
conceptualising space is therefore also two-dimensional.12 Although the
spatial complexities of medieval imagery demonstrate that this is not the
15 See further O’Reilly, ‘The Library of Scripture’; Chazelle, ‘Ceolfrid’s Gift to St.
Peter’, 149–56. The portrait can be identified as Ezra due to the verses just outside
the frame of the image, which refer directly to him: CODICIBVS SACRIS HOSTILI
CLADE PERVSTIS / ESDRA D[E]O FERVENS HOC REPARAVIT OPVS. See further
Paul Meyvaert, ‘Bede, Cassiodorus and the Codex Amiatinus’, Speculum, 71 (1996), 827–
83 (pp. 877–81); Ian N. Wood, The Most Holy Abbot Ceolfrid (Jarrow: Parish of Jarrow,
1995).
16 See John 1:1 for a scriptural paratext to this reading of Logos.
17 O’Reilly, ‘Library of Scripture’ and ‘All that Peter Stands For’; Janina Ramirez,
‘Sub culmine gazas: The Iconography of the Armarium on the Ezra Page of the Codex
Amiatinus’, Gesta, 48 (2009), 1–18.
78 M. BOULTON
depicted on the gable top, which, like that on the entrance to the Sanc-
tuary on the Tabernacle diagram, visually and conceptually transforms
the space of the architectural Tabernacle/Temple of the Old Testament
past (here recalled by the form of the bookcase) into the space of the
C/church of the present. This image could thus be suggested to present
a conceptual encounter with the history of the Church as understood
through its past sacred structures, crystalised through the iconic struc-
turing form of the amarium and the continuous, continuing role of
Scripture, and underlined by the presence of both scribe and the Word.
These symbolic understandings are called into being for the viewer by
the act of looking into the scriptorium as a space as it is placed on the
page: that is, effectively looking through the surface of the page into the
past (textual) history of the Institution, which is also connected to the
present and future through the scribal act of replicating the Word. The
Word is both implicitly and explicitly present: implicitly in the depiction
of text in the Scriptorium, explicitly in its adjacent presence in the Codex
itself, presented in and through a space which is inhabited by the over-
lapping and layered figures of Ezra (dressed as an Old Testament priest),
the scribes creating Amiatinus, and the embodied readers or viewers of
both the eighth century and the present day, all of whom also come to
cognitively inhabit the scriptorium, the page and the book.
Space and structure similarly shape the meaning of the next miniature:
the Tabernacle diagram. This is possibly the most structurally complex of
the three miniatures in Amiatinus. It is a double folio, something that
is rare in early manuscript art, and was originally not bound into the
manuscript, but left loose. Because it was capable of being lifted from the
body of the Codex and examined in a separate context to those images
confined within the book, it is the only miniature that might theoretically
have stood alone as an actualised space outside the supporting and autho-
rising confines of the book-container. Thus, alone among the miniatures,
it once constituted a space capable of ‘existing’ in the world. This should
be borne in mind when interpreting it. On the page, the space of the
Tabernacle in the Wilderness is rendered in plan and elevation: seen from
above, but simultaneously presenting the physical space of the Mosaic
structure as if it might be walked into, providing a notional experiential
encounter for its viewers. It thus takes relatively little effort on the part
of the viewer to actualise the representation of the space as the physical
complex of the Tabernacle, the house of God. It is depicted complete
with columns, altars and bronze laver (in which priests would ritually
5 BEHOLD THE HOUSE OF THE LORD … 79
wash their hands and feet), and with the Tabernacle, the Sanctuary, and
the Holy of Holies. This last is the space that was understood to house
God. It was a spatially distinct structure covered, as Bede tells us, in
layers of animal hide, and dyed linens and containing the Temple trea-
sures, including the Ark of the Covenant and the stone tablets inscribed
with the Commandments of God.
Like the symbolic fusion of scriptorium and Church on the Ezra page,
this diagram presents a physical and metaphysical articulation of both
Tabernacle and Temple. The architecture on the page conflates these
two Old Testament structures, resulting in a space rendered in both two
and three dimensions, full of complex foreshadowing. As in the Ezra
miniature, it is the presence of the salvific cross above the entryway to
the Sanctuary that ultimately transforms both these structures, explicitly
rendering the space/s of Tabernacle/Temple as Church, recast and repre-
sented within the space of the Codex. This itself may be interpreted as a
container for the Sacred or Divine, which in turn is foreshadowed by
the Holy of Holies as it was ritually (re)constructed and carried in the
Wilderness and later (re)presented in the permanent architectural space
of the Temple. Through the depiction of the past structures understood
to house and hold God/the Divine, which are themselves subsequently
transformed into the overarching, universalising identity of the Church
through the presence of the cross over the painted threshold to the Taber-
nacle, the page functions as a representation of the Universal Church.
These merged structures are all simultaneously understood to contain
and house the Sacred, and also to prefigure the Heavenly Jerusalem to
come for their viewers/readers who (meta)physically enter and inhabit
these spaces, encountering the Divine within as memory, presence and
prefiguration.
The last of the Amiatinus miniatures is the Maiestas image, historically
the most controversial of the three illustrations. Deemed to be stylistically
unlike its two preceding companion pages, with their marked romanitas,
proto-perspectival composition, and real space/s (albeit imagined and/or
envisioned ones from the Scriptural and ecclesiastical past), it presents an
eschatological vision of the future end of time to its viewer.18 This page
18 For recent discussions of this page, see Celia Chazelle, The Codex Amiatinus and
Its ‘Sister’ Bibles: Scripture, Liturgy, and Art in the Milieu of the Venerable Bede (Leiden:
Brill, 2019); Darby, ‘The Codex Amiatinus Maiestas Domini’, and ‘Sacred Geometry and
the Five Books of the Codex Amiatinus Maiestas Domini’, in Islands in a Global Context,
80 M. BOULTON
shows the enthroned Christ set in the cosmos, flanked by angels, the tradi-
tional attendants of the heavenly throne. These are placed within a set of
circles, surrounded by a rainbow-hued ribbon band, and a jewelled border
(which may symbolise the heavenly city as described in Revelation).19 The
circles float on red and blue apocalyptic clouds, and the evangelists with
their gospel books complete the composition, here—unusually—accom-
panied by their symbolic counterparts who (in an apocalyptic context)
could be seen to represent the winged creatures who adore the heavenly
throne as set out in Revelation and Ezekiel’s vision.20 Through the spatial
articulation of the page, and its monumental, structural iconographic
programme, the Maiestus image presents a quasi-architectural reality, with
the circular forms of the central motif of the design positioned at the
notional ‘top’ of the image. If read in this way, these layered circular
forms can be visualised as projecting up from the top of the frame of
the page, like domes and apses in ecclesiastical architecture. Breaking the
surface of the page, and thus also the perceived static two-dimensionality
of the image, they give direct access to the perceived heavens beyond the
page, stressing the vertical inter-relationality of Church and cosmos, and
presenting the viewer of Amiatinus with a vision of Christ in Majesty.
The three-layered circles of the Maiestas may thus be read as a quasi-
architectural, structuring device: they perform as a dome or oculus which,
when actualised by the reader or viewer, behave as a ‘window’ that realises
the heavenly space of the cosmos, in a mystic, fleeting revelatory vision.
In other words, for the duration of the vision prompted by the page, the
image, and thus the book, contain, house, and display Christ in Majesty,
both as he is and as he is to be, enthroned at the end of time—all of
which is experienced by the reader/viewer.
When read in conjunction with the detailed, apocalyptic iconography
of the miniature, and the commanding presence of the enthroned Christ,
ed. by C. Newman, M. Mannion, and F. Gavin, pp. 34–40. See also Per Jonas Nord-
hagen, The Codex Amiatinus and the Byzantine Element in the Northumbrian Renaissance
(Jarrow: Rector of Jarrow, 1977); O’Reilly, ‘Library of Scripture’, 11–13; Bianca Kühnel,
The End of Time in the Order of Things: Science and Eschatology in Early Medieval Art
(Regensburg: Schnell & Steiner, 2003), pp. 41–45, 48–52; and Bruce-Mitford, Art of the
Codex Amiatinus, pp. 11–18.
19 For further discussion see Boulton, ‘End of the World as We Know It’, ‘(Re)Viewing
“Iuxta Morem Romanorum”’, and ‘Bejewelling Jerusalem’.
20 See Revelation 4:6, 9; Ezekiel 10.
5 BEHOLD THE HOUSE OF THE LORD … 81
21 See, for example Sarah Kay, ‘Legible Skins: Animals and the Ethics of Medieval
Reading’, Postmedieval, 2 (2011), 13–32, and Animal Skins and the Reading Self in
Medieval Latin and French Bestiaries (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2017).
22 See further Boulton, ‘From Cover to Cover’.
82 M. BOULTON
for it houses the Word, and thus contains the Logos that is God. In part,
it is the colossal monumentality of the manuscript that convinces that
these spaces, places, and events could be realistically actualised within the
space of the Codex, which enfolds and cements the Anglo-Saxon church
into the universalised understanding of the wider Christian eschatolog-
ical framework, setting it on equal footing with the Church of Rome.
But although such political and religious ambitions plausibly underlie its
creation, the Codex itself is focused on far greater truths. It reveals the last
events of Christianity alongside the foreshadowing totems of past struc-
tures and monuments—all articulated within the space of a book that
was designed to hold and house everything that was sacred in Christian
memory and theology: indeed, to house God as presented through the
Word. These revelations are portrayed through spaces and structures that
actualise encounters with the house/s of God (Ark, Tabernacle, Temple
and Church) across past, present and future for the viewer or reader, who
encounters and thus conceptually inhabits them.
In this way, the architectonic images of Amiatinus anticipate
Bachelard’s reading of the house as container, conductor and producer of
experiential memory, placing a similar emphasis on lived and emotional
experience in our relation to architectural place/s alongside the impor-
tance of the phenomenological encounter in locating identity and self
through the intimacy of structure/s. Rather than being understood to be
concrete representations of the architectural structure of the Tabernacle
in the Wilderness or the Temple in Jerusalem, they might best be under-
stood as metaphysical, multifaceted diagrams portraying the multiple
architectural structures housing God. Thus these illustrated miniatures
present a multi-layered iteration of all the house/s of God, past and
present (in both historical architectural actualities and future eschato-
logical incarnations), as experienced through a notional (meta)physical
encounter with these spaces, and an emotional and cognitive response
to them. Such a reading actively allows for the creation and concep-
tualisation of metaphysical spaces and places beyond those which were
experienced and understood in terms of the earthly and the actual for
the viewers and readers of Amiatinus. This occurs through a performative
interplay of physical and metaphysical space/s and a dynamic exchange
between the mind and its imagined and/or actualised archi-textual
5 BEHOLD THE HOUSE OF THE LORD … 83
Acknowledgements I am grateful to Dr. Nick Baker, Jenna Ross, Dr. Pete Sand-
berg and Dr. Carolyn Twomey for their comments on this chapter. Their insights
were appreciated, and any errors that remain are my own.
CHAPTER 6
Helen Swift
H. Swift (B)
St Hilda’s College, University of Oxford, Oxford, UK
e-mail: helen.swift@st-hildas.ox.ac.uk
The place of a thing is no part or factor of the thing itself, but is that
which embraces it […] The place where the thing is can be quitted by it,
and is therefore separable from it.2
2 Physics, I, IV.iv. 211a, p. 303. Subsequent references to the Physics will be given in
parentheses in the text.
3 Sarah Kay, The Place of Thought: The Complexity of One in Late Medieval French
Didactic Poetry (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2007), p. 6.
6 PLACING THE DEAD: ARCHITECTURAL IMAGINATION … 87
4 Some of the material for the first half of this chapter derives from Helen J. Swift,
Representing the Dead: Epitaph Fictions in Late-Medieval France (Cambridge: D. S.
Brewer, 2016), Chapter 4: ‘Placing the Dead’, and I am grateful to Boydell & Brewer
for permission to reproduce material here.
5 Neil Kenny, Death and Tenses: Posthumous Presence in Early Modern France (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2015).
88 H. SWIFT
have influenced a writer’s choice in verse passages. Does ‘corps’ retain a useful existential
ambiguity?
8 Michael Camille, ‘The Corpse in the Garden: mumia in Medieval Herbal Illustrations’,
Il Cadavere/The Corpse, Micrologus, 7 (1999), 297–318 (p. 318).
90 H. SWIFT
By noting whom he did not see, whose ‘trace’ (I.viii.16) was not there,
he supplies these characters nonetheless with a presence of personhood in
his narrative: a textual echo, even a negative one, substituting for absence.
Such play of presence and absence leads into my second main ques-
tion, as to what the act of placing implies about the deceased’s state of
being. Siting them seems to preserve identity, asserting life after death
through commemoration, whilst at the same time recognising that they
are dead and gone; it asserts presence contained within a structure, but
also affirms absence. Le Temple de Bonne Renommee (1517), a 5077-line
poem by the Poitiers-born jurist Jean Bouchet, is an interesting case in
point, in that it brings out the plurality of an individual’s posthumous
being in respect of body, name and soul. The relationship between these
elements is spatialised in the poem’s plot, which itself is motivated by the
protagonist’s desire to locate his deceased lord, Charles de la Trémoille:
he asks ‘en quel lieu l’auroit on emporté?’ (line 571: ‘to what place would
6 PLACING THE DEAD: ARCHITECTURAL IMAGINATION … 91
they have taken him?’).9 His search concludes in the eponymous temple
of Good Renown, where it becomes clear that the answer to his question
is not univocal or straightforward. Personified Good Renown formulates
a conceptual schema of three lives lived by the virtuous:
These three lives of body, name and soul seem to correspond to three
spatial structures: the tomb, effigy and heaven. The protagonist arrives at
the Temple just in time for the obsequies of his late lord’s ‘noble corps,
duquel l’ame est là mont’ (line 4473: ‘noble body, whose soul is there on
high’). In terms of Charles’s ‘three lives’, his soul is thus accounted for
as having risen to heaven; the end of his first life is being dealt with by
the funeral ceremony, in which intercessory prayers are said over his body
before it is transported elsewhere for burial, to the church of Our Lady in
Thouars, Charles’s place of birth. For the second life, before departure for
Thouars, an effigy is presented, and personified virtues who command the
different tabernacles of the temple compete to claim it, each composing
an epitaph to be affixed to the tomb, commending what it contains in
various terms of renown—for example:
9 Jean Bouchet, Le Temple de Bonne Renommee, ed. by Giovanna Bellati (Milan: Vita e
Pensiero, 1992).
92 H. SWIFT
The final section of the Temple thus offers particularly intensive atten-
tion to matters of placement. The epitaphs composed by the virtues are
couched in the formula ‘cy gist’, which only acquires its full ‘here and
now’ sense once they have been attached to the new place of rest in
Thouars, matching the ‘cy gist’ at the end of Charles’s own epitaph.
And the protagonist, by the end of the narrative, has found his lord in
respect of body, name and soul: he attends his burial, he witnesses his
commemorative effigy being installed in the Temple, and he is able to
join in intercessory prayer for his salvation. However, surely a key irony
of this search is that he does not find Charles, at least not in any fixed
or restrictive sense, since the point of renown is not to be contained but
to be disseminated; his placement is simultaneously an unplacing. Hence
the protagonist’s request, at the very end, that the epitaphs be transcribed
and published in honour of his master’s valiance, memory and glorious
6 PLACING THE DEAD: ARCHITECTURAL IMAGINATION … 93
soul. All three of his lives, in other words, are to be conveyed through
textual transmission.
Such attention to communication and mediation brings us to my third
main question: who does the placing of the dead? Whatever authority is
attributed with having founded a particular architectural structure, such
as Good Renown’s temple, the definition of whomever that structure
commemorates is entirely dependent on its audience’s perception, within
and without the fiction: the deixis ‘here lies’ is determined by the time and
place of the reader-viewer, whose judgment and account of the deceased
constitutes the establishment of their identity. We have already inferred
from the example of the marine grave in the Sejour that the act of seeing
in these works is no simple ocular witness. Indeed, Saint-Gelais plays up
the extent to which his narrator’s view is complicated by circumstantial
disruption: the motion of the sea determines what the narrator is able to
see and when:
An Unbodied Place
The absence of the dead from the place that spatially frames their identity
strikingly draws attention to this act of framing. Amidst the mid-fifteenth-
century popularity for mock wills and for propagation of scenarios of
martyrdom for love inspired by Alain Chartier’s polemical poem La Belle
Dame sans Mercy,11 Pierre de Hauteville composed a suite of three
poems between 1441 and 1447 tracing the decline, death and post-
mortem affairs of a wretched bereaved lover-narrator: La Confession et
Testament de l’amant trespassé de dueil, La Complainte de l’amant tres-
passé de dueil and L’Inventaire des biens demourez du decés de l’amant
trespassé de dueil.12 The most remarkable of these poems is the third,
for its innovative approach to constructing posthumous identity through
10 On death not as an end, but as a transition, see, for example, Fabienne Pomel, Les
Voies de l’au-delà et l’essor de l’allégorie au moyen âge (Paris: Champion, 2001), p. 11.
11 On the sub-genre of mock wills, whose best-known proponent remains François
Villon, see Jacqueline Cerquiglini-Toulet, L’Écriture testamentaire à la fin du moyen
âge: identité, dispersion, trace (Oxford: Legenda, 1999). The reception and influence
of Chartier’s Belle Dame has received increasing attention in recent years; see Joan E.
McRae, ‘A Community of Readers: The Quarrel of the Belle Dame sans Mercy’, in A
Companion to Alain Chartier (c.1385–1430): Father of French Eloquence, ed. by Daisy
Delogu, Emma Cayley, and Joan E. McRae (Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2015), pp. 200–22.
12 On de Hauteville himself, who presided over a literary circle in Tournai, and on his
Confession’s place in the so-called ‘quarrel of the Belle Dame sans Mercy’, see Emma J.
Cayley, Debate and Dialogue: Alain Chartier in His Cultural Context (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2006), p. 145. On the attribution of all three works to de Hauteville,
see Mary Beth Winn and Richard Wexler, ‘“L’Amant trespassé de dueil” and Music: A
Note on Pierre de Hauteville’, Bibliothèque d’Humanisme et Renaissance, 52.1 (1990),
89–96.
96 H. SWIFT
13 On which, see Probate Inventories: A New Source for the Historical Study of Wealth,
Material Culture and Agricultural Development, ed. by Ad van der Woude and Anton
Schuurman (Wageningen: Afdeling Agrarische Geschiedenis, Landbouwhogeschool, 1980).
Fresh conceptualisation of such documentary material is provided by Katherine Anne
Wilson, ‘The Household Inventory as Urban Theatre in Late Medieval Burgundy’, Social
History, 40 (2015), 335–59.
14 See Micheline Baulant, ‘Typologie des inventaires après décès’, in Probate Inventories,
pp. 33–42.
15 ‘The Household Inventory’, p. 339.
16 In La Complainte de l’amant trespassé de deuil; L’Inventaire des biens demourez du
decés de l’amant trespassé de deuil, ed. by Rose Bidler (Montreal: CERES, 1986).
6 PLACING THE DEAD: ARCHITECTURAL IMAGINATION … 97
record of the shirt without a body to wear it. The second case pertains to
a tapestry that he made to decorate a certain room:
19 For the metaphor of literary creation as weaving, see David J. Cowling, ‘Verbal
and Visual Metaphors in the Cambridge Manuscript of the Douze Dames de Rhétorique
(1463)’, Journal of the Early Book Society, 3 (2000), 94–118.
20 Adrian Armstrong, ‘The Deferred Verdict: A Topos in Late-Medieval Poetic Debates?’
French Studies Bulletin, 64 (autumn 1997), 12–14.
6 PLACING THE DEAD: ARCHITECTURAL IMAGINATION … 99
value of his estate. In that light, the narrator’s disclaimer functions ironi-
cally to signal the importance of this judgment as a theme in the text and
the difficulty of determining it.
The narrator presents the tour of the house and the assessment of
goods in markedly objective and impersonal terms: ‘fu fait l’inventaire et
monstree’ (line 5: ‘the inventory and inspection were made’), ‘l’en trouva’
(line 7: ‘one found’), ‘A tant fut l’inventaire close’ (line 601: ‘then was
the inventory concluded’). This is more than mere intimation of offi-
cial administrative process; it is, I think, parodic, with the irony lying in
suggestion that neither the Lover’s friends nor this narrator is necessarily
competent to weigh the items appropriately in fashioning the story that
constitutes his posthumous identity. As they move from room to room,
their acts of assessment prove abortive or uncertain: some of the friends
are overcome with grief when inspecting his shirts in order to price them
(lines 345–48); elsewhere, they debate whether or not to include a letter
written by his lady because the date has been partially obscured, and their
conclusion offers a rather vague sense of the value they ascribe to it: ‘Mais
il fut inventorié | Pour servir ce qu’il peut valoir’ (lines 496–97: ‘But it
was inventoried to be of use according to its worth’). How is worth to be
determined? Various, competing criteria are implied—sentimental value,
retail price (‘vauldroit bien en plain marché | Sans surfaire.X. mars d’ar-
gent’ (lines 119–20: ‘it would certainly, without risk of overration, be
worth ten silver marks on the open market’)—but none is made explicit
or methodically pursued. De Hauteville also creates irony by having his
narrator note bathetically how they encounter on the third floor ‘grant
quantité de biens’ (line 590: ‘a great quantity of possessions’), ‘mais l’en
ne inventoria riens’ (line 592: ‘but they were not inventoried’), with no
reason given, such that the very statement that these items were excluded
sparks a narratively frustrating tension: they were not included in the
inventory, but mention of them has been included in the Inventaire,
though this mention does not itself disclose what the items were!
What is dramatised through the Inventaire’s accumulation of material
objects is the process of posthumous identity construction in its precar-
ities and pitfalls. Enumerated in the house’s study is the Lover’s book
collection: Lancelot du Lac, Guillaume de Lorris’ and Jean de Meun’s
Le Roman de la rose, Le Livre des joies et douleurs , Du Jenne amoureux
sans soucy, Alain Chartier’s La Belle Dame sans Mercy, Achille Caulier’s
L’Ospital d’amour, Michault Taillevent’s Passe temps, L’Amant rendu
cordelier a l’observance d’amours (vv. 429–44). The series of volumes,
100 H. SWIFT
Epilogue
To return to the tidy statement by Aquinas with which we began, we have
come to see that it in fact holds good, as it admits significant complexity:
‘every body is in a place and in every place there is a body’, even when that
body is no longer there. However, in medieval epitaph fictions, the ‘body’
and the ‘there’ exist in a mutually defining relationship that blurs Aris-
totle’s insistent distinction between ‘the thing’ and ‘that which embraces
it’, especially in cases where the conjured presence of that thing as a
deceased body is absent from ‘the body-continent’, which, in the very
act of not containing the corpse, defines the identities of both body and
place.
21 The catchphrase concluding the tour of the house of the mystery celebrity on the
popular television gameshow Through the Keyhole: ‘Who lives in a house like this? [Studio
host’s name], it’s over to you’.
CHAPTER 7
Aparna Chaudhuri
A. Chaudhuri (B)
Ashoka University, New Delhi, India
2 ‘hous-hold’, n., Middle English Dictionary (MED). See also Sarah Rees Jones, ‘The
Public Household and Political Power: Preface’, in The Medieval Household in Christian
Europe c.850–c.1550: Managing Power, Wealth and the Body, ed. by Cordelia Beattie, Anna
Maslakovic, and Sarah Rees Jones (Turnhout: Brepols, 2003), pp. 11–18.
3 Walter Hilton, Walter Hilton’s Mixed Life Edited from Lambeth Palace MS 472, ed.
by S. J. Ogilvie-Thomson (Lewiston, New York: Edwin Mellen, 1985), p. 9.
4 Maryanne Kowaleski and P. J. P. Goldberg (eds.), Medieval Domesticity: Home, Housing
and Household in Medieval England (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008),
p. 4, referring to Felicity Riddy, ‘“Burgeis” Domesticity in Late-Medieval England’, in
Medieval Domesticity, pp. 14–36.
5 The Abbey of the Holy Ghost in Middle English Religious Prose, ed. by N. F. Blake
(London: Edward Arnold, 1972), pp. 88–102; The Doctrine of the Hert, ed. by Chris-
tiania Whitehead, Denis Renevey, and Anne Mouron (Exeter: University of Exeter Press,
2010). I examine only the first part of Book I of the Doctrine as most illustrative of the
7 DOMESTIC DEVOTION: REPRESENTING HOUSEHOLD SPACE … 103
allegorisation of household spaces, objects and activities. On the remainder, see Vincent
Gillespie in ‘Meat, Metaphor and Mysticism: Cooking the Books in The Doctrine of the
Hert ’, in A Companion to the Doctrine of the Hert, ed. by Denis Renevey and Christiania
Whitehead (Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 2010), pp. 131–58.
6 On architectural mnemonics, see Mary Carruthers, The Craft of Thought: Meditation,
Rhetoric, and the Making of Images, 400–1200 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1998), p. 238.
7 The Book of Margery Kempe, ed. by Barry Windeatt (Harlow: Pearson Education,
2000). Page references for all three primary texts are given parenthetically.
8 An illuminating account of the same shift, based on Bridget of Sweden’s Liber Celestis,
is found in Catherine Batt, Denis Renevey, and Christiania Whitehead, ‘Domesticity and
Medieval Devotional Literature’, Leeds Studies in English, 36 (2005), 195–250.
9 D. Vance Smith, Arts of Possession: The Middle English Household Imaginary
(Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2002), p. 46.
104 A. CHAUDHURI
10 Book to a Mother, ed. by Adrian James McCarthy (Salzburg: Institut für Anglistik
und Amerikanistik, Universität Salzburg, 1981), pp. 48–49.
11 Book to a Mother, pp. 48–49.
12 Christiania Whitehead, ‘Making a Cloister of the Soul in Medieval Religious
Treatises’, Medium Aevum, 67 (1998), 1–29 (p. 14).
7 DOMESTIC DEVOTION: REPRESENTING HOUSEHOLD SPACE … 105
of hys peynes that he suffrede and of his herte-love that he hadde and
hath to us’ (Meditation is good thoughts of God and his works […] of
the pains that he suffered and his heart’s-love that he had and has for us:
Abbey, p. 96).
The strikingly domestic roles of cellarer and granary keeper are played
by two key contemplative dispositions, meditation and devotion. House-
hold life, so painstakingly fitted around contemplative life by Hilton, is
here the means whereby contemplation is represented. Moreover, the
object of contemplation—the suffering body of Christ—resurfaces in the
contents of the granary ‘kept’ by Meditation: ‘whete, that is red witouten
and whyt witinne and hath the syde cloven, of which men maken good
bred, thet is Jesu Crist thet was witouten reed of hys oune blode and
was whyte wytinne thorow mekenesse and tholemodeness and al maner
clennesse of lyghf and hade hys syde cloven wyt speres dynt’ (Wheat,
that is red outside and white within, and cleft in the side, of which
men make good bread: that is Jesus Christ who was outwardly red with
his own blood and white within through meekness and humility and
all manner of clean living, and who had his side cleft by spear-thrust:
Abbey, p. 97). This wheat does not just resemble Christ’s body, but, used
to make Eucharistic bread, is transubstantiated into it. The contents of
Devotion’s cellar are similarly associated with communion wine awaiting
transubstantiation into the blood of Christ.
The allegorical granary is the site of a complex intersection of real
and imagined, sacred and secular spaces. The Eucharistic associations of
its wheat and wine suggest that, despite the Abbey’s anticlerical orien-
tation, the lay reader must maintain sufficient contact with the Church
to be able to receive regular communion.15 Meditation’s granary opens
on to formally consecrated space, as the allegorical wheat materialises
into the ‘bred we reseiven and seen in the sacrament of the auter’ (the
bread we receive and see in the sacrament of the altar; Abbey, p. 97).
Yet the connection only serves to extend the household into the church,
bringing the granary to subtend the altar as the powerful symbol of
a salvific economy that supplies God to its members in the form of
food. Although sacred architecture itself, the metaphorical abbey is able
to project a household image of startling alterity on to the space of
the literal church because, in its own ‘representational space’, the limits
between places of work and places of worship are blurred and their hier-
archy inverted.16 Its granary, not its altar or oratory, is the domain of
Meditation, who stands for the highest point of contemplative experi-
ence indicated in the text: such immersion in thoughts of God that one
knows not what one ‘doth, hereth or sayeth’ (does, hears or says), and
communes only with God in the wordless language of mystical desire
(Abbey, p. 97). The infusion of contemplative energy into the work of
overseeing stocks of grain—a householder’s quotidian chore—argues the
adequacy of the domestic interior as a map or mnemonic serving the
increasingly ambitious spirituality of its bourgeois inhabitants.17
The plenitude of ‘good wheat’ and other grains in Meditation’s granary
suggests another kind of adequacy. Household law may indeed serve to
manage surplus, yet the representations of domesticity considered here
understand surplus in varying ways. The Abbey dwells lovingly on the
picture of a large, bustling, rich household: abundance is the constitutive
principle of its economy, and stands for spiritual well-being. Indeed, even
outside the allegorical frame, the author describes himself as managing
a surplus, this time of devotional energy in the laity, which professional
religion cannot absorb and life in the world is strained to accommodate.
‘My dere brother and sister,’ he begins, ‘I see weel that many wolde ben
in religioun but they mowe nowt for poverte, or for awe, or for drede of
her kyn or for bond of maryage.’ (My dear brothers and sisters, I see well
that many wish to enter religious life but are unable owing to poverty or
intimidation or fear of their relatives or the marital bond: Abbey, p. 89.) So
that it should not adopt heterodox forms, the author contains this excess
of piety within the repertoire of meditative methods and self-regulatory
techniques presented in the guise of the ‘abbey’.18 Yet, even when
placed within a framework implying clerical supervision and control, the
acts and attitudes that translate into the abbey’s architectural amplitude,
16 The term ‘representational space’ is drawn from Henri Lefebvre, The Production of
Space, trans. by D. Nicholson-Smith (Oxford: Blackwell, 1991), pp. 33, 39, 50–51.
17 These modifications bring the Abbey into proximity with late fourteenth and early
fifteenth-century texts such as Instructions for a Devout and Literate Layman and The
Holy Book Gratia Dei, which reinterpret secular spaces and activities as opportunities for
meditation and prayer.
18 See further Nicole R. Rice, ‘Spiritual Ambition and the Translation of the Cloister:
The Abbey and Charter of the Holy Ghost’, Viator, 33 (2002), 222–60.
108 A. CHAUDHURI
Such symple soules it is charite to enforme, namly seth oure Lord yivyth us
in charge, seiying be the prophete Ysaye thus: Loquamini ad cor Jersusalem.
That is, ‘spekith to the hert of Jerusalem’. This word, ‘Jerusalem’, is
nothing ellis to mene in this place but symple chosyn soules, to the
hertis of whom oure lord wolde that we spake. O, ho durst be recheles
in enformyng of such symple soules, which oure lord bought with his
precious blode and therto also hathe chosyn to his spouses, as ben thoo
that dwellyn in religioun? Many, I wote wel, ther ben that speken to the
body outward, but few to the hert inward of symple soules, and that is
pite. (Doctrine, p. 3)
It is charity to inform such simple souls, especially since the Lord gives
us charge of them, saying, through the prophet Isaiah, ‘Loquamini ad cor
Jerusalem,’ that is, ‘Speak to the heart of Jerusalem.’ This word Jerusalem
means nothing in this place but simple chosen souls, to the hearts of whom
our Lord wishes us to speak. O, who can dare to be reckless in the work
of informing such simple souls, which our dear Lord bought with His
precious blood, and has further chosen to be his spouses, as those are
chosen that dwell in religion? There are many, I know, who speak to the
outward body, but few to the inward heart of simple souls, and that is a
pity.
19 For the comparable case of French beguines, see Tanya Stabler Miller, ‘Love Is
Beguine: Labelling Lay Religiosity in Thirteenth-Century Paris’, in Labels and Libels:
Naming Beguines in Northern Medieval Europe, ed. by Letha Böhringer, Jennifer
Kolpacoff Deane, and Hildo van Engen (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014), pp. 135–50.
7 DOMESTIC DEVOTION: REPRESENTING HOUSEHOLD SPACE … 109
allegory seems to shore up these worries: though the home seems initially
to figure as a map of the ‘hert inward’—a ‘topography of our intimate
being’, in Gaston Bachelard’s phrase—it is soon evident that the ‘house
of the heart’ is constructed not to shelter but to regulate feeling, thought
and affect.20 Rather than serve as the protective enclosure of subjectivity,
the allegorical house must be cleared of its psychic contents by peniten-
tial sweeping and washing. In this process, the clerical ‘auditoure’—a
term that puns on the functions of listening and account keeping on
God’s behalf—is crucial, for only spoken confession counts as proper
housecleaning:
20 Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space, trans. by Maria Jolas (Boston: Beacon Press,
1994), p. xxxvi.
21 See Whitehead, ‘De Doctrina Cordis: Catechesis or Contemplation’, in A Companion
to the Doctrine, pp. 57–82; Mary C. Erler, Women, Reading and Piety in Late Medieval
England (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), p. 76.
7 DOMESTIC DEVOTION: REPRESENTING HOUSEHOLD SPACE … 111
22 Several writers refer to the bitter drink given to Christ on the cross as ‘aisel and
galle.’ See ‘aisel’, n, MED.
23 Ancrene Wisse, ed. by Robert Hasenfratz (Kalamazoo: Medieval Institute, 2000) offers
a striking instance of this trope in Book 7. See also Christopher Cannon, ‘The Form of
the Self: Ancrene Wisse and Romance’, Medium Aevum, 70 (2001), 47–65; Sarah Mary
Chewning, ‘Intersections of Courtly Romance and the Anchoritic Tradition: Chevelere
Assigne and Ancrene Wisse’, Journal of Medieval Religious Cultures, 42 (2016), 79–101.
112 A. CHAUDHURI
24 On the authorship, genre and theology of The Book, see among others Sarah Beck-
with, ‘A Very Material Mysticism: The Medieval Mysticism of Margery Kempe’, in
Medieval Literature: Criticism, Ideology and History, ed. by David Aers (New York: St.
Martin’s Press, 1986), pp. 34–57; John C. Hirsch, ‘Author and Scribe in The Book of
Margery Kempe’, Medium Aevum, 44 (1975), 145–50; Susan Dickman, ‘Margery Kempe
and the English Devotional Tradition’, in The Medieval Mystical Tradition in England:
Papers Read at the Exeter Symposium, July 1980, ed. by Marion Glasscoe (Exeter: Exeter
University Press, 1980), pp. 156–72; Lynn Staley, Margery Kempe’s Dissenting Fictions
(University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1994); and Nicholas Watson, ‘The
Making of The Book of Margery Kempe’, in Voices in Dialogue: Reading Women in the
Middle Ages, ed. by Linda Olson and Kathryn Kerby-Fulton (Notre Dame: University of
Notre Dame Press, 2005), pp. 395–434.
7 DOMESTIC DEVOTION: REPRESENTING HOUSEHOLD SPACE … 113
Her family resorts to physically restraining her from self-harm: ‘sche was
bowndyn and kept wyth strength bothe day and nygth that sche mygth
not have hir wylle’ (she was bound and forcibly restrained day and night,
so that she might not exercise her will: Book, p. 55).
Just when human care and control both fail, Christ appears, not
in a tidy allegorical guest–room of the heart, but in Margery’s actual
bedroom, not as an honoured guest carefully prepared for, but in his most
appealing incarnate form to offer the comfort that Margery’s household
fails to provide:
as sche lay aloone and hir kepars wer fro hir, owyr mercyful Lord Crist
Jhesu, evyr to be trostyd, worshypd be hys name […] aperyd to hys
creatur whych had forsakyn hym in lyknesse of a man, most semly, most
bewtyvows, and most amyable that evyr mygth be seen wyth mannys eye,
clad in a mantyl of purpyl sylke, syttyng upon hir beddys syde. (Book, p. 55)
As she lay alone, her minders being away, our merciful Lord Jesus Christ,
ever to be trusted, worshipped be his name […] appeared to his creature
which had forsaken him in the likeness of a man, the most pleasing, hand-
some, and amiable that human eyes might ever behold, clad in a mantle
of purple silk, sitting on the side of her bed.
Therfor most I nedys be homli with the, and lyn in thy bed with the.
Dowtyr, thu desyrest gretly to se me, and thu mayst boldly, whan thu art
in thy bed, take me to the as for thi weddyd husbonde, as thy derworthy
derlynge, and as thy swete son, for I wyl be lovyd as a sone schuld be loved
with the modyr, and wil that thu love me, dowtyr, as a good wyf owyth to
her husbonde. And therfor thu mayst boldly take me in the armys of thy
sowle and kyssen my mouth, myn hed and my fete as swetly as thu wylt.
(Book, p. 196)
Therefore I must be homely with you, and lie in your bed with you.
Daughter, you desire greatly to see me, and you may boldly, when you are
in your bed, take me to you as your wedded husband, your dear darling,
and your sweet son, for I will be loved as a son should be loved by the
mother, and wish you to love me, daughter, as a good wife ought to love
her husband. And therefore you may boldly take me in the arms of your
soul and kiss my mouth, my hands, my head and my feet as sweetly as you
will.
25 On the negative value of literal domesticity in Margery’s life, see Sarah Salih, ‘At
Home; Out of the House’, in The Cambridge Companion to Medieval Women’s Writing,
ed. by Caroline Dinshaw and David Wallace (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2003), pp. 124–140.
26 Bernard of Clairvaux, Sermon 3, On the Song of Songs, trans. Killian Walsh, 4 vols.
(Spenser, MA: Cistercian Publications, 1971–80), I (1971), pp. 16–24.
7 DOMESTIC DEVOTION: REPRESENTING HOUSEHOLD SPACE … 115
Conclusion
‘Our homes are anecdotes’, Vance Smith observes, ‘singular edifices that
exist for us without necessarily edifying others’.27 Domestic allegories
create houses of the mind, mental places for readers to withdraw to
through reflection and meditation. In the aftermath of the 1409 publi-
cation of Thomas Arundel’s draconian Constitutions forbidding Bible
translation and the unlicensed transmission of theological knowledge in
the vernacular, both the Abbey and the Doctrine continue to be read and
circulated among both enclosed and lay audiences.28 One probable reason
is that their prominent household allegories were seen as promoting a
personal and anecdotal piety incapable of posing a serious threat to the
hierarchies of the Church. But the Book of Margery Kempe is almost inca-
pable of camouflage: in that novel-like text, the reformist power of the
anecdote is unmistakable and uncontainable, and so is the power of the
home to symbolise female spiritual self-construction in defiance of the
world, whether lay or ecclesiastical, of fifteenth-century England.
Ushashi Dasgupta
U. Dasgupta (B)
Pembroke College, University of Oxford, Oxford, UK
e-mail: ushashi.dasgupta@ell.ox.ac.uk
identity and development against one another. Robert Alter suggests that
Dickens’s metaphors ‘give the impression of having been struck off in
the white heat of improvisation’. When he uses unifying or extended
metaphors, Alter argues, Dickens does not necessarily plan them—instead,
he finds himself ‘carried along by the powerful momentum of his inte-
grative imagination’.2 The same might hold true of his architectural and
spatial metaphors, but they appear across several novels, deployed and
redeployed as if Dickens is testing the possibility of a consistent vision
and vocabulary: the vocabulary of growing up. This chapter begins by
discussing the various metaphors Dickens proposes for describing an indi-
vidual’s progress from youth to maturity—a coming-of-age process that
is, unavoidably, male and middle-class. It then offers a case study of one
set of metaphors that particularly fascinated Dickens, drawn from the
world of tenancy, lodging and rented space, before asking what this says
about the nineteenth-century Bildungsroman as a genre.
2 Robert Alter, Imagined Cities: Urban Experience and the Language of the Novel (New
Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2005), p. 48.
3 Karen Chase, Eros and Psyche: The Representation of Personality in Charlotte Brontë,
Charles Dickens, and George Eliot (New York: Methuen, 1984), pp. 54–55. On the
‘openness’ and ‘fertility’ of Victorian psychology as a discourse and discipline, attracting
‘economists, imaginative writers, philosophers, clerics, literary critics, policy-makers, as
well as biomedical students’, see Rick Rylance, Victorian Psychology and British Culture,
1850–1880 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000).
4 On metaphor and nineteenth-century psychology, see, for example, Michael Davis,
George Eliot and Nineteenth-Century Psychology: Exploring the Unmapped Country (Alder-
shot: Ashgate, 2006); Suzanne Juhasz, The Undiscovered Continent: Emily Dickinson and
the Space of the Mind (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1983); Michael S. Kearns,
Metaphors of Mind in Fiction and Psychology (Lexington: University Press of Kentucky,
1987); and Sally Shuttleworth, Charlotte Brontë and Victorian Psychology (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1996).
8 ‘DRAWD TOO ARCHITECTOORALOORAL’ … 119
5 Sam’s words appear in Dickens, The Pickwick Papers , ed. by Mark Wormald (London:
Penguin, 2003), p. 587. Subsequent references appear in the text.
6 Lauren Cameron, ‘Interiors and Interiorities: Architectural Understandings of the
Mind in Hard Times ’, Nineteenth-Century Contexts, 35 (2013), 65–79 (p. 66). In 1796,
Grose’s Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue listed the ‘Garret, or Upper Story, the
head. His garret, or upper story, is empty, or unfurnished; i.e. he has no brains, he is a
fool’. ‘garret’, n.1 , 3.a., b., in the OED Online (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016),
www.oed.com/view/Entry/76861 [accessed 29 March 2017].
7 Dickens, Little Dorrit , ed. by Helen Small and Stephen Wall (London: Penguin,
2003), p. 53.
120 U. DASGUPTA
The stones of which the strongest London buildings are made, are not
more real, or more impossible to be displaced by your hands, than your
presence and influence have been to me, there and everywhere, and will
be. Estella, to the last hour of my life, you cannot choose but remain part
of my character.9
It is fitting that, at the end of the novel, Satis House has its furniture and
effects auctioned off and its very bricks and mortar ‘sold as old building
materials and pulled down’ (p. 473). Pip’s relationship with Satis House,
the home of Miss Havisham, is long-standing and complex: Pip has been
visiting Miss Havisham in her self-imposed isolation since childhood, falls
in love with her ward and is convinced that she is his benefactor. A visible
symbol of Pip’s hopes, dreams and obsessions, the freehold of Satis House
is owned by two equally life-changing women: Miss Havisham and, finally,
Estella. When Pip returns from Egypt, Estella reveals that this freehold
is ‘the only possession [she has] not relinquished’, and that the deso-
late ground will be built upon at last (p. 483). Estella does not give any
details about the kind of development she has sanctioned, but as this plan
emerges, and as the old bricks are dispersed to lay new foundations, we
come to a moment of simultaneous closure, renewal and continuity—
because new dreams will undoubtedly cluster around each new edifice,
marked with a trace of Satis House. A marriage between Pip and Estella—
a resolution not quite delivered by the end of the novel—would add an
extra layer of complexity; according to the laws of coverture, women had
no control over their real property following marriage until the Married
Women’s Property Acts were introduced in 1870 and 1882. Thus, were
Estella to become a femme coverte, the freehold would be Pip’s to all
intents and purposes. This sign of Estella’s loss of independence is also a
sign that Pip is taking ownership, in more ways than one.10
Sometime after his declaration to Estella, Pip deploys a similar, albeit
stranger, image in his narrative. In his delirium after Magwitch’s capture,
he ‘confound[s] impossible existences with [his] own identity’, halluci-
nating that he is a ‘brick in the house-wall, and yet entreating to be
released from the giddy place where the builders [have] set him’ (p. 462).
9 Dickens, Great Expectations , ed. by Charlotte Mitchell and David Trotter (London:
Penguin, 2003), p. 364. Subsequent references appear in the text.
10 On coverture and women’s property rights, see, for example, Deborah Wynne,
Women and Personal Property in the Victorian Novel (Farnham: Ashgate, 2010), pp. 6–7,
34–35. On Dickens’s deeply ambivalent portrayal of ‘forceful women of property’, whose
real estate is ‘vulnerable to loss or destruction’, see p. 58. On the way Satis House is
‘dismantled and converted into moveable property’, see pp. 84–85.
122 U. DASGUPTA
Yes, Jack, it’s all very well for you […] Your life is not laid down to
scale, and lined and dotted out for you, like a surveyor’s plan. You have
no uncomfortable suspicion that you are forced upon anybody, nor has
anybody an uncomfortable suspicion that she is forced upon you, or that
you are forced upon her. You can choose for yourself. Life, for you, is a
plum with the natural bloom on; it hasn’t been over-carefully wiped off
for you–11
11 Dickens, The Mystery of Edwin Drood, ed. by David Paroissien (London: Penguin,
2002), p. 18. Subsequent references appear in the text.
8 ‘DRAWD TOO ARCHITECTOORALOORAL’ … 123
12 Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life, trans. by Steven Rendall (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1984), pp. 92–93.
13 Dickens, Oliver Twist, ed. by Philip Horne (London: Penguin, 2003), p. 199.
14 Dickens, Martin Chuzzlewit , ed. by Patricia Ingham (London: Penguin, 2004),
p. 190. Subsequent references appear in the text. For readings of architecture in Martin
Chuzzlewit, see, for example, Nancy Aycock Metz, ‘Dickens and “The Quack Architec-
tural”’, Dickens Quarterly, 11 (1994), 59–68; Jeremy Tambling, ‘Martin Chuzzlewit :
Dickens and Architecture’, English, 48 (1999), 147–68.
15 Dickens to John Forster, 26 February 1849, in The Letters of Charles Dickens, ed. by
Graham Storey et al., 12 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1965–2002), V, p. 502.
124 U. DASGUPTA
where Sophy’s father is curate; he is ‘tracing his finger along the inkstand’
to indicate the location of his fiancée’s house (pp. 412–13). David is
finally able to put together his groundplans on a real page, rather than in
his mind. Sitting with Dora, he draws ‘a picture of [their] frugal home,
made independent by [his] labour – sketching-in the little house [he] had
seen at Highgate’ (p. 547). It is a document that concentrates all of his
misplaced optimism; the ‘little house’ witnesses domestic missteps and
Dora’s death. Ground plans are a neat way to bring expectations, aspi-
rations and realities into contact. They are visionary spaces, empty and
unpeopled, full of potential but little tangible matter. These young men,
who are trying to make sense of their futures, ultimately must learn a
severe lesson: that such things cannot be mapped.
16 See Sharon Marcus, Apartment Stories: City and Home in Nineteenth-Century Paris
and London (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), pp. 83–132.
17 Dickens, ‘The Boarding-House: Chapter the Second’, in Sketches by Boz, ed. by
Dennis Walder (London: Penguin, 1995), pp. 338–61 (p. 360).
8 ‘DRAWD TOO ARCHITECTOORALOORAL’ … 125
18 Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities, ed. by Richard Maxwell (London: Penguin, 2003),
p. 63.
19 These examples are drawn from Marcus Waithe, William Morris’s Utopia of Strangers:
Victorian Medievalism and the Ideal of Hospitality (Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 2006),
pp. 10, 22. On the established use of architectural metaphors to describe society, especially
in the eighteenth century, see F. S. Schwarzbach, Dickens and the City (London: Athlone
Press, 1979), p. 83.
20 Dickens, Dombey and Son, ed. by Andrew Sanders (London: Penguin, 2002), p. 171.
126 U. DASGUPTA
of echoing noises that emphasise his own isolation. Paul himself would
be too young to understand this simile, heightening his aura of prema-
ture agedness. This frustrated and defeated child has the shape of a life,
but nothing to fill it with. Sam Weller—for whom to ‘buy houses’ is, we
remember, ‘delicate English for going mad’—seems much happier with
images from the ‘lodger world’. He wields them of his own accord and
with exuberance, accepting Pickwick’s offer of work by exclaiming, ‘take
the bill down […] I’m let to a single gentleman, and the terms is agreed
upon’ (p. 164). He compares himself to an apartment to let because he
houses successive selves and relationships; his identity is not a permanent
entity, and so he never feels lived-in. He is the ultimate urban scrapper,
happy to play host to whichever whim seems most profitable at the
time. His statement constitutes a spontaneous moment of self-reflection.
Neither The Pickwick Papers nor Dombey and Son is a Bildungsroman, of
course, but these are strands, in Dickens’s knotted, densely plotted novels,
about how we grow up.
This is picked up in two Bildungsromans that appeared on the Victo-
rian literary scene at the same time, written by a pair of novelists
in constant imaginative dialogue: as David Copperfield was being seri-
alised, William Makepeace Thackeray was charting similar adventures in
Pendennis (1848–50). David uses related similes to describe both his early
love for Little Emily and his impression of the odd, closed Rosa Dartle,
who loves an unavailable man. Returning from Yarmouth as a child, David
promises to write to Emily: ‘I redeemed that promise afterwards’, the
adult David recalls, ‘in characters larger than those in which apartments
are usually announced in manuscript, as being to let’ (pp. 52–53). Rosa
Dartle, meanwhile, is unwanted and waiting, ‘a little dilapidated – like
a house – with having been so long to let’; like buildings, people are
there to be inhabited by those who love them, for however long or short
a period (p. 301). Unlike Pip, who thinks of his love for Estella as a
kind of existential foundation, David sees love as something that comes
and goes. Human relationships—infatuations, passions, friendships—are
fleeting. People move on. Thackeray makes the point in a particularly
striking way. When Pen’s first, totally unsuitable love, an actress, leaves
the neighbourhood, Pen charges over to her old lodgings:
They were gone indeed. A card of ‘Lodgings to let’ was placed in the dear
little familiar window. He rushed up into the room and viewed it over
[…] He walked, with a sort of terror, into her little empty bedroom. It
8 ‘DRAWD TOO ARCHITECTOORALOORAL’ … 127
was swept out and prepared for new comers. The glass which had reflected
her fair face was shining ready for her successor. The curtains lay square
folded on the little bed: he flung himself down and buried his head on the
vacant pillow.21
many decades later.23 In life and in fiction, the dream house acts as a moti-
vator; the Bildungsroman ends with a sense of financial, geographical and
psychological stability—of peace of mind.
But David proves himself to be a narrator and writer who, sitting in
the comfort of his home with Agnes, is still using rented space as a point
of reference. Even if, in Beth Herst’s words, ‘finding his rightful home
[…] is David’s life project’, and this home is ‘both the refuge and the
source of selfhood’, he is susceptible to the memory of lodging and of
seeking accommodation.24 The older David reveals the extent to which
his past pulls upon him, and shows that the experience of tenancy has a
truth and vividness to it. It is not simply something he has done, a mere
purgatory he has endured before settling into a home of his own, but is
something that has created him and informed the way he thinks. After
all, the metaphors we use say something about the kinds of immediate,
involuntary associations our minds make. The Bildungsroman presents
its metaphors as the products of one mind, rather than as spontaneous
bursts of Dickensian inventiveness. Dickens is commenting on individual
modes of logging the world, on the structures of individual memories,
and, crucially, on individual methods of expression. David, a professional
writer, is engaged in converting his lived experience into a logical memoir;
he has a degree of control over and awareness of his craft, and so he exer-
cises his language consciously. He uses these metaphors to make himself
understood and to engage with an audience—to create some kind of
meaningful affective relationship with those who read his words.
Architectural language and the language of tenancy are used to make
sense of the self. When characters—and indeed, readers—are forced to
confront ideas that are almost too big to grasp, these languages are a
cognitive tool, used to clarify the abstract and ineffable. They render
death, love, disappointment, ruin and transition both accessible and
slightly bathetic, defined against an essentially economic relationship. This
assumes that tenancy belongs to the comprehensible world, one that
author, narrator, character and reader can safely be expected to share. As
the vehicle for metaphor, it is painted as one of the most fundamental facts
of everyday experience that unites everyone, no matter their age, standing
Jelena Todorović
A longer version of this chapter was published in the book Jelena Todorović,
The Hidden Legacies of Baroque Culture in Contemporary Literature: The
Realms of Eternal Present (Newcastle-upon-Tyne: Cambridge Scholars
Publishing, 2017).
J. Todorović (B)
University of the Arts, Belgrade, Belgrade, Serbia
The speaker here enters a city, an allegorical realm composed of real and
imaginary pasts. It seems to be not a city proper, but a realm of dreams.
It might easily be one of the Invisible Cities of Italo Calvino. And indeed,
it is a city metaphor, but a much older one: it comes from the notable
book of Visions written by de Quevedo in 1627.1 This comparison is not
intended to present de Quevedo as Calvino’s direct and immediate prede-
cessor, but to shed light on a more profound phenomenon: the hidden
legacies that the Baroque age bestowed upon our world.2 Calvino’s and
de Quevedo’s works inhabit a common space, a liminal domain between
reality and unreality, between the palpable world and a dream, between
certainty and deception. Furthermore, they share the same models of
thought: Baroque models that went underground for centuries, only to
reappear in our age and claim an important place in our vision of the
world, in our understanding of space and time, and ultimately in the
perception of ourselves.
Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities, published in 1972, is a complex narra-
tive devoted to the fabric of the city. Realised in a dialogue between
Marco Polo and the Great Khan, Calvino’s story of the cities of imagina-
tion unravels in front of the reader. In a series of poetic descriptions, and
a variety of languages, Marco Polo describes to the Khan the forgotten
cities of his Empire. They are organised in several imaginary categories:
Cities and Desires, Thin Cities, Trading Cities, Cities and Eyes, Cities
and the Dead, Cities and the Sky, each with its unique sense of place.3
Travelling through fifty-five invisible cities Calvino creates an elaborate
architecture of imagination where every city is a portrait of an invisible
realm and an allegory of our relationship with the urban space. But in the
end, all these delicate allegories come to represent the one truly invisible
city, Marco Polo’s lost home of Venice. Composed as a melancholic elegy
1 The quotation is taken from Francisco de Quevedo, Visions, trans. by William Elliot
(Philadelphia: Literary Rooms, 1832), pp. 84–85.
2 For the purpose of this research I have deliberately not used any secondary sources
concerning Calvino nor consulted contemporary criticism. My aim was to observe, as an
art historian rather than a literary critic, the presence of Baroque models of thought in
Calvino’s book. For the same reason the majority of references deal either with primary
Baroque sources or theoretical explorations of the Baroque.
3 Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities, trans. by William Weaver (New York: Harcourt Brace
& Company, 1974). All references will be given in parentheses in the text.
9 SPACES OF THE A-TEMPORAL: ITALO CALVINO’S INVISIBLE CITIES … 133
to the City of San Marco, these accounts collect diverse feelings, memo-
ries and longings that together define the idea of the city, the city as a
homeland. This chapter will argue that the structure of Invisible Cities
depends on underlying concepts that it shares with Baroque writers and
artists: the intertwining of utopia and dystopia, the art of illusion and the
pervasive idea of the world as a dream.
They say that this has not just now begun to happen: actually it was the
dead who built the upper Eusapia, in the image of their city. They say that
in the twin cities there is no longer any way of knowing who is alive and
who is dead. (p. 110)
Just as Calvino here blurs the boundaries between life and death, in the
Baroque era there was no great chasm between the two polarities; they
coexisted simultaneously as two opposite, but complementary, sides of
the same coin. The culture of the age produced dichotomous worlds:
one that partook of both the dazzling limitlessness of the heavens and of
the sombre finitude of human life on earth.4
The embattled Counter-Reformation Catholicism of the Baroque era
brought with it a renewed sense of brevity and precariousness of human
existence. Only through meditation on life’s brevity could the faithful
4 For the dichotomous quality of Baroque culture see Joy Kenseth, The Age of the
Marvelous (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992); José Antonio Maravall, Culture
of the Baroque: Analysis of a Historical Structure (Manchester: Manchester University
Press, 1986); and Jelena Todorović, Of Mirrors, Roses and Nothingness: The Concept of
Time and Transience in the Culture of the Baroque (Belgrade: Clio, 2012).
134 J. TODOROVIĆ
[…]
Time’s what you are, and you are what time is,
Except that you are less than what time is.
Oh! let the other time, which has no time,
Come take us from this time to its own times[.]5
5 Paul Fleming, in The Baroque Poem, ed. by Harold B. Segel (New York: Dutton,
1974), p. 246.
9 SPACES OF THE A-TEMPORAL: ITALO CALVINO’S INVISIBLE CITIES … 135
hairy, tendrils of the poppy buds, together with the almost imperceptible
air bubbles caught in the glass of the vase, give us a false hope in the
solidity of our world and our existence. But this brightness and vitality of
nature in its prime is only a fine layer of deception. The same flowers that
overwhelm us with their lush richness conceal in their core a message
of departure. Their existence is as brief and fleeting as ours is. In his
‘Allegory of Brevity’ the Spanish Baroque poet Luis de Góngora (1561–
1627) used the metaphor of flowers as if describing this painting by Clara
Peeters:
6 Luis de Góngora, ‘Allegory of Brevity’, trans. by Roy Campbell, in The Baroque Poem,
p. 201.
136 J. TODOROVIĆ
And to feel sure of itself, the living Laudomia has to seek in the Laudomia
of the Dead the explanation of itself, even at the risk of finding more there,
or less: explanations for more than one Laudomia, for different cities that
could have been and were not, or reasons that are incomplete[.] (pp. 140–
41)
Each new Clarice, compact as a living body with its smells and its breath,
shows off, like a gem, what remains of the ancient Clarices, fragmentary
and dead. (pp. 107–108)
And then, the shards of the original splendour that had been saved, by
adapting them to more obscure needs, were again shifted. They were now
preserved under glass bells, locked in display cases, set on velvet cushions,
and not because they might still be used for anything, but because people
wanted to reconstruct through them a city of which no one knew anything
now. (p. 107)
7 For illusion in the Baroque age, see Maravall, Culture of the Baroque; Giovanni Careri,
Baroques (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2003).
8 See further Maravall, Culture of the Baroque.
138 J. TODOROVIĆ
value. Painting often resembled marble, while marble took on the quali-
ties of human flesh; light sources and viewpoints were so manipulated that
one could not truly discern where reality ended and illusion began. Calvi-
no’s cities, like many Baroque spaces, are places of such duality. They too
present limitless, ever-changing images, so that certainties and illusions
are fused into one and form an inseparable part of their identities. Like
Baroque works of art, Calvino’s cities strive to astonish, but also to remain
a perpetual riddle to their beholders:
Travelling, you realize that differences are lost: each city takes to resem-
bling all cities, places exchange their form, order, distances, a shapeless
dust cloud invades the continents. (p. 137)
map is carelessly tucked in and seems to deny the existence of the picture
plane. Its coiled edges catch the light and the gaze of the beholder, each
seeming closer than the last. On the top of the map stands a ruffled quill
which casts a shadow on the cabinet. The shadow that does not exist
enhances the depth which is not. Both the cabinet and the quill are only
the echoes or shadows of an imaginary world. Nothing in this painting
is real, and everything possesses a heightened sense of reality. However,
for the beholder of the painting, as for the reader of Calvino’s invisible
domains, there is only one irrefutable truth:
Cities like dreams, are made of desires and fears, even if the thread of their
discourse is secret, their rules are absurd, their perspectives deceitful, and
everything conceals something else. (p. 44)
What makes Argia different from other cities is that it has earth instead of
air. The streets are completely filled with dirt, clay packs the rooms to the
ceiling, and on every stair another stairway is set in negative, over the roofs
of the houses hang layers of rocky terrain like skies with clouds. (p. 126)
The same uncertainty of vision is made the principal quality in the city of
Tamara where the traveller is never sure what he exactly sees, and even
less what he remembers:
The city says everything you must think, […] and while you believe you are
visiting Tamara you are only recording the names with which she defines
herself and all her parts. (p. 14)
10 Pozzo’s treatise was first published in Rome in 1693, and translated as: Andrea
Pozzo, Rules and examples of perspective proper for painters and architects, etc., in English
and Latin: containing a most easie and expeditious method to delineate in perspective all
designs relating to architecture, after a new manner, wholly free from the confusion of occult
lines, trans. by John James of Greenwich (London: J. Senex and R. Gosling, c.1724–
32), see Archivbe.net, https://archive.org/details/rulesexamplesofp00pozz/page/n9. For
the Baroque concept of movement and transition, see Maravall, Culture of the Baroque,
pp. 175–80; Todorović, Of Mirrors, Roses and Nothingness, pp. 95–122.
9 SPACES OF THE A-TEMPORAL: ITALO CALVINO’S INVISIBLE CITIES … 141
with the same monogram that embellishes the apex of the altar vault,
and that represents the mission of the Jesuit Order that Ignatius Loyola
founded and spread to the very edges of the known world.
But this is merely the first level of perception. Pozzo‘s painting serves
only as a cover to a marvel that is greater than the one achieved by
the chapel and altarpiece. The chapel conceals a sophisticated mechanism
(restored only recently, in 2008) that lowers the painting into a specially
created recess and reveals a full-length statue of San Ignatius, standing
triumphantly in the niche behind it. Covered in the same combination
of gold and lapis lazuli, the statue by Baroque sculptor Pierre Legros
shimmers as an ethereal vision in front of the beholder. The miraculous
appearance of San Ignatius to the pious is meant to further enhance the
divine lustre of the founder of the Jesuits. Here Baroque deception is at its
most complete. Painting and statue follow and complement each other,
allowing the figure of Loyola to enter the space of the church, and share
it with his faithful. The illusion employed here not only tricks the eye
through perspectival devices, but thoroughly explores the power of move-
ment. Thus combined, these visual trappings create a near miraculous
sensory experience.
Like Pozzo’s painting and religious apparato, the beholder of invis-
ible cities confronts the unexpected proliferation of perspectives and
prospects:
From one part to the other, the city seems to continue, in perspective,
multiplying its repertory of images: but instead it has no thickness, it
consists only of a face and an obverse, like a sheet of paper, with a figure on
either side, which can neither be separated nor look at each other. (p. 105)
There is truly no barrier between the space of vision and the space
of the beholder. Both Pozzo’s and Calvino’s audiences are immediate
and privileged witnesses to transformations so marvellous that their own
perception ceases to be credible, as if their own eyes could not be trusted.
This effect is characteristic of many Baroque works of art. As the contem-
porary poet Baltasar Gracian poignantly wrote: ‘One requires eyes on the
very eyes, eyes to see how they see’.11
11 Baltasar Gracian, Obras Completas, ed. by Arturo del Hoyo (Madrid: Aguilar, 1967),
p. 672. Translation by R. Rosini.
142 J. TODOROVIĆ
The uncertainty of one’s gaze and the fallibility of one’s senses are as
much a preoccupation of Calvino’s as they were of his Baroque predeces-
sors. The city of Phyllis carries the same ambiguity of presence as Pozzo’s
apparato. It is the place that makes unreliable witnesses of our eyes:
On the map of your empire, O Great Khan, there must be room both for
the big, stone Fedora and the little Fedoras in glass globes. Not because
they are all equally real, but because all are only assumptions. (p. 32)
For Calvino, as for Baroque artists, the visible world was not a fixed cate-
gory. It was a liminal realm constructed from diverse assumptions; it was
entirely fluid. Therefore, the metaphor of dream perfectly encapsulated it.
One of the great Baroque scholars, Antonio Maravall, justly recognised
the dream as one of the defining forms of the arts of the period.12 Dream,
indeed, was far from being another version of reality, it was reality itself.
This ambiguity of existence deeply influenced the entire culture of this
age, and left lasting models that persists into our time. Thus, the words of
Prospero from Shakespeare’s Tempest capture the perceived ephemerality
of the fabric of the world and ultimately of our ‘little life’, which:
The same dreamlike and fluid quality Calvino incorporates in the city of
Irene, the ultimate metamorphic city, a place that changes its appearance
according to the viewpoint of the traveller. One could never trust one’s
observations in this city. Even its names are perpetually altering:
He has not succeeded in discovering which is the city, that those of the
plateau call Irene. For that matter, it is of slight importance […] Irene is
a name for a city in a distance, and if you approach, it changes.
For those who pass it without entering, the city is one thing; it is
another for those who are trapped by it and never leave. There is a city
where you arrive for the first time; and there is another city that you leave
never to return. Each deserves a different name[.] (pp. 124–25)
Although they were collected in the Atlas of Khan’s Empire, some places
refuse to be fixed, they remain ethereal and slippery as visions and dreams.
Like Baroque spaces they escape firm categories, always existing on that
almost imperceptible border of presence and absence. This sense of the
14 Luis de Góngora, The Solitudes, trans. by Edith Grossman (London: Penguin, 2013),
p. 92. Ebook.
9 SPACES OF THE A-TEMPORAL: ITALO CALVINO’S INVISIBLE CITIES … 145
The places Marco Polo visits in Khan’s Empire, like the image of
Belgrade in this screen, seem to evaporate in front of his very eyes.
Throughout the novel the feeling of vanishing deepens, as if with every
city visited Calvino’s narrator distances himself even further from the place
of his longing. His city metaphorically retreats, thus becoming more and
more invisible. As Marco Polo confesses to the Great Khan: ‘memory’s
images, once they are fixed in words, are erased’ (p. 87). They have the
same insubstantiality as those feathery apparitions in de Góngora’s sky:
The essays in this part turn to the various relationships between archi-
tectural space and writers’ own imaginations, whether that space takes
the form of the houses they lived in, the structure of their work, or
the source of their images of making. It comprises five essays on built
space in art and literature from early modern to contemporary times.
Whereas the chapters thus far suggest ways in which Bachelard’s and
Heidegger’s understanding of the house might profitably be extended
through engagements with imaginary architectures, those in the final part
of the volume indicate ways in which house, mind, and literary production
become co-terminous.
CHAPTER 10
Archie Cornish
Introduction
Edmund Spenser (1552–99) and Seamus Heaney (1939–2013) have
seldom been compared, perhaps because what they have in common is
also what divides them. Spenser lived for the last twenty years of his
life in Ireland, as a government official and colonial administrator of the
Munster Plantation, a project initiated by Elizabeth I’s government to
confiscate land in Ireland’s southernmost province and ‘plant’ it with
English and Welsh settlers. Heaney was born in County Derry, one of
the six counties that remain part of the United Kingdom as Northern
Ireland; his upbringing, however, was Catholic and his primary identity
Irish. For Heaney, Spenser personifies British imperialism in Ireland and
its associated wrongs. ‘Perhaps I just make out | Edmund Spenser’, says
the speaker of ‘Bog Oak’ in Wintering Out (1972), imagining the Eliza-
bethan poet ‘dreaming sunlight’ while starving Irish peasants ‘creep […]
towards watercress and carrion’. In the introduction to his translation
A. Cornish (B)
Wadham College, University of Oxford, Oxford, UK
1 Derived from the Irish word bó-dhún, ‘bawn’ in Elizabethan English denoted ‘a
fortified enclosure, enceinte, or circumvallation’ (Oxford English Dictionary, s. v. ‘bawn’).
2 Seamus Heaney, Beowulf (London: Faber and Faber, 1999), ‘Introduction’, p. xxx.
Heaney’s chronology of the composition of The Faerie Queene is a little impressionistic:
the ‘early cantos’ were probably composed in the mid-1580s, while Kilcolman was burnt
in 1598.
3 Heaney, Beowulf , p. xxx.
10 ‘HIS MIDAS TOUCH’: BUILDING AND WRITING IN THE POETRY … 151
desolate Ireland; he tells his fellow shepherds of his journey over the Irish
Sea to the court of Cynthia where ‘vaunted vanitie’ (line 719) is rife. The
poem is dedicated to Sir Walter Ralegh, to whom Spenser acknowledges
himself ‘bounden’ for the hospitality shown him ‘at my late being in
England’. The implied self-positioning away from ‘England’ is confirmed
in the dedication’s parting words—‘from my house of Kilcolman the
27. of December 1591’.4 Kilcolman is written into Spenser’s career for
the first time, as he presents himself as an outlier, a marginal figure,
even though his role on the nominal margin is to uphold the centre’s
imperial authority. Spenser also implies a link between his house and his
work, and encourages the reader overhearing his dedication to ponder it.
‘1591’ as a date seems curious, as the poem was published in 1595; the
dedication appears to be out of time, a relic of the text’s compositional
history. Halfway through the poem, Colin lists the shepherd-poets among
Cynthia’s court:
4 ‘Colin Clouts Come Home Againe’, in The Shorter Poems, ed. by Richard McCabe
(London: Penguin, 1999), pp. 343–71 (p. 344).
5 Spenser, Shorter Poems, p. 655; The Minor Poems I, ed. by Charles Grosvenor Osgood
and others, The Works of Edmund Spenser, A Variorum Edition, ed. by Edwin Greenlaw
et al. (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1932–57), vol. VII, p. 472.
152 A. CORNISH
tries to conceal them. The 1590 text, for example, ends with the happy
union of two reunited lovers, Amoret and Scudamour, into a single body.
In 1596, the plot requires that Scudamour is alone once again; accord-
ingly, the original ending is altered, but silently. The Faerie Queene, unlike
Spenser’s poem about Colin Clout, makes no equivalent explicit reference
to Kilcolman.
I want to suggest a connection between Spenser’s reference to his
house and his decision—in a poem concerned with the ebb and flow of
circumstance—to preserve traces of a poem’s accidental evolution. Occa-
sional writing of this kind, the poem’s dialogue with its dedication implies,
is like making a house. In Spenser’s Ireland, housebuilding required the
harnessing of chances as they presented themselves, and the exploitation
of occasion. Spenser’s acquisition and renovation of Kilcolman display an
openness to an acknowledgment of contingency which his masterpiece
strongly resists. The builder of a house must exploit contingency; the epic
poet must not allow contingencies to blight the prosecution of original
intention. Renaissance poetry is often as occasional as housemaking, but
aims in its most serious instances for a higher pitch of coherence; in its
most exalted forms, that is, it attempts to appear to transcend occasion,
to exist outside time.
Kilcolman
Spenser acquired Kilcolman Castle and its estate in 1588, after eight years
living in Ireland. The castle, now in ruins, comprised four buildings under
his ownership, of which only its Tower House remains. Standing on a hill
overlooking a seasonal lake, it is to be found just north of the towns of
Buttevant and Doneraile in Co. Cork. The river Awbeg, prominent in
Spenser’s poetry, flows close by. A patent (or ‘fiant’) of 1590 proclaims
Spenser’s entitlement to the land ‘for ever, in fee farm, by the name
of Hap Hazard’.6 It seems plausible that with ‘Hap Hazard’ Spenser
is wittily acknowledging the chancy and underhand means by which he
got his house. ‘Haphazard’ in sixteenth century English was a noun as
well as an adjective, denoting ‘simple chance or accident; fortuitousness,
6 See Andrew Hadfield, Edmund Spenser: A Life (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2012), p. 205.
10 ‘HIS MIDAS TOUCH’: BUILDING AND WRITING IN THE POETRY … 153
settlers nobler and richer than Spenser could afford to be more system-
atic: The Myrtles, Walter Ralegh’s house near Youghal, while unusual
for its lack of surviving fortification, possesses impressive solidity and
symmetry; just south of Spenser’s estate, his neighbour Thomas Norris
built Mallow Castle according to a polygonal plan. Systematic castles
like these resemble contemporaneous structures in England, yet with an
important difference. For the English manor houses of the later sixteenth
century castellation was a decorative feature, a quotation of an imag-
ined chivalric past. Montacute, for example, a Somerset manor house
completed for Sir Edward Phelips in 1601, is surrounded by an intricate
balustraded wall never intended for defensive use.13 In Ireland’s fledgling
Plantations, crenulation and machicolation were functional necessities. At
home, fortification was a matter of style; on the imperial frontier, it was
function.
Architecture anywhere in the British Isles was closely associated with the
‘handy craftsman’. (For Buck, this is a problem; his anxiety belies a keen-
ness to uphold a social superiority of arts over crafts.) In Ireland, on the
margins of the Queen’s imperial authority, this association was amplified.
Architecture on the precarious Plantations could rarely afford a status
loftier than that of craft.
The haphazard nature of life on the Munster Plantation, and to a
lesser extent of English building in general, fostered powerful fantasies
of systematic construction, both architectural and political. In the 1590s
Spenser circulated A View of the Present State of Ireland (1596), a trea-
tise in which he argues for the imposition by force of English law and
civilisation throughout Ireland. It takes the form of an Erasmian dialogue
between Eudoxus, who is holding a ‘mappe of Irelande’, and Irenius,
who has first-hand experience of the country. Irenius’s proposals for the
division of Ireland into new zones reflects his desire ‘to make all plaine’,
to turn the real country into something as clean as the map.15 As Julia
Lupton puts it, Spenser expresses through Irenius ‘a structuring fantasy
[…] a fantasy of structure, which informs the text’s colonising desire for
spatial mastery’.16 Recent criticism of Spenser’s treatise has recognised its
impatience with Ireland’s definition as an imperial subject, and a desire to
remodel it as a colony like Virginia, subjected directly to the Queen’s
authority.17 Experience of acting haphazardly engendered fantasies of
acting ab initio, from first principles, according to system.
Dark Dwellings
The built dwelling places of Heaney’s early collections often possess the
same mysterious and immersive darkness as the ground itself. Door into
the Dark begins with two stable poems: ‘Night-Piece’ depicts a close and
closed place where the horse is ‘bundled under the roof’; in ‘Gone’, the
stable is ‘old in his must’.23 The speaker of ‘The Outlaw’ recalls taking
a heifer to be ‘serviced’ by an unlicensed bull belonging to ‘Old Kelly’,
who ‘whooped and prodded his outlaw | Who, in his own time, resumed
the dark, the straw’.24 These lines imply a similarity between Kelly and
his bull: they live nestled in the dark, too deep to be flushed out by the
law. The ‘door into the dark’ to which the collection’s title refers is that
of ‘The Forge’, where a blacksmith ‘grunts’ at passing traffic ‘and goes in,
with a slam and flick’ to a seemingly more authentic, grounded place.25
‘In Gallarus Oratory’ compares a religious building in Kerry to ‘a turf-
stack | A core of old dark walled up with stone’, where a crowd seeks
communion with God by experiencing intimacy with the earth. Such inti-
macy can be found even momentarily, as in ‘Oracle’ from Wintering Out,
in which a sprite-like ‘you’ hides ‘in the hollow | of the willow tree’ and
becomes ‘lobe and larynx | of the mossy places’.26 The willow tree, like
many spaces in Heaney’s work, evokes the womb. To dwell, Heaney’s
early work implies, is to go deep into the ground, or far back to a uterine
darkness.
Dwellings as dark and marginal as these have political significance.
Houses, especially those built on contested land, stand as symbols of
the dwelling of a particular people, and the manner of their dwelling.
In ‘Frontiers of Writing’, the last of the Oxford lectures collected as
The Redress of Poetry (1995), Heaney imagines a ‘quincunx’ of Irish
houses, four totemic dwellings on Ireland’s coasts surrounding a central
stone tower. The southern point of this ‘diamond shape’ is Kilcolman:
‘Edmund Spenser’s tower, as it were, the tower of English conquest and
the Anglicization of Ireland, linguistically, culturally, institutionally’.27
23 Heaney, Door into the Dark (London: Faber and Faber, 1969), pp. 3–4.
24 Heaney, Door into the Dark, p. 7.
25 Heaney, Door into the Dark, p. 9.
26 Heaney, Wintering Out (London: Faber and Faber, 1972), p. 18.
27 ‘Frontiers of Writing’, in The Redress of Poetry: Oxford Lectures (London: Faber and
Faber, 1995), pp. 186–204 (p. 199).
160 A. CORNISH
28 ‘Frontiers of Writing’, p. 199. The eastern point of Heaney’s diamond is the Martello
Tower in Dublin Bay, where Joyce’s Ulysses begins, which represents the attempt to
Hellenize the island. Carrickfergus Castle in Co. Antrim, meanwhile, puts Heaney in
mind of Louis MacNeice and his ability to combine in a single thought the British and
Irish parts of his identity. The four look inwards to ‘the tower of prior Irelandness’, of
Ireland’s ancient, pre-colonial past, in the centre of the island at Clonmacnoise.
29 Adam Hanna, Northern Irish Poetry and Domestic Space (Basingstoke: Palgrave
Macmillan, 2015), p. 3.
30 Martin Heidegger, ‘Poetically Man Dwells’, in Rethinking Architecture: A Reader in
Cultural Theory, ed. by Neil Leach (London: Routledge, 1997), pp. 109–19 (p. 118).
10 ‘HIS MIDAS TOUCH’: BUILDING AND WRITING IN THE POETRY … 161
[A] farmhouse in the Black Forest, which was built some two hundred
years ago by the dwelling of peasants. Here the self-sufficiency of the power
to let earth and heaven, divinities and mortals enter in simple oneness into
things, ordered the house. It placed the farm on the wind-sheltered moun-
tain slope looking south, among the meadows close to the spring […] It
did not forget the altar corner behind the community table […]31
dwelling places themselves. ‘Thatcher’, from Door into the Dark, is a good
example:
dark energies of the ground on which the house is built. The majority
of the craftsmen of Heaney’s early books are farmers; though their work
might be imagined as a more intimate communion with the earth than
housebuilding, Heaney’s farmers exhibit the same artisan professionalism.
At work at the plough in ‘Follower’, Heaney’s father can ‘set the wing
| and fit the bright steel-pointed sock’ like ‘an expert’.39 Of this poem
Elmer Andrews comments that ‘the poet recalls his father’s expertise as
a ploughman, his almost mystical oneness with the natural world’.40 The
farmer’s close union with his earth, compensating for a lack (for Catholics,
particularly pronounced) of representation in the polis, certainly features
in Heaney’s work, as in Wintering Out ’s ‘Gifts of Rain’, in which a farmer
reaches through water to grasp a potato drill, so that ‘sky and ground | are
running naturally among his arms’.41 Yet this poem’s circumstances are
exceptional: the field is flooded, the drills sunken. On a farm unravaged
by the elements, like the one evoked in ‘Follower’, the farmer’s mystical
union is not so much with the earth, as Andrews suggests, as with the
craft of farming.
An Artisan Poetics
Heaney implies an artisan poetics: he imagines the crafts of thatching
and vernacular building (and, more generally, farming) as the salutary
antithesis, rather than the passive accommodation and release, of dark and
ancient energy in the ground. It is worth pausing to trace the develop-
ment of this poetics, and to relate it to Heaney’s thinking on architecture
itself. Heaney was emboldened to write poems about the farms of his
childhood through an encounter with the work of Patrick Kavanagh; yet
Kavanagh’s poetry thinks of farming less as a profession than as an atti-
tude, a setting in life. Heaney’s instinctive connection of (male) artisan
craft to the writing of poetry stems more directly from Robert Frost.
Rachel Buxton’s study of Frost’s influence on Heaney notes the impor-
tance of the American poet’s thinking on the poetic craft. Of central
importance for Buxton is Frost’s assertion that the good poet should
I think technique is different from craft. Craft is what you can learn from
other verse. Craft is the skill of making […] It can be deployed without
reference to the feelings or the self.44
It is striking that for Heaney ‘the skill of making’ is executive and judi-
cious, rather than the attunement to mysterious forces required for good
‘technique’. If he understands poetry to be made partly by craft, and is
able to compare it genuinely to the artisan crafts of his home ground, it
is thanks to Frost as well as his poetic apprenticeship under Philip Hobs-
baum at Queen’s University in Belfast. Yet it is also due to the nature of
such crafts, as the speakers of his poems perceive them: not the Heideg-
gerian accommodation of the earth’s energy, but a precise skilful control
that answers back.
Charles Prince, in a thesis on architecture in the poetry of Heaney
and Derek Walcott, identifies in both poets a ‘search for poetic form that
is intuitively occurring’ and ‘a competing awareness of the inescapable
artificiality of forms’.45 That ‘artificiality’ might easily seem an impo-
sition, an architectural or poetic tradition imposing its norms. Prince
identifies a conservative streak in Heaney’s thinking on architecture, of
which the most sustained example is ‘From Maecenas to MacAlpine’, a
42 Rachel Buxton, Robert Frost and Northern Irish Poetry (Oxford: Clarendon Press,
2003), pp. 89–90.
43 Buxton, Robert Frost, p. 95.
44 ‘Feeling Into Words’, Preoccupations, pp. 41–60 (p. 47).
45 Charles Weston Prince, ‘Resonant Forms: Architecture in the Poetry of Seamus
Heaney and Derek Walcott’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Toronto, 2000),
p. 23.
10 ‘HIS MIDAS TOUCH’: BUILDING AND WRITING IN THE POETRY … 165
Conclusion
Spenser and Heaney, whose lives and work were shaped by the island of
Ireland, wrote poems that differ not only in content, but also in what
they imply about the writing process. Spenser’s shorter poems admit
the pressures and demands of occasion, but in The Faerie Queene he
attempts to transcend or at least disguise them. Heaney’s work, on the
other hand, is a continual response to occasion; it proceeds not by a
Adam Hanna
1 Much of the information about the tower in this chapter comes from Mary Hanley
and Liam Miller’s pamphlet, Thoor Ballylee: Home of William Butler Yeats (Dublin: The
Dolmen Press, 1977).
A. Hanna (B)
School of English and Digital Humanities, University College Cork, Cork,
Ireland
and gold’, and that the tower’s window-frames were painted ‘brilliant
blue’ and the windows hung with orange curtains.2 The architect William
Scott designed massive wooden furniture for it, and Yeats’s long-time
collaborator Charles Ricketts supplied ‘medieval’ candlesticks. The thor-
oughgoing Arts and Crafts nature of the tower’s restoration, and its gaudy
pseudo-medievalism, might have been to the taste of Yeats’s erstwhile
mentor William Morris. The interior of this tower, which was restored in
the years following the First World War, is redolent of nowhere so much
as the rackety London artists’ colony of Bedford Park that Yeats knew
during the 1880s and 1890s. As such, the physical form of the restored
tower is suggestive of the tensions between the ancient and the more
recent that are such a feature of Yeats’s poems from the years around its
restoration.
Yeats bought the tower in 1916, and wrote half a dozen poems set in
and around it before he had even moved into it.3 In a letter to his father
dated 16 July 1919, Yeats’s exhilaration at moving into the tower at last
is palpable. This is evident as much from his keen-eyed descriptions of the
building and its contents, as from his repetition of the adjective ‘great’ no
fewer than five times in a short letter:
At this point in his letter, Yeats breaks off writing to attempt a sketch,
before belatedly realising that his talents do not lie in this direction:
A very bad drawing […] I mean to represent a great door, then a stone
floor & stone roofed entrance hall with door & winding stair to left, &
then a larger thatched hall, beyond which is cottage & kitchen. In the
thatched hall imagine a great copper hanging lanthorn (which is however
2 The way the cottage is remodelled is set out in Yeats’s own letters, including a letter
to Ezra Pound dated 16 July 1919, available at http://pm.nlx.com [accessed 15 August
2018]. Further information comes from R. F. Foster, W. B. Yeats: A Life, II: The Arch-
Poet, 1915–1939 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), p. 131; Hanley and Miller,
Thoor Ballylee, p. 20.
3 Theodore Ziolkowski, The View from the Tower: Origins of an Antimodernist Image
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998), pp. 53–54.
11 YEATS’S STANZAS, YEATS’S ROOMS 169
not yet there but will be I hope next week). I am writing at a great trestle
table which George keeps covered with wild flowers.4
This vivid evocation of the place and the life that is lived in it communi-
cates an excitement that might be linked to the possibilities Yeats saw in
this house to change and renew his work. His recognition of the tower’s
transformative potential is reflected in the titles of two of his subsequent
volumes, The Tower (1928) and The Winding Stair (1933). The change
that the tower brought to his work was not only one of imagery, but
also one of form. His first forays into the grand, ancient, octave stanzas
that did so much to characterise his late work were coterminous with
the tower’s entry as an image into his imagination. Indeed, the first long
poem in the octave stanza that forms such a notable part of his output in
the years from 1918 to the early 1930s is also one of the first in which
the tower is mentioned.5
The tower is present, albeit in a shadowy way, when Yeats put his ideas
on poetic forms down in his late credo, ‘A General Introduction to my
Work’ (1937), many years later. In the subsection ‘Style and Attitude’,
Yeats writes a dense passage on his decision to ‘use a traditional stanza’,
which suggests that his choice of poetic form and his thoughts on the
restoration of the tower are linked:
Yeats’s assertion that free verse would leave his accounts of love and
sorrow ‘unchanged, amid [their] accidence’ carries the significant sugges-
tion that the character of his subject matter is altered by the imposition
of metrical constraints on its expression. What is more, he portrays this
change as a positive and salutary one, as he sees it as helping to rid his
poetry of the ‘egotism and indiscretion’ that would otherwise mar it.7
His statement that ‘even what I alter must seem traditional’ next to refer-
ences to Milton’s and Shelley’s tower-dwelling Platonists, and to Samuel
Palmer’s woodcut The Lonely Tower (1879), reminds us that the aesthetic
he applied to his poetry was strongly linked to the one he brought to his
project of architectural restoration.
The form in which a poem is written shapes and refines its content:
this was a lesson that Yeats took into many other areas of his thinking,
and not only to do with houses. A version of this idea can be seen in a
harsh 1936 letter Yeats wrote to his fellow-poet Margot Collis, in which
he criticises her recent work for its lack of form:
When your technic [sic] is sloppy your matter grows second-hand – there
is no difficulty to force you down under the surface – difficulty is our
plough.8
7 Yeats, ‘A General Introduction to my Work’, p. 213. This was the personality flaw
that Yeats identified as his worst. After a record of a conversation in a journal of 1909
he records disconsolately ‘Thought I had cured myself of this kind of boasting’ (W. B.
Yeats, Memoirs: Autobiography and First Draft Journal, ed. by Denis Donoghue [Dublin:
Macmillan, 1972], p. 210). The fact he believed that his stanza forms helped expunge
‘egotism and indiscretion’ from his work attributes a strong power to them.
8 Yeats quoted in Foster, W. B. Yeats: A Life, II , p. 543.
9 Yeats, Letters on Poetry from W. B. Yeats to Dorothy Wellesley, ed. by Kathleen Raine
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1940), p 131. This is not the only time in which the
use of verse form is expressed in terms of psychological necessity. In another essay he
describes a mad woman he saw talking to herself in a slum before writing ‘I compel
myself to accept those traditional metres that have developed with the language. Ezra
Pound, Turner, Lawrence, wrote admirable free verse. I could not. I would lose myself,
11 YEATS’S STANZAS, YEATS’S ROOMS 171
become joyless like those mad old women.’ (‘A General Introduction for My Work’, in
W. B. Yeats, Later Essays, pp. 212–13).
10 Yeats, Letters on Poetry from W. B. Yeats to Dorothy Wellesley, p. 24.
11 Daniel Harris writes about the role of Coole Park in Yeats’s imagination in Yeats:
Coole Park and Ballylee (Baltimore: The John Hopkins University Press, 1974), pp. 51–86.
12 Yeats, cited in A. Norman Jeffares, A New Commentary on the Poems of W. B. Yeats
(London: Macmillan, 1984), p. 93.
13 Yeats, Memoirs , quoted in Foster, W. B. Yeats: A Life, II , p. 438.
172 A. HANNA
In this complex stanza, the violence and bitterness of the original owner,
architect and artist are imagined as providing the impetus that made
possible the architectural ‘sweetness’ that its owners had lacked in their
own lives. There is a strange paradox here: the ‘sweetness’ and ‘gentleness’
that the house’s designers lack can only be created because of their unful-
filled desires to experience these emotions. This idea, that only entrenched
bitterness could goad and provoke those who suffered it into dreaming of
its opposite with sufficient intensity as to give it shape and form in reality,
would accord with Yeats’s Blakean belief that ‘without contraries there
11 YEATS’S STANZAS, YEATS’S ROOMS 173
18 Eleanor Cook, Against Coercion: Games Poets Play (Stanford: Stanford University
Press, 1998), p. 176.
19 The importance to Yeats of a ‘wavering’ rhythm in poetry is set out in his 1900 essay
‘The Symbolism of Poetry’, in Essays and Introductions (London: Macmillan, 1961).
11 YEATS’S STANZAS, YEATS’S ROOMS 175
After the stately isometric iambs and neat couplet-endings of the ottava
rima of ‘Ancestral Houses’, the verse form of ‘My House’ seems both less
ceremonious and more supple. The longer lines of ‘Ancestral Houses’,
which preceded it, contain a more complex syntax, against which the
shorter sentences and simpler imagery of ‘My House’ are thrown into
relief. The sense of flexibility and flux which inhere in the heterometric
form and the quicker rhythms of ‘My House’ also communicate that
the tower is the living workplace of a poet rather than an inherited
house ‘where’, to quote the earlier section, ‘Ancestral Houses’, ‘slippered
Contemplation finds his ease’ (p. 207).
The ten-line stanza of ‘My House’, which shifts between trimeter
and tetrameter, appears to have been invented by Yeats himself.20 Helen
Vendler has labelled it the ‘labyrinthine’ stanza, after the lines ‘A man
in his own secret meditation | Is lost amid the labyrinth that the mind
has made’ in Section III of ‘Nineteen Hundred and Nineteen’, which is
written in the same form. In this poem, Yeats has been true to the desire
he expressed in the ‘General Introduction for my Work’: in what he has
written, as in the tower itself, even what he has altered seems traditional.
A further analogy can be drawn between Yeats’s ideas of houses and verse
forms from the fact that ‘Ancestral Houses’ is in an inherited verse form
whereas ‘My House’ (about a tower he renovated using, in the words
of an epitaph that he had carved on the tower itself, ‘old mill boards and
sea-green slates’ [p. 187]), is in an innovated verse form. The splashing of
cows and the literary work of ‘My House’ contrasts with the pacing and
to and fro in galleries that occurs in ‘Ancestral Houses’. In dramatising
the contrast between the human experience of two types of architecture
(a great house and a restored one), Yeats simultaneously dramatises the
contrast between different types of verse form. For ‘Ancestral Houses’
and ‘My House’, one might read ‘Ancestral Stanzas’ and ‘My Stanza’.
Some critics have contextualised Yeats’s devotion to established poetic
forms as being connected to his sometime admiration for authoritarian
politics. Critics Seamus Deane and David Lloyd have posited that Yeats’s
use of time-honoured stanzas is the poetic counterpart to his desire for
great houses to stand at the top of a conservative social hierarchy.21
20 Helen Vendler, Our Secret Discipline: Yeats and Lyric Form (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2007), p. 69.
21 See, for example, David Lloyd, ‘The Poetics of Politics: Yeats and the Founding
of the State’, Qui Parle, 3 (fall 1989), 76–114; Seamus Deane, ‘Yeats and the Idea of
176 A. HANNA
Revolution’, in Yeats’s Political Identities, ed. by Jonathan Allison (Ann Arbor: Michigan
University Press, 1996), pp. 133–44. For a counter-opinion, see Peter McDonald’s ‘Yeats’s
Poetic Structures’, in Serious Poetry: Form and Authority from Yeats to Hill (Oxford:
Clarendon Press, 2002), pp. 138–66.
22 This trope is evident in Yeats’s poetry from 1907 onwards, the year she took him
on a trip to northern Italy, as R. F. Foster observes in ‘Yeats and the Death of Lady
Gregory’, Irish University Review, 34 (spring–summer, 2004), 109–21.
23 Vendler, Our Secret Discipline, p. 263.
11 YEATS’S STANZAS, YEATS’S ROOMS 177
The sixain begins with a physical description of the locale in which the
house is situated, but there is no description of the house itself. Instead,
the solid house is drawn into association with the evanescence of nature
through images of the swallows, trees that are ‘lost in night’, and a briefly
luminous cloud. In the couplet that ends the stanza, Yeats returns to
the image of the house by commending the ‘dance-like glory that those
walls begot’. While this describes the creative and influential group who
congregated in the house during Lady Gregory’s occupancy, the word
‘begot’ suggests a generative relationship between the solid form of the
house and the ephemeral ‘dance’ within it. The link between ‘walls’ and
‘dance’ is causal: one could not exist without the other.
By the late 1920s, Yeats was not only contemplating Lady Gregory’s
absence from the Galway landscape, but his own. By then, the upkeep
of the tower, which was remote and prone to flooding, had become
too onerous, and the Yeats family left it to fall into disrepair. In the
poet’s last years, Yeats and his wife rented ‘Riversdale’, an eighteenth-
century farmhouse around four miles from the centre of Dublin. This
house, as Caroline Walsh points out, was a more sedate and less romantic
choice than the remote tower, with its ‘apple and cherry trees, herbaceous
border, bowling-green, croquet and tennis lawns’.24 Although critics have
not paid it as much attention as his tower and Coole Park, the more
modest house at Riversdale in County Dublin features recognisably in
his poetry, in particular in the volume New Poems (1938)—the tower no
longer featuring in the titles of his books after 1933. Rather than poems
about Coole Park, this volume contains ‘An Acre of Grass’, a poem in a
less vaulting stanzaic form than ottava rima:
24 Caroline Walsh, The Homes of Irish Writers (Dublin: Dolmen Press, 1977), p. 174.
178 A. HANNA
The line ‘Picture and book remain’ is mysterious, though the fact that
they ‘remain’ suggests that they are vestiges from another place. Yeats’s
letters from this period confirm this, revealing that his study was filled
with books and pictures that he had inherited after the death of Lady
Gregory and the break-up of Coole Park.25 Read with this knowledge,
the ‘picture and book’ of Yeats’s poem become kindred to the ‘Clocks and
carpets and chairs’ in Thomas Hardy’s ‘During Wind and Rain’. Memo-
ries of the downfall of the house they once furnished lie like a patina on
them.26 Just as his study was full of reminders of this loved former house,
it appears that the form of ‘An Acre of Grass’ is in dialogue with his earlier
poems about Coole Park.
The stanza form Yeats uses in ‘An Acre of Grass’ approximates the
‘stave of six’ used in, for example, Wordsworth’s ‘I Wandered Lonely As
a Cloud’. This is traditionally tetrameter and rhymes ababcc.27 However,
the form Yeats uses here is a more modest measure than this, as it rhymes
xaxabb, and contains shorter trimeter lines. In addition to this, Yeats’s
rhyming of ‘house’ and ‘mouse’ seems almost bathetic. Rather than the
iambs and complex structure of the ottava rima, ‘An Acre of Grass’ is in
a shorter-winded form, and its images are contained within more modest
line-lengths. However, there is the echo of a reference to the grander
forms that the poet had once stood, both physically and in poetry. The
final two lines of the opening stanza, ‘Midnight, an old house | Where
nothing stirs but a mouse (my italics)’ recall the stanza of ‘Ancestral
Houses’, quoted above, which ends ‘And maybe the great-grandson of
that house, | For all its bronze and marble,’s but a mouse’ (my italics).
It is as if the poet is simultaneously drawing attention to the decreased
grandeur of his stanza forms and his domestic surrounds.
The more modest setting of Yeats’s last years adds a claustrophobic
intensity to the appeal contained in the third stanza. The impression
created by this poem is one of pressure, where midnight and confined
25 Foster, W. B. Yeats , A Life, II , p. 447; B. L. Reid, ‘The House of Yeats’, The Hudson
Review, 18 (autumn, 1965), 331–50 (p. 346).
26 Thomas Hardy, ‘During Wind and Rain’, in Selected Poems, ed. by Harry Thomas
(London: Penguin, 1993), p. 122.
27 Karl Shapiro and Robert Beum, A Prosody Handbook (New York: Harper and Row
Publishers, 1965); Jack Elliott Myers and Don C. Wukasch, Dictionary of Poetic Terms
(Denton: University of North Texas Press, 2003), s.v. ‘Sestet’.
11 YEATS’S STANZAS, YEATS’S ROOMS 179
space are reflected in the poem’s tightly packed, short-lined stanzas. This
is a representation of architecture as testing ground:
The critic B. L. Reid said that, in these lines, ‘we can watch the house itself
erupt into grand romantic passion’, but what is interesting about it is how
the confined nature of its stanza form matches the image of Blake beating
upon the wall.28 The confinement of the ‘old house’, dramatised in the
confinement of the stanza form, comes to be associated in this poem with
Yeats’s project of remaking himself within the confinements of old age. It
seems Yeats envisages the house, with its reminders of Coole Park, as the
setting for his famously contrarian public persona in his final years.
In an essay on Yeats’s tower, Seamus Heaney focuses on the sense of
strength and solidity that the octave stanza form lends to much of the
older poet’s mature poetry. Playing on the root of the word ‘stanza’,
Heaney writes ‘the place of writing is essentially the stanza form itself,
that strong-arched room of eight iambic pentameters rhyming abababcc
which serves as a redoubt for the resurgent spirit’.29 However, for all his
adherence to traditional stanza forms, Yeats did not preclude the possi-
bility of formal innovation, as ‘My House’ and ‘An Acre of Grass’ show.
His poetry demonstrates as much of a willingness to innovate as it does
a desire to adopt the redoubtable forms of the past. In this, his poetry
reflects the restoration work he carried out on his tower.
Sarah Cawthorne
Nothing [is] esteem’d in this lunatique age, but what is kept in Cabinets.1
S. Cawthorne (B)
Independent Scholar, York, UK
reserved for the ‘arrogant and fanciful Title’ of this ill-informed ‘Scrib-
ble’.3 The book’s bold eponymous promise to reveal the secret inner
workings of nature was regarded as provocatively ambitious and resolutely
unfulfilled: the audacity of the claim was taken to signal both the moral
and intellectual failings of the actual and unidentified author.
Though the trope of the locked box has a long history, the metaphor of
nature’s cabinet, in which the natural world was imagined as the contents
of a locked cabinet or closet belonging to the anthropomorphised goddess
Nature, caught the zeitgeist in the mid-seventeenth century. After first
appearing in print in the late sixteenth century, use of the metaphor of
nature’s cabinet increased steadily across the early seventeenth century,
peaking sharply in the 1650s before declining again across the latter
half of the century.4 The trope’s growing popularity seems to corre-
spond, in part at least, to the proliferation of cabinetry during this era.
Cabinets became ubiquitous in seventeenth-century households as the
early modern trend for collecting and the growth of mercantile trade
resulted in an avalanche of stuff that needed to be stored somewhere.
The architecture and storage capacities of early modern homes developed
accordingly. Closets, small intimate rooms which provided space for a
range of private activities such as reading, business, and prayer, and for
storing valuable items such as books, accounts, textiles, or silver plate,
were built into upper- and middle-class homes, and freestanding cabinets
3 Thomas Tenison, ‘An Account of All the Lord Bacon’s Works’, in Baconiana, or,
Certain Genuine Remains of Sr. Francis Bacon (London: printed by J. D. for Richard
Chiswell, 1679), p. 77. Though Tenison had vested interests—he was a relative of Browne,
and later edited his posthumous papers—the repeat of his misattribution complaint, iron-
ically almost word for word, by Anthony Wood lends credence to the severity of the
unknown author’s abuse of title. See Anthony Wood, Athanæ Oxonienses (London: printed
for Thomas Bennet, 1692), p. 536. Browne’s stationers explicitly denied his authorship of
Natures Cabinet Unlock’d in his next book; see ‘The Stationer to the Reader’, in Thomas
Browne, Hydriotaphia (London: Henry Brome, 1658), [sigs. O6r -O6v ].
4 This analysis of use was primarily undertaken using EEBO keyword search and the
EEBO-TCP Key Words in Context function of the Early Modern Print project, authored
by Anupam Basu and the Digital Humanities Workshop at Washington University in St.
Louis: https://earlyprint.wustl.edu/toolwebgrok.html [accessed 1 May 2019]. Though
there are limitations to such an approach (including texts not yet digitised or translated
into searchable html text, as well as the multiple permutations of metaphor) it does offer
enough evidence to give a clear sense of usage over time.
12 NATURE’S CABINETS UNLOCKED: COGNITION, CABINETS … 183
5 See Lena Cowen Orlin, Locating Privacy in Tudor London (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2007), pp. 296–326; Dora Thornton, The Scholar in His Study: Ownership and
Experience in Renaissance Italy (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997); and Glenn
Adamson, ‘The Labor of Division: Cabinetmaking and the Production of Knowledge’,
in Ways of Making and Knowing: The Material Culture of Empirical Knowledge, ed. by
Pamela H. Smith, Amy R. W. Meyers, and Harold J. Cook (Ann Arbor: University of
Michigan Press, 2014), pp. 243–79.
6 Thornton, Scholar in His Study, p. 74.
7 On Wunderkammer, see Paula Findlen, Possessing Nature: Museums, Collecting and
Scientific Culture in Early Modern Italy (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994);
Marjorie Swann, Curiosities and Texts: The Culture of Collecting in Early Modern England
(Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2001); and Daniela Bleichmar, ‘Seeing the
World in a Room: Looking at Exotica in Early Modern Collections’, in Collecting Across
Cultures: Material Exchanges in the Early Modern Atlantic, ed. by Daniela Bleichmar and
Peter Mancall (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011).
8 Orlin, Locating Privacy, p. 8.
184 S. CAWTHORNE
9 Edward Reynoldes, A Treatise of the Passions and Faculties of the Soule of Man
(London: printed by R. H[earne and John Norton] for Robert Bostock, 1640), p. 499;
‘Abstruse, adj.’, Oxford English Dictionary, https://oed.com [accessed 1 May 2019]. For
similar examples, see: Henry Nollius, Hermetical Physick: Or, the Right Way to Preserve,
and to Restore Health, trans. by Henry Vaughan (London: printed by Humphrey Moseley,
1655), p. 3; Renodaeus, A Medicinal Dispensatory, Containing the Whole Body of Physick,
trans. and rev. by Richard Tomlinson (London: printed by Jo. Streater and Ja. Cottrel,
1657), pp. 674–75; James Hart, Klinike, or the Diet of the Diseased (London: printed by
John Beale for Robert Allot, 1633), p. 19; Massarius, De Morbis Foemineis, the Womans
Counsellour: Or, the Feminine Physitian, trans. by R. T. Philomathes (London: printed for
John Streater, 1657), p. 3; and Nathaniel Wanley, The Wonders of the Little World, or,
a General History of Man in Six Books (London: printed for T. Basset, R. Cheswel, J.
Wright, and T. Sawbridge, 1673), pp. 16–17.
12 NATURE’S CABINETS UNLOCKED: COGNITION, CABINETS … 185
Nature Reimagined
In a notable departure from the dry theological treatises and zealous
philosophical reflections in which the metaphor of nature’s cabinet most
often appeared during the seventeenth century, Cavendish first invokes
nature’s cabinet in a lively series of narrative poems which imagine Nature
as a housewife. ‘The Severall Keyes of Nature, which unlock her Severall
Cabinets’ and ‘Natures Cabinet ’, poems which appear approximately
halfway through Poems and Fancies , provide us with a framework from
which we can begin to comprehend the work as a whole, opening up a
structural paradigm, that, by mirroring the contents, spatial arrangements,
and associations of cabinets, provides a way of understanding the world it
seeks to depict.10
Cavendish is clearly fascinated by the motions, structures, and produc-
tions of thought in Poems and Fancies , and her cognitive model, outlined
partly through the metaphor of nature’s cabinet, lies at the heart of her
natural philosophy. In the first of the poems describing the anthropo-
morphised Nature’s household arrangements, her cabinets play the lead
role:
10 Margaret Cavendish, Poems, and Fancies Written by the Right Honourable, the Lady
Margaret Newcastle (London: printed by T. R. for J. Martin and J. Allestrye, 1653),
p. 126. Hereafter: PaF . All subsequent references to this edition will be given in the text
in parentheses. Italics are as printed in the original.
186 S. CAWTHORNE
out of Breath’, and placing them on a ‘strict dyet ’ of ‘Ease, and Rest, and
Quiet ’ until ‘they might run agen with swifter speed’. But though these
thoughts are managed corporeally, they are also separate material enti-
ties which can be expelled from the body and onto the page: Cavendish
concludes that ‘now they’re out, my Braine is more at ease’ (PaF , p. 47).
Defining cognition not simply as rational, but also as an affective and
embodied process, Evelyn Tribble and John Sutton have proposed that
cognition occurs not simply within the individual but across a wider ‘cog-
nitive ecology’ which includes social and cultural structures and material
environments.11 They argue that ‘[b]odies, spaces, artifacts, and environ-
ments are all co-ordinated in a cognitive ecological model, and agents
both shape and are in turn shaped by their manipulation of objects’.12
Cavendish’s metaphorically blurred boundaries between the cabinet self,
the human anatomy, and its cognitive and sensory powers, anticipate such
a formulation, with the metaphorical cabinet clearly acting as a ‘cogni-
tive artifact’, at once shaped by and shaping its environment, but also
providing a structure for Cavendish’s perceptions of both the world and
how we understand it.13 Her cabinets may appear to be constructed of
whimsical verse, but they frame serious questions about how cognition
occurs. Situating the contents of the brain as the most valued objects,
or ‘treasures’, of nature’s cabinets, she designates cognition as a topic
deserving of intellectual investigation, while self-reflexively recognising
11 Tribble and Sutton build on the work of Edwin Hutchins and Andy Clark on cogni-
tive ecologies and embodied mind theory. See Evelyn Tribble and John Sutton, ‘Cognitive
Ecology as a Framework for Shakespearean Studies’, Shakespeare Studies, 39 (2011), 96;
Edwin Hutchins, Cognition in the Wild (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1995); and Andy
Clark, Being There: Putting Brain, Body and World Together Again (Cambridge, MA: MIT
Press, 1997).
12 Tribble and Sutton, ‘Cognitive Ecology’, 99.
13 Evelyn Tribble, ‘“The Chain of Memory”: Distributed Cognition in Early Modern
England’, Scan, 2 (2005), http://scan.net.au/scan/journal/display.php?journal_id=53
[accessed 1 January 2019]. Though the application of cognitive science in early modern
studies has been critiqued for its anachronism, there have been some compelling accounts
of how we might use these modern theoretical paradigms to highlight similar (and some-
times neglected) early modern modes of understanding the world. See, for example, Bruce
Smith, The Key of Green: Passion and Perception in Renaissance Culture (Chicago: Univer-
sity of Chicago Press, 2009), p. 5; Mary Thomas Crane, ‘Illicit Privacy and Outdoor
Spaces in Early Modern England’, Journal for Early Modern Cultural Studies, 9 (2009),
4–22 (p. 17), and especially the discussion of Gail Kern Paster, The Body Embarrassed:
Drama and the Disciplines of Shame in Early Modern England (Ithaca: Cornell University
Press, 1993), p. 13.
188 S. CAWTHORNE
that this can only be achieved through the use of the very same tools
that she seeks to understand. Human emotion, psychology, and phys-
iology are simultaneously opened up for inspection and configured as
instruments for understanding nature. Nature’s cabinet, for Cavendish, is
not an empty metaphor, but illuminates the complexities of what natural
knowledge can be, and how we might grasp it.
which have been shown to be much more flexible than patriarchal insti-
tutions were willing to admit.14 But it also enabled Cavendish to exploit
associations reserved specifically for women’s cabinets. As the plethora of
recipe books for women titled ‘closet’ or ‘cabinet’ suggests, these were
often designated spaces for domestic work. But in wealthy households
especially, women’s cabinets were also conceived as private spaces closely
linked with writing, reading, and poetry.15
Cavendish’s detailed imagining of the keys to nature’s cabinet suggests
how her poetics interweave with her natural philosophy, emphasising the
importance of wit and beauty as keys to our cognitive centres: wit acts
on the brain through the ears, and the key of beauty unlocks the eyes
to enter the heart. Crucially, both wit and beauty are qualities prized in
Cavendish’s self-conscious and explicitly gendered poetics, and her insis-
tence that wit and beauty might open nature’s cabinets poses poetry,
alongside sensory perception, as a legitimate mode of accessing both the
human mind and natural knowledge. Furthermore, the ability of these
qualities to open the heart as well as the brain suggests the emotional,
affective form of knowledge that poetic effects might create.16 Helping
to rationalise the coexistence of moral, allegorical, and philosophical
topics in Poems and Fancies , this bold model situates emotion as a key
element of cognition in Nature’s cabinet. By utilising these keys, the
poem suggests, we can construct a model of knowing in which nature
14 See Paula Findlen, ‘Masculine Prerogatives: Gender, Space and Knowledge in the
Early Modern Museum’, in The Architecture of Science, ed. by Peter Galison and Emily
Thompson (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999), pp. 29–57; Orlin, Locating Privacy,
p. 312.
15 See Thornton, Scholar in His Study, pp. 96–97; Stephen J. Campbell, The Cabinet of
Eros: Renaissance Mythological Painting and the Studiolo of Isabella D’Este (New Haven:
Yale University Press, 2004), p. 59; Carolyn Sargentson, ‘Looking at Furniture Inside
Out: Strategies of Secrecy and Security in Eighteenth-Century French Furniture’, in
Furnishing the Eighteenth Century: What Furniture Can Tell Us About the European
and American Past, ed. by Dena Goodman and Kathryn Norberg (New York: Routledge,
2007), pp. 205–36; Bernadette Andrea, ‘Pamphilia’s Cabinet: Gendered Authorship and
Empire in Lady Mary Wroth’s “Urania”’, ELH , 68 (2001), 335–58; Katherine R. Larson,
‘Reading the Space of the Closet in Aemilia Lanyer’s Salve Deus Rex Judaeorum’, Early
Modern Women: An Interdisciplinary Journal, 2 (2007), 73–93; and Mary Ellen Lamb,
Gender and Authorship in the Sidney Circle (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press,
1990).
16 On affective knowledge as a form of cognition, see Tribble and Sutton, ‘Cognitive
Ecology’, 96.
190 S. CAWTHORNE
is not only contained and displayed through logic and sense, but also
elucidated by a feminine poetics.
Using the umbrella terms ‘cabinet’ and ‘closet’, Cavendish gestures
towards a slippery and diverse range of spaces, experiences, and associa-
tions that become contiguous and fluid; the multiplicity of cabinets she
imagines and implies allows her to operate, at different times, according
to the various logics or cultural expectations they individually employ, or
to stitch them all together. Henri Lefebvre has described ‘representational
space’ as ‘the domain of everyday intimate experience where space is acti-
vated by memory and imagination’ which ‘overlays physical space, making
symbolic use of its objects’.17 Cavendish’s cabinets of nature unveil a simi-
larly plural and multi-layered mode of thought. Both the cabinet and the
world that Cavendish describes involve observations of real space trans-
formed and mediated by imagination and fancy. The realities of everyday
spatial and sensory experience are integrated with associative structures of
knowing and poetic fancy to present a powerful and enhanced model of
understanding.
Poetry, which is built upon Fancy, Women may claime, as a worke belonging
most properly to themselves: for I have observ’d, that their Braines work
usually in a Fantasticall motion: as in their severall, and various dresses, in
their many and singular choices of Cloaths, and Ribbons, and the like.
(PaF , sig. A4[r ])
19 Ironically Cavendish was famous for wearing black silk or velvet patches, often shaped
as stars or hearts, on her face—a trend used by women to hide blemished skin. See Katie
Whitaker, Mad Madge: Margaret Cavendish, Duchess of Newcastle, Royalist, Writer and
Romantic (London: Vintage, 2004), p. 297.
192 S. CAWTHORNE
with natural objects can stock the cabinet of nature with new forms of
knowledge. The power of poetry to comprehend nature is demonstrated
in Poems and Fancies itself, which contains a number of verses exploring
anatomical and epidemiological subjects related to the keys, locks, and
boxes that Cavendish identifies among the parts of nature’s cabinets.20
Lisa T. Sarasohn has suggested that, in her later work, ‘Cavendish mate-
rialized the faculties of the intellect and will and then transformed them
into a stylistic aesthetic’, but this is more than an aesthetic—it is also a
radical cognitive model.21
20 PaF : on the brain and eye, see ‘Nature Calls a Councell ’, pp. 1–4; on disease:
‘What Atomes Cause Sicknesse’, ‘What Atomes make a Dropsie’, ‘What Atomes Make
a Consumption’, ‘What Atomes Make the wind Collick’, ‘What Atomes Make a Palsey,
or Apoplexy’, and ‘In All Other Diseases They Are Mixed, Taking Parts, and Factions’,
pp. 15–16; on sensory perception, cognition and the passions: ‘Of Light, and Sight’,
‘The Objects of Every Sense, Are According to Their Motions in the Braine’, ‘According
as the Notes in Musicke Agree with the Motions of the Heart, or Braine, such Passions
Are Produced Thereby’, ‘The Motion of Thoughts’, and ‘The Reason Why the Thoughts
Are Onely in the Head’, pp. 39–42; on the organs: ‘A Heart Drest ’, ‘Head, and Braines’,
‘Similizing the Braine to a Garden’, and ‘Of Two Hearts’, pp. 131, 136, 140–41; on wit
and beauty: ‘A Dialogue Betwixt Wit, and Beauty’, and ‘The Mine of Wit’, pp. 81–82,
153–54.
21 Lisa T. Sarasohn, The Natural Philosophy of Margaret Cavendish: Reason and Fancy
During the Scientific Revolution (Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 2010), p. 18.
22 See Claire Jowitt, ‘Imperial Dreams? Margaret Cavendish and the Cult of Elizabeth’,
Women’s Writing, 4 (1997), 383–99.
12 NATURE’S CABINETS UNLOCKED: COGNITION, CABINETS … 193
Using a marginal note, reading ‘As I have before shewed they do, in
my Atomes’, to explicitly tie this proposition to the atomic theory she
has already propounded, Cavendish shows the philosophical utility—
and perhaps necessity—of this imaginative approach to knowledge (PaF ,
p. 45). The same powers of thought which enable her to fancifully
imagine a world in an earring also enable her to theorise and articulate a
fundamentally coherent, if ultimately flawed, atomic model for the world
that she inhabits. After all, how could this imperceptibly minute realm
ever be discovered, if not through the powers of cognition? The nesting-
box model of worlds within worlds—like the purest form of the cabinet
metaphor, the locked box—invites us to imagine the invisible contents
inside it, compelling the viewer or reader to re-make them anew in the
mind through logic and fancy. In exposing the important role that imag-
ination has to play in our understanding of the natural world, Cavendish
throws the box open, revealing the complex tangle of bodily, material,
and cognitive faculties that make up the contents of nature’s manifold
cabinets.
Elizabeth Spiller has offered a model of poeisis as ‘worldmaking’ which
spans both poetics and natural philosophy in the Renaissance. For Spiller,
worldmaking is not ‘hypothetical or counterfactual’, and ‘not an escape
but a more powerful and more meaningful engagement with reality than
can be found in the world at large’.25 In Poems and Fancies , Cavendish
advocates a similar approach, producing an imaginative cognitive poetics
that makes a credible claim for the power of philosophical inquiry
produced through literary craft.26 The plural semantics of the metaphor-
ical cabinet, which can be traced throughout the volume, provide the
25 Elizabeth Spiller, Science, Reading and Renaissance Literature: The Art of Making
Literature, 1560–1670 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), p. 16.
26 A compelling strain of scholarship has started to consider how natural knowledge
is ‘made’, particularly through artistic representation. See, for example, Spiller, Science,
Reading and Renaissance Literature; Lorraine Daston and Katherine Park, ‘The Age of
the New’, in The Cambridge History of Science, ed. by Katharine Park and Lorraine
Daston (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), pp. 1–18; Howard Marchitello,
The Machine in the Text: Science and Literature in the Age of Galileo (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2011); and Frédérique Aït-Touati, Fictions of the Cosmos: Science and
12 NATURE’S CABINETS UNLOCKED: COGNITION, CABINETS … 195
Jane Griffiths
1 ‘Sestina’, in Elizabeth Bishop, The Complete Poems: 1927 –1979 (New York: Farrar,
Straus and Giroux, 1983). All quotations from Bishop’s poems will be taken from this
edition, with page numbers given in the text in parentheses.
2 See for example, ‘A Miracle for Breakfast’ and ‘Jerónimo’s House’, in Complete Poems,
pp. 18, 34.
J. Griffiths (B)
Wadham College, University of Oxford, Oxford, UK
e-mail: jane.griffiths@ell.ox.ac.uk
The repetitions of ‘sodden’ and ‘ghost’ give the lines themselves a tenta-
tive quality, while the pun on different senses of ‘ghost’ confirms the
impression that this is a landscape of lost causes. The first use of the word
follows on from the physical description of the string: evidently, it is white,
adrift, a form without substance. Like an abandoned ghost-costume, it
3 Bachelard’s Poetics of Space was first published as La poétique de l’espace (Paris: Presses
Universitaire de France, 1958). The English translation cited in this chapter is The
Poetics of Space, trans. by Maria Jolas, 2nd edn (Boston: Beacon Press, 1994). Joelle
Bielle acknowledges the relevance of Bachelard to Bishop’s work in passing in ‘Swinging
Through the Years: Elizabeth Bishop and “The End of March”’, The American Poetry
Review, 38.6 (2009), 55–62 (p. 55).
4 Cf. Heather Cass White, ‘Teasing the Lion’, Harvard Review, 16 (1999), 61–70
(pp. 66–67).
13 ELIZABETH BISHOP’S HOUSE IN THE MIND … 199
lacks what the OED defines as ‘the soul or spirit as the principle of life’.5
The second use of the word, in the phrase ‘giving up the ghost’, carries
the same sense—but because Bishop has previously observed, near the
beginning of the poem, that ‘Everything was withdrawn as far as possible,
| indrawn’, it also puns on another, now obsolete sense: ‘Used as the
conventional equivalent for Latin spiritus, in contexts where the sense
is breath or a blast ’.6 The word ‘indrawn’ brings to mind the common
collocation ‘breath’, and since the ultimate root of ‘inspiration’ is the
Latin inspirare, to breathe into, an indrawn breath signals its opposite:
the absence of inspiration.7 The string that is giving up the ghost, or
spirit, is a tangible reminder of that absence. All indications are that, like
the kite and the paw prints, the walk and the poem are going nowhere.8
Yet in this unpromising landscape, there is a house that contains great
potential. Bishop’s vision of it is worth quoting in full:
9 John Stillgoe, ‘Foreword to the 1994 Edition’, Poetics of Space, p. viii. Discussions of
Bishop’s work that stress the role of the house as sanctuary include Cass, ‘Teasing the
Lion’; Marit J. MacArthur, The American Landscape in the Poetry of Frost, Bishop and
Ashbery: The House Abandoned (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008); conversely, Susan
McCabe argues that: ‘Bishop rejects the house as a symbol of permanence and wholeness’
(Elizabeth Bishop: Her Poetics of Loss (University Park: Penn State University Press, 1994),
p. 195).
13 ELIZABETH BISHOP’S HOUSE IN THE MIND … 201
The command to watch exhorts the reader to replicate the act of obser-
vation that the poet has already performed, of which the poem itself is a
witness. It even suggests the impossible: that the poem itself is a response
to that command. Just as the monument is also the beginning of a monu-
ment, the poem and its making fall together; neither has an identifiable
point of entry.10 In contrast, it is the successful process of imagining the
house that gives meaning to ‘The End of March’.11 Like the monument,
its exterior creates opportunities for ostentatiously playful descriptions,
(‘a sort of artichoke of a house, but greener’), but it is Bishop’s imagina-
tive realisation of its interior that signals a metaphorical as well as a literal
reversal in the poem. As the walkers return along the beach, the grey land-
scape is transformed as the sun comes out for a moment, making jewels
of the stones, and Bishop concludes by likening the sun to a lion who
might have made the paw prints and ‘who perhaps had batted a kite out
of the sky to play with’ (p. 180). She thus successfully weaves the loose
ends of paw prints and kite string into a narrative.
What, then, does this say about the relationship between Bishop’s
‘proto-dream-house’ and the act of writing? In the loosest possible terms,
there is an analogy between her description of its interior and the free
play of mind in a confined space that is a finished poem; she is obliquely
revisiting the centuries-old pun on ‘stanza’ and ‘room’. More specifically,
although the activities (or rather, non-activities) that Bishop imagines
herself performing in the house do not include writing, they are like-
nesses of it. Each constitutes some kind of mediation between internal
and external realities. Bishop’s reference to looking through binoculars
suggests that the house is a vantage point for observation of the outside
world, yet her mention of talking to herself implies that it is also a retreat
from the outside. Her imaginary reading and annotation of old books
10 Cf. Jonathan Ellis, Art and Memory in the Work of Elizabeth Bishop (Aldershot:
Ashgate, 2006), pp. 67–71; Linda Anderson, ‘The Story of the Eye: Elizabeth Bishop
and the Limits of the Visual’, in Elizabeth Bishop: Poet of the Periphery, ed. by Linda
Anderson and Jo Shapcott (Newcastle: University of Newcastle and Bloodaxe Books,
2002), p. 163.
11 Cf. White, ‘Teasing the Lion’, 68–70.
202 J. GRIFFITHS
and observation of rain on the windows sit somewhere between the two,
on the threshold between exterior and interior. The rain prevents the
windows from fulfilling their normal purpose of allowing images of the
outside to enter, while—conversely—the contents of the books are inter-
nalised through her note-taking. Both the house and its inhabitant are
in a state of liminality: caught between engaging in exchange with the
outside world and turning in on themselves.12
The terms in which Bishop imagines inhabiting her proto-dream-house
thus appear to be the archetypal ones identified by Bachelard. In The
Poetics of Space, Bachelard argues that the house is an image that comes
‘before thought’: one that has such a deep-rooted psychological impor-
tance that it is universally communicable, opening up a day-dream ‘of a
home beyond man’s earliest memory’.13 It ‘shelters day-dreaming […]
protects the dreamer […] allows one to dream in peace’, and it does
so most effectively when it is most primitive, reduced to its most basic
form.14 Sounding remarkably like Bishop, Bachelard states that:
I […] often said to myself that I should like to live in a house such as one
sees in old prints. I was most attracted by the bold outlines of the houses
in woodcuts which, it seemed to me, demanded simplicity. Through them,
my daydreams inhabited the essential house.15
The significance this basic kind of house held for Bishop, and the extent to
which she associates it with the writing process, are confirmed by a short
story written decades before ‘The End of March’: ‘The Sea & Its Shore’
(1937).16 Its protagonist, Edwin Boomer—whose initials, EB, suggest
that he may be a fictional alter ego of Bishop herself—is employed to
keep a beach free from paper. What he collects is not simply wastepaper,
but all printed matter that finds its way to the shore; Boomer is meant
to burn it, but instead keeps, classifies, and studies many of the scraps.
12 Cf. Bonnie Costello, Planets on Tables: Poetry, Still Life, and the Turning World
(Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2008), p. 79.
13 Bachelard, Poetics of Space, pp. xx, 5.
14 Bachelard, Poetics of Space, p. 6.
15 Bachelard, Poetics of Space, p. 49.
16 The resemblance between ‘The End of March’ and ‘The Sea & Its Shore’ has also
been noted by Anne Colwell, Inscrutable Houses: Metaphors of the Body in the Poems of
Elizabeth Bishop (Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 1997), p. 188.
13 ELIZABETH BISHOP’S HOUSE IN THE MIND … 203
Like Bishop’s in ‘The End of March’, his reading occurs in a house that
stands on the shore: one that is so primitive in nature that it might more
accurately be described as a shack or shelter. The narrator observes that:
As a house, it was more like an idea of a house than a real one. It could
have stood at either end of a scale of ideas of houses. It could have been a
child’s perfect playhouse, or an adult’s ideal house – since everything that
makes most houses nuisances had been done away with.
It was a shelter, but not for living in, for thinking in. It was to the ordinary
house, what the ceremonial thinking cap is to the ordinary hat.17
17 Elizabeth Bishop, The Collected Prose (London: Chatto & Windus, 1984), pp. 171–
72. All quotations will be taken from this edition.
18 Cf. Ellis, Art and Memory, p. 4.
204 J. GRIFFITHS
19 For an introduction to faculty psychology, see E. Ruth Harvey, The Inward Wits:
Psychological Theory in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance (London: Warburg Institute,
1975). For discussion focused specifically on the memory, see Mary Carruthers, The Book
of Memory: A Study of Memory in Medieval Culture, 2nd edn (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2008), esp. pp. 60–68.
20 See Carruthers, Book of Memory, pp. 18–55.
21 Rhetorica ad Herennium, trans. by Harry Caplan (Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press, 1954), III.xvi.29–III.xviii.30.
13 ELIZABETH BISHOP’S HOUSE IN THE MIND … 205
A junk-room, a store-room, or attic, where I could keep and had kept, all
my life the odds and ends that took my fancy […] If one had such a place
to throw things into, like a sort of extra brain, and a chair in the middle
of it to go and sit on once in a while, it might be a great help.24
22 See further Carruthers, Book of Memory, pp. 89–98, and ‘The Poet as Master-Builder:
Composition and Locational Memory in the Middle Ages’, New Literary History, 24
(1993), 881–904.
23 See for example Colwell, Inscrutable Houses; Ellis, Art and Memory; Herbert Marks,
‘Elizabeth Bishop’s Art of Memory’, Literary Imagination, 7 (2005), 197–224; and Brett
C. Millier, Elizabeth Bishop: Life and the Memory of It (Berkeley: University of California
Press, 1993).
24 Letter of 11 September 1940, quoted in Marilyn May Lombardi, The Body and the
Song: Elizabeth Bishop’s Poetics (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1995),
p. 171. The italics are mine. For nineteenth-century references to the mind as attic
or warehouse, which similarly indicate the persistence of the metaphor, see Ushashi
Dasgupta’s chapter in this volume, especially note 6.
206 J. GRIFFITHS
might enter, and although Bishop does not specify what kind of ‘help’ it
would provide, her description of it as a place where the past is encoun-
tered in the form of physical entities suggests that it provides raw material
for the writer: the imagistic stuff of which she makes narrative, or art.
By extension, the houses in ‘The Sea & Its Shore’ and ‘The End of
March’ where Boomer and Bishop store and contemplate material from
the outside world might be read in a similar way: not just as Bachelardian
shelters, contemplation of which prompts a day-dream of the life of the
mind, but—like the memory chambers of faculty psychology—as images
of the mind itself.
This reading is confirmed by the poem that immediately follows ‘The
End of March’ in Geography III . ‘Objects & Apparitions’ is an English-
language version of a poem by Octavio Paz; it is the only one of Bishop’s
translations to be included in any of her poetry collections, and its juxta-
position with ‘The End of March’ in a volume whose order was the
subject of careful consideration suggests that there is a strong connection
between the two.25 The poem is a response to the work of Joseph Cornell
(1903–1972), the solitary New York-based artist famous for his box-
constructions, in which collections of significant objects were gathered
together. Bishop writes of them as:
25 For the structure of Geography III , see Eleanor Cook, Elizabeth Bishop at Work
(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2016), pp. 208–48; for ‘The End of March’
and ‘Objects & Apparitions’, see pp. 241–46.
26 After a long period of relative neglect, there has recently been renewed interest
in Cornell. Good selections of his work may be found in Joseph Cornell: Shadow-
play … Eterniday (London: Thames & Hudson, 2003); Joseph Cornell: Wanderlust
(London: Royal Academy of Arts, 2015); and Deborah Solomon, Utopia Parkway: The
Life and Work of Joseph Cornell (London: Jonathan Cape, 1997) provides biographically
contextualised discussion.
13 ELIZABETH BISHOP’S HOUSE IN THE MIND … 207
27 William Benton identifies Bishop’s art-works ‘Feather Box’ and ‘Anjinhos’ as showing
Cornell’s influence (Exchanging Hats: Elizabeth Bishop: Paintings [New York: Farrar,
Straus and Giroux, 1996], pp. 48–49, 50–51); in view of his fondness for the slot machine
motif, and Bishop’s reference to his ‘slotmachine of visions’ in ‘Objects & Apparitions’, ‘E.
Bishop’s Patented Slot-Machine’ (Exchanging Hats, pp. 76–77) should probably also be
included in that category. Consonances between Bishop and Cornell have also been noted
by Costello, Planets, p. 106; Ernesto Suárez-Toste, ‘“Telling It Slant”: The “Healthier”
Surrealism of Elizabeth Bishop and Joseph Cornell’, Revista Canaria de Estudios Ingleses,
42 (2001), 279–88.
28 Bishop, Collected Prose, pp. 182, 185, 187.
208 J. GRIFFITHS
29 Shadowplay, p. 136.
30 Shadowplay, p. 152; Wanderlust, pp. 204–5.
31 Shadowplay, pp. 144–45.
32 Carruthers, Book of Memory, pp. 42–44; Shadowplay, p. 144.
33 See for example L’Humeur Vagabonde (Shadowplay, pp. 146–47).
13 ELIZABETH BISHOP’S HOUSE IN THE MIND … 209
mind. For Cornell, as for Bishop in ‘In Prison’, the containing architec-
ture enables the transformative work of memory and imagination that
occurs there. The birds in Untitled [Aviary with Cockatoo and Corks]
and Untitled [Aviary with Parrot and Drawers], snugly housed among
neat compartments that hold miscellaneous yet carefully ordered objects,
represent both the artist in the confines of his underground studio and the
thought-processes by which he makes its contents meaningful, collapsing
the distinction between the two.34
Bishop’s house in ‘The End of March’ is similarly both product and
emblem of the writer’s mind, and it is not surprising that her imagined
inhabitation of it contains a memory of Cornell. This occurs at the point
where she pictures herself in the house after dark:
The image she conjures here again seems to speak directly to Bachelard,
who observes that:
The lamp in the window is the house’s eye and, in the kingdom of the
imagination, it is never lighted out-of-doors, but is enclosed light, which
can only filter to the outside […] It will always symbolize solitude.35
dispersed, the reflected image of the flame connects Bishop in her dream-
house with her description of Cornell contemplating his boxes in ‘Objects
& Apparitions’:
These lines particularly emphasise the isolation of the artist, not only
through the comparison to an all-creating God, but also through refer-
ence to the ‘inner eye’. In an earlier poem in Geography III , ‘Crusoe in
England’, Bishop’s Crusoe recalls how, on his island, there were gaps in
his memory of the books he had read before he was cast away. He gives
as an example his inability to complete a line of Wordsworth’s:
the room in the painting could almost be the interior of the proto-dream-
house; its dominant feature is a long extension cord that leads from the
table lamp up one wall, across the ceiling, and out through a hole in
the opposite wall.38 In the poem, as in the painting, the wire (at least
in principle) connects the house to the outside world. By observing it, it
seems that Bishop is undercutting her own picture of idealised isolation,
just as Henri Lefebvre undercut Bachelard’s vision of the night-lit house
as emblem of solitude when he argued that the house may be imagined
as permeated from every direction by ‘streams of energy which run in
and out of it […] water, gas, electricity, telephone lines […] and so on’,
rendering it ‘a complex of mobilities, a nexus of in and out conduits’.39
Yet for Bishop it is mentioning the wire that prompts her to dismiss the
whole fantasy of living there. Just as the surprisingly small lamp in ‘Inte-
rior’ is dominated entirely by the ropey length of cord that will allow it to
function, the limp wire in ‘The End of March’ implies that outside sources
of illumination must be laboriously contrived, and may be unreliable.
In contrast, the light that Bishop imagines in the window is one that
needs no wiring: it is not artificial, but a living, breathing flame. As some-
thing that could not exist without oxygen, it recalls and counters the
indrawn landscape of the beginning of the poem; whereas the limp leash
of electricity line recalls the flightless string that was giving up the ghost,
the flame signals the resurgence of inspiration and metaphorical as well as
literal illumination. Again, the image is only dubiously confident: burning
off the alcohol in Bishop’s rum, the flame ominously brings to mind
Boomer’s alcoholism and his repeated burning of his papers in ‘The Sea
& Its Shore’, and thus calls into question the writer’s ability to make sense
of her material. Yet it appears as the culmination of the poet’s negotiations
between inner and outer worlds in her dream-house, and it too is liminal:
being ‘diaphanous’, or translucent, it allows the things of the world to
show through. It thus anticipates the technique by which Bishop gives
38 Bishop, Exchanging Hats, pp. 42–43; for discussion of the painting as an unofficial
poetics, see Lavinia Greenlaw, ‘Interior with Extension Cord’, in Strong Words: Modern
Poets on Modern Poetry, ed. by W. N. Herbert and Matthew Hollis (Tarset: Bloodaxe
Books, 2000), pp. 274–76. Cf. also Anderson’s analysis of Bishop’s depiction of wires
and cables (‘Story of the Eye’, pp. 171–72). For a wider discussion of Bishop’s poetry in
relation to her paintings, see Costello, Planets, pp. 79–106; she also considers Cornell’s
work (pp. 107–41).
39 Henri Lefebvre, The Production of Space, trans. by Donald Nicholson-Smith (Oxford:
Blackwell, 1991), p. 93.
212 J. GRIFFITHS
Stephanie Norgate
1 Stephanie Norgate, The Blue Den (Tarset: Bloodaxe Books, 2012), pp. 9, 11, 12, 15,
57. Cf. Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space, trans. by Maria Jolas, 2nd edn (New York:
Penguin, 2014), Chapter 7 ‘Miniature’ and Chapter 8 ‘Intimate Immensity’ (pp. 167–99
and 202–26 respectively).
S. Norgate (B)
University of Chichester, Chichester, UK
2 Philip Larkin, ‘Days’, in The Whitsun Weddings (London: Faber, 1983), p. 27.
3 Bachelard, Poetics of Space, p. 50.
4 Norgate, Blue Den, p. 50.
14 ‘THE MIND IN THE HOUSE’ OR THE ‘HOUSE IN THE MIND’ … 215
He’s painted all the doors blue with the old paint
he found, the day the girls turned from him.
It’s harder to fade into the sky than into the sea,
however many blue coats he puts on.
The initial impetus for writing ‘The Blue Den’ was a photograph. I choose
not to name the photograph because the poem has diverged from its
source to become its own entity; I don’t wish to impose the poem’s
unsettling implications onto the photographer’s work. Though, in order
to trace the making of this particular ‘house in the mind’, I do need to
describe some of the imagery present in the original artwork. The pho-
tograph depicts a shack made of doors and pallets, painted in various
shades of blue and roofed by a blue tarpaulin. The shack stands on a
shingle shore, near the tide line. The horizon, electricity wires, and tide
line seem to offer a choice of differing perspectives, as if subjective inter-
pretations are embedded in the protagonist’s mindset. Ragged flags fly
from flagpoles around the shack, as if someone has claimed territory in
this sea-rattled location. The wild setting of the blue den conjured King
216 S. NORGATE
5 Nick Willing (director), Paula Rego: Secrets and Stories, BBC 4, 25 March 2017.
14 ‘THE MIND IN THE HOUSE’ OR THE ‘HOUSE IN THE MIND’ … 217
7 Another house was removed in 2014, further diminishing the terrace of cottages we
saw in 2010.
14 ‘THE MIND IN THE HOUSE’ OR THE ‘HOUSE IN THE MIND’ … 219
A nest-house is never young. […] We dream of coming back to it, the way
a bird comes back to its nest. […] This sign of return marks an infinite
number of daydreams, for the reason that human returning takes place in
the great rhythm of human life, a rhythm that reaches back across the years
and, through the dream, combats all absence. An intimate component of
faithful loyalty reacts upon the related images of nest and house.8
I was interested to discover, though, that the rejection of the wasps’ nest
in my poem’s house becomes a rejection of intimacy and return:
‘the houses that were lost forever continue to live in us’ can be applied to
the addressee, the house’s final owner on the beach.9 The couple’s love
relationship forms the overarching dream, without which the constituent
parts of the house cannot live. Bachelard says:
Later in the poem, the house suggests that the lover reassemble its struc-
ture piece by piece in order to regain his remembered contact with the
beloved:
As the imperatives and direct address reveal, the house invites the
reader/lover to reconstitute the house in the imagination but, without
the overarching dream of love, this reconstruction would be impossible.
The House
between the now and the then, with the old life heard
away in the hills, a faint singing of owls.
Yellow is for the sun, and the dog down the hill
quick in its kennel behind the blackthorn
and barking diffusely.
© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive 225
license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2020
J. Griffiths and A. Hanna (eds.), Architectural Space
and the Imagination, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-36067-2
Index
© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive 227
license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2020
J. Griffiths and A. Hanna (eds.), Architectural Space
and the Imagination, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-36067-2
228 INDEX
painting capital
‘Interior with Extension Cord’, material, 104
210 spiritual, 104, 110
poems Carruthers, Mary, 8, 103, 204, 205,
‘Crusoe in England’, 210 208
‘Objects & Apparitions’, 206, Cassiodorus, 8
207, 210 Caulier, Achille, 99
‘Sestina’, 197 Cavendish, Lady Margaret, 13–15,
‘The End of March’, 14, 184–195
198–203, 206, 207, 209, Poems, and Fancies , 184, 185, 189,
211 192, 194
‘The Monument’, 200
Certeau, Michel de, 42, 44, 45, 122,
story
123
‘The Sea & Its Shore’, 202,
Chartier, Alain, 95, 99
206, 207, 211
Christ, 80, 81, 105, 106, 109,
Blake, William, 173, 179
111–115, 140
Bloodaxe Books, 16, 201, 211, 213,
217 Church (as institution), 77, 81
body, 14, 19, 40, 64, 76, 78, 85–92, class, 4, 15, 123, 221. See also social
94, 96–98, 100, 106, 108, 115, class
125, 136, 152, 156, 185–188, closet, 182–185, 188–190
217 closet study, 185
human, 48, 86, 88, 89, 93, 156, Codex Amiatinus, 10, 70, 73, 76
186 cognitive ecology, 187
in relation to place, 85, 87–90, Collis, Margot, 170
94, 100, 217, 218. See also colonialism, 149, 150, 157
anatomy, human commemoration, 87, 90, 92, 93. See
Book of Margery Kempe, The, 11, 103, also memory
111, 112, 116 concealment, 24, 135, 141, 152
Book to a Mother, 104 confession, 110
Bouchet, Jean, 86, 87, 90, 91 Cook, Eleanor, 174, 206
brain (as cabinet), 13, 186, 191 Coole Park, 165, 171, 172, 176–179
bricolage, 13 Cornell, Joseph (works), 14, 15, 198,
Brideshead (fictional house), 3 206–208, 210, 212
Brinnin, John Malcolm, 198 Grand Hotel de l’Observatoire, 207
Brontë, Emily, 36
Hotel de l’Etoile, 207
Observatory Corona Borealis
C Casement , 208
cabinet, 13, 14, 138, 139, 182–195 The Caliph of Bagdad, 207
Calvino, Italo, 12, 58, 132, 133, Toward the Blue Peninsula, 208
136–139, 141–146 Untitled [Aviary with Cockatoo and
candle, 109 Corks], 209
INDEX 229
Untitled [Aviary with Parrot and electricity lines, 210, 211. See also
Drawers], 209 wires, electric
Untitled [Dovecote American epitaph, 86, 91, 92, 94, 100, 175
Gothic], 208 Eve, 104, 122, 188
corpse, 86, 88, 89, 93, 96, 100
Croft, Jo, 2, 4
F
fancy, 190, 191, 194
D feng-shui, 35, 38
Deane, Seamus, 175, 176 fire, 20, 31, 32, 43, 173, 213,
Debussy, Claude, 35 221–224
De Claustro Animae, 104 five-dimensionality, 54, 57, 58, 64, 65
De Doctrina Cordis , 102, 110 five senses, 186
den, 214–217 flags, 94, 215, 216
Desiderio, Monsu, 145 Fleming, Paul, 134
Dickens, Charles (works), 11, 12, 15, folly, 214, 218
117–129 Forster, E.M., 36, 40
David Copperfield, 12, 117, 120, Fouilloy, Hugh of, 104
123, 126, 127, 129 foundations, 5, 6, 9, 12, 71, 77, 104,
120, 121, 123, 124, 126, 127
Dombey and Son, 125, 126
free verse, 169, 170
Great Expectations , 12, 120, 121,
129
Hard Times , 119 G
Little Dorrit , 119 Garrard, Greg, 161
Martin Chuzzlewit , 123, 125 ghost, 36, 97, 198, 199, 211
Pickwick Papers , 119, 124, 126 Giedion, Sigfried, 55, 63
Doctrine of the Heart, The, 110 Gijsbrechts, Franciscus, 138–140
domesticity, 102, 103, 105, 107, 111, Gloucester, Duke of (character in
112, 114 Shakespeare’s King Lear), 216
doors, 11, 22, 24, 30, 65, 110, 138, Góngora, Luis de, 135, 144, 145
209, 215, 216, 221, 223, 224 granary, 106, 107
dovecote, 6–8, 13, 21, 208 Gregory, Lady Augusta, 165, 171,
dream, 4, 14, 40, 48, 49, 121, 176–178
122, 128, 132, 133, 137, 142, Gregory, Margaret, 171
143, 146, 172, 200, 202, 214, Gryphius, Andreas, 139
219–222
Du Jenne amoureux sans soucy, 99
H
Hadfield, Andrew, 152, 153, 155,
E 157
earring, 192, 194 Hap Hazard, 94, 152, 153, 155, 156.
economy, domestic, 109 See also Kilcolman Castle
230 INDEX
Hardy, Thomas, 178, 221, 222 house (as locus of emotion), 14, 23,
Harvard University, 7, 55, 85, 157, 40, 48, 58, 65, 70, 82, 172, 218,
204, 206 219, 221
Hauteville, Pierre de, 11, 86, 88, house (as metaphor for the
95–97, 99 imagination), 9, 11, 102, 201
Heaney, Seamus, 13, 149, 150, house (as refuge), 4, 14, 214, 217,
157–166, 179 223
essays house (drawings of), 223
‘From Maecenas to MacAlpine’, house (haunted), 33, 43, 48
164, 165 household, 11, 60, 96, 100–103,
‘Frontiers of Writing’, 159 105–107, 110–113, 115, 116,
poems 182, 185, 188, 189
‘Bog Oak’, 149 house (imaginary), 6, 12, 14, 26, 30,
59, 69, 70, 102, 111, 204. See
‘Digging’, 161
also architectures (imagined)
‘Follower’, 163
house (metaphor for the mind), 2, 5,
‘In Gallarus Oratory’, 159
9, 13, 15, 102, 119, 211
‘Night-Piece’, 159 housemistress, 186. See also housewife
‘Scaffolding’, 162 house (of God), 10, 70–72, 77, 79,
‘Thatcher’, 162 81, 82
‘The Diviner’, 162 housewife, 103, 185, 188. See also
‘The Forge’, 159 housemistress
‘The Gift of Rain’, 163
‘The Outlaw’, 159
heart, 104–106, 109–113, 115, 185, I
186, 189, 191 Il Gesu (church in Rome), 140
heart (as home), 11, 102, 109, 110, imagination, 2–5, 7, 9–16, 32, 54,
115 118, 127, 129, 132, 144, 145,
Heavenly City, 10, 71, 80 169, 171, 185, 190–194, 198,
Heidegger, Martin, 3–5, 12, 47, 73, 200, 205, 209, 210, 212, 214,
160–162, 166 220
heimlich, 221. See also unheimlich inspiration, 7, 51, 199, 211, 217
Hobsbaum, Philip, 164 interior, 107, 168, 186, 197,
200–202, 211–213, 221–223
Holmes, H.H., 34
inventiveness, 7, 19, 128
Holy Family, 104
Ireland, 13, 149–155, 159, 160, 165,
Holy of Holies, 79
167, 176
home (as symbol), 103, 113, 116
Ishiguro, Kazuo, 36
homeliness, 11, 103, 112, 115
Hopps, Walter, 208
hotels, 1, 34, 207, 208 J
house (as devotional space), 11 James, P.D., 36
house (as gendered space), 2, 3 Jerusalem, 10, 72, 79, 81, 82, 109
INDEX 231
Nature (as goddess), 134, 182, 188 poetics, 10, 11, 13, 14, 54, 88,
Nature’s Cabinet Unlock’d, 181 132, 150, 158, 163, 164,
nest, 200, 214, 219 166, 169–171, 173, 175, 185,
New Testament, 70, 77, 81 188–190, 192, 194, 195, 198,
Nomè, François, de, 145 211, 212
Norgate, Stephanie (works), 14, 15, Pozzo, Andrea, 137, 140–142
213, 214, 222 promenade architecturale, 55, 63
‘Ant to Sky’, 213
‘Fallen House to Final Owner’,
213, 218
Hidden River, 217, 221 Q
‘Man Walking, after Giacometti’, Quevedo, Francisco de, 132
213 quincunx, 159
‘Stream to Ice’, 213 Quintilian, 7
‘Three Definitions of Volume’, 221
Northern Ireland, 149, 161
R
O Racton Tower, 218
object-identities, 74 Racz, Imogen, 2
Old Testament, 10, 70, 71, 78, 79, rain, 174, 202
81 Ralegh, Sir Walter, 125, 151, 154
O’Reilly, Jennifer, 70–72, 77, 80 Ramirez, Janina, 77
original (opposed to simulacrum), 74 Read, Bill, 198
Orlin, Lena Cowen, 183 refuge, 4, 14, 44, 128, 156, 214, 216,
ottava rima, 172–178 217, 223
Rego, Paula, 216, 217
Reid, B.L., 178, 179
P
Renaissance, 75, 135, 152, 171, 176,
Pandora’s box, 181, 188
194
Peeters, Clara, 134, 135
renovated dwellings, 13
Pemberley (fictional house), 3
renting, 120, 124. See also tenancy
perceptions, 40, 53–55, 57, 58, 64,
Rhetorica ad Herennium, 8, 204
75, 87, 93, 132, 134, 136, 141,
145, 187, 189, 192, 193 Richardson, Phyllis, 3
Perry, Gill, 2 Ricketts, Charles, 168
Phenomenology, 4, 9, 14, 38, 40, 70, Ricoeur, Paul, 41–43, 46, 47
73, 82 Riversdale, 177
photography, 2, 6, 215, 217, 218 Rome, 59, 71, 77, 81, 82, 137, 140
Piranesi, Giovanni, 35, 44 Rowley Hall, 26, 27, 29, 31, 32
Plato, 8 Rowley, Mervyn, 26, 29, 32
Pliny the Younger, 9, 54, 58, 59, 64 Rowley, Vera, 26
poeisis , 194 Rowley, Walter, 26, 29, 30, 32
INDEX 233
W Y
warmth, 7, 60, 221, 223 Yeats, George, 167
wealth, 101, 103, 109, 221 Yeats, W.B. (works), 13, 160, 167–179
Wearmouth and Jarrow, monastery of, ‘A General Introduction to my
71, 76, 77 Work’, 169
Wellesley, Dorothy, 170, 171 ‘An Acre of Grass’, 177–179
wind (likened to thought), 19 ‘Coole Park, 1929’, 176
windows, 31, 32, 36, 40, 57, 65, 80, ‘Meditations in Time of Civil War’,
126, 142, 146, 167, 168, 202, 172, 174
203, 208, 209, 222 Memoirs , 171
wires, electric, 215 The Tower, 160, 169, 172
wit, 186, 189 The Winding Stair, 169
Woodman, Francesca (works),
217–219
Providence Island, 217 Z
Space 2, 217 Zapata, Carlos, 2, 3
Woolf, Virginia, 36 Zumthor, Peter, 9, 38, 54, 58, 59,
Word (of God), 82. See also Logos 61–64