"Is nothing sacred?!"

This cry went up in a class this week.

We were using Alice in Wonderland as a springboard text to discuss other things, but there was some serious objection to 'studying' (that is, rigorous questioning, finding out, and thinking about) a book that people had read as young (ish) children. The idea behind the objection, I think, was a horror that the original childhood impressions of the magical tale might be overwritten with the intrusion of adult eyes; the child's brain had been put in a sparkly pink box (or perhaps a more fitting slightly sinister one, given the weirdness of Alice) and was Not To Be Touched.

The Annotated Alice text exacerbated this problem - it's a fantastic and eclectic peering at Carroll's stories through every conceivable kind of eyes - the historical, the mathematical and physical, the cultural, the literary, the adult...But this was, it seemed, just too much information; too intrusive, too questioning, too learned and - God forbid! - perhaps even reading too much into the stories. Hang on a minute, isn't that the line Literature students (of all levels of experience and competence) walk along all the time? But because this text was in some way held sacred, because of childhood experience, the tolerence level dropped completely - 'You are not touching this text, this memory', Tolerence hissed, 'It's mine. My precious...' (Gollum was there too).

I have to admit I was irritated, because - when it comes to the study of Literature (and other things) - I do not think that anything should be protected from questioning. Nothing is sacred when it comes to academia (however microscopically tiny that academia might be). I'm here to ask questions, and to keep on answering them until something relents, or I realise it's a stupid question, or I die. I am not here to pussy-foot around people's fluffy constructions of what they think a book was about once. That is not at all interesting.

There is something intensely annoying about Arts students (in this sense, Literature, Music and Art) who will only go as far as - or are content to stop at - a feeling about something. I'm not denying that certain arts can make humans react in an emotional (or irrational, though I'm not using those two things synonymously) way, but I am saying that that is absolutely not what studying the arts is about. Or, if it is, I'm definitely doing the wrong thing. The absence of a desire to scrutinise is incomprehensible, to me, in people who are otherwise enviably bright. If they want to hold onto a cute idea of what certain texts are, it's perhaps questionable whether they're studying the right subject. Or maybe I'm studying the wrong one. Why not give Lolita or Bleak House to a kid, ask them what it's about, and leave it at that? Because that doesn't work. Et voila, nor does that attitude to Alice. Grow up - or at least be open to the possibility that there might be a giant rabbithole even in adult life.

Interventions

I wanted to write about the current situation in Burma at the moment, because it's frightening and big and all over the media. But it seems too big for me to get a handle on, so I'll take a more oblique look (that is, talk about something almost entirely different).

When things such as Burma's protests happen, something that comes up a lot is the idea of international intervention: just how much should the rest of the world do about something going on in another country? There are wars going on across the whole planet caused by one government's trying to intervene with another, or one group attempting to impose its idea of Right upon another. War is generally not a good thing, so we might say that extreme intervention (involving waging war) is Wrong (because it impacts too much upon people - civilians - who have no real power to change their country's situation). On the other hand, though, I do think that some things are just unacceptable and that a lack of intervention (of come kind) is reprehensible. Obviously this means I do not adhere to the belief that everyone should be able to do whatever the hell they like, regardless of the impact on other people - it's a possible standpoint but not, in my view, a valid one. I do, therefore, think that intervention (of some kind) is a necessity.

But when?

This is a bit twee, maybe, but that's not important. A very well-known poem by Martin Niemoller quietly highlights many problems:

First they came for the Jews
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for the Communists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Communist.
Then they came for the trade unionists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for me
and there was no one left
to speak out for me.

Of those "many", though, the one that interests me is the end result of the lack of intervention. Not really the fact that eventually "They" will come and get "me" (that doesn't really factor anywhere in my thinking about this, probably because I'm fortunate enough never to have been victimised in the large-scale way this poem is concerned with), but the downward slope, caused by lack of intervention, leading to the victory of "They".

So take a smaller example. In the pub last night there was a young Polish woman working behind the bar and a (probably) drunken bloke walked in and started hurling abuse at her (I say "probably" drunk, because it explains his disproportionate behaviour - though obviously doesn't justify it). This abuse centred on three traits: (1) Her professionalism [refusal to serve him because he was already pissed, and very rude]; (2) Her sex; (3) Her non-Englishness. The disagreement about (1) I can understand (if not sympathise with) - he was drunk, prior to his arrival, and wanted more alcohol; the abuse relating to (2) was offensive but could perhaps be passed off as just a standard way to insult women - it annoyed me, but only because it was generally insulting (i.e. he was drunk, and expressing himself in the coarsest way possible. Fine). But when he got onto (3) I decided that was enough; probably because it was, by then, personal to the person he was attacking. It seems a bit odd that (3) provoked me into action, despite the fact that what I have in common with her is (2). I'm not sure why that is.
This was all happening extremely loudly and quite physically, in a pub that was in complete silence otherwise (his shouting saw to that). So, at the point (3) reared its head, I got up and asked him to leave - which he did (though probably not because I asked him - he could easily have knocked me out, I don't have the figure of a bouncer...), after calling me a "Medieval whore"*.
None of this made me angry. What made me angry was the group of business 'gentlemen' standing around the bar the whole time this was going on, and not one of them said a word. They stood, glasses in hand (and sober), watching in silence. That was it, that was their reaction; to watch it. The ignorant, drunk, yelling bloke was just that (a fairly harmless, though volatile, arsehole) but the silentwatching 'gentlemen' were, to me, morally disgusting and socially dangerous. On the bloke's exit from the pub one of the besuited businessmen made some cute placatory remark to him -- WHY? (I actually think the answer to this is that he was scared of being hit). I hope at least one or two of those blokes feels suitably embarrassed that they didn't step in, even when it was beginning to get physical.

Was I overreacting? Should I have stood and let it happen like the others? Did I take too much of a risk? (Probably, physically speaking). Am I right in being furious about the others' apathy/cowardice? Is self-preservation more important? I believe in freedom of expression...but does that belief extend to expressing yourself in such an offensive and disruptive way (I was, after all, trying to enjoy a nice evening in the pub!)? Do I have any right to get on my moral high-horse? (Probably not) Why did it bother me anyway?

Lots of questions.
As I said above, I think intervention (of some kind) a necessity; a necessity, that is, for retaining a sense of our own principles. There comes a point where everyone will make a stand (even if only for themselves, eventually), and it is that point, I think, that helps define us. It's not a linear thing, and not everyone's priorities will be in the same area, but it's where we say "no", isn't it, that makes us more than automatons? The point at which I say "no" isn't necessarily a Right one, but I'm reassured that I at least have one. I suspect Stanley Milgram would have had something to say about those gentlemen-in-suits...oh wait, he already said it: we're screwed, probably.

Of course it's a whole different can of worms to ask how we know if our principles/interventions are the Right ones. If we follow a principle of luxurious self-gratification we'd take a different tack to someone upholding the importance of the biological (reproductive) imperative, or a societal ideal of one kind or another. Who's to say which is the Right one? For now, I'd just like to think that everyone has some kind of guiding principle - that would be a start.

-----------
* "Medieval whore" did make me laugh (though not at the time, as I was wondering at that instant if he was actually going to hit me). It's probably the best drunken insult I've heard - and a surprising one, given the 'type' of bloke it seemed to be coming from. I would perhaps have preferred "dissembling luxurious drab" (Troilus & Cressida), but beggars can't be choosers!

Nonsenses, plural.

One annoyance:
Why can't politicians just answer the occasional question with a Yes or a No, if one of those will suffice? That party politics has obscured sense is quite evident when a question such as "Do you agree with this very common-sense and really quite true thing?" is answered with equivocation, evasion, and another question.
I wake up to the Today Programme, which is most definitely the best reportage around, but it also has the unusual ability to get me riled before 6.30am. Impressive.

On a completely different note:
You know it's a good beginning of term when the first academic emails you receive include instructions to (i) Read Lewis Carroll, and (ii) Write an essay on a subject that includes ducks in hats.
We have lift off!

In which single-word subjects cease.

It seems the best way to get through academic work (as well as being the best way for me to retain it), is to chat about it with people. Really, that's the only way anything gets anywhere. And it exercises the vocal chords, too -- going days without speaking to anyone does happen on occasion, but then re-entering the social world is something of a stressful experience.

Why say this now? Mainly because I've recently been exchanging emails with a couple of People Wot Read. I'd got a bit stuck with the Interminable Essay and my ideas were going round and round but not turning off anywhere, and they've really helped -- not because they know more about the subject (for once), but because they ask good questions. It's all about the questions. Questions from people who know more about it are scary, and serve their very handy purpose -- but that's for later; at the moment, to thrash an idea out in its preliminary stages, just 'innocent' questions often do the trick. More often than not it just seems to involve defining and refining the terms -- just as well, really, or I'd never make any sense.

Talking to the cat is also good. He is very patient, and pretends to understand (or pretends not to -- not quite sure which). Though the fact his favourite toy is one of my old socks probably doesn't say much for his intelligence. Never mind; I was rather fond of that sock too.

Introductions

What is the purpose of an Introduction to a work of fiction?

I'm sure every editor has asked exactly that question before writing an intro (or before commissioning someone else to do so), but there certainly doesn't seem to have been an agreement anywhere. So it seems reasonable enough to ask it again. An introducing of something presumes -- doesn't it? -- that the thing being introduced, and the thing being introduced to have not met previously. Otherwise they'd be called "Reintroductions", or "Reminders". Reading decent editions of texts, though, often means being faced with (or outfaced by) a 'scholarly' introduction complete with obscure references to little things within the text, and a bamboozling array of facts (be they critical, historical, political, chronological or anything elseical). These very clever, very carefully researched critical essays are a great resource, but I don't think they serve well as introductions. They often don't make any sense whatsoever to readers coming to the text for the first time; which is surely self-defeating on the part of the introduction?

It very much depends on who is writing it. In the vast number of publications of the two editions I most frequently use (Oxford World's Classics, and Penguin) there is great variation in the apparent intentions, and end results, of the introductions. Some seem barely more than plot summaries (this is sometimes useful, because I am Not Good at remembering names of characters so it's a quick reminder; on the other hand, it doesn't tell you more than the text proper could); some are academic hard-ons (probably great fun for the writer, but a little uncomfortable for the audience); some get the balance better and provide information giving insight, but not so much that the all-important text itself is obscured behind academia so dense it causes all but the most trained eye to glaze over.

It must be a difficult balance to strike.
As I see it, an introduction should be like good gossip: more information than the original source can (or wants to) give you, but not so much sordid detail that you feel as if you're bitching unnecessarily.

Translations

This has nothing to do with Brian Friel's play of the same name.

I just noticed yesterday that I talk to myself, at great length, when I translate texts. This is embarrassing. Must remember not to do that in libraries.
And why? I don't chatter on when I'm doing other types of work. It's like the Medieval and Anglo-Saxon parts of my brain are situated somewhere outside my head, and I have to establish dialogue to use the informations therein. My floating languages brain. Strange.

Limax

Scattered things, from a bear of very little brain:

1) Limax means "slug". Somehow I find it very satisfying that such a strange little animal should have a Latin name (why I'm surprised, I don't know - but I've never wondered what that name was before). Next time I stand on one with bare feet (that is, me with bare feet, not the slug. It only has one foot), I shall exclaim: "Ghastly limax!" instead of the usual "Fucking slimeball". The study of slugs is "limacology". If I have a (dramatic) change of heart re: career, I might endeavour to become a limacologist. As it is, I'm heading more towards being "limaciform" [slug-like]. Fantastic word.

2) Fugues, fugues, fugues. I'm meant to be doing an English degree, right? Apparently this involves me teaching myself all that music theory again so I can attempt to form a coherent argument about a book. It is, of course, a good challenge and I'm enjoying it a lot. But I really wish I'd carried on with it earlier (ah, the joy of retrospect) - I only studied it up to the required level in order to continue with my practical instrumental exams...and that was when I was 12...Anyway, I've always hated playing fugues on the piano - have never been able to get my head (and fingers) round them when they're more than 3 parts. But playing with the theory is quite a different matter, and allows me to read brilliant books that aren't just about the music side of things (a Good Thing, because I am NOT doing a music degree!) . Particularly Hofstadter's Godel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid, which makes much more sense now than it did 7 years ago. (A relief). Leading to...

3) ...fugues, seuguf, fugues...An inevitable result of my reading about and taking apart fugues again is a renewed attempt to play them. It's not proving much more successful than before, but I'm enjoying it more (certainly the result of the non-presence of Evil Piano Teacher).

4) Volunteering to make the committee T-shirts for College seemed like a good idea months ago. Two weeks before going back it is no longer such a great idea. Whoops! I like my design, but getting it onto the shirts [a] in time and [b] without making a huge mess is going to be a hassle.

5) A warning from the Hofstadter book above, which rings worryingly in relation to my Interminable Essay (of which, without doubt, more later - it's not submitted till April, so plenty of time for dithering and moaning about it): "It is of course important to try to maintain consistency, but when this effort forces you into a stupendously ugly theory, you know something is wrong." Quite. I shall keep an eye out for stupendous ugliness. Good way of putting it.

Intolerability?

I've been thinking about the concept of tolerance recently, or more specifically the point at which things should or could become intolerable. Not the kind of 'tolerance' Slavoj Zizek refers to in his comment that 'Tolerance makes everything boring, we need more conflict!'; though he does have some very interesting things to say about political [in]tolerance and what that action/non-action/non-engagement (of any kind) means in the real world. 'Why is the proposed remedy tolerance', he asks, 'rather than emancipation, political struggle, even armed struggle?' (for more, you could look at this PDF - from which the latter quotation is lifted - although reading any Zizek is worth it, and more often than not raises similar themes). That type of tolerance is of course implicit in any notion of intolerance or - particularly - intolerability, but it's tangential rather than central to my musings.

No, what I'm wondering is possibly more personal, and more concerned with one's actions once we decide something is (comparatively speaking) intolerable. How is the 'intolerable' defined? Turning to the OED:

1) That cannot be tolerated, borne, or put up with; unendurable, unbearable, insupportable, insufferable:
(a) Physically
(b) Mentally or morally

My interest is in sense (b) - that of the mentally/morally intolerable.
The danger with words like this is to slip into hyperbole or overstatement. Doubtless I will, because very little is genuinely 'intolerable' - most things are, however unpleasantly, put-upable-with. In the case of physical pain, most often we lose consciousness or go into a deeper state of unconsciousness still and die; in the case of mental, the extreme includes going mad (a type of unconsciousness, or at least a different consciousness) or committing suicide.

Assuming that there is little we can do about the real mental intolerabilities, chemicals running rampant through our bodies and brains to an extent which no drugs or reason can touch, and that really cause madness in the sufferer - in which case that might be argued to be 'tolerable in a different state', as the mind is forced to entirely change in order to accommodate said rampant chemical or state; though of course if a complete and unalterable change must be implemented that probably means the thing that causes it really is intolerable, as if we can't keep some semblance of ourselves amidst our reaction we aren't really managing very well to do much but breathe and be an annoyance in society. So. Assuming that is the case, it's the moral intolerabilities that are interesting.

Essentially what I'm asking is, at what point do we stand up and say "No" to something we find abhorrent? When, "Stop"? When is the line crossed between personally offensive and societally worrying? Does one of these matter more than another? Who gets to deem something 'societally worrying', anyway? The government? (Hopefully not, or suicide really is the only option given I can't will myself mad). As is often the case, what provoked this train of thought was something superficially quite mild (though, as always, it boils down to The State Of The World etc.): The News. Media. Reportage.

I cannot stand watching the news. It makes me feel physically sick. Everything about it: the way the newsreaders speak; inane/insulting/ignorant questions asked of the 'roving reporters' or commentators; the images it's deemed fitting to show to accompany the godawful scripts; the intrusion of reporters/photographers into the lives of normal (or even not-so-normal) people; the priorities of headlines down to items less 'newsworthy'; the very concept of newsworthiness. I can't remember the last time I managed to watch the news without walking out in disgust (and it's always walking out or turning off - changing channel is never an option because I'm always too riled). If the ridiculous scripts don't get to me first, the images do: I find them disgusting, morally. I hate the desperate scrabble to be closest to the scene of the latest bombing or war (can't it be reported safely away from the flying mortars?); to be the first to interview the surviving relatives of a "tragedy" (sometimes they really are tragedies, but on most occasions the word is used by the media the situation is not Tragic - get a sense of proportion) with insulting questions - "How do you feel about losing your entire family in the fire?", "What do you think about the Islamic terrorists who killed your father?"...to take the most shocking pictures of things we can imagine quite well ourselves, thank you very much.

This has gone on for years. I keep up to date with things current and political by reading newspapers because - just about - I can filter through the crap at my own pace, and am not too often out-faced by the appalling presentation of the horrific state of the world as 'glamorous'. The financial pages are quite calming, I find - numbers, ups and downs, games of business. (Though in the recent stock market mess those boundaries became uncomfortably blurred). So I flick between 'real news' and finance to stay sane. I also refuse to have a 'regular' paper, and consequently rotate the main broadsheets more or less regularly. If a tabloid is around, I'll flick through it to see what's being said, but I will never buy one - they have too much money for their crimes already. Listening to Radio 4's Today is good, as there's rarely one person saying their thing for too long, and even if they are there's often someone there to argue with them. This doesn't stop the stupid questions being asked, but it does provide more real balance than any visually-broadcast programme (all of which are shorter).

The other worry with visual news is our desensitisation to those images, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (War, Famine, Pestilence & Death). When I watched the news regularly (I stomached it between the ages of about 14 and 17), I simply got used to it. Now, it repulses me - physically and morally - because I'm not used to it (and, now, refuse to get used to it), and probably because the boundaries of acceptability have also changed. I don't want to feel comfortable looking at these things; I don't want them to be in my face until I shrug and say "that's life" or "oh look there's another war"; I don't ever want to see those images on the screen, belittled already by stupid or badly-advised commentators and reporters, and to have a disinterest - caused by familiarity - enough to simply flick over the channel to watch something more interesting or entertaining.

The media, reportage, 'News', is something that makes me really and constantly angry. About other things - about education (a subject close to my heart, mind and irritation), religion, politics, people - about these things I get a wee bit cross, I might rant a bit and let off steam, I might occasionally let out a yell of frustration. But mostly these things annoy me because what they are (at any given time) doesn't make sense, or people aren't thinking practically or sensibly (ever the logician...). Few things anger me without fail, and I rarely fail to see the good in things. Except in this case (and maybe one other, but that's not coming into the equation here). I find this situation intolerable - I cannot accept it, I can't live with it, I can't get out of my head the staggeringly detrimental effect it must be having in so many ways. An immediate reaction is to avoid it, to avoid The News (particularly visual, remember) - but this isn't a solution; it's a bit like hiding under a bed when things are going wrong, as you remove yourself from the problem but don't remove the problem itself.

And I can't find a way away from that anger (or, for any length of time, its cause). I can't commit myself to changing the system, because to do that would necessarily mean getting actively involved with it - something I simply can't do. It's not like it's one-sided reporting I'm so against, so I can't set up a rival organisation in an attempt to squash it. My inclination, always, is to tolerate everything within reason, and when the edge of reason arrives to take positive steps to change the situation causing (or containing) the intolerable. Very often this is a practical solution, and remarkably easy to implement (on a small scale. I've not yet figured out how to stop people killing each other on a worldwide stage...). But with this I'm stuck: I can't tolerate it because I find it so unutterably wrong, but I can't find a way to solve the problem.
Which means, I suppose, that I'll have to live with its intolerability (that, or suicide). But that itself is tolerating it, isn't it? Or is anger, constant anger, enough to count as a stand against the intolerable? And is it our moral duty (in whatever sense you want to interpret that - I have my own way, you will have yours) to remove ourselves from the influence of that we find intolerable, or to stop it? If the former, suicide looks an attractive (theoretical) option; but I'm always inclined towards the latter - changing things that are wrong (I live in hope, you see...). But what if I believe I can't change that particular thing (assuming that's realism talking, not pessimism - a constant debate, that)?

It's all circular, curious and infuriating. Maybe the ultimate defence mechanism is to slide into a stupor of not caring (or a stupor of ineffective but self-righteous anger, naturally!)? Then nothing is intolerable except the immediately personal, in which case there is no 'moral duty' to do anything, and one may slip quietly into unconsciousness through madness or suicide.
I don't know.

Gaps

Well, it appears what happens when Crumpetty gets really busy is...gaps. Big ones. Expect more. Never mind. Some things:

1) Attempting to read Rubin's The Hollow Crown was once more not successful (tried last year, too), and I'll probably give up. It's is not the best book about the Middle Ages, and made me a bit cross. Facts have a habit of being incredibly boring and unmemorable unless extremely carefully (and skilfully) presented, and that's unfortunately what happens in this book. I'm not one to shirk a challenge (unless it involves roller-coasters or shellfish), but I've decided there are better books about similar things. Such as...

2) ...Alison Weir's biography of Isabella, which is excellent. Weir has written a lot - on the bookshelves her output volume visually compares to that of Antonia Fraser (and they both write on very similar things, which might make for interesting comparison some time). Weir constructs biography and pieces together history very cleverly, and although her texts are laden with facts (with even brief endnotes coming close to 100 pages) the writing never feels heavy, confusing or dull. She weaves a good story; and although liberties are taken to bend [lack of] evidence to her will, it's not too annoying. I've just got hold of Eleanor of Aquitaine, too, and look forward to reading it. She's very recently branched out into historical fiction for the first time, with Innocent Traitor, centred around Lady Jane Grey - there's a possibility this might soon(ish) become a TV drama, so watch this space!

3) A week in very soggy Cambridge, hidden in cosy libraries and quiet spots. With endless thanks to LJJ for being a wonderful work companion, even (especially?) when we haven't a clue what each other is talking about! Some work needed a bit of a kick-start and that seemed a good place to do it. Lots of fun, and I managed to have An Idea - which so far has been resilient to crushing. It's probably only a matter of time until the Inevitable Problem occurs, but there is hope! A little grouse, though: people who write in library books. Little marks/comments/pictures in margins are fine, but one reader (and it was one) scribbled his (and it was most definitely a 'his') way through two entire volumes of a biography I was trying to read - this amounted to about 900 pages of MESS. Some paragraphs were unreadable because of his enthusiasm. Enough already.

4) I've come across an author who manages, quite uncannily, to write frighteningly relevant texts. The sentences seem to encapsulate everything that matters, and everything that doesn't. Not going to say who it is, or which books, because that would reveal more about my way of thinking about the world and myself than I will ever admit. I am curious to know if I feel the same way about the books in twenty years...Is this simply indicative of where I'm at now? Or what I fundamentally am? Presumably if the effect is indelible I'll remember to revisit the words to find out.

Justifiable

Work-avoidance is at its best served warm and justifiable - and as one of those lucky people who is interested in almost anything, justification is generally close to hand. Two things keeping me from being Little Miss Efficient today (whilst simultaneously teaching me some genuinely useful things):

1) Practicing reading Early-Modern scripts and manuscripts online. This is one of the most thoughtfully and effectively presented websites I've seen - it's fantastic! The idea is that one might learn and practice reading ye olde handwritings and scribal scratchings by following an impeccably designed and managed set of 'lessons', in which texts of differing complexities are transcribed. The site is maintained by Andrew Zurcher, who knows his and everyone else's stuff - an invaluable site for all Spenser nuts is also maintained by him (without which my Renaissance reading would [have] be[en] all the more anaemic). The handwriting site is an example of how the 'net can and should be put to best effect. That and YouTube, obviously.

2) First there was Pepys, now there's Roger Morrice. Well, not so much "now" as "there was also" - he's well dead. But a compatriot diary to Pepys' is very welcome; he's cited so much that it's good to have another text to go to, similar in form but different in content. This is fairly exciting, given I can already spend hours buried in a volume of Ypesp. It's always 'relevant', because I'm always reading something from the period (or thereabouts) - perfect procrastination, and with bonus educational benefits. A bit more information: here. When Newnham Library acquires the Morrice, that much less Real Work will get done - probably ought to pre-empt that by working now. Probably...

Miscalculation

It took me two days rather than one to get to the end of Richard III's reign - but what's one more day when this project has run a week over already? Actually, I'm not quite going to stop yet - though I've finished the 'learning' part of things for now - next stop is Miri Rubin's The Hollow Crown: A History of Britain in the late Middle Ages. Nothing like a bit of immediate consolidation...or it might be procrastination, but I'm not really sure what from, given that my dissertation's going to have its very own University Library Time next week! All this reading is highly relevant to the Medieval Lit Paper we'll be doing next term, but it feels like I'm indulging my fascination with hi-stories (or, in later periods, His-Tories) rather than Proper Books. Still, more than enough time for that, always.

What's got me gripped about this whole thing is the variation in reports of the period (say, mid-13th century till end of the 15th). There are inevitably big gaps in evidence, and so much of what we 'know' is formed by propaganda of the various factions - like the stories about Isabella (Edward II's queen), or Margaret of Anjou (Henry VI's queen), or Joan of Arc. It's not all about the women - Richard III is a weird and wonderful case in point there, and Henry V - but the woman are particularly interesting because they don't often speak for themselves. There are some letters - about which I know very little, and I've no idea how much they say - but the overwhelming majority of the Middle Ages is written by men. The same can be said for later periods, but far less so - from the 16th century aristocratic women start writing and existing (and sponsoring) much more, and though there are serious limitations those women have at least gained a kind of retrospective freedom: we can hear them. Some might have been respected by their contemporaries (Magdalene Herbert, for example - the poet George Herbert's mother, famous in her own right), but many were ignored or ridiculed or excluded (Margaret Cavendish might take some or all of those titles). The difference being that, however they were perceived at the time, their written words have given them a posterity and a chance at being re-evaluated by subsequent generations. The persons of Medieval women are much quieter, and much more dependent on their contemporary menfolk for their reputations. Never a good idea.

A pretty good book for a starting point is Mark Ormrod's The Kings and Queens of England. Each of the royal Houses constitutes a chapter, and each chapter is taken by a different academic. There is some pronoun confusion (is she the sister of him, or of him? Or the daughter of him?), which often happens when a writer knows far more about the subject than their reader. Ho hum - only a minor annoyance, and the gaps have been filled in from elsewhere. It's a densely written book, which is good for saving trees, but less good for a nice casual reading book - not a beach-read, unless you have an elephantine (or professorial) memory!

Lineage

Internet silence the last few days (a habit likely to continue in the run-up to Term and beyond), because I've been head-down in books about Medieval history - I've got as far as the Wars of the Roses and have to concentrate very hard for long stretches of text in order not to be utterly confused. Mainly because everyone's bloody called "Henry". At least in the Old Testament most people have different names (for a while, at least) - difficult, but different. The most you can hope for in the Middle Ages is that the eldest sons die so the next king's called something different. I'm really mainly focusing on the Houses of Plantagenet, Lancaster & York, but that's more than enough to go on for the time being - as it is I have post-it notes everywhere saying things like:

HENRY IV = HENRY BOLINGBROKE, EARL OF DERBY, RICHARD II's COUSIN. Opposed by HENRY PERCY = 'HOTSPUR', EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND's SON, not to be confused with HENRY (V), PRINCE OF WALES...

...and so it goes on. Before the Henrys there were the first gaggle of Edwards; and after the Henrys more Edwards. For the purposes of this exercise I'll probably stop after Richard III - more than that won't stay in my head for long, so I'll come back to the Tudors in a few months. It's all good fun, though - finally I'm understanding what the Hundred Years War was all about (insofar as it was 'about' anything), though if I read one more time about it stopping and then restarting again I might just call it quits at Ninety Years and be in denial about the last decade or so. Who's going to notice? (Me, sadly). The only thing that doesn't seem to be improving at all is my spelling of Welsh names - I have to check every time, because I keep confusing the Welsh phonetics with the English phonetics, it's like half-knowing a language and then not being able to progress. The whole process is taking far longer than I'd planned for, though, as I'd intended to be doing this for about three days and it's already taken just over a week. I will finish tomorrow. Problem is, when I get my head into something like this I can't usually extract it until a reasonable stopping point rears up, which can become inconvenient. Still, I'm learning a lot, which can only ever be a good thing. Even if it does mean an echoing "Henry Henry Henry Henry" taking the place of tinnitus in my brain.

If there were more time I'd revisit the wonderful Histories of The Bard, if only because another factor of confusion is his fictionalization of things like Henry V's youth, and the turning of historical John Oldcastle into fictional Falstaff. And that's just one of the plays! The Histories are fantastic, and revisit them I will - although it might not be able to happen until it has to, for revision purposes.

Loosely connected to the Henrys (real and artistic) is the subject of Joan of Arc, another figure history has managed simultaneously to immortalise and almost obliterate with fictions and superstitions and - of course - politics. There's a highly recommended staging of Bernard Shaw's Saint Joan at the National Theatre (Olivier Theatre) at the moment (until September 4th), which I'd dearly love to see but probably won't be able to. The cast has some impressive names but, more importantly, Anne-Marie Duff apparently makes a convincing Joan (despite the 'Chair Thing' she appears to do - you can see it in the clip if you follow the link above). Inevitably, and probably quite properly, parallels are drawn in related essays and reviews (including those in the official programme) between martyrdom and terrorism - I'm not sure whether that is pointless or important.

[On the subject of stages and shows, it seems the British Muesum's Chinese Terracotta Army exhibition has already sold 30,000 advance tickets - if you want to go, book now!]

I've ordered Alison Weir's well-reviewed book about Edward II's formidable wife, Isabella, and intend to read it on the train to and from Cambridge next week - I'm going up to get some serious work done (it has to happen some time, wonderful though this freelance education is), and it should be some good light(ish) reading, but just related enough to what I should be doing to assuage the guilt necessarily concomitant to prescribed reading lists - victory!