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Shaping Sense

The Paramaterial Phantasy

The “plague of phantasms”: Petrarch’s Secretum and the Paramaterial Objects of Sense in Human and Non-Human Animals

In Petrarch’s Secretum written somewhere between 1347 and 1353 and circulated posthumously, Petrarch shapes a dialogue between himself and a fictionalized Augustine. Augustine chastises and instructs Petrarch for favoring an attention to the world over devotion to God and spiritual things. Towards the end of book one of this dialogue, Augustine reveals the tensions inherent in what I am calling a paramaterial construction of the mind.

Petrarch's Secretum 1470

Augustine cites a passage from Virgil which Petrarch claims reveals the “quadripartitam animi passionem: que primum quidem ex presentis futurique temporis respectu in duas scinditur partes… ex boni malique opinione subdistinguitur” [fourfold passion of our nature, which is split in two parts with respect to past and future, and then subdivided again in respect of good and evil]. Augustine Christianizes Virgil by bridging the gap between classicism and Scripture in order to develop an explanation of the types of concerns and attentions that divert the mind and interfere with a proper understanding of the divine. The passage deserves to be quoted at length:

Rite discernis atqui verificatum est in vobis illud Apostolicum: Corpus quod corrumpitur aggravat animam: et deprimit terrena inhabitatio sensum multa cogitantem. Conglobantur siquidem species innumere et imagines rerum visibilium que corporeis introgresse sensibus: postquam singulariter admisse sunt catervatim in anime penetralibus densantur: eamque nec ad id genitam: nec tam multorum difformiumque capacem pregravant atque confundunt. Hinc pestis illa phantasmatum vestros discerpens laceransque cogitatus: meditationibusque clarificiss quibus ad unum solum summumque lumen ascenditur iter obstruens varietate mortifera. (Opera Latina).

[You discern correctly, proven true in the words of the Apostle: “The body which is corrupted presses down the soul, and the earthly tabernacle weighs down the mind that muses on many things.” Truly the innumerable species and images of visible things, that one by one are brought into the body by the senses, gather there in the inner center in a mass, and not being produced there, they weigh the soul down and overwhelm it with their contrariety. Hence that plague of phantasies tears apart and wounds the thinking faculty of the soul, and with its fatal, distracting complexity obstructs the way of clear meditation, whereby it would ascend to the One Chief Good (*lumen).]

The Wisdom of Solomon 9:15 offers that the body weighs down the soul, but Petrarch expands upon the passage to align the Phantasy and its objects with corporeality and underscores the material language of Wisdom 9:15 by using his own language of materiality. The species and phantasms “press down the soul” and “weigh down the mind,” especially when they gather together in a “mass” within the inner senses. It is my contention (and I will argue this elsewhere) that the language Petrarch deploys here was not all that uncommon up until the sixteenth century and demands to be explored as revealing a system of perception and of a particular understanding of the body’s relationship with the world rather than being too quickly dismissed as metaphor.

Petrarch sees the innumerable species and images of things visible as generated from the outside world which penetrate and infect the perceiver, granting the images of the mind the role of a foreign invader as they pass from the world, through the external senses, and into the inner senses. The body, being especially vulnerable due to its corporeality, allows these quasi-material agents to invade the perceiver which can then undermine the soul’s capacity for spiritual meditation and reflection. Petrarch polarizes soul and body by more firmly aligning the sensitive soul with corporeality. While often linked to the body, the Phantasy and its objects also traditionally served, in part, to mediate the relationship between the body and soul.

Petrarch’s Augustine associates the Phantasy with the body. In doing so, Petrarch draws upon a long tradition in his representation of the corporeality of the faculty. If we turn to Albertus Magnus’ Cleaving to God, we find a similar association of the Phantasy with the body. In addition to weighing down the mind, the plague of phantasms also “tears” the thinking faculty. While not literally tearing reason, Petrarch’s material language reinforces the representation of the corporeal nature of the mind. In his discussion of the negative theology of Dionysius, Albertus claims one must deny the experience of the body and the intellect, and links the imagination to the body and the senses. Describing the way of negative theology, Albertus says,

Hence when we approach God by the way of negation, we first deny him everything that can be experienced by the body, the senses and the imagination, secondly even things experienceable by the intellect, and finally even being itself in so far as it is found in created things. This, so far as the nature of the way is concerned, is the best means of union with God, according to Dionysius. And this is the cloud in which God is said to dwell, which Moses entered, and through this came to the inaccessible light. Certainly, it is not the spiritual which comes first, but the natural, (1 Corinthians 15.46) so one must proceed by the usual order of things, from active work to the quiet of contemplation, and from moral virtues to spiritual and contemplative realities. Finally, my soul, why are you uselessly preoccupied with so many things, and always busy with them? Seek out and love the one supreme good, in which is all that is worth seeking, and that will be enough for you. (Magnus, “On Cleaving to God”).

The Latin, as a 1621 edition has it, “primo negamus ab eo omnia corporalia & sensibilia & imaginabilia” (De adhaerendo Deo 34), might go further in distinguishing the body, the senses, and the imagination from one another, but even in the Latin, those aspects are split from the intellectual faculties Albertus turns to next. As such, Albertus reinforces the notion that perception and the imagination are distinct from the rational, but the intellectual species were thought to grow out of the abstraction from the sensible species. The problem, posed by Albertus is the multiplicity of objects and varying and sometimes contradictory evaluations which become part of them. The diversity overwhelms the soul, and, as in Petrarch, keeps it from contemplating the spiritual world.

Like Petrarch, Albertus sees the multitude of objects as preoccupying the soul and inhibiting progression towards spiritual truths. In both Albertus’ and Petrarch’s work, the Phantasy detracts from contemplating the divine, in part, because of the worldly objects with which it was linked. While Albertus typically distinguishes the fantasia from the imaginativa, he links them to the body and the material world. The imagination and its contents must first be denied before proceeding to denying the intellectual part of man. One must deny the senses but also the imagination in the first part of this turn away from the world and towards God.

Similarly, Petrarch’s Augustine recommends a turning away from the material world by turning away from the imagination. As with Albertus, Petrarch links the Phantasy to the material body and notes that the faculty and its objects detract from spiritual contemplation. Petrarch uses both terms species and phantasms, and, while there was some distinction between the two where species were often associated with the actual perceptual objects and the phantasms for the more mental objects, Petrarch, like Albertus, uses the two somewhat interchangeably. I will further discuss the various terms for the objects of the senses and the mind in a later post, but even where the two terms are deployed, their meanings tend to overlap and merge.

Francesco Petrarcha

The “pestis illa phantasmatum,” or “plague of phantasms,” includes elements we might not otherwise not commonly associate with mental objects themselves. One such strange association Petrarch makes here is his linking of evaluations of “good and evil” with the phantasms. In descriptions of the sensitive soul, natural philosophers attributed such agency to the faculty. The Phantasy encoded mental objects not only with their sensory content, but also with their affective content. The faculty provided an immediate judgment and response to the sensory data from the outside world that included simple evaluations of pleasureable and painful which then, when transmitted to the heart, could generate an appropriate or corresponding emotional response. Petrarch lumps such evaluations into the corporeal aspect of the mind that weighs the soul down, keeping it from spiritual thoughts and contemplation.

In some accounts, the Phantasy was the highest faculty afforded to non-human animals, and natural philosophers deployed this system to explain the animal response to external objects. In the fourth chapter of Cleaving to God, Albertus makes such a claim as he discusses the need to deny the importance of species, phantasms, the external senses, and the imagination. He says, “et idcirco quamdiu homo cum phantasmatibus & sensibus ludit, & eis insister, videtur nondum exisse motus & limites bestialitatis sue, hoc est, illius quod cum bestiis habet commune. Quia illae per phantasmata & per tales sensitivas seu sensibiles species cognoscunt & afficiuntur, & non aliter, eo quod altiorem vim animae non habeant” (De adhaerendo Deo 14). [And therefore, as long as a man is still playing with the phantasms and senses, and holds to them, it seems he has not yet emerged from the motivation and limitations of his animal nature, which is what he has in common with the animals. For these know and feel objects through phantasmata and through such sensitive or sensible species and in no other way, because they do not possess a higher power of the soul.] The external senses and the imagination serve as the limit for animals, and in humans who do not use their higher powers of the soul, the external senses and the imagination threaten to turn them into beasts.

For theorists like Albertus, the animal Phantasy functioned in what I am calling a perimaterial capacity, where animal minds, tied to materiality and corporeality, were limited to simple immediate judgments of sensed phenomena, but natural philosophers also extended this model to explain human minds which, even while including an intellectual or rational soul, depended upon the Phantasy for its higher functioning. At the same time, the “lower” faculties possessed their own agency and the phantasms, species, and images in which the imagination trafficked, served as the raw materials of thought and transferred its evaluations and judgments along with the mental object.

It was at the level of the imagination where many natural philosophers like Albertus separate human from non-human animals. The sensitive soul in general and the Phantasy in particular served as the “limit” of non-human cognitive activity. Human animals, on the other hand, additionally had an intellectual soul and reason in addition to the sensitive soul they had in common with nonhuman animals. While natural philosophers stressed the difference as the basis for human superiority and their separation from other animals. As Albertus suggests, however, the attachment to the external and internal senses and their objects might place the human and nonhuman animals on a similar footing. With too much attention to the world and through too much attention to the species or phantasms of the world’s objects, the perceiver might, like nonhuman animals, be reduced to corporeality. If the soul is weighed down and mired in the objects of the world, the material mind might enclose and imprison the soul within the body by not exceeding its bounds.

It is important to remember that the perimaterial mind attributed to non-human animals allowed for individuation and did not amount to a completely mechanistic model of perception. The system was flexible enough to explain individuated aberrations and differences in animal action rather than advocating a wholly deterministic model of animal behavior. The affective nature of the Phantasy and its species or phantasms depended, in part, upon the material composition of the receiving faculty and spirits as well as upon the disposition of the perceiver. The same held true for man who could use his reason and rational soul to re-shape or re-define objects of perception whether that re-shaping was intentionally or unconsciously.

Albertus recommends turning away from the external senses, the imagination, and their objects, to focus exclusively on God. As Petrarch shapes it, the soul becomes literally weighed down by its quasi-material objects. Pulled towards corporeality, the spiritual vision becomes blind through the multitude of objects overwhelming the corporeal senses, external and internal. While seeming to include the “fourfold passions” Petrarch mentions, the objects, including the evaluations of good and evil, distract the soul by their sheer numbers and with their relationship with the material world. The impressions overwhelm and divide the proper attention of the soul, miring it in sensuality but also in the very quasi-material nature of mental objects.

For Petrarch, it would seem, the human mind can either be paramaterial in the best cases where attention is directed away from the world and towards God or perimaterial in the more common cases where the material world and the quasi-material objects in the mind literally weigh down the soul. Since the perimaterial Phantasy emerges in relation to “beasts,” the attention to the material world and its objects render the human an animal, turning it from an entity capable of reaching the divine one enclosed within its own materiality.

At the same time, while the perimaterial possibility might never be directly offered, the tenuous separation of human and nonhuman continually exposed that possibility. While I will discuss the material atomism of the epicureans and their mechanistic and corporeal explanations of human perception, behavior, and cognition, even when not taken to epicurean extremes, the distinction between man and beast was continually reinforced but, in the process of reinforcement, continually challenged and complicated.

While on the level of access to the spiritual realm, I am calling this extreme perimaterial, I also believe this perimaterial mind, with respect to the ways in which it supposedly interacted with the external world and its objects, still had a paramaterial component. As Petrarch’s Secretum reveals, the objects of the world, once converted into species or phantasms, had a material effect on, power over, and agency within a perceiver. While Albertus and Petrarch suggest that eliminating or negating the species or phantasms from the mind can lead to greater spiritual clarity, those objects, it was theorized, played important roles in ordinary perception, epistemology, and ontology and were required to explain thought. The material terms in which Petrarch describes the mind’s objects, when viewed in conjunction to other accounts of perception and cognition expose a perceiver’s subject position as porous and permeable to the objects of the world.

Magnus, Albertus. De adhaerendo Deo libellus. ex officina Plantiniana, apud Balthasarum Moretum, & viduam Joannis Moreti, & Jo. Meursium, 1621.

“On Cleaving to God.” Christian Classics Ethereal Library. N.p., n.d. Web. 24 Jan. 2013. http://www.ccel.org/ccel/albert/cleaving.xi.html.

Petrarca, Francesco. [Opera Latina.] 1501.

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Posted in Shaping Sense Tagged ontology, Albertus Magnus, optics, animal studies, paramaterial, cultural studies, Petrarch, early modern, Phantasy, epistemology, renaissance, Francesco Petrarcha, Secretum, history of he mind, senses, history of science, history of the senses, imagination 1 Comment

Reason’s “uneven mirror”: Idols of the Mind and Francis Bacon’s Phantasy

In Francis Bacon’s Novum Organum, Bacon claims that four “idols” corrupt the understanding and block science from developing a proper understanding of nature. Bacon offers that “there are four kinds of idols besetting human minds,” and gives them names, saying, “I call the first, Idols of the Tribe; the second, Idols of the Cave; the third, Idols of the Market Place; and the fourth, the Idols of the Theatre” (Bacon 53). Each “Idol” “besets” the mind and impedes a true understanding of the world, and, Bacon insists, that “true induction is of course the proper remedy for warding off and clearing away these idols” (53). Bacon’s project of “clearing away these idols” reveals the iconoclastic nature of the project of science. While many scholars assume that Bacon’s choice of the word Idola does not relate to the Protestant anxiety over the nature of religious Idols and icons, not only the iconoclastic nature of his project but also his dependence upon the notion of the mind’s species or phantasms reveal how the mind can produce Idols from sensed objects.

The four Idols represent the dangers to the understanding, and include not only a human’s particular nature but also the influence and effects of language. Bacon’s Idols extend from those particular to individual humans to those common to all humans, all of which serve to impede the understanding power and reason. The Idols of the Tribe apply to humans universally and include the Idols imposed by a belief in man’s superiority and an unwarranted faith in the human senses. Rather than thinking the “human sense is the measure of all things,” Bacon applies a visual metaphor to explain the frailty of human sense, “it is rather the case that all our perceptions, both of our sense and of our minds, are reflections of man, not of the universe, and the human understanding is like an uneven mirror that cannot reflect truly the rays from objects, but distorts and corrupts the nature of things by mingling its own nature with it” (54). The problem, for Bacon, is one of mediation through the human senses, both internal and external, that distort a true understanding of things. The visual metaphor links the mediating human mind to improper reflections in an uneven mirror. Behind such a metaphor, however, lies the theory of the species which implied that external objects produced mimetic copies within the external and internal senses, but that the individual senses that received them corrupted or shaped their reception.

BaconNO

While Bacon never deploys the terms “species” or “phantasms,” he does draw on Aristotelean models of the mind and its arrangement of the inner senses. Although anxious about authorities and Aristotelean influences on science in general, Bacon depends upon them (even if Aristotle came to him colored and shaped through intervening commentary and embellishments). While Aristotle referred to the objects of the inner senses as species, Aquinas and others developed the notion of species and phantasms to explain the relationship among external world objects, the objects of the external senses, and the objects of the mind. While never quite as material as the eidolon postulated by the epicureans, popular treatises on the external and internal senses treated them as quasi-material entities. The quasi-material or, as I am calling it, the paramaterial nature of these species and phantasms helped, in some ways, to stabilize epistemology, but also destabilized it. Deception could be generated not only by the external senses but also by the internal senses.

For Bacon, reason and the understanding could correct and amend the deceptions of the senses and determine hidden and invisible causes. Rather than simply amending the deficiencies of the “uneven mirror,” human reason also needed to delve into the invisible and hidden causes behind observed phenomena. Despite his empiricism, seeing and having Othello’s demanded “ocular proof” was not enough, since one additionally needed to develop reasons and causes that remained invisible beyond the sensible. The deficiencies of the senses cause epistemological problems, but, for Bacon, knowledge and contemplation should not end with the sensible. As Bacon says, “by far the greatest impediment and aberration of the human understanding arises from the dullness and inadequacy and deceptions of the senses, in that those things which strike the sense outweigh things which, although they may be more important, do not strike it directly. Hence, contemplation usually ceases with seeing, so much so that little or no attention is paid to things invisible” (60). Bacon objects to theories that end with the sensible, and valorizes the human reason which, when liberated from its Idols, could determine these individual causes.

These Idols of the Tribe include not only language but also the composition and construction of the body, since these Idols “arise either from the uniformity of substances of the human spirit, or from its attachment to preconceived ideas, or from its narrowness, or its restlessness, or from an infusion of the emotions, or from the inadequacy of the senses, or from the mode of impression” (61). While Bacon includes the “attachment to preconceived ideas” in the list, those attachments extend beyond the linguistic to those factors that depend upon the material nature of the mediation in the external and internal senses. These Idols include those common to all humans, but they also overlap with one another of Bacon’s Idols, the Idols of the Cave. Whereas the Idols of the Tribe include the mediation of sense through their potential limitations of human sense, the Idols of the Cave are more particularly associated with individual perceivers. These Idols of the Cave, too, include the influence of language and culture, but they too extend beyond it, since they “arise from the individual’s particular nature, both of mind and body, but also from education, habits and by chance” (61). Rather than the limitations of the Tribe, broadly including the natural limitations of the human senses, the Idols of the Cave are more individuated, including not only habits of mind and the influence of education, but also the quality and condition of the individual brain. In my last post, I referred to these problems as problems which rise from a private Phantasy.

Both the Idols of the Theatre and the Idols of the Market-Place expand upon the special ability of language to manipulate perception since both depend upon habits of thought as well as upon education and authority of others. The manipulation of sense, however, is not limited to the influence of language, and instead both the sensible and the verbal help account for the shaping and deluding of sense. For Bacon, however, reason can correct these errors, and while Bacon underscores the importance of reason, he also notes the importance and power of the imagination in perception and cognition.

The objects of the mind that Bacon wants to strip of unnecessary or fallacious “Idols,” arise either from perception or from language. Both manipulations of the objects of the mind converge in the Phantasy which can pervert the proper functioning of a reason or understanding power that depends upon its products. What Bacon proposes is that a clearer understanding can be achieved by stripping the phantasms from the unnecessary accretions of the Phantasy since the Phantasy mediated the objects of perception and the objects of the reason, altering and perverting them in the process of that mediation. Both the failures and limitations of the external sense and the influence of culture and language produce false “Idols” rather than certain objects of sense, and Bacon encourages an iconoclasm with regards to these objects of the internal senses.

The desire to strip the mental objects of their false values is not, however, removed from the discourses on Icons found in Protestant polemics since there, the objects equally depend upon the powers of the Phantasy to shape and manipulate perception and subsequent cognition. The Protestant objections to the idols erected by the Catholic Church constitute a form of what Bacon calls the Idols of the Theater which pervert reason through language and through rituals that shape the objects of sense in a perceiver’s Phantasy.

The iconoclasm of the mind Bacon proposes amounts to a censoring of the Phantasy as argued by Ioan Couliano. In Couliano’s account, the Protestant tendency to censor the Phantasy and the phantasms permeated their culture, informing their responses to fashion and clothing, adornments in churches, theater and thoughts on the erotic. At the same time, while Protestants became increasingly concerned with censoring the Phantasmic and of removing the false idols erected by the Catholic Church, their stance towards the sensory and the Phantasy exaggerated their importance in ordinary life. Bacon would valorize this empirical stance and proclaim the importance of stripping the false mediating influences of the Phantasy from scientific observation, but, in so doing, he limits the known and the knowable to the immediately perceptible. Bacon implies that once the images in the mind have been stripped of their false idols and once one has meticulously detailed the minutiae of perceptible experience, truth and knowledge will emerge from the observable facts of nature once properly detailed and recorded. The censorship extended not only to external icons or “artificial” images, but also extended to the “icons” of the mind and “natural” images.

In this respect, Bacon serves as the inverse of Sidney who argues that the power of fiction can manipulate the phantasms and images of a reader’s mind towards positive and productive ends. For Bacon, such fictions do not lead to a greater understanding of nature and of the world, but, instead, impede knowledge of them. Both, however, depend upon an understanding of the Phantasy that is not wholly reducible to language, but instead contain images that mediate the production of knowledge and mediate thought. At the same time, both reveal the power of language to manipulate the reception of those images, but, at the same time, represent the mind as depending upon the images acquired, retained, manipulated, and produced by the Phantasy.

Bacon aligns the projects of fiction and the projects of religion in his discussion of the Idols of the Theatre which “are not innate, nor are they secretly insinuated into the understanding, but are imposed and received entirely from the fictitious tales in theories, and from wrong-headed laws of demonstration” (66). Bacon details that had there not been censorship over the Phantasies and theories imposed by both religion and civil authorities would have been even more problematic, and that without such censorship, “many more sects and schools of philosophy would have sprung up” (67). Bacon acknowledges that the various theories which result from phenomena can build from perception, and compares the difference to the difference between stage plays and history: “And fictitious tales of this kind have this in common with those of poetic drama, that narratives written for the stage are neater and more elegant and more as one would wish them to be than true accounts drawn from history” (67).

It was precisely this power for which Sidney proclaimed the superiority of poesy over history, since the poet’s wit could shape the events of history into an idealized image of human nature and history than the historian who was subjected to the actual events of history. Whereas Sidney encourages the liberation of the Phantasy, Bacon supports its censorship. Some of the Idols that Bacon wants to eliminate from his new science have developed through the type of poesy Sidney valorizes. Both however, proclaim and reveal the power the Phantasy has over perception and cognition, and grant fiction the power to manipulate the objects of perception and thought.

Words in both Sidney and Bacon inform and influence the reception of perceptible reality, and shape the mental objects through their mediating influence. Words, for Bacon, insinuate themselves in the objects of the mind and cloud reason or the understanding. Bacon proclaims that under the Idols of the Market-place which “are the most troublesome of all; these are idols that have crept into the understanding through the alliance of words and names. For while men believe their reason governs words, in fact, words turn back and reflect their power upon the understanding, and so render philosophy and science sophistical and inactive” (64). Words and the power of fiction can create illusions of knowledge, resulting in sophistical disagreements over words themselves.

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The images within the Phantasy, however, are not wholly reducible to linguistic constructs or concepts, and retain along with them a connection to their extra-mental originals that served as their originals. What Bacon proposes is a wide ranging censorship of the phantasms to strip of any “Idols” that the Phantasy uses to shape them. To do so, however, also entails separating or bracketing the phantasms from their relation to areas beyond the sensible in the spiritual realm; a realm accessible through but not inherent in the sensible.

Viewing Sidney in relation to Bacon exposes the dangerous game Sidney was playing with his defense of poetry since his An Apology’s justification was that universals could be better grasped by a reader by concretizing them in the singularities of characters and in fiction. In comparison, while Bacon’s method constitutes a type of iconoclasm of mental images, Sidney defends the construction of false idols of the mind. While within the reader’s mind those products might be “natural images” the source of their inspiration was through the affective power and potential of fiction and fiction making.

While Bacon wants to strip his new science of the errors of the past and appears to have a strain against fiction making or sense shaping that Sidney promotes, it should be remembered that his last work, the New Atlantis is explicitly a sense shaping fiction. In his utopian fiction of the 1620s, Bacon describes a scientific utopia through fiction, creating a mythology rather than condemning one. Despite his aversion to the mythologies that distract from scientific discovery, Bacon’s final work deploys one to help explain the need for a scientifically minded society. As William Rawley explains Bacon’s project, “this fable my Lord devised, to the end that he might exhibit therein a model or description of a college instituted for the interpreting of nature and the producing of great and marvelous works for the benefit of men” (544). It seems that for all of Bacon’s claims against the way fictions produced obstacles for science, they could also be deployed in the service of it.

Rather than sticking to reality, Bacon develops a “model” of a scientifically structured society, but in order to develop this model, Bacon must craft a “fable.” The utopian narrative allows Bacon to propose a “golden world” and to craft a society which was never yet in human nature. By the New Atlantis, Bacon seems to have reconciled himself to the productive nature of fables and their power over the human imagination. In order to propose his new societal order, Bacon taps into the power fiction has over the human imagination and Phantasy, providing a fictional and mental model from which to work and plan a new society.

While the New Atlantis takes a new stance toward fiction and sense shaping, Bacon utilizes the power of fables already revealed in his earlier work. In the Novum Organon, for example, fictions are so troubling because of their power to shape sense and become Idols of the mind that prevent science. In combating those “Idols,” Bacon reveals their affective power and potential to shape perception and minds. What better way to remove the Idols impeding scientific progress than to shape new ones to replace the old.

In his earlier work from around 1607, Of the Wisdom of the Ancients, Bacon reveals yet another potential for poesy and fiction that reveals the value of ancient poetry to reveal what otherwise might remain “buried in oblivion and silence” (403). Bacon uses the image of the veil to describe the revelations concealed in poesy, stating, “thus between the hidden depths of antiquity and the days of tradition and evidence that followed there is drawn a veil, as it were, of fables, which come in and occupy the middle region that separates what has perished from what survives” (403). The poesy of the ancients conceals and reveals the wisdom concealed and revealed through its veil.

Bacon details the problems with engaging with the veil of fables in this way, since their meaning can be shaped rather than revealed in the process of interpretation. He cautions, “Not but that I know very well what pliant stuff fable is made of, how freely it will follow any way you please to draw it, and how easily with a little dexterity and discourse of wit meanings which it was never meant to bear may be plausibly put upon it” (404). Bacon also notes the tendency to “twist the fables of poets into that sense” to “sanction” their own projects, but even with these caveats, acknowledging that “the levity and looseness with which people indulge their fancy in the matter of allegories; yet for all this [he] cannot change [his] mind” (404). Not only, it seems, can allegories shape the Phantasy, but the Phantasy can shape allegories.

In addition to revealing the otherwise hidden knowledge of the ancients, Bacon also alludes to a secondary reason for the necessity of the Phantasy and its products in that for humans to commune with the divine, fables are not only important but necessary, for “seeing that religion delights in such veils and shadows, and to take them away would be almost to interdict all communion between divinity and humanity” (404). Bacon not only claims that humans need fables to access the realm of the divine, but, in the narrative of his utopian society to follow, Bacon includes a narrative of the island’s inhabitants’ conversion to Christianity through a divinely inspired vision.

In New Atlantis, the description of the conversion contrasts starkly with the later dry descriptions of Salomon’s House where Bacon lists the accomplishments and studies of his learned inhabitants of Bensalem. While Bacon uses fiction to promote a new utopia of learning, his fiction itself remains less interesting than the more imaginative utopias of More or Cavendish. In this, I suggest that Bacon, while deploying fiction to promote a new scientific society, still had reservations about the practice and production of fiction.

His reservations about fiction making extend to the reservations he has about the sensitive soul, and although Bacon is uneasy with the Aristotelian model, he deploys the sensitive soul to explain perception and simple cognition. In The Advancement of Learning, Bacon deploys the model with some reservation. In The Advancement of Science, Bacon continually charges the powers of the Phantasy with the ability to access the divine while also noting its impediment to knowledge. Bacon says, “in matters of Faith and Religion we raise our Imagination above our Reason; which is the cause why Religion sought ever access to the mind by similitudes, types, parables, visions, dreams. And again in all persuasions that are wrought by eloquence and other impression of like nature, which do paint and disguise the true appearance of things, the chief recommendation unto Reason is from the Imagination” (284). The power of poesy, he argues, is that it strengthens the imagination, and suggests that it could be deployed in the service of religion and false religion alike.

Bacon makes the tenor of his anti-Catholic tendencies clearer when he associates the power of the Phantasy to magic and the church. Bacon aligns Catholicism to magic in his discussion of “Ceremonial Magic,” which “comes in crookedly and dangerously,” “for it may be pretended that Ceremonies, Characters, and Charms, do work not by any tacit or sacramental contract with evil spirits, but serve only to strengthen the imagination of him that useth it; as images are said by the Roman church to fix the cogitations and raise the devotions of them that pray before them” (283). Like Reginald Scot, Bacon associates the practice of the Catholic church with the practices of witchcraft, and both witchcraft and the Catholic church use “Ceremonies, Characters, and Charms” to fortify the Phantasy.

At the same time, Bacon proclaims that matters of religion require the strengthening of the imagination, and that religion requires that the imagination overtake reason. It is probably for this reason that the New Atlantis includes the description of a miraculous event and an internal vision to account for Bensalem’s Christian society. The pillar of fire leads to a vision of Christ and this true miracle reportedly becomes the basis for the society’s lasting Christianity. It seems that hearing about Christianity through the tales of other travelers and strangers wouldn’t be enough for a full-scale conversion. Instead, Bacon includes a true miracle and an event that fortified the imagination to explain the conversion.

Though Bacon expresses some anxiety over Aristotelian inheritances, he continues to position the Imagination between perception and the understanding powers, representing it as a site and agent of mediation. Rather than simply mediating between the matter of the body and the soul and between perception and cognition, Bacon adds that it mediates between the “Understanding and Reason” and the “Will, Appetite, and Affection; whereof the former produceth Position or Decree, the later Action or Execution” (283). Included under the second category would be what I am more broadly referring to as paramaterial which also includes its possible connection to the realm of the divine.

The Phantasy’s mediation, for Bacon, produces its own errors, in terms of both perception and reason. Bacon sets up the imagination as an agent or messenger, for “it is true that the imagination is an agent or nuncius [*messenger] in both provinces, both the judicial and the ministerial. For Sense sendeth over to Imagination before Reason have judged: and Reason sendeth over to Imaginaiton before the Decree can be acted; for Imagination ever preceedeth Voluntary Motion: saving that this Janus of Imagination hath differing faces; for the face towards Reason hath the print of Truth, but the face towards Action hath the print of Good” (283). Positioned between Reason and Action, Truth and the Good, the Phantasy serves as the mediating faculty between sense and the mind and between thought and action, but, as Bacon goes on to argue, the mediation can be corrupted or perverted.

The Phantasy, for Bacon, is a dangerous faculty precisely because of its ability to delude through the process of mediation. This is because it is not only a messenger, but also an agent of judgment, since “neither is the Imagination simply and only a messenger; but it is invested with or at leastwise usurpeth no small authority in itself, besides the duty of the message. For it was well said by Aristotle, That the mind hath over the body that commandment, which the lord hath over a bondman; but that reason hath over the imagination that commandment which a magistrate hath over a free citizen” (283-284). Bacon shifts from the type of hierarchical control the mind has over the body as slavery to an order of the sensitive soul that remains more equal in terms of agency. While reason has the power to judge and condemn the products and judgments of the Phantasy, it does not exert the same level of power over the imagination.

The result of such a shift means that the Phantasy has more power over its objects and more agency than if it were simply the “bondman” to its “lord” reason. At the same time, Bacon proclaims the need for the imagination to overtake reason in matters of faith and religion since without the Phantasy and its products, man might never come to know of God. In this respect, Bacon suggests that the paramaterial relationship between the Phantasy and the world of the divine remain intact, and Bacon says those connections occur through “similitudes, types, parables, and dreams” (284). By including dreams, Bacon holds out the possibility for “true” visions of the divine influenced by God’s agency that do not simply emerge from the Phantasy but instead are impressed upon it by a higher power. The dreams, like the “true miracle” of Bensalem’s vision of the pillar of fire, open the possibility of true and false visions offered to the Phantasy.

While Bacon continually tries to reassert a separation between his own project and that of religion, he leaves the possibility open for a real interaction between a perceiver and the divine, and that point of connection occurs in the potentially dangerous and rebellious Phantasy. The problem for a person experiencing a divine vision or revelation is in distinguishing a false vision or dream from a true one. While such visions can lead to a revelation of the otherwise invisible world of the divine, that connection comes through the potentially problematic faculty of the Phantasy.

It is precisely the dangerous influence of the imagination and the Phantasy that Bacon’s project wants to censor by liberating the mind from the Idols which confuse and deceive it. Despite the power of the Phantasy to craft and maintain idols of the mind, matters of religion require the Phantasy’s capacity to overpower reason. In the later sections of The Advancement of Learning’s Book II, Bacon underscores the limitations of reason with respect to religion and faith. Religion and faith require the liberty of the imagination to overpower the reason Bacon elsewhere valorizes.

In order to free the mind of man from the cave that produces perceptual and cognitive errors, Bacon feels he must also leave room for the positive potential of a revelatory imagination that exceeds or surpasses reason, but in other matters, he hopes his program will help censor the potentially deceptive imagination by stripping it of the idols he sees as potentially impeding the progress of science and knowledge. For Bacon, matters of religion and faith help to control the imagination and keep it under a proper subjection to God, but Bacon reiterates the importance of the Phantasy in both connecting to the realm of the divine and in the perversion of knowledge through the idols to which the imagination was prone.

Bacon notes that culture and words help shape sense, potentially confining the mind of man within a cave that perverts the knowledge attained through the senses or creates mental idols that misinform reason. Bacon explicitly draws the parallels between his own project and Plato’s allegory of the cave, saying, “let us consider again the false appearances imposed upon us by every man’s own individual nature and custom, in that feigned supposition that Plato maketh of the cave: for certainly if a child were continued in a grot or cave under the earth until maturity of age, and came suddenly abroad, he would have strange and absurd imaginations” (297). Bacon suggests that the imaginations of the child grown to maturity would be “strange and absurd,” but through them, the child’s reason would also be corrupted and manipulated.

Bacon makes this clear in his explication of Plato’s allegory, continuing, “so in like manner, although our persons live in the view of heaven, yet our spirits are included in the caves of our own complexions and customs; which minister unto us infinite errors and vain opinions, if they be not recalled to examination” (297). For Bacon, reason can counteract the idols imposed by the cave of “complexions and customs,” but, in so doing, Bacon reveals the extent to which a perceiver depends upon the imagination and the ways in which not only the body itself but also customs and language can help shape or pervert perception.

The application of Plato’s allegory of the cave reveals the Phantasy can be corrupted through what I am calling its paramateriality. The Phantasy’s connection to the body makes it susceptible to the undue influence of the body which depends upon the material condition and complexion of that body. Bacon leaves open the possibility that the Phantasy can access true visions of the divine, and emphasizes the potential of the Phantasy to receive the impressions prompted by the divine, but he also exposes the dangerous nature of the Phantasy through its connection to the body and the ways in which culture, language and habit can pervert or corrupt the information it passes along to reason.

Despite Bacon’s anxiety over Aristotelian legacies and Idols, Bacon continues to position the Phantasy in an important mediating position among a variety of other faculties and powers. While noting the positive potential of the imagination to reach beyond reason in religious matters, his comments elsewhere are directed against the excesses of the faculty that pervert sense through its shaping.

Bibliography

Bacon, Francis. Selected Writings. New York: The Modern Library, 1955.

Couliano, Ioan P. Eros and Magic in the Renaissance. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1987.

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Posted in Shaping Sense Tagged fiction, Francis Bacon, Idols, imagination, New Atlantis, Novum Organum, paramaterial, Philip Sidney, senses, The Advancement of Learning, early modern

Albertus, the “Aprecocke,” and the Fantasia.

I have recently been working on an interactive Flash meta-mind map animation to help explain the features and functions assigned to the faculties within various models of the mind. For my first post, I have embedded the “fantasia” portion of my Flash meta-mind map. It represents one portion in a longer interactive map designed to provide an introduction to the faculties of the sensitive soul. It is my intention to evecreate full scale mind maps of various models of the sensitive soul. This video shows a portion of the more elaborate arrangements of the faculties before they were once again popularly pared down to three.

I am using this as a test post to make sure I will be able to post the full interactive version later. I would love to know if I should record audio of the text or leave the text on the screen. If this proves successful, I would also like to make another Flash animated presentation on Galenic humoralism and the processes of digestions which led to the production of various forms of spirit.

NB: As I have yet to become a regular WordPress blog poster, I have not yet subscribed to a web hosting service for my blog, and, since I have not, the formatting here is a little funny, but I hope someone will appreciate my efforts nonetheless. If you have any suggestions, let me know in the comments or reach me on Twitter @senseshaper.

[gigya align=”center” width=”500″ height=”350″ src=”http://www.senseshaper.comoj.com/fantasia-short-resized-fly.swf?embed_height=400&embed_width=550″]

(Requires Flash player)

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Posted in Shaping Sense Tagged early modern, imagination, internal senses, models of mind, paramaterial, psychology, senses

“True minds,” Untrue Minds, and “Eyes untrue”: The External and Internal Senses in Shakespeare’s Sonnet 113

My last post sketched out how the paramaterial mind emerges towards the end of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I will have more to say about deceiving the external and internal senses in that play in a later post, but I first want to focus on a much shorter and less complex poem to develop how Shakespeare conceives of the Phantasy as a “shaping” faculty. I briefly noted, in that previous post, that Theseus’ revelation that lovers’, madmen’s, and poets’ brains shaped mental objects resembles the central conceit of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 113. As it is much shorter and more self contained, I thought I could use it to explain in more detail how descriptions of the mind and the mind’s eye, while sometimes treated as metaphor, reflect a mental architecture thought to extend beyond metaphor and towards truth.

1609Sonnet-TitlePage

As the editors of The Norton Shakespeare have it, Shakespeare’s Sonnet 113 reads as follows:

Since I left you mine eye is in my mind,
And that which governs me to go about
Doth part his function and is partly blind,
Seems seeing, but effectually is out;
For it no form delivers to the heart
Of bird, of flower, or shape which it doth latch.
Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,
Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch;
For if it see the rud’st or gentlest sight,
The most sweet favour or deformed’st creature,
The mountain or the sea, the day or night,
The crow or dove, it shapes them to your feature.
Incapable of more, replete with you,
My most true mind thus makes mine eye untrue.

In the first quatrain, Shakespeare’s speaker reveals that since the departure of his beloved, his physical eyes no longer function properly, as his sight has become absorbed with the mental image of his beloved. The mental eye replaces and overshadows the physical eye, transporting the location of sight from the external senses to the internal senses. In developing this conceit, Shakespeare draws upon contemporary representations of the ways in which the external and internal senses interact and interface.

It was theorized that the physical eye received visible species from the objects of the external world, which “stamped” themselves on the crystalline humour, the central component of the eye today referred to as a lens. In pre-Keplerian accounts of vision, however, the crystalline humour played a vital role in the process of vision, not focusing light and projecting it upon the opaque wall of the retina, but rather “receiving” the species of external objects. It is this physical eye that Shakespeare’s speaker claims “seems seeing” since it only “doth part its function.” The physical eye and its crystalline humor still receive the species of external objects, but, because of the speaker’s preoccupation with the beloved’s image, the eye does not effectively see them.

Within the poem, the eye of the mind, which effectively replaces the physical eye, can either be taken for the Phantasy itself or some mental faculty that looks upon the objects of the Phantasy. Before I reach the Phantasy, however, it is important to detail how the most common explanation of how sensation and perception were linked through a quasi-materialist account. The crystalline humor received the species of external objects, but it transmitted them to the inner senses through the spirits along the optic nerve to a postulated sensus communis. The sensus communis aggregated the species acquired by the five external senses and conjoined them into a mental object that could then be shaped by the Phantasy. For many theories, the sensus communis functioned as part of the Phantasy since its primary function was for the short term storing of sensory data.

The Phantasy, conjoined to the sensus communis, received the bundled sensory data that included, but was not limited to, the visual image. The Phantasy, like the crystalline humor, received the impression of the conjoined species, and the “image” produced within it was further abstracted from materiality and shaped into a form able to interface with the higher function of Reason or judgment. Once “abstracted” from the sensible species, the intellectual species could be stored in Memory, but it retained its connection to the original external object by retaining a mimetic simulacra that could either sent forward to the Phantasy to picture something previously perceived or, at the very least, contained enough data for the Phantasy to recreate the previously perceived object within the mind’s eye.

For the speaker of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 113, the act of remembering his beloved produced within his Phantasy a strong image that overwhelms the external sense. Because he attends, whether consciously or unconsciously, to the image of his absent beloved within the inner senses, the species acquired by the external senses find themselves displaced or manipulated in the act of perception. The phantasm that occupies his attention and a special place in his mind’s eye and heart has to potential to falsify the objects of perception.

In the second quatrain, the speaker details how the eyes can no longer “grasp” the “forms” of external objects. The “flower[s],” “bird[s],” “shape[s],” and all of sensible reality, while producing species within the crystalline humour, cannot penetrate the inner senses and the “mind,” since the Phantasy is already preoccupied with another remembered “form.” Here, Shakespeare refers to the “heart” rather than to the Phantasy, but, as I shall discuss at a later time, the Phantasy was thought to have a special relationship to the heart. The heart, the seat of the affections, stored its own “images” and the images inscribed within it were those “forms” that were most central to a perceiver’s experience. The physical eye cannot “latch” onto or “catch” the species or “forms” of sensible reality because they do not penetrate through the Phantasy and reach the heart.

Most modern Shakespeare editors amend Sonnet 113 from the 1609 Quarto in two significant ways. The first is that the Quarto version reads “lack” rather than “latch.” The second major change involves the concluding couplet. I will return to the couplet change later, but first want to discuss the decision to change “lack” to “latch.” While the off rhyme of “lack” and “catch” might suggest that the line would have been more properly set as “latch,” acknowledging the readings available when on retains the word “lack” reveals another interesting aspect of the way the sonnet represents perception. The slipperiness of the line’s “it” can refer either to the eyes which do not “latch” onto an object or to the heart which either cannot “latch” onto the “forms” delivered to it or provides recognizable “forms” which the heart “lacks.”

vol2sonnet113website

The “heart,” being the repository for those “forms” which have become so internalized as to always remain with the speaker, remains “replete” with the form of his beloved, lacking all others in their purest form. Because of the association of the heart and the Phantasy, the line could also metaphorically suggest that the Phantasy no longer retains the images and the power to recognize other objects, precisely because of the ever-present persistence of the image or absent presence of the beloved. While I agree that modern editors are correct to transform the word from “lack” to “latch,” I also want to acknowledge the possibilities opened up by the Quarto text when not taken as a corruption of Shakespeare’s poesy.

The third quatrain details how the Phantasy itself shapes sense, since any external object he sees becomes remade into the image of his beloved. Just as Theseus had proclaimed in his speech towards the end of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, the lover’s Phantasy can alter perception. According to Theseus, the lover’s Phantasy can render something unattractive attractive, but, in Sonnet 113, the speaker describes how the “forms” of objects acquired by the external senses are shaped and conjoined with the image to which he already unceasingly attends. Whether the sight be of something loved or loathed, beautiful or ugly, or something of “most sweet favour or deformed creature,” the eye or the Phantasy “shape them to [his beloved’s] feature.”

While working with metaphor, Shakespeare depends upon and deploys contemporary theories of the perceptual system to fashion his poem. The image, in a strong imagination or Phantasy, can usurp the act of perception, altering any forms that happen to penetrate beyond the physical eye by conjoining them with the image already within it. If one takes pre- and early modern theories of perception seriously, Shakespeare’s use of them within the poem seem less metaphorical than they might otherwise appear. The image already occupying the Phantasy and or heart meets with the incoming sensible species amalgamated by the sensus communis and offered to the Phantasy.

When the sensible species of a “bird,” “flower,” or “shape” arrives in the faculty of the Phantasy, mind, or the heart, the faculty “shapes” them to his beloved’s “feature” by combining the sensible species along with his remembered image. The process plays on the powers often attributed to the Phantasy in the creative processes and in dreams. The Phantasy in particular, in its recombinative capacity, conjoined the forms of parts of remembered objects to produce, in Theseus’ terms, “the forms of things unknown.” In creating a Pegasus, for example, the imagination conjoined the remembered images of a horse and some type of bird. In creating a golden mountain, the imagination grafted aspects from the memory of gold onto the memory of mountains. In this sonnet, the speaker’s Phantasy combines the externally perceived objects with the dominant internally perceived one. In Sonnet 113, the speaker’s mind shapes the forms acquired by the eye, transforming them into new forms.

Noting the representation of the mind underlying Shakespeare’s sonnet does not diminish the poetry or Shakespeare’s artistry. I also do not wish to argue that the poem does nothing interesting beyond the way in which it reveals the sensory apparatus. I chose this poem to discuss the ways in which this model of perception and of the mind helped shape the metaphors and artistic productions in pre- and early modern periods. The Shakespeare of sonnet 113, like the Shakespeare of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, deploys these theories to express the obsessive nature of his speaker and of the miraculous powers of love and memory upon experience and perception. The speaker shapes both beautiful and ugly objects into the feature of his beloved, exposing his ambivalence since the beloved’s form can be so readily conjoined with both types of objects. Those of “most sweet favor” and the most “deformed’st creature” merge and combine themselves with the “feature” of his beloved, underscoring the pliability of the speaker’s mental representation of the beloved. Sonnet 114 complicates this reading since, there, the speaker claims that his eye and mind transform and make the ugly beautiful and the bad good, but the slipperiness of his ability to transform perception so readily simultaneously suggests the potential ambiguity of his relationship with the young man.

As I will discuss in a later post, the paramaterial quality I attribute to the Phantasy and its objects helps explain some of the more bizarre aspects attributed to a strong imagination. Women who conceived while looking upon images or strongly imagining others ran the risk of those forms “impressing” themselves upon the form of the fetus. Laws punished the “imagining” of harm to the king or queen. Overly doting upon particular objects could manifest themselves in the physical body. Some claimed the miraculous powers of healing or other bodily change attributed to relics and other objects resulted from a powerful Phantasy. The image of a loved person could “infect” the body of the lover, filling the spirits and the mind with an excessive desire for that person. I will address many of these topics in separate posts, but, for now, want to return to how the concluding couplet operates in accordance to the theory of perception I offer. While operating alongside metaphor, the central conceit also follows popular accounts of the architecture and functioning of the perceptual system.

The beloved’s form, ensconced in the mind and heart, fills the mind and the body’s spirits with the absent presence. Because the image has such a fascinating power over the speaker’s mind’s eye, his mind, even if a “most true mind,” becomes “incapable of more” because it is already “replete” with the beloved. The word “replete” takes the idea of the speaker’s being glutted and full of his lover towards metaphor, but, since the species or “form” of an object doted upon was sometimes thought to literally insinuate itself in the “spirits” of the mind and body, with the most beloved objects enshrined within the heart, the speaker may also be describing a representation of love that overwhelms and conquers the lover, body, mind, and soul, by filling him with the absent presence.

While even more inclined to accept modern editors’ alteration of the last line than their changes to the Quarto’s sixth line, the Quarto’s concluding “mine untrue” as opposed to the commonly amended “mind eyes untrue” also presents interesting interpretive possibilities. In the Quarto text, the concluding line splits the mind into “true” and “untrue,” constant and deceptive. The fixation with which the speaker’s “true mind” attends to the image of the beloved with which it is metaphorically (and perhaps literally) filled also creates a sensitive soul and eyes that misshape its objects and fail to recognize them. The “true mind” that always has the beloved as an object in the mind’s eye (or Phantasy) and in the heart remains true to its chief object, but, in doing so, also falsifies both the reception of external and internal objects.

As I may discuss in a later post, the pairing of Sonnet 113 and Sonnet 114 suggests that modern editors are correct to amend the final line of 113, but, at the same time, with the intimate and paramaterial (or quasi-material, if you prefer) relationship of eye and mind link rather than radically separate the two. The mind, dependent upon the objects offered to it by the external senses, along with the eye might remain “untrue” precisely because of the shaping capacity of the Phantasy. While I do think the “true mind” and “eye untrue” better parallel the opening line, I also think that the Quarto text offers an interesting possible reading. Both texts, however, when viewed in relation to the architecture of the sensitive soul, I should think, underscore how Shakespeare associates the physical eye with the eye of the mind and, if we read the sonnet as referring to the physical eye itself, reappropriates aspects of the Phantasy and relocates its shaping potential within the physical eye itself.

I will leave the issue of the mental object’s continued relationship with its causal external object aside for now, but I do want to note here that the concept of “absent presence” should not privilege the absence over the presence. Because of the psychophysiological model of the body and the paramaterial model of the sensory apparatus and sensitive soul, I contend that those remembered absences constitute not just a metaphorical but a real presence. The porousness and permeability of the pre- and early modern perceiver interconnected her with the world, and the theories of perception and cognition offered a mind and body that were not radically closed off from the world but were intimately linked with it.

At the same time, the private Phantasy shaped the objects of perception. As Shakespeare’s Sonnet 113 and his Theseus’ description of lovers, madmen, and poets reveal, the composition of the perceiver, both in terms of bodily disposition and in terms of attention shaped the objects received from the world, shaping and coloring them with its own private nature and predispositions. It was the problem of the private Phantasy that, despite a psychophysiological model that precluded a mind-body gap, generates the potential for philosophical skepticism. At the same time, the skeptical potential offered here might not perfectly reflect the skeptical potential available in later philosophical skepticism since the theories of perception and cognition allow for more parity between external and mental objects.

I am particularly interested in exploring the horizons of epistemology available in a system that typically represented body and mind as coexpressive and coextensive, and while the model seems to negate the mind-body problems often associated with modern philosophy, the ways in which philosophical skepticism emerge from earlier paramaterial models reveal similar problems even if they rise from a very different perceptual and mental landscape. For me, a major shift occurs when Kepler developed a radical theory of vision that interposed an opaque wall between the eye and the mind, but that, too, must wait for another post.

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Posted in Shaping Sense Tagged vision, early modern, epistemology, history of the senses, imagination, paramaterial, Phantasy, Shakespeare, skepticism, sonnet 113, sonnets

“Such shaping fantasies”: Shakespeare’s Paramaterial Phantasy

Initials-Holbein-Danse-senseshaper-A

 

 

 

portion of my last post’s title comes from the fifth act of William Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream where Hippolyta and Theseus discuss the strange alterations of love they have just witnessed in the forest. Hippolyta declares the speeches delivered by the lovers as “strange,” prompting The Duke’s declaration of the vulnerability of the Phantasy, its contribution to the shaping of sense, and its role the production and effects of fiction. Theseus claims,

…I never may believe
These antique fables, nor these fairy toys.
Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,
Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend
More than cool reason ever comprehends.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet
Are of imagination all compact.
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold:
That is the madman. The lover, all as frantic,
Sees Helen’s beauty in the brow of Egypt.
The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven,
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.
Such tricks hath a strong imagination
That if it would but apprehend some joy
It comprehends some bringer of that joy;
Or in the night, imagining some fear,
How easy a bush supposed a bear! (V.i. 2-22).

While Theseus refers to the tricks of the “imagination,” as I explained in my last post, I prefer to refer to the pre- and early modern faculty as the Phantasy in order to distance what we see there from post-Romantic cultural shapings. The Phantasy revealed in this passage details the conflicted space of the early modern Phantasy, exposing yet concealing the cultural tensions inherent in explications of the faculty.

STC 22302, title page

Title Page from the 1600 Quarto of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream

The Phantasy, through Galenic humoralism, remained linked to the body in constructions of the mind and sensory system dominant into the seventeenth century. For Theseus, the Phantasy becomes distorted and divorced from reality when within the disordered body of madmen, lovers, and, to a lesser extent, poets. The “seething brains” of lovers and madmen produce “shaping fantasies” that exceed the capacity of reason, but noting their “seething brains” not only links the faculty to the body but also provides a pathology for their distorted sense of reality. The relative “hotness” of the brain and the spirits within it prove both a positive and a negative since it can distort reality yet can also produce alterations that both extend beyond the objects of the external world and of reason. Melancholy, the “black bile,” could be caused by the overheating and drying of the humors and could diminish the purity of the vital spirits. To put it simply, an excessively hot brain could burn the humors and diminish the quality of the spirits within the brain and the body as a whole. As Galenic science contends, the coextensive body and mind work in conjunction, and the boiling brains of lovers and madmen operate, not as metaphor, but as an explanation of how the coexpressive body and mind work in concert, offering a potentially physical account of mental phenomena. Theseus deploys Galenic humoralism to explain aberrant perception. In madmen, a “seething” brain produces and multiplies visions and experiences of devils. In lovers, a “seething” brain shapes fantasies divorced from the reality of external objects.

What remains interesting here is that Theseus associates madness and love with diseases that afflict the Phantasy in particular. I will post a discussion of early modern theories of love at a later time, but for now want to say that pathologized material accounts of love remained current in the period. While Theseus does not exclusively refer to love melancholy, love melancholy, like other forms of melancholy, was responsible for hallucinations and aberrant perception. Love itself, and the bizarre alterations of judgment that it produced could be associated with witchcraft. Just as Brabanzio accuses Othello of doing, Egeus accuses Lysander of “bewitching” Hermia to pervert her affections and judgment, and both expose how bound up worldly love was with the body and its status. While both plays dismiss the notion that either Hermia or Desdemona was “bewitched,” A Midsummer Night’s Dream includes occult elements absent from Othello. Some witchcraft theories argue that devils and demons could paramaterially shape the objects of the mind to produce perversions of perception and judgment.

It would seem that Theseus has been reading theories like those popularized by authors such as Johann Weyer and Reginald Scot. As I mentioned in my last post, some early modern physicians like Johann Weyer largely attributed the experience of witchcraft phenomena and of devils to the presence and overabundance of melancholy in the body and its spirits, and especially in the brain and in the spirits which filled its ventricles. The madman’s overheated brain, and thus full of melancholy, produced hallucinations of devils according to Theseus. While he, like Weyer, never denies the possibility of a devil’s existence or the possibility that devils can influence and act upon the body and mind, the threat of a perimaterial explanation of the human emerges from the sludge of the Phantasy. For James, such accounts were dangerous because, when taken to extremes, such Galenic explanations might deny the realm of the supernatural and the soul altogether. The danger sensed, for someone like James, was less that Galenic explanations collapsed body and mind, and more that, in doing so, they might also deny the existence of a Christian soul. Shakespeare, however, populates his play with other figures with supernatural powers to shape the internal and external senses. Instead of devils, Shakespeare gives us the fairy realm that actively manipulates human subjects.

As I will discuss further in a later post, psychophysiological accounts of the appearance of devils like the one Shakespeare offers, do not mean that all devils could be attributed to a perimaterial mind, and, despite James’ hyperbolic critique of Weyer and Scot, such explanations maintained paramaterial possibilities that connected the individual perceiver to the divine and demonic realms. Even with the most material accounts of mental phenomena available in the period, a perceiver and especially the perceiver’s Phantasy remained a conduit open to the spiritual and otherwise imperceptible realms.

The afflicted paramaterial Phantasy, however, could also “shape” perception in a way that went awry. The madman’s melancholic Phantasy could transform, as Theseus notes, a “bush” into a “bear” while a lover’s Phantasy could transform, as with the speaker of Shakespeare’s sonnet 113, a perceived object into another form. Theseus suggests that the Phantasy can alter perception in such a way as to “shape” a Helen from an Egyptian brow. The Phantasy, in these cases, does not so much “make” make mental objects, but, instead, shapes perceived objects in accordance with its own predispositions and concerns. The private Phantasy, while paramaterial in nature, shaped both the reception and judgment of objects, but judgment, too, had a private nature that shaped the affective power of perceived objects.

In a comedy concerned with the strange effects and alterations love produces, Shakespeare presents his own invisible forces to explain the oddities of love. The fairy realm manipulates the passions of unsuspecting humans, but does so in a particularly interesting way. Oberon and Puck’s love-weapon of choice is the juice from a flower, the “love-in-idleness” (II.i.168), whose “juice” can make a sleeping man or woman “dote” upon any living thing, human or animal. The fairy realm, as Oberon tells us of himself, remains “invisible,” yet it manipulates the human world through the application of material “juice” to the eyes of the play’s humans.

As with John Milton’s Michael, Shakespeare’s Puck applies a physical “juice” to the physical eyes. While Michael’s drops produce a spiritual vision, Puck’s juice alters the affections and judgment of perception. Descriptions of the internal and external senses often link reason and the judgment to eyes through the Phantasy. Reason, occupying the central ventricle of the brain, judged the Phantasy’s objects, and while the Phantasy itself shaped the objects of perception, differing judgments could differ as to their importance and significance. Early in the play, a distraught Hermia complains to Theseus that her father, Egeus, does not see with her eyes. Theseus, attempting to reconcile Hermia’s manner of seeing with her father’s, proclaims, “rather, [her] eyes must with [Egeus’] judgment look” (I.i. 57). The bridge between the physical eye and the judgment runs through the Phantasy, connected not only through the faculty itself, but also the “spirits” of the brain.

As I have discussed, the Phantasy could shape objects, but the judgment could also evaluate its objects differently depending on the perceiver. Judgment, however, also depended, at least in part, upon the objects the Phantasy provided. A corrupt Phantasy could trick Reason into judging incorrectly through corrupt or distorted objects. The same “shaping” of its objects also depended, in part, upon the quality of the “spirits” which served as its medium within the brain. Corrupt spirits as well as a disordered Phantasy could shape and distort the objects available for judgment.

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The drops Puck applies to the eyes alter the affections and evaluations of his victims, turning loathed objects into loved ones and loved ones into loathed ones. Shakespeare and Milton create fictional drops to alter “vision,” but, despite the fictional creation, both also draw upon contemporary understandings of the sensory apparatus to lend those fictions plausibility. I am certainly not suggesting that many early moderns believed in mind altering eye-drops, whether they be hallucination inducing like Michael’s or affection altering like Puck’s, but both Shakespeare and Milton rely upon theories that interlinked the external and internal senses in a profound way. Theorists of the system explained that the physical sensory organs themselves were more connected to matter, but that their objects underwent a series of “abstractions” that eventually divested their objects of their material components in order to interface with a material soul. At the same time, quasi-material “spirits” were thought to mediate between the external and internal senses as well as among the faculties of the sensitive soul.

Some discourses on witchcraft like Kramer and Sprenger’s Malleus Maleficarum allow for the devil’s manipulation of love and hatred through his alteration of the Phantasy or the objects of perception. I do not have the time to delve into such theories now, but those theories also inform A Midsummer Night’s Dream and the strange alterations love produces within it. Because of the paramaterial nature of the external and internal senses as well as of the objects of those senses, the fiction of mind-altering eye-drops, either divine-vision-inducing as in the case of Milton or love-producing as in the case of Shakespeare, operates upon the assumption that the physical and the spiritual, the material and the immaterial, remain connected and mutually informing.

In addition to the lover and the madman, Theseus includes a third figure linked to the Phantasy or imagination, the poet. The power afforded the poet, however, places us upon slightly different mental ground. Instead of the Phantasies of lover and madman which generate misperception, the poet actively manufactures “fantasies.” I will develop later the ontological status of objects within the pre- and early modern brain, but for now it is enough to point out how Theseus characterizes the poet as creating phantasms that are not only substantial but also transferrable. The poet Theseus imagines operates in excess of language, providing fantasies not only with a “name” but also provides them with a “local habitation” by turning them to “shapes.”

The poet’s ability to shape sense, I argue, extends beyond the linguistic, precisely because the poet shapes a mental object granted more than a nominal or linguistic existence. The objects in the mind, even if misshaped by the faculty of the Phantasy, are hallucinations, or are crafted by a poet, have a paramaterial quality by being placed somewhere between materiality and immateriality. As the Phantasy remained linked to the material external senses, its products, too, remain somewhere in the middle space between the body and the soul. The problematic faculty which remained linked, in many accounts, to the body also mediated the relationship between the body and soul, and between the world and a perceiver. Its objects, whether real or imagined, were theorized to have a material yet immaterial essence. The mental images conjured up by an author’s pen or “impressed” upon the external senses in the performance of a play, produced and shaped mental objects that both were and were not thought of in quasi-material terms.

One might argue that Theseus here speaks metaphorically of the affective content of fiction-making upon the brain, but, as I will offer elsewhere, the psychophysiological model current in the early modern period granted the faculties a quasi-material essence that extends, through a well-defined hierarchy, from material to immaterial, from corporeal to incorporeal. I do not think we can quickly dismiss the very distinct possibility that the objects within the mind, even through the late sixteenth century, retained their own paramateriality. I will return to this when I discuss representations of the Phantasy’s role in the sensory apparatus where it retained mimetic copies of external objects. I will return to this in a later post on Sidney’s “Defence of Poesie” where Sidney, too, deploys a similar model of mental architecture to explain the power of the poet upon a reader, but the paramaterial nature of the faculty and its objects works similarly when one considers the affective power of fiction.

Some of the inherent tensions of the paramaterial Phantasy emerge in Theseus’ claim that both the imagination “bodies forth/ The forms of things unknown” and that its objects are “airy nothing[s].” The paramaterial faculty “bodies forth” an object that is simultaneously body and “airy nothing,” being both a material and immaterial object. This paradox resembles the paradox of the “spirits” filling the ventricles of the brain that both mediate the relationship between body and soul and take part in the natures of both entities. The “spirits” are the medium through which mental objects move about the faculties of the mind, and they, like the “airy nothing[s]” bodied forth by the imagination, are also supposed to be composed of such a refined nature that they lose most of their materiality and can communicate with the immaterial components of a perceiver.

Hippolyta responds to Theseus’ account of the powers of the Phantasy with skepticism, noting the collective effects of the lovers’ alterations, saying,

But all the story of the night told over,
And all their minds transfigured so together,
More witnesseth than fancy’s images,
And grows to something of great constancy;
But howsoever, strange and admirable. (V.i. 23-27).

Whereas Theseus reveals the perversions and delusions of the private Phantasy, Hippolyta notes the collective transformation that has more lasting power than the fleeting images of the faculty. The fact that their minds became “transfigured so together” removes the possibility that the alterations resulted from private Phantasies of the type Theseus mentions. While, within the world of the play, invisible spirits are at work to shape the affections of the lovers, pointing to the collective nature of the lovers’ alterations also underscore the affective power of fiction making itself. Because the poet shapes mental contents and objects, he, too, is responsible for a type of collective sense shaping. The lovers within the play undergo, we are led to believe, a permanent collective change, but, as Theseus notes, the poet too contributes to a collective shaping that transforms “vain fantasies” into something more permanent and communicable.

While Theseus dismisses paranormal and supernatural shaping of the Phantasy as “antique fables” or as “fairy toys,” the counter-narrative he provides underscores a materialist explanation of aberrant perception and its role in the production and reproduction of strange sights, experiences, and affections. Unlike Shakespeare’s Othello, where the supernatural realm remains outside the play, his A Midsummer Night’s Dream shapes its own characters with the ability to manipulate and shape affections and sense. The fairy realm stand in for the possibly invisible forces at work in the Phantasy’s power to shape and be shaped by sense, leaving open the possibility of a paramaterial connection to the extra-sensible.

Both Theseus and Hippolyta insist upon the distinction between ordinary objects of perception and those shaped by a potentially corrupt private Phantasy. The supposed difference between the objects retained by the Phantasy and those manufactured by the faculty served as a bulwark of epistemology against philosophical skepticism. Those objects received from the external world were sometimes considered separable from the “vain fantasies” or phantasms produced either by a sick and disordered body or by an overactive Phantasy. As I will argue later, philosophical skeptics challenged the basis of all such distinctions, rendering all of the images in the faculty as “vain fantasies,” but, as I will argue, the philosophical skeptics also depended upon a paramaterial mind to make its case and, at least before Descartes, depend upon a paramaterial quality of the mind’s objects.

While Shakespeare, in his Epilogue, likens his play to “visions” that remain “no more yielding but a dream,” the question remains as to what type of “visions” dreams—the special province of the Phantasy—offer, and, more importantly, whether the images constructed through them or through fictions can produce changes and alter the minds of those who view and listen to the performance. Fiction making itself had the power to shape the objects of perception and cognition. These seemingly “airy nothings” are made into “shapes” that can “bod[y] forth the forms of things unknown.” While the characters of the fairy realm that shape the affections and perceptions of the lovers within the play, Shakespeare, through those fairy forces, “bodies forth” for his audience the otherwise invisible forces that shape perception and cognition by providing them with “a local habitation and a name,” working, in turn, to shape their sense of the Phantasy’s powers.

 

Shakespeare, William, and Stephen Greenblatt. The Norton Shakespeare: Based on the Oxford Edition. Norton, 1997. Print.
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Posted in Shaping Sense, William Shakespeare Tagged A Midsummer Night's Dream, early modern, epistemology, history of the senses, imagination, Phantasy, senses, Shakespeare

“And as imagination bodies forth/ The forms of things unknown”: Why the “Paramaterial Phantasy”?

While studying mind models available in the early modern period, I noticed an unusual confluence of supposed “influences” on the mind that generate paradoxical aspects within medieval and early modern constructions of the Imagination or the Phantasy. These paradoxes reveal a Phantasy that resembles but differs from our ordinary contemporary understanding of the imagination. For this reason, although sometimes referred to as the imagination within early modern popular treatises, I deploy the term Phantasy to signify the differences between our own constructions of the imagination and early modern ones. In 1928, Murray Wright Bundy’s book-length archeology of the faculty, The Theory of Imagination in Classical and Medieval Thought, argued that specters of the Romantic Imagination appear towards the end of the Renaissance, but his study halts with Dante, who, Bundy argues, approximates the Romantic conception in the Divine Comedy. Since Bundy, scholars have attempted very few comprehensive studies of the faculty, and our own understanding of its function continues to be colored through the lens of the Romantic Imagination. Romantic era conceptions cast long shadows that continue to color our notion of the faculty as detached both from “reality’ as well as from the mechanics and materiality of the brain itself.

Despite key differences, scholars often speak of the internal and external senses as if the experience of those senses were not, in part, culturally constructed and experienced differently by different cultures. Characteristically, we still discuss the early modern imagination as if it was a disembodied faculty despite the pre- and early modern insistence that it primarily functioned to retain sensory inputs which were characteristically and securely linked to corporeality. In ordinary language, we continue to reify the boundaries between the imagination and materiality and between imagination and reason. My project reveals an early modern Phantasy that served as a central point of mediation between the soul and the body, between the external and internal senses, between the material and spiritual worlds, and among perceivers and the material and spiritual worlds. While post-Lacanian scholarship recognizes the importance of the imagination and the imaginary in the very constitution of our perceived “realities,” Romanticism’s shadow persists.

Descartes' sensory system separates the mechanics of the body from mental agency.

Descartes’ sensory system separates the mechanics of the body from mental agency.

The early modern period, however, while gesturing towards the boundaries between the imagination and reason, and between imagination and materiality built upon classical ideas reinterpreted through the lens of Christianity. In these models, the gap between materiality and the imagination is much narrower than with the Romantic Imagination growing out of Cartesian mind-body dualism. I would argue that the early modern construction of the sensitive soul, as received through Late Medieval Scholasticism, represented more of a continuum from body to mind to soul than in later theories that stressed a mind-body gap. While we can detect a soul-body dualism in early modern discourses, the sensitive soul was positioned between them, providing for an interface between the potentially distinct realms.

The sensitive soul as depicted in The Noble Lyfe & Natures of Man.

The sensitive soul as depicted in The Noble Lyfe & Natures of Man.

The sensitive soul, which Scholasticism ascribed to all animals, included three mental faculties. The sensitive soul consisted of the Phantasy or Imagination, the Reason or the Understanding, and Memory. While often separable from the intellectual or rational soul, which Scholasticism ascribed exclusively to humans, the human sensitive soul played a role in processing sensory data into a form that could interface with the intellectual soul. In many popular accounts, the sensitive soul and its faculties served as the dominant model of mind even as they moved towards a re-articulation of those faculties. The intellectual soul, at times, became identified with the faculty of reason, but even materialized accounts of reason suggested a need for the more material sensitive data acquired by the senses to be dematerialized and abstracted to interface with the immaterial intellectual soul or the Christian soul itself. Thomistic theories of the senses, deriving from Aristotle, became central to the Catholic Church’s explanations of the Eucharist and of the relationship of the body to the soul. While Protestants like Martin Luther and Jean Calvin expressed anxiety over the Aristotelian inheritances and their role in establishing and explaining Catholic beliefs and practices, the sixteenth century did not have a real alternative to Aristotle when it came to mental models.

On the side of materiality, early modern Phantasies remained attached to matter through Galen’s legacy. Galenic humoralism allowed early modern physicians like Andre Du Laurens to explain fantastical illusions through melancholy’s tendency to “color” not only the faculty itself but also the very “spirits” of the brain. As products of the body and as the apex of a series of hierarchized “refinements” of bodily fluids, the “spirits” of the mind could still be “tainted” or “colored” by melancholy. Melancholy’s influence on the brain and its spirits could generate “dark” shapes or thoughts or shape perception in a way divorced from “reality.” Even earlier, the physician Johann Weyer attributed for many types of witchcraft phenomena to melancholy’s influence, offering a material explanation for seemingly immaterial phenomena.

On yet another level, the early modern Phantasy remained linked to matter in a way typically less acknowledged by early modern scholarship. The Phantasy also served as a bridge between the external world and the space of the mind. The legacy of the sensible species acquired by the external senses and passed on to the internal senses had not entirely disappeared. While I will not go into the complications of the species’ legacy in this post, natural philosophers explained the relationship of extra-mental and intra-mental objects through the reception of sensible species which they often described as “stamping” or “impressing” themselves upon the matter of the sense organs as well as in the matter of the brain’s “spirits.” The mediating species provided a material explanation of ordinary perception, but the Phantasy mediated their reception in a perceiver. The Phantasy and its “spirits” were paradoxically both material and spiritual, and, since the intellectual or rational soul as well as the soul itself remained closer to the immaterial, theorists argued that the faculty of the Phantasy converted the more material sensible species into an intellectual species which could be better received by Reason and the soul itself. The Phantasy, positioned between the material body and the immaterial or spiritual soul, mediated and paradoxically took part in both natures. For this reason, I have chosen to describe this faculty as well as spirits “paramaterial” since it expresses continuums between body and soul, an among perceivers and the spiritual and physical worlds.

Medieval and early modern constructions of the Phantasy, however, were haunted by specters of the faculty not typical of classical Aristotelianism or Galenic humoralism. In addition to receiving impressions from the external senses and mediating between the material and immaterial realms of body and mind soul, the Phantasy also accessed the divine and demonic realms. The early modern Phantasy, many witchcraft treatises tell us, are particularly vulnerable to the influence of angels and demons. Visions and other divinely inspired perception, and delusions or other demonically inspired illusions had the Phantasy as a special conduit. While physicians like Johann Weyer might challenge the vulnerability of the Phantasy by explaining aberrant phenomena through Galenic humoralism, even Weyer did not go so far as to deny the devil’s ability to alter and affect perception. Instead, he suggested that most phenomena attributed to witchcraft and devils could be explained through Galenic medicine, leaving open the possibility of true spiritual influence. Weyer, and the English Reginald Scot who followed Weyer, do not deny supernatural influence upon the Phantasy, but found themselves targets of James Stuart’s ire when James published his Daemonologie in 1597. For James, Weyer and Scot’s material explanations not only denied supernatural or spiritual influences on the faculty, but also denied the presence of a soul altogether. While James mischaracterizes both Weyer and Scot, James reveals the perceived danger overly material accounts of the Phantasy and of witchcraft phenomena offered.

Tensions between the two characteristics of the Phantasy emerge from James’ hyperbolic shaping of Weyer and Scot to reveal the central paradox found in representations of the early modern Phantasy. On the one hand, it remained connected to the material body and world. On the other hand, it remained connected to the spiritual and supernatural realms, including, but not limited to, the individual soul. This central paradox leads me to shape a new term to describe popular accounts of the early modern Phantasy as paramaterial. The paramaterial Phantasy exposes the paradoxical resolution and cultural tensions emergent in early modern popular representations of the mind. As materialist Galenic accounts of mental phenomena, witchcraft, and aberrant perception increased, others, like James, worried that such accounts trapped the perceiver within a perimaterial mind, closed off from the spiritual realm which denied the soul altogether.

Furthermore, the term paramaterial underscores the permeability and porousness of early modern perceivers, whose bodies, minds, and souls remained, by popular account, much more intimately bound up not only with the material world but also with the spiritual world. As I will discuss more extensively in a later post, the external senses, receiving the “impressions” of sensible species from the material world’s objects expressed the continuity between a perceiver and her world. While the Phantasy’s task was to abstract those impressions into intelligible species, the faculty was tasked with the ability to interface with the material, the mental, and the spiritual realms. While Galenic accounts of aberrant perception and psychology might be perceived as a threat to this porousness and permeability, the door of the paramaterial Phantasy remained open to the visiting demons and angels which could populate and shape the contents of a paramaterial mind.

The picture that emerges from investigating the paramaterial Phantasy paints an early modern perceiver not as a closed off subject but as a node interconnected with sensible and spiritual realities. While developing towards the profound separation of mind and body found in Cartesian dualism, early modern representations of the mind expressed their correlation, but that correlation extended outside the individual and towards the world, remaining open and permeable to the forces of the natural and supernatural worlds. In developing the concept of the paramaterial, I hope to build upon and complicate the historical phenomenological projects that have been most recently popularized by scholars like Gail Kern Paster and others to develop a more vivid picture of early modern phenomenology that accounts not only for the interconnectedness of mind and body but also for representations of perceivers more intimately connected to the external and spiritual worlds.

Even more recently, cognitive studies following Mary Thomas Crane’s Shakespeare’s Brain apply contemporary insights from neuroscience to bear on the early modern world, developing insightful and new avenues into the early modern world. The lens of modern neuroscience provides insight into the ways in which early moderns thought and into how they constructed their own artistic productions, but cognitive studies often myopically focuses on our own contemporary constructions of the mind without attending to the ways in which early moderns constructed and shaped their own sense of the mind. These culturally contingent constructions of the mind, to an extent, expose our own cultural blind spots and the relativity of the very models cognitive studies deploy for their re-evaluations of early modern texts and culture.

While modern neuroscience provides a perspective on the early modern period otherwise unavailable, so, too, do the various ways in which early moderns shaped their sense of themselves. In a few ways, some developments in modern neuroscience resemble, through the distorted mirror of anachronistic application, bring us back toward recognitions available from within early modern popular culture itself. Advancements in pharmacology and in understanding the material matter of the brain gesture towards suturing the division between mind and body developing out of Cartesian dualism. In this respect, our fears of biological determinism and anxieties that “mind” might be an illusion generated by a material organ, the brain, find themselves reflected “darkly” in the mirror of early modern anxieties that materialist insights into witchcraft phenomena might endanger the soul. The recent discovery of “mirror neurons” fracture the glass wall erected between the individual and the world set in place as a boundary between self and others, but such fracturing of the boundaries between self and world emerge, in a refracted way, through the ways in which early moderns explained the porousness and permeability of a perceiver through their own shaping of the sensory system and the paramaterial Phantasy.

At the same time, exploring cultural constructions of the senses and of the mind reveal how differently those similar anxieties emerge and are resolved. Early modern natural philosophers and theorists, approaching the mind by compounding classical and Christian authorities, do not seem as ready to collapse soul and mind in quite the same way as some are willing to do today. The “mind,” or at least a portion of the mind, the sensitive soul, remained simultaneously both material and immaterial while the Christian soul retained its immateriality. The sensitive soul, especially its faculty of the Phantasy, interfaced between the two, partaking in aspects of one another’s nature. While paradoxically and perhaps impossibly bridging the gaps between body and soul, and materiality and immateriality, soul-body dualism and a soul-body problem emerge instead of the mind-body dualism and mind-body problem that would soon develop in thinkers like Descartes.

Tracing the contours of early modern mind maps and the topography of the shifting ways in which those early moderns shaped their sense of sense, reveals new roads to understanding some otherwise baffling conventions of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. From Protestant iconophobia, to concerns over cross-dressing and “performance,” to explanations of the affective potentials of fiction and love, the ways in which early moderns shaped sense have broad and powerful implications and explanatory potential, informing aspects of early modern popular culture and life. Recognizing the cultural contingency of these earlier theories of mind and the senses acknowledges that the sense of sense and the sense of perception and thought itself do not remain historically constant, exposing how the shaping of sense shapes our notions of our own sense of the world, of others, of thought, of perception, of spirituality, and of our very sense of ourselves.

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Posted in Shaping Sense Tagged cultural studies, early modern, history of science, imagination, paramaterial, renaissance, senses 1 Comment

Navis Stultorum: The [GOP] Ship of Fools

Going “coverless” for far too long on Facebook, I set out on my own ship of Google images foolery, finally landing upon a woodcut from the title page of Sebastian Brant’s 1498 edition of the Stultifera Navis, the “Navis Stultorum” [The Ship of Fools]. (A version of the original can be found at Images from the History of Medicine: http://goo.gl/sMQBy.) As I reinvigorated my atrophying Photoshop skills to convert the image into a form to fill the vast sea of space found in Facebook’s new (to me) feature, I found myself noting how appropriate the fourteenth- to sixteenth-century satirical motif fits with modern Republican Presidential politics. As the “Ship of Fools” motif satirized those with almost utopian madness as a group of deranged and directionless passengers pursuing a “Paradise of Fools,” Mitt Romney’s campaign vows to steer our American ship toward a harbor of prosperity and recovery, but Romney makes such promises only through policies and statements that are either unrealizable, that contradict his own previously held stances, or that gesture towards the failed policies and practices of the Bush administration. With those thoughts in mind, I donned my own foolscap, armed with the bauble of my own recently relearned Photoshop skills, and embarked upon my own satirical journey. I here present you with the fruits of my labor—or madness—or laboring madness—or maddening labor. One thing in certain, we must sink this Ship of [GOP] Fools by November 6, before Mitt and the Republicans can bring our American ship to port in their “Paradise of Fools.” Instead of boarding Mitt’s bark, vote for Barack.

Image

My personal favorite.

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Without foolscaps, but with more recognizable figures.

Image

Feel free to use these images at will.

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Posted in Politics, Satire Tagged satire, Ship of Fools, woodcuts, #GOPShipOfFools, Barack Obama, early modern, Mitt Romney, political satire, politics, presidential politics

What’s in a pin? Hollywood Revisions and the Ideological Power of The Hunger Games

Any film adaptation of a novel, even a popular and already cinematic novel like Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games, requires amendments, omissions, and alterations in the shift from page to screen.  One major alteration in Gary Ross’ recent film adaptation created a stir with adoring fans even before the film’s opening day.  The famous mockingjay pin that becomes part of Katniss Everdeen’s symbolic identity is provided a new backstory and origin.  In the novel, Katnisss is given the golden trinket as a gift from the mayor’s daughter, Madge Undersee, just after the “reaping” and before Katniss departs on her journey to the Capitol for the commencement of the seventy-fourth Hunger Games.  The gift, which eventually becomes a symbol of rebellion and the namesake for the third novel in the series has a special significance in the novel.  We first see it adorning Madge’s dress before the reaping, and, through Katniss’ eyes, we see it as a sign of excess and class division: “Real gold.  Beautifully crafted.  It could keep a family in bread for months” (12).  Whereas the pin, for Madge represents a pretty adornment to ensure that she will look nice if she is called to the Capitol, for the long time starving Katniss, the object is identified with its value in terms of purchase power.  The brief incident shows the class divisions within District 12 that separate the merchant class from the class of coal miners and their families.

In the film, Katniss acquires the pin from a dilapidated shop.  The pin, no longer gold but only gold in color, is given to her not by a member of a much wealthier Mayor’s Daughter but instead by an elderly shopkeeper who refuses payment for it.  This act of kindness in the film shows a District 12 where the members of the district look out for their own and where solidarity seems to be the norm.  I’ll leave aside, for the moment, that by rewriting the pin’s origin, the film undercuts the nuanced way in which a sign of class division and difference ultimately becomes a symbol of rebellion to first address the way the re-scripted gift flattens out the mechanisms of power and ideology which stand at the center of Collins’ critique f power.

Rather than as a simple gift from a shopkeeper, the golden pin of the novel speaks to the class tensions present not only between the Capitol and the Districts, but to the tensions within the districts themselves.  Madge represents District 12’s ruling class who not only have enough food on their tables, but have a surplus of wealth enough to adorn Madge’s reaping dress with a pin that could feed other starving families were it in their possession.  While remaining separate from the ideological forces controlling the games themselves, the pin shows the ways in which wealth and class separates and differentiates people from within the districts.  While Madge herself is not exempt from the “reaping,” her class status does, as the novel makes clear, provide her with a distinct advantage over the characters like Katniss and Gale which have entered their names additional times in the reaping for a supplementary supply of food.  The pin has a valence tinctured with class difference from the very outset of the novel, and the symbol, like ideology and the character of Katniss itself is complicated further in the narrative.

The pin becomes a conflicted symbol later in the series as Katniss becomes identified with the pin itself.  The mockingjay points out the failure of ideological power since it was ultimately an inadvertent product of a manipulating authority, but also represents a method of coercion that backfired on state authority and exceeded its control.  The Capitol genetically engineered the jabberjay as an avian spy on its rebelling districts.  The state developed the jabber jay to act as a recording device and as a natural spy on the populace in its rebelling districts.  The jabberjay repeated the speeches of people it overheard and reported those speeches back to the Capitol.  As the novel points out, these spies became ineffectual once people in the districts discovered their purpose and function, using them instead as agents of misinformation.  When the Capitol accepted its failures, it left the birds to breed naturally with others, creating the mockingjay, a symbol to mock the coercive strategies of the Capitol.  In the film, the symbol itself remains intact, but as a gift from a shopkeeper without the same purchasing power of the gold offered by the novel’s Madge Undersee elides the class tensions readily apparent elsewhere in the novel.

The simplification of ideology’s effects on consciousness in the film comes through a heightening of the separation of a Capitol with a bad consciousness and a genuine authentic consciousness of the opposing underclass.  The altered backstory of the pin reduces ideology to something that is generated wholly top-down, from the mind of a President Snow rather than an all encompassing force that creates tensions of authenticity and inauthenticity in its appearance in the minds of the underclass.  What Katniss represents in the novel, the revolutionary never quite in control of her rebellion against authority opens up a conflicted space where identity and ideology compose consciousness and direct it even at the moments it seems most under control.  In the film, what we are left with is a centralized manipulator of ideology where “we” oppose the false consciousness propagated by a manipulating force of ideology without recognizing the ways in which power and ideology affect and influence behavior even when supposedly set in opposition to it.

One of the most important tensions of the novel concern Katniss’ performance of love for her fellow District 12 tribute Peeta.  Because of the Panoptic quality of the state run Hunger Games, Katniss is left never really knowing the “truth” of her own feelings for Peeta.  While she steps into and performs the role of star-crossed lover, both she and the reader are left wondering where these performances begin and end.  The inauthentic displays lead to, but also result from, a genuine feeling but, as they are subject to state power, a murkiness clouds and obscures those feelings both from character and reader.  Even the light provided by the concluding third novel is not enough to dissipate the darkness to see the truth of Katniss’ real feelings for Peeta.  Despite all her revolutionary and counterrevolutionary acts, Katniss ends up torn between the competing forces of authenticity and inauthenticity which define her.  Rather than simply displacing bad consciousness onto Snow and the Capitol, Katniss too grapples with the ideological forces that shape and are shaped by her.  While ideology contains her, it is the moments when ideology most seems in control of her that she, like the mockingjay to which she is symbolically linked, threatens to point out the limits of power.  It is this nuanced critique of ideological frce that is lost in the film’s re-scripting of the pin.

The new back story simplifies power by glossing over the class structure that separates the underclass within the Districts and the powerful shaping of the Capitol.  What we are left with, in the film, is a way to ignore our own class divisions and tensions by identifying with the “authentic” members of the district against the ridiculous and inauthentic manipulations of power.  In this flattened out world, lost too are the inter-psychic manipulations of power that create inter-district class divisions.  The audience becomes the homogeneous force against the false consciousness of the Capitol without experiencing the ways in which that power manipulates, affects, manufactures and fractures consciousness.  Within this fattened out world, the similarity to our own class conflicts are similarly elided.  What becomes obscured in the process is the mechanisms of power and ideology that control and manipulate our psychic lives at a much more fundamental level, both producing and obscuring ourselves.

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Posted in Tangents Tagged comparative analysis, Hunger Games, Ideology, Hollywood, film

The Shifting “Horns” of Thomas More’s Utopian Womb

To begin at the beginning of Book II of More’s Utopia, I begin with a footnote: “[Utopia] is about the size of England; it is the shape of an atoll or (for the Freudian-minded) of a womb” (31).  While still trying to repress my own latent Freudian thought (my honor’s thesis advisor as an undergraduate, Richard Wheeler, is a psychoanalytic critic), the description of the island is not only open to a psychoanalytic reading, but also one can buttress this idea with an understanding of Renaissance representations of the “womb” (my attempt to kill the father by combining my repressed psychoanalysis with cultural poetics).  Hythloday opens his “description” of the island with the island’s geography.

Utopia “is two hundred miles across the middle part where it is widest, and is nowhere much narrower than this except toward the two ends.  These ends, drawn toward one another as if in a five-hundred-mile circle, make the island crescent-shaped like a new moon” (31).  While this description alone would lend itself to a psychoanalytic reading of the description of the island, the next sentence refers to the two “ends” as “the horns of the crescent.”  What is particularly important for my reading is that the use of the word “horns” operates in the lexicon of medical/ anatomical representations of the female body.

The problem here is that the horns of the crescent island of Utopia are near the opening rather than at the top, and would consequently appear more cervical rather than ovarian.  While the horns of the island seemingly do not properly map onto the island-as-uterus, the reference in combination to the similarity to the island-as-womb does suggest a connection.  In anatomical and obstetrical books contemporary to More’s Utopia, the “horns” of the uterus were either placed near the top of the uterus or at its bottom.  Some depictions of the womb included “horns” at the top of the uterus:

While one can find images where the “horns” are placed in their “correct” anatomical position, one also finds anatomical depictions of the womb where the “horns” lie closer to the bottom of the “matrix” as one can see in the following image from the 1530s:

The Uterine Horns from Berengarius’ Isagoge Brevis (1535).

In the Norton critical edition, the translation translates (repetition intentional- so Repetition is possible- take that Kierkegaard) the word “cornua” for “horn,” which maintains the connection to the reference as taking part in the lexicon of anatomy (cornua uteri is still the medical term for the connection between the fallopian tubes and the uterus).  What is interesting about Utopia as womb is that there are various defense methods mentioned in this section that allow strangers to enter safely or to be killed instantly, for “with the shallows on one side, and rocks on the other, the entrance to the bay can be very dangerous.., [and] since… other rocks lie under the water, they are very dangerous to navigation.  The channels are known only to the Utopians, so hardly any strangers enter the bay without one of their pilots; and even they themselves could not enter safely if they did not direct themselves by some landmarks on the coast.  If they should shift these landmarks about, they could lure to destruction an enemy fleet coming against them, however big it was” (31).

Obviously, it is important for the way the Utopians live to have an impenetrable (when necessary) and highly defensible island, but this passage combined with the inference that the island itself is womb-like carries with it interesting valences.  The womb in the Renaissance represented a place that was at the same time ideal and dangerous, generative and destructive, hidden yet often expressive, a “good place” and a “no place.”   It was a place valorized and important for creating legitimate heirs, suspected in reference to bastard children, and scorned as a possible breeding ground for monsters.  In Utopia, strangers only enter if the inhabitants themselves allow them to, and the literal “signs” on the coast can be manipulated in order to destroy unwelcome guests.  This description of the island, in effect, gives birth to the text of Book two and Hythloday’s encounter with the Utopians allows a “stranger” to tell the tale to his listeners, just as More’s (the narrator’s) encounter with Hythloday allows him to tell the tale of the tale, just as More’s (the man’s) encounter with his own imagination (also often associated with the womb) also spawns the entire narrative.  The problem here is who controls the landmarks at the shore?  Do we engage with the text as if Utopia is an ideal or do we deal with it as full of potentially dangerous ideas?  Are we to be allowed direct access to Utopia or will we be destroyed upon the rocks?  We have a stranger’s account of a stranger’s account of a place that does not exist, but to complicate matters More (the man) created the text without the assurance that Hythloday has within it.

When More (the character) objects “that men cannot possibly live well where all things are in common,” Hythloday responds: “I am not surprised… that you think of it in this way, since you have no idea, or only a false idea, of such a state.  But you should have been with me in Utopia, and seen with your own eyes their manners and customs as I did-for I lived there more than five years, and would never have left, if it had not been to make that new world known to others.  If you had seen them, you would frankly confess that you had never seen a people so well governed as they are” (29).  The repetition of the appeal to actual physical perception within the text makes sense, but outside of the text the possibility of “seeing” them is foreclosed, and by this foreclosure understanding or learning from the Other (imagined race) MAY also be foreclosed.

The text ends with More stating his persistent doubts about the question, and he will probably remain in such ignorance (at least according to the logic of the text) because he can never acquire the epistemological certainty Hythloday possesses.  From this assured perspective, Hyhloday sets out to “describe” the island to his listeners, but he does attempt to “defend” them.  This presentation of the entire fiction as a type of “description” is complicated because to “describe” implies a simple relation of facts, while in fact the act of fiction making fabricates those facts the entire time.  This circles us back round, in crescent-like fashion, to the womb, because in the Renaissance there were also debates over the female’s function in the creation of children (for some the womb was simply a warm place for the seed to grow, and for others the woman supplied the body while the man supplied the soul, and for yet others that they both took part in the creation of the soul and body- but often in these passages there is a movement to suggest that the man had a more important role in generation- for reasons I will not go into now).

To “describe” would seem to map onto the idea of the womb as simply a place to translate spirit into matter, a passive act of translation, while in fact the text is wholly generative, and the fictionalized account gives birth to the narrative.  As Margaret Tyler proclaimed in the letter to her the readers of her 1578 translation of The Mirrour of Knighthoode, her text is implied to be a product of her “sport” with the original text (an intellectual rather than physical sexual act).  Like Hythloday’s description of the island (and further, English translations of More’s Utopia) Tyler’s translation is the offspring of such an encounter, but the question is whether or not this offspring is legitimate or a monster, and her act of the seemingly passive act of translation also becomes a point of resistance, for “seldom is [a] tale carried clean from another’s mouth” (A.iii.).

More, Thomas. Utopia. 2nd ed. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1991.

Ortúñez de Calahorra, Diego.  The mirrour of princely deedes and knighthood.  Trans.  Margaret Tyler.  London: Thomas East, 1578.

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Posted in Tangents Tagged anatomical representations, crescent island, psychoanalytic critic

Pleasure Reading: A Reminder that I Needn’t a Pen to Read

As a graduate student spending far too many years in the pursuit of my PhD in literature, I am used to reading with a pen in hand.  The copious notes, the marginal glosses, the half-worked out system of asterisks, underlies, circles and boxes have become, detrimentally, part of my reading practice.  When my then girlfriend, now my wife graciously purchased a Kindle for my birthday several years ago, her doing so initially upset my practice.   The idea of reading without a writing instrument unsettled my reading habits and practices, but I quickly adapted to Kindle’s method of note-taking and underlining.  They served as extensions of my old habits.  I had to drop my system of circling and squaring keywords, motifs, or phrases, but retained asterisks in the comments for key moments in the texts I read on the device.

The time I spent in graduate school reinforced these behaviors and habits, making the concept of reading without some form of note-taking unimaginable.  Even when reading something not related to my dissertation, to me, required notes since I could never be certain when that odd early modern recipe book, herbal, bestiary or scientific treatise would somehow later relate to my research on the early modern imagination.  One thing that these habits distracted from, which happened while I was unaware, was the ability to blissfully disappear into a piece of imaginative fiction.  The note-taking kept me from fully occupying the imaginative space conjured from the pages of a particularly engrossing fiction.  My notes kept me outside of the text, which became an object of investigation and a site of cultural meaning no matter if it were a printed book or a Kindleized version of some obscure treatise I pulled from the virtual Early English Books Online shelves.  In short, this practice, which had become second nature, kept the texts I read at arm’s length, constantly forcing me outside the world constructed by the text and into a critical mindset and mode.

My time in graduate school has sapped me of my ability to get lost in another world somehow mysteriously conjured in my imagination from the words on a page or screen.  The very things that led me to love literature had morphed and altered, and I hardly ever read for pleasure anymore.  Every text is a potential object of study.  This past weekend, however, I decided to try something new.  I decided to read a book that I would never have an interest in writing about; something that had no relation whatsoever to my research or the early modern period.  I read Susan Collins’ The Hunger Games.  Betraying the habits that have been so ingrained in my reading practice, I abandoned note-taking and allowed myself, for the first time in a long time, to become engrossed in fiction, and the experience was so refreshing that it was unsettling.  Sure, Collins’ book cannot compete with the brilliance of a Chaucer, Shakespeare, or Milton, and was not as beautifully written as much of the literature to which I’ve become accustomed, but, for once, it reminded me of the joys of reading, of getting lost in a text; I reveled in the strange and disconcerting way a book can transport oneself, where the object forges a new world in the imagination in which you can lose the sense of yourself in front of a book itself.  The book didn’t become an object of study, but rather a source of abandoning the sense of myself.  For hours, I lost the sense of myself and did not even notice that I had been moving my eyes across a page or that I had been flipping pages.  Instead, I dwelt, for a time, in the space presented to my imagination.    Sure, it’s cliché, and probably doesn’t even need comment, but the experience was liberating and powerful to me, reminding me of why I wanted to go to graduate school in the first place.  It reminds me of the powerful affective quality of abandoning oneself to the power of fiction and how, at times, I need to remember to read without a pen in hand.  Although I’ve taken as my task to write about the representations of the early modern Phantasy, I had forgotten the pleasures the imagination affords when reading for pleasure.  A lesson I should strive to remember as I return to my work.

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