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This paper traces some of the network of patchy continuities from Virgil and Ovid, through Dante, Gustave Doré, the Arctic explorer (and later painter) Julius Payer (later von Payer), to the contemporary Austrian novelist Christoph Ransmayr. It will be travelling from Virgil’s Hell into the remotest regions of the far North, and back into the not too remote time when it could reasonably be supposed that at the North Pole there was perhaps land, or perhaps even open unfrozen water behind the barrier of pack ice. Its final destination will be the Hell of Ovid’s ultimate earthly residence on the inhospitable shores of the Black Sea. In particular it argues that there is a distinctive dotted line of influence running from Virgil’s account of the Underworld in Book 6 of the Aeneid, through Dante’s transformation of Virgil’s Underworld into a Christian Hell, Doré’s realisation of the latter in visual terms in his illustrations, Julius Payer’s conceptualisation of the newly-discovered Franz Josef Land in his illustrations of the discovery, and Ransmayr’s novelistic transformation of that discovery. In passing, I comment on the strange compulsion of the far north as manifested in the world of toys and adventure stories.
Chapters on Classical & Medieval Descents; Louis–Ferdinand Céline; Peter Weiss, Dante; Christine de Pizan, Virginia Woolf; Walter Benjamin; Seamus Heaney, Derek Walcott.
Among the Scandinavians far down in Christian times, the idea prevailed that their heathen ancestors had believed in the existence of a place of joy, from which sorrow, pain, blemishes, age, sickness, and death were excluded. This place of joy was called Ódáinsakur, the-acre-of-the-not-dead, Jörð lifandi manna, the earth of living men. 1 It was not situated in heaven but below, either on the surface of the earth or in the lower world, but it was separated from the lands inhabited by men in such a way that it was exceeding perilous, although not impossible, to come there. A saga from the fourteenth century 2 incorporated in Flateyjarbók, and with a few textual modifications in Fornaldarsögur Norðurlanda, tells the following: Erik, the son of a petty Norse king, one Christmas Eve, made the vow to seek out Odainsakur, and the fame of it spread over all Norway. In company with a Danish prince, who also was named Erik, he proceeded first to Mikligard (Constantinople), where the king engaged the young men in his service, and was greatly benefited by their warlike skill. One day, the king talked with the Norwegian Erik about religion, and the result was that the latter surrendered the faith of his ancestors and accepted baptism. He told his royal teacher of the vow he had taken to find Odinsakur,-"frá honum heyrði vér sagt á voru landi,"-and asked him if he knew where it was situated. The king believed that Odainsakur was identical with Paradise, and said it lies in the East beyond the farthest boundaries of India, but that no one was able to get there because it was enclosed by a wall of fire, which reaches up to heaven itself. Still Erik was bound by his vow, and with his Danish namesake he set out on his journey, after the king had instructed them as well as he was able in regard to the way, and had given them a letter of recommendation to the authorities and princes through whose territories they had to pass. They travelled through Syria and the immense and wonderful India, and came to a dark country where the stars are seen all day long. After having traversed its deep forests, they saw a river when it began to grow light, over which there was a vaulted stone bridge. On the other side of the river, there was a plain from which came sweet fragrance. Erik conjectured that the river was the one called Pison by the king in Mikligard, and which has its source in Paradise. On the stone bridge lay a dragon with his mouth agape. The Danish prince advised that they return, for he considered it impossible to conquer the dragon or to pass it. But the Norwegian Erik seized one of his men with one hand, 1 er heiðnir menn kalla Ódáinsakr, en kristnir menn jörð lifandi manna eða Paradísum, "that the heathen people call Odainsakur, but Christian people the land of living men or Paradise" Eireks saga víðförla. 2 Eireks saga Víðförla
This paper examines Siberia as a fictional world imagined by the French literature of the nineteenth century. It starts by drawing a distinction between the contemporary knowledge on real Siberia and the stereotypical features of fictional ''Siberia'', a huge plane eternally covered by snow and situated beyond a line going from Saint-Petersburg to Moscow. In order to define this world, this essay focuses particularly on the way its borders are defined through the feelings expressed by characters in novels and plays. The paper goes on to analyze the access to fictional Siberia, especially the passage of Urals in novels of Alexandre Dumas and Jules Verne, which mark it as the way into an imaginary world of cold exoticism. It finally considers a vaudeville by Lhérie et Brunswick dating from 1836: by staging a simulated trip to Siberia, this play allows its audience to follow the construction of an imaginary Siberia. Comparable to fictional immersion, this process unveils fictional Siberia as a giant playground built for a game of ''make believe''.
The Classical Review, 2022
The volume under review, based on papers delivered at the Vergilian Society's Symposium Cumanum in 2013, is a welcome addition to the scholarship on Aeneid 6. Gathering thirteen stimulating, challenging and rewarding essays by some of the leading researchers in their fields, it specifically aims to interrogate the dynamics of reception through Virgil's underworld book, analysed both as a significant artefact of the reception of prior Greek and Roman literature and culture and as 'an inflection point, to which authors time and again return in order to meditate on life, death, and rebirth' (p. 7). While its coverage is by no means comprehensivethe contributions focus primarily on the Latin literary tradition-, the collection ranges widely through time and space, each chapter examining 'a precise moment of literary reception and refraction' (p. 7). Somewhat against the grain for a reception-oriented collection of this kind, the papers are not organised chronologically. Instead, readers are made to follow in Aeneas' footsteps through Aeneid 6, from A. Barchiesi's opening chapter on the woods of Cumae to G. Parker's concluding study of his departure through the Gates of Sleep. This distinctive arrangement is one of the volume's strengths, tying together its eclectic subject-matter while helping to maintain a consistent focus on Aeneid 6 as 'the overarching, organizational principle of its reception' (p. 8). The collection starts off on a strong footing with Barchiesi's contribution, which analyses Virgil's novel construction of the Cumaean silvae as a katabatic space via a sensitive comparative analysis of woods and wildernesses in earlier epic poetry. By combining this underworld with the idea of a first encounter with wild Italy, Barchiesi argues, Virgil points up the proto-colonial implications of the narrative, while the Trojans' early interventions on the Cumaean landscape, including deforestation, in turn anticipate the infrastructure works conducted by Agrippa in the Avernus area. This leads into E. Pillinger's fascinating study of Statius' Silvae 4.3, his poem celebrating the completion of the Via Domitiana from Rome to Cumae. Pillinger contends that Statius uses the dynamics of distance, time and speed, as experienced by a traveller on the new road, 'to describe his own navigation of literary history' (p. 31) in relation to Aeneid 6, a literary excursion that culminates in a surprising encounter with the Sibyl. The immediacy of the poem's short hendecasyllabic lines (which, at 163 verses, suggests the carmen figuratum of a long, narrow road), the directness of the journey and the din of the road's construction, Pillinger observes, complement the Sibyl's 'strangely straightforward' (p. 38) flattery of Domitian, as Virgil's priestess is transposed into the Silvae's world of hyperbolic imperial praise. Leaping ahead to the Victorian era, M. Kilgour examines Mary Shelley's treatment of the theme of prophecy in her post-apocalyptic novel The Last Man, which recounts a narrative purportedly pieced together from the Sibylline leaves. After a wide-ranging survey of medieval and early modern literary receptions of Anchises' revelation of the Roman future in Aeneid 6, Kilgour connects Shelley's fatalistic view of history in The Last Man to the tragic death of Marcellus, the latter seen by the author as foreshadowing THE CLASSICAL REVIEW
In his 1778 text, An Inquiry into the Original State and Formation of the Earth, John Whitehurst writes of the "terraqueous globe" that having been "burst into millions of fragments . . . must certainly be thrown into strange heaps of ruins . . . ." 1 Whitehurst is not alone in extending the eighteenth-century fascination with ideas of ruins into early geology. In the rapidly proliferating texts analyzing the history of the earth during the Age of Goethe, when geology was just gaining a foothold as a field in its own right, 2 scientists like Whitehurst, Johann G. Wallerius, and Johann R. Forster describe the entire surface of the earth as a conglomeration of ruins of previous worlds. This vision of devastation is the basis for two queries I address here: whether the narrative describing how these ruins are created is a linear development of progress or a vision of ongoing cycles (as Stephen J. Gould calls it, "time's arrow or time's cycle"); 3 and what the authors believe lies beyond the ruins, below the surface of the earth. Both of these questions are integral parts of theories describing the earth's history and structure, and the driving forces behind them. The first question regarding the construction of narratives and their relationship to time is the basis for fierce scientific and theological controversy in early geology. 4 The answer to the second question concerning the realm beyond the ruins is, on the other hand, something many thinkers in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century agree upon. Whether they emphasize field observations or readings of Genesis, whether they construct time as arrow or cycle, these writers use metaphors of the feminine world below the ruins as the foundation for their narratives. They imagine a
This article reads the frame narrative of Mary Shelleys Frankenstein through the lens of Michel Foucaults theory of heterotopias. It begins by contextualizing Shelleys Arctic settings, and demonstrates that the Arctic was an issue in the news during the period when Shelley was working on the novel. It then surveys the critical literature on Shelleys narrative, in which her Arctic sequence is generally read as a condemnation of Britains imperialist policy toward northern exploration. Turning from those strictly historically inflected concerns, this essay analyzes Shelleys representation of Arctic and northern spaces, and especially Waltons icebound ship, as heterotopias. In doing so, it examines how Shelley represents the Arctic as an other(ed) space where Captain Walton hopes to transform himself from a failed poet to a renowned explorer. It also examines the relationship in Shelleys novel between these other(ed) spaces and narrative itself.
Florentia Iliberritana, 2018
The question of civilisation versus barbarism underpins most of the popular subgenre of the imaginary voyage usually known as lost-world romance. The lost-world romance has approached the opposition civilised man versus ignoble savage in a variety of ways. One of them has consisted in transferring this opposition to classical antiquity, the period when the very concept of civilisation was born in the Western world, often against the background of contacts of imaginary travellers with allegedly savage alternative human races (e.g. Cyclopes, Troglodytes). This kind of speculative fiction with imaginary ancient Greek or Roman voyagers can be classified in two main subgenres. The first one is composed of modern re-writings of Odysseus’ myth in order to update it to modern concerns, especially totalitarian barbarism, in stories such as Alberto Moravia’s “La verità sul fatto di Ulisse” (1940). Another, more original subgenre, consists of narratives where an ancient civilised person is confronted to mentally monstrous populations, such as the troglodyte women from Marcel Schwob’s “Les embaumeuses” (1891), the devolved immortal troglodytes from Jorge Luis Borges’ “El inmortal” (1947), or the inarticulate hominids from V. Beneș’s “Amo, amas, amat” (1943). These authors avoided giving clear and reductive answers to the question of civilisation versus barbarism as these terms appear respectively embodied in classic antiquity travelers and in the (un)communities of monsters they encounter in the framework of this interesting, but critically neglected genre of mythological/archaeological imaginary voyages.
Religious Studies Review, 2016
Pp. 552; figures. Paper, e34.90. Family and friends of the late classicist Isabelle Ratinaud-Lachkar offer this wide-ranging collection inspired by her view that the course of metal, from mine to merchant, offers a privileged window into society and culture (14). Twenty-three essays are grouped into four broad thematic sections inspired by the research interests of the honorand: metals, metalworkers and luxury goods (I); funerary practices (II); the city (III) and travel and cross-cultural contacts (IV). Ratinaud-Lachkar published widely on Argos and early Greece; these subject areas form the core of the volume with contributions by leading francophone Homerists, historians, and archaeologists such as Franc oise L etoublon (metals in Homeric formulae and the Hesiodic myth of the ages), Marcel Pi erart (the cult of Phoroneus at Argos), and Franc ois de Polignac on the conquest of Tiryns. The remaining essays range widely not only in time ("from Homer to our day") but in thought and space, from the land beyond the west wind (Castiliglioni on the ancient "Hyperborean route") to a Hellenistic Greek sanctuary in Afghanistan (Martinez-Sève). Medieval, Renaissance, and modern historians will want to scan the table of contents for other small gems such as a study of Ludovico di Varthema's journey to Mecca in 1503 (Martel-Thoumian), sixteenth-century Wunderkammern (Ghermani), iron mining in the Basse Marienne region of Savoie from the Middle Ages to the industrial revolution (Judet), and the idea of "Italy" among post-WWII French intellectuals (Forlin).
2019
This study examines the importance of geographical ideas in Dante's Commedia and develops a historically sensitive geocritical methodology to analyze the function of real world geography within Dante's poem. I aim to expand our understanding of the importance of the
Renaissance Quarterly, 2020
2022
On the basis of written and iconographic sources of the Middle Ages here discussed, it seems clear that the Northern Regions are viewed according to a Mediterranean center of gravity, a legacy of the Greek and Roman cultures that provides the foundations of medieval thought, through selective transmission of the most influential authors of the ancient world. From there a debate arose, polarized around two focal points: on the one hand, the North was seen as a wasteland, uninhabitable due to the extreme rigour of the climate, devoid of the possibility for human settlement; on the other hand, there were those who saw in the northern lands the space of unhuman (= the monster) or, rather, something that did not belong to humankind, offspring of Noah's three sons - according to Genesis: such account being the conceptual basis for the diversity of peoples living in the World.
In this paper I suggest a Virgilian reading of Dante’s depiction of the wood of the suicides in Inferno 13. Dante found a profound authority in the works of the poet Virgil, specifically in his capolavoro the Aeneid. The literary influence of the Aeneid is particularly clear in Inferno 13 as intertextual references alluding to characters and situations from the Aeneid are plentiful. The mesta selva itself, filled with gnarled thornbushes containing the souls of the suicides, is an inversion of the lugentes campi, the Mourning Fields, of Aeneid 6, where Aeneas finds the soul of Dido wandering in a myrtle wood. The relationship between Pier della Vigna, a resident of the suicide wood, and Polydorus, of Aeneid 3, is salient in both their appearance in death and their rhetorical styles. Dante’s suicides are constantly tormented by Harpies that derive directly from Virgil’s portrayal of them in Aeneid 3. In this paper I propose that the Virgilian recollections upon which the episode of Pier della Vigna draws were used by Dante with the precise intention of creating a poetry utterly different to that of Virgil. The classical tropes used by Dante serve to highlight the thorny roots, both pagan and theological, of Dante’s conception of suicide. His manipulation of Virgil’s poetical landscape leads to the formation of a singularly complex space, novel in its literary and spiritual substance and quintessentially Dantean in its innovative approach to a contentious topic.
Among recent writers, few have achieved such acclaim for literary innovation as Jorge Luis Borges and his ephebe Julio Cortázar. Yet, in spite of their daring manipulations of narrative form, their work retains a structure informed in many cases by T.S. Eliot's seminal definition of the "mythical method" as "a continuous parallel between contemporaneity and antiquity" with the result of "giving a shape and significance […] to the futility and anarchy which is contemporary history." This method yielded works by such writers as Joyce, Mann, Broch, and Proust which fuse the realistic details of daily life with and mythological symbolism. As I have shown elsewhere, the single most important myth for the modernists was the descent to the underworld. 1 In the wide range of modernist works in which the myth occurs, the central theme is the revelation of those fundamental ideas which give "shape and significance" to life and art, ideas for which the modernists developed a complex variety of terms. By discussing some of these terms and the works in which they are used, we can contextualize those works by Borges and Cortázar in which the ordinary details of daily life are enriched by symbolic allusions to the descent to the underworld.
University of York , 2018
This dissertation explores post-classical sagas’ use of fantastic material. Following the celebrated classical Íslendingasögur are the fourteenth and fifteenth-century post-classical sagas. Historically, scholarship viewed this loosely defined genre negatively, condemning their fantastical episodes. Despite recent positive scholarship towards fantastical fornaldarsögur, the post-classical sagas remain maligned. By examining their supernatural episodes through Victor Turner and Arnold Van Gennep, this dissertation posits post-classical sagas use initiatory elements and liminal locations to construct meaning. Three locations are considered: doors, caves, and mounds. The first chapter explores doorways’ narrative purpose through two scenes in Svarfdæla Saga (1350-1400). These pivotal episodes use initiatory patterns, demarcated by doorways and poetry, to facilitate plot and character development. The second chapter examines caves in Bárðar saga Snæfellsáss (1350-1380), Kjalnesinga saga (1310-1320), and Gull-Þóris saga (1300-1350). While caves may facilitate heroic transitions into adulthood, they also have monstrous narrative consequences. My final chapter posits burial mounds in Grettis Saga Ásmundarson (1310-1320), Bárðar Saga, and Hárðar Saga create liminal experiences leading to the hero’s death. By studying liminality in post-classical sagas, this dissertation argues the post-classical sagas may be a coherent genre, structured through initiatory patterns and portrayals of liminal, fantastic encounters as transformative, corrupting, and deadly.
Italian Studies, 2022
In the novel Forse che sì forse che no (1910), Gabriele D’Annunzio provides an interesting contamination of suggestions from Dante’sInferno with ancient Etruscan art and, more generally, with the mystifying landscape of the Tuscan city of Volterra. In doing so, he productively combines his typical imaginative and synaesthetic style with scholarly and cultural trends of the time suggesting that a secret ‘blood memory’ might tie together Tuscan art of all times – from theEtruscans to Dante to the modern era. This essay explores D’Annunzio’s rendering of the ‘Etruscan Dante’ by setting it in the wider context of the reception of Dante and of ancient Italian art with a particular focus on the synaesthetic contaminations between suggestions from the text and the visual and tactual features of ancient Etruscan art.
Postgraduate English Journal, 2019
This investigation into the effects of landscape and place on apocalyptic literature constrasts the portrayal of demonic flights over a hell-mouth (in the 8thC Latin Vita Sancti Guðlaci and 10thC Old English Life of St Guðlac) with Norse volcanic imagery (in the possibly-early-as 10thC Völuspá and later Hallmundarkviða). Proposing that Guðlac’s vision borrows Hell’s traditional location in the north but instantiates it north of East Anglia, the article discusses how the Guðlac narrative combines patristic hell-mouth imagery with an Anglo-Saxon social imaginary. In the Dialogues of Gregory of the Great, immensely popular in Anglo-Saxon England, a volcano is described, functionally, as the mouth of hell. Guðlac’s vision of hell is difficult to relate to its more proximate visionary influences (Vita Fursei, Visio St Pauli, Vita Antonii), being much less concerned with pedagogical descriptions of hellish torments due the sinner in favour of an atmospherically elaborate apocalypticism. In contrast, Icelandic literature demonstrates a different conceptual organisation of hellishness and volcanic dynamism. The apocalyptic Völuspá, and the Hallmundarkviða episode from Bergbúa þáttr, offer an alternative to the moralisation of their lived environment. For Icelanders, environmental hazards like eruption can be associated with the actions and conflicts of supernatural agents on a spiritual plane, but the physical events themselves have an impersonal, if highly destructive, quality. Fascinatingly, the 13thC Norwegian text Konungs skuggsjá addresses the validity of various perspectives on volcanic activity and its meaning, suggesting an encyclopaedic plurality of views. Later evidence from the Lanercost Chronicle would offer a complete conceptual mapping of hell and hellishness onto Iceland specifically: the Bishop of Orkney, on a visit to Iceland, reports that the souls of the damned can be heard in the fires of eruptions there.
People who visit the polar regions enter places that have been imagined as somehow magical in western cultures. When we think of words like ice, exploration, and sublime wilderness, we draw upon long-held associations which mean that the Polesthe landscape, the experience, and simply 'being there'are popularly imagined as places of enchantment and magic. There are several reasons why this might be the case, not least the sense of geographic and aesthetic distance between Europe and the Arctic and Antarctic, and the sense that this meant that the frozen zones were also distant from other less 'pure' or 'weakening' situations, such as might involve women, tropical heat, warfare, and imperialism. These were strange places where strange things could happen, for the Poles were also spaces of difference and could therefore be exoticised and sold to audiences as an exceptional place where exceptional things could happen. It is clear then that there has historically been a polar "glamour" for British audiences especially, but does this mean anything beyond its use as a literary decoration?
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