Positive, negative, and political affects in Shakespeare’s first tetralogy
Paul Joseph Zajac
contented then? Can Richard be content? Is he content with discontent, and what would such a paradox even mean? And if Richard's ‘our’ really does implicate the audience, how does the contentment of the one relate to the discontent of the other, or vice versa? The two affective states, as well as the affective exchanges between character/actor and audience, become difficult to parse.
The complications only increase when we recognize that Richard's ‘winter of our discontent’ invokes a discourse of contentment and
In The Arcades Project, Benjamin explores the different aspects of nineteenth-century culture, in search of a historical reality to which people can awake in a revelatory act of political consciousness. However, the uncanny effects of his archival approach impinge on this revelatory and sublime process. Rather than revealing the political, economic, and technological latent content of the past, representations of the material object confront consciousness with the unfamiliar and abject forms of the repressed collective unconscious. The Gothic tropes of Benjamin‘s text are the traces of the melancholy haunting his concept of a demystifying revelation of historical and material truth.
William Burroughs’ texts provide us with one of the most self-conscious of guides through an addicted world which is violently dislocated from linear time, while at the same time undermining the reliability of such a guide. In this Gothicised world we cannot trust the account of the addict; but this also implies that we cannot trust ourselves in the moment of addiction to reading. While we are secretly communing with the texts, we are also liable to ‘forget’, or to ignore, the outer parameters which comprise the moral universe; we are freed but, paradoxically, we find difficulty in reporting the content of this freedom. Here we find an essential link, which can also be found across Gothic fiction, to the notion of ‘psychotic rapture’, and a dislocation between the force of the messages ‘broadcast’; to us from the outside and the alignment of these messages with the counterforce of the world of experience.
James Baldwin and Ray Charles in “The Hallelujah
Based on a recent, archival discovery of the script, “But Amen is the Price” is the first
substantive writing about James Baldwin’s collaboration with Ray Charles, Cicely Tyson,
and others in a performance of musical and dramatic pieces. Titled by Baldwin, “The
Hallelujah Chorus” was performed in two shows at Carnegie Hall in New York City on 1 July
1973. The essay explores how the script and presentation of the material, at least in
Baldwin’s mind, represented a call for people to more fully involve themselves in their
own and in each other’s lives. In lyrical interludes and dramatic excerpts from his
classic work, “Sonny’s Blues,” Baldwin addressed divisions between neighbors, brothers,
and strangers, as well as people’s dissociations from themselves in contemporary American
life. In solo and ensemble songs, both instrumental and vocal, Ray Charles’s music evinced
an alternative to the tradition of Americans’ evasion of each other. Charles’s sound meant
to signify the history and possibility of people’s attainment of presence in intimate,
social, and political venues of experience. After situating the performance in Baldwin’s
personal life and public worldview at the time and detailing the structure and content of
the performance itself, “But Amen is the Price” discusses the largely negative critical
response as a symptom faced by much of Baldwin’s other work during the era, responses that
attempted to guard “aesthetics” generally—be they literary, dramatic, or musical—as
class-blind, race-neutral, and apolitical. The essay presents “The Hallelujah Chorus” as a
key moment in Baldwin’s search for a musical/literary form, a way to address, as he put
it, “the person and the people,” in open contention with the social and political
pressures of the time.
The Armorial of Bianca
Maria Sforza, Copied for August of Saxony by Lucas Cranach the Younger
(Manchester, John Rylands Library, German MS. 2)
German MS. 2 is a previously unstudied armorial dating from the mid-sixteenth
century. This article shows that it was produced in the workshop of Lucas
Cranach the Younger for Elector August of Saxony, and that it was copied from an
earlier armorial of c.1500 which was kept in Cranach’s
workshop, probably as reference material. Much of the original content and
structure of this ‘old armorial’ has been preserved in Rylands
German 2. On this basis, the original armorial can be located in a late
fifteenth-century Upper German tradition of armorial manuscripts known as the
‘Bodensee’ group. It was also closely linked to the Habsburg
dynasty, and appears to have been dedicated to Empress Bianca Maria Sforza. The
armorial therefore opens significant new perspectives on the relationships
between artists and heraldry and between women and heraldic knowledge, and on
ways of visualising the Holy Roman Empire through heraldry.
Sir Lewis Namier (1888–1960) was not only a major twentieth-century historian, a pioneer of ‘scientific history’ who gave his name to a particular form of history-writing, but an important public intellectual. He played a significant role in public affairs, as an influential adviser to the British Foreign Office during the First World War and later as an active Zionist. This article offers a new perspective on his life and work by providing, for the first time, as comprehensive a bibliography as is currently possible of his voluminous writings: books, scholarly articles and contributions to periodicals and newspapers, including many hitherto unknown, and some published anonymously. The annotation includes not only bibliographical information but explanations and brief summaries of the content. The introduction gives an account of Namier’s life and an assessment of his significance as a historian and thinker.
This book constructs a vocabulary for the literary study of graphic textual phenomena. It examines the typographic devices within a very particular context: that of the interpretation of prose fiction. The graphic surface of the page is a free two-dimensional space on which text appears either mechanically or consciously. As visual arrangements of printed text on the graphic surface, graphic devices can contribute to the process of reading, combining with the semantic content within the context which that text creates. The book first sets out to demonstrate both how and why the graphic surface has been neglected. It looks at the perception of the graphic surface during reading and how it may be obscured by other concerns or automatised until unnoticed. Then, the book examines some critical assumptions about the transformation of manuscript to novel and what our familiarity with the printed form of the book leads us to take for granted. It looks at theoretical approaches to the graphic surface, particularly those which see printed text as either an idealised sign-system or a representation of spoken language. The book further looks at how 'blindness' to the graphic surface, and particularly its mimetic usage, is reflected and perpetuated in literary criticism. It deals with the work of specific authors, their texts and the relevant critical background, before providing a concluding summary which touches on some of the implications of these analyses.
conventions in unconventional ways. 8 Derricke is seemingly no different as he
praises his dedicatee, Sir Philip Sidney, his protagonist, Sir Henry Sidney, his readers in
Ireland, and his ‘good and gentle’ and ‘well disposed reader[s]’
in England, supposedly. 9 Yet, the
paratextual structure of Derricke’s poem is far from predictable; arguably its
abundance of letters to the reader and dedications suggests that Derricke is concerned with
keeping the predictable readings of his content at the forefront of his reader’s mind
An early version of Jarman's ‘Assisi’ from ‘untitled sketchbook’, 1964. The poem appears as part of a collage that juxtaposes his poetry in careful calligraphy with found materials and carefully torn monochrome blocks, and dates from his time at the Slade. The line breaks are arranged differently from the 1972 version (the content remains the same); here, the words are arranged so as to fit into the visual scheme.
Jarman often situates the
as the Newgate novel, the only one of its set to demonstrate an openness to side with social unrest. I do not deny that in many ways the novel simply tells the story of Jack Sheppard or that the potentially incendiary content of his story is often treated ambivalently and non-politically. I am in fact interested in the way that the ambivalence made the novel so tantalising to some and so threatening to others. 2 Aside from nostalgia for the Jacobin rebellions, Ainsworth’s biography includes little that would suggest he had radical sympathies. 3 But with Bulwer