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This book offers an institutional and cultural history of books, the book trade, and the bibliographic ego. The author traces the emergence of possessive authorship from the establishment of a printing industry in England to the passage of the 1710 Statute of Anne, which provided the legal underpinnings for modern copyright. Along the way he demonstrates that the culture of books, including the idea of the author, is intimately tied to the practical trade of publishing those books. As the author shows, copyright is a form of monopoly that developed alongside a range of related protections such as commercial trusts, manufacturing patents, and censorship, and cannot be understood apart from them. The regulation of the press pitted competing interests and rival monopolistic structures against one another—guildmembers and nonprofessionals, printers and booksellers, authors and publishers. These struggles, in turn, crucially shaped the literary and intellectual practices of early modern authors, as well as early capitalist economic organization.

Although Ben Jonson's association with architecture is well known, comparatively little research has been devoted to the influence of architectural thinking on his literary work. This book sets out to explore the possibilities suggested by such an interrelationship. Using annotated architectural volumes surviving from Jonson's library as well as his published works, it surveys the evidence for Jonson's knowledge of, and theoretical agreement with, the architectural principles enunciated in the ‘De Architectura Libri Decem’ of the Roman architect Vitruvius. The book goes on to examine Jonson's poetry and the early masques in the light of his interest in architecture, finding in them forms that suggest a much closer proximity between Jonson's and Inigo Jones' aesthetic in the early years of the Jacobean period than has formerly been supposed. It argues that Jonson employed a form of literary Vitruvianism which was a potent force in the shaping of the early masques of his Catholic period, and was to remain an active influence on poetic composition throughout the succeeding century.

This book provides an account of the how the Bible was read and applied in early modern England, and maps the connection between these readings and various forms of writing. The Bible had a profound impact on early modern culture, and Bible-reading shaped the period’s drama, poetry, and life writings, as well as sermons and biblical commentaries. This book argues that literary writings bear the hallmarks of the period’s dominant exegetical practices, and do interpretative work. Tracing the impact of biblical reading across a range of genres and writers, the discussion demonstrates that literary reimaginings of, and allusions to, the Bible were common, varied, and ideologically evocative. The book explores how a series of popularly interpreted biblical narratives were recapitulated in the work of a diverse selection of writers, some of whom remain relatively unknown. In early modern England, the figures of Solomon, Job, and Christ’s mother, Mary, and the books of Song of Songs and Revelation, are enmeshed in different ways with contemporary concerns, and their usage illustrates how the Bible’s narratives could be turned to a fascinating array of debates. Showing the multifarious contexts in which biblical narratives were deployed, this book argues that Protestant interpretative practices both contribute to, and problematize, literary constructions of a range of theological, political, and social debates.

This book offers a new vision of early modern biblical scholarship through a close study of Hugh Broughton (1549–1612), the colourful English Hebraist who cuts a strange figure in the history of the period. Best known today as the puritan who criticized the King James Bible (1611), Broughton was both despised and admired by his contemporaries for his abrasive personality, controversial pamphlets, and profound knowledge of Hebrew, Greek, and rabbinic literature. Modern historians have found it equally difficult to reconcile the contradictions of Broughton’s life and legacy, scarcely moving past the stereotype of him as an angry, eccentric puritan. By providing the first monograph-length account of Broughton, this book explains how the same person could be both one of the most conservative and backward-looking scholars of his generation, and also one of the most innovative and influential. In doing so, it advances a new understanding of the relationship between elite intellectual culture, lay religion, biblical criticism, confessional identity, and broader processes of secularization in the period from the late Reformation to the early Enlightenment.

Scratch the surface of literary production from the late fifteenth to the mid-seventeenth century in France, and a large number of the authors, translators, and editors turn out to be relatives of other authors, translators, and editors. Why was this? Why did some 200 families contain more than one literary producer and so exercise disproportionate influence over what people read in the period? The phenomenon ranged from poetry (the Marots, the Des Roches) to scholarship (the Scaligers), from history-writing (the Godefroys) to engineering (the Errards). It included not just fathers and sons but also mothers, daughters, siblings, uncles, cousins, grandchildren. One family, the Sainte-Marthes, took this so far that sixteen of its own became literary producers, rising to twenty-seven if one broadens the chronological parameters. The phenomenon was European rather than just French, as the Sidneys or the Tassos show. But it took distinctive forms in France, where it was often connected to royal office-holding, and where it eventually faltered only with the French Revolution. Literary production was for many families a way of representing, and so claiming, their own place in the world; a way, alongside others, of clutching at distinctiveness and social status; a way of generating sociocultural legacy within the family. Not that everything went to plan or that the plan was always precise. Family literature, as defined by this study, was orientated towards the future but was sometimes even rejected or parodied by descendants rather than imitated or venerated. Whether harmonious or disunited, families were central to the hierarchical social fabric out of which much literature and learning emerged. Restoring that centrality changes our understanding of the works produced.

The Burley manuscript is a miscellany compiled by William Parkhurst in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth century, unique in its size – over six hundred items inscribed on nearly four hundred folios – and its variety: poems and letters, essays and aphorisms, speeches, satires and sententiae, mostly in English but including Latin, Italian, French and Spanish. In this study, annotated transcriptions are given of all of the private letters in English, including those that are translations from those of the fourth-century Roman patrician Q. Aurelius Symmachus, and all the English verse. Incipit transcriptions and identification are provided for each of the other items, including those in foreign languages. The history and provenance of the collection are described in detail, with lengthy notes on memorial transcription of verse and prose, and the clandestine interception of letters. The book makes available, in a readily searchable form, texts, annotations and commentary that will have an impact on a wide range of scholarship. It will not only act as a guide to one of the English Renaissance’s most prized miscellanies, but also be found useful in a wide range of studies, illuminating such diverse subjects as, for example, the circulation of verse, the correspondence of John Donne (particularly with Henry Wotton and Henry Goodere), the self-fashioning of English gentlemen after the classical Romans of their class, and the government’s paranoiac spying on its own citizens. Literary scholars and editors, and social historians, may here draw on a deep well of contemporary writing, not readily available hitherto.

Cartesian Poetics is a defense of the “resultless enterprises” of poetry and thinking that enlists an unlikely ally in its cause: René Descartes. Against the historical charge that Descartes’ philosophy “slashed poetry’s throat,” this book argues that the resources of early modern poetry and rhetoric help make Descartes’ thinking possible. Against a familiar and still-prevailing narrative that holds Descartes responsible for initiating the moral injuries caused by Enlightenment reason and modern alienation, this book offers a new interpretation of his intervention in philosophy: the apparent triumphs of disembodied reason are recharacterized here as impassioned and poetic negotiations with the difficulties of thinking itself. In showing how, for Descartes, poetry structures a distinctive way of thinking, this book uses its readings of seventeenth-century works to pose questions urgent for the twenty-first: What is thinking? What does it feel like? What is it good for? Through close readings of Descartes’ most famous philosophical writings (the Discourse on Method and the Meditations along with the Regulae, the Principia, and the Passions of the Soul), the book reveals an implicit poetics in Descartes' body of work, from the puzzling forms of riddle, emblem, and anagram to the antecedents of more familiar Romantic and post-Romantic poetry in love lyric and elegy. The source of an atmosphere for Descartes’ philosophy rather than the object of its argument, poetry imparts the linguistic resources with which Descartes’ philosophy confronts, contains, or simply experiences life’s ordinary inadequacies and passions as well as the constraints of thought.

What is “Europe,” and when did it come to be? While in the Renaissance the term “Europe” circulated widely, the continent itself was only in the making in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Cartographic Humanism sheds new light on how humanists negotiated and defined Europe’s boundaries at a momentous shift in the continent’s formation: when a new imagining of Europe was driven by the rise of cartography. This tool of geography, philosophy, and philology was used not only to represent but, more importantly, also to shape and promote an image of Europe quite unparalleled in previous centuries. Engaging with poets, historians, and mapmakers, this study resists an easy categorization of the continent, scrutinizing Europe as an unexamined category that demands a much more careful and nuanced investigation than scholars of early modernity have hitherto undertaken. Cartographic Humanism charts new itineraries across Europe from the perspective of comparative literature. It aims for a wide geographic scope, bringing France, Germany, Italy, Poland, and Portugal into a lively, interdisciplinary dialogue.

This book examines life in the leading province of Elizabeth I's nascent empire. It shows how an Ireland of colonising English farmers and displaced Irish ‘savages’ were ruled by an imported Protestant elite from their fortified manors and medieval castles. The book displays how a generation of English ‘adventurers’ including such influential intellectual and political figures as Spenser and Ralegh, tried to create a new kind of England, one that gave full opportunity to their Renaissance tastes and ambitions. Based on decades of research, it details how archaeology had revealed the traces of a short-lived, but significant, culture that has, until now, been eclipsed in ideological conflicts between Tudor queens, Hapsburg hegemony and native Irish traditions.

Catastrophizing argues that the seismic encounter between early modern culture and materialism (the view that the world is composed of nothing but matter) can be understood through a history of mental disasters. As early modern thinkers pondered the insensible causes and material stuff of the cosmos, they both conjured up disasters out of thin air and responded to those disasters as if they were befalling them. From Leonardo da Vinci’s imaginative experiments with nature’s destructive forces to the fevered fantasies of doomsday astrologers—from the self-fulfilling prophecies of Shakespeare’s great catastrophizers to the mental earthquakes that guided Kant toward his theory of the sublime—the book shows how and why the early modern mind reached for disaster when it ventured beyond the limits of the sensible. It also makes a case for the critical potential of thinking catastrophically in our own time.

This book interrogates standard narratives about national identity in early modern England by examining the ways Catholics from the reign of Mary Tudor to the early 17th century contested and shaped discourses of the nation, patriotism, and Englishness. Accused by their opponents of espousing an alien religion, one orchestrated from Rome and sustained by Spain, English Catholics fought back by developing their own self-representations that emphasized how the Catholic faith was an ancient and integral part of true Englishness. After the accession of the Protestant Elizabeth, the Catholic imagining of England was mainly the project of the exiles who had left their homeland in search of religious toleration and foreign assistance. English Catholics constructed narratives of their own religious heritage and identity, however, not only in response to Protestant polemic but also as part of intra-Catholic rivalries that pitted Marian clergy against seminary priests, secular priests against Jesuits, and exiled English Catholics against their co-religionists from other parts of Britain and Ireland. Drawing on recent reassessments of English Catholicism this study foregrounds the faultlines within and between the various Catholic communities of the Atlantic archipelago. The book examines a range of genres, texts, and documents both in print and manuscript, including ecclesiastical histories, polemical treatises, antiquarian tracts, and correspondence. The argument weaves together a rich historical narrative of people, events, and texts while also offering contextualized close readings of specific works by under-studied figures like Edmund Campion, Robert Persons, Thomas Stapleton, and Richard Verstegan.

This book explores the complex and contested relationships that existed between class, patronage, and poetry in Hanoverian England by examining the life and work of Stephen Duck, the ‘famous Threshing Poet’. In 1730, Duck became the most famous agricultural labourer in the nation when his writing won him the patronage of Queen Caroline. The man, and the writing he produced, intrigued contemporaries. How was it possible, they asked, for an agricultural labourer to become a poet? What would a thresher write? Did he really deserve royal patronage, and what would he do with such an honour? How should he be supported? And was he an isolated prodigy, or were there others like him, equally deserving of support? Duck’s remarkable story reveals the tolerances, and intolerances, of the Hanoverian social order. This book sheds new light on the poet’s early life, revealing how the farm labourer developed an interest in poetry; how he wrote his most famous poem, ‘The Thresher’s Labour’; how his public identity as the ‘famous Threshing Poet’ took shape; and how he came to be positioned as a figurehead of labouring-class writing. It explores how the patronage Duck received shaped his writing; how he came to reconceive his relationship with land, labour, and leisure; and how he made use of his newly acquired classical learning to develop new friendships and career opportunities. And it reveals how, after Duck’s death, rumours about his suicide came to overshadow the achievements of his life. Both in life, and in death, this book argues, Duck provided both opportunity and provocation for thinking through the complex interplay of class, patronage, and poetry in Hanoverian England.

This book examines ‘queer style’ or forms of masculinity grounded in superficiality, inauthenticity, affectation, and the display of the extravagantly clothed body in early modern English city comedies. Queer style destabilizes distinctions between able-bodied and disabled, human and nonhuman, and the past and the present—distinctions that have structured normative ways of thinking about sexuality. Glimpsing the worldmaking potential of queer style, plays by Ben Jonson, George Chapman, Thomas Middleton, and Thomas Dekker imagine alternatives to the prevailing modes of subjectivity, sociability, and eroticism in early modern London. While the characters associated with queer style are situated in a hostile generic and historical context, this book draws on recent work on disability, materiality, and queer temporality to rethink their relationship to those contexts so as to access the utopian possibilities of early modern queer style. These theoretical frameworks also help bring into relief how the attachments and pleasures of early modern sartorial extravagance can estrange us from the epistemologies of sexuality that narrow current thinking about sexuality and its relationship to authenticity, pedagogy, interiority, and privacy.

This book attempts to see the development of literary culture in sixteenth-century England as a whole and to explain the relationship between the Reformation and the literary renaissance of the Elizabethan period. Its central theme is ‘the common’ in its double sense of something shared and something base, and it argues that making common the work of God is at the heart of the English Reformation, just as making common the literature of antiquity and of early modern Europe is at the heart of the English Renaissance. The book addresses the central question of why the Renaissance in England arrived so late in terms of the relationship between humanism and Protestantism and the tensions between democracy and the imagination which persist throughout the century. The first part of the book establishes a social dimension for literary culture in the period by exploring the associations of ‘commonwealth’ and related terms. It then addresses the role of Greek in the period before and during the Reformation in disturbing the old binary of elite Latin and common English. It argues that the Reformation principle of making common is coupled with a hostility towards fiction, which has the effect of closing down the humanist renaissance of the earlier decades. The final part of the book discusses the Elizabethan literary renaissance and deals in turn with poetry, short prose fiction, and the drama written for the common stage. In between, the middle part of the book presents translation as the link between Reformation and Renaissance.

The Corporate Commonwealth offers a provocative account of the origins of modernity’s most perplexing institution: the corporation. Drawing on the resources of economic and political history, literary analysis, and political philosophy, the book explores the genesis of corporations from the late medieval period to the seventeenth century, showing how a plurality of corporate associations were gradually narrowed to the commercial, for-profit corporations we know today, and how the joint-stock corporation, in turn, became both a template for the modern State and a political force that the State could no longer contain. Reading works by Thomas More, William Shakespeare, Francis Bacon, and Thomas Hobbes, among many others, the book tracks the history of the corporation from the law courts to the stage, from commonwealth to colony, from the object of utopian fiction to the subject of a tragic violence. It provides a new theory of the corporation’s peculiar ontology as at once collective group and singular person, and it suggests ways in which corporations might be re-fashioned into a source of progressive and collective public action.

In what tense should we refer to the dead? The question has long been asked, from Cicero to Julian Barnes. Answering it is partly a matter of grammar and stylistic convention. But the hesitation, annoyance, even distress that can be caused by the ‘wrong’ tense suggests that more may be at stake: our very relation to the dead. This book investigates how tenses were used in sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century France (especially in French but also in Latin) to refer to dead friends, lovers, family members, enemies, colleagues, writers, officials, monarchs—and to those who had died long before, whether Christ, the saints, or the ancient Greeks and Romans who posthumously filled the minds of Renaissance humanists. Did tenses refer to the dead in ways that contributed to granting them differing degrees of presence (and absence)? Did tenses communicate dimensions of posthumous presence (and absence) that partly eluded more concept-based affirmations? The investigation ranges from funerary and devotional writing to Eucharistic theology, from poetry to humanist paratexts, from Rabelais’s prose fiction to Montaigne’s Essais. Primarily a work of literary and cultural history, it also draws on early modern grammatical thought and on modern linguistics (with its concept of aspect and its questioning of ‘tense’), while arguing that neither can fully explain the phenomena studied. The book briefly compares early modern usage with tendencies in modern French and English in the West, asking whether changes in belief about posthumous survival have been accompanied by changes in tense-use.

This book offers a detailed account of the importance of psychoanalysis in Derrida’s thought. Based on close readings of texts from the whole of his career, including less well-known and previously unpublished material, it sheds new light on the crucial role of psychoanalysis in shaping Derrida’s response to a number of key questions. These questions range from the psyche’s relationship to technology to the role of fiction and metaphor in scientific discourse, from the relationship between memory and the archive to the status of the political in deconstruction. Focusing on Freud but proposing new readings of texts by Lacan, Torok, and Abraham, Laplanche and Pontalis, amongst other seminal figures in contemporary French thought, the book argues that Derrida’s writings on psychoanalysis can also provide an important bridge between deconstruction and the recent materialist turn in the humanities. Challenging a still prevalent ‘textualist’ reading of Derrida’s work, it explores the ongoing contribution of deconstruction and psychoanalysis to pressing issues in critical thought today, from the localizing models of the neurosciences and the omnipresence of digital technology to the politics of affect in an age of terror.

Descartes’s Fictions traces common movements in early modern philosophy and literary method. This volume reassesses the significance of Descartes’s writing by bringing his philosophical output into contact with the literary treatises, exempla, and debates of his age. Arguing that humanist theorizing about the art of poetry represents a vital intellectual context for Descartes’s work, the volume offers readings of the controversies to which this poetic theory gives rise, with particular reference to the genre of tragicomedy, the question of verisimilitude, and the figures of Guez de Balzac and Pierre Corneille. Drawing on what Descartes says about, and to, his many contemporaries and correspondents embedded in the early modern republic of letters, this volume shows that poetics provides a repository of themes and images to which he returns repeatedly: fortune, method, error, providence, passion, and imagination, amongst others. Like the poets and theorists of the early modern period, Descartes is also drawn to the forms of attention that people may bring to his work. This interest finds expression in the mature Cartesian metaphysics of the Meditations, as well as, later, in the moral philosophy of his correspondence with Elisabeth of Bohemia or the Passions of the Soul. Some of the tropes of modern secondary criticism—a comparison of Descartes and Corneille, or the portrayal of Descartes as a ‘tragic’ figure—are also re-evaluated. This volume thus bridges the gap between Cartesian criticism and late-humanist literary culture in France.

Our common definition of literacy is the ability to read and write in one language. But as this book reveals, this description is inadequate, because it fails to help us understand heated conflicts over literacy during the emergence of print culture. The fifteenth through seventeenth centuries, the author shows, were a contentious era of transition from Latin and other clerical modes of literacy toward more vernacular forms of speech and writing. The author's aim in this work is twofold: to show that what counted as more valuable among these competing literacies had much to do with notions of gender, and to demonstrate how debates about female literacy were critical to the emergence of imperial nations. Looking at writers whom she dubs the figurative daughters of the mythological figure Dido—builder of an empire that threatened to rival Rome—the author traces debates about literacy and empire in the works of Marguerite de Navarre, Christine de Pizan, Elizabeth Cary, and Aphra Behn, as well as male writers such as Shakespeare, Rabelais, and Wyatt. The result is a study that sheds light on the crucial roles that gender and women played in the modernization of England and France.

This book begins and ends with the intellectual and imaginative pleasures of narrative wandering. ‘To digress’ in early modern England carried a range of associations with authority and gender, from amplitude and escape to deviance and transgression. The book argues that writers classically trained in verbal contest used the liberty of digression to create a complex form of underground writing and self-definition in some of the richest non-dramatic texts of 17th-century England; such a pointed use of digressiveness in the period has not been recognized. Within these textual mazes writers captured the ambiguities of political occasion and patronage, while they anatomized enemies and mourned personal loss. The narrator of each text addresses a specter of speechlessness as well as loss of self through a figurative descent to an unstable underworld associated with a female or effeminate weakness. In fresh readings of Donne's Anniversaries, Marvell's Upon Appleton House, Sir Thomas Browne's The Garden of Cyrus, Milton's Paradise Lost, Dryden's The Hind and the Panther and A Discourse of Satire, and Swift's A Tale of a Tub, the book draws attention to the expansiveness of many of the period's literary forms, such as country-house poem, literary anatomy, dedicatory epistle, beast fable, and epic. Turning current sensitivity toward the silenced voice in a new direction, the book argues that rhetorical amplitude might suggest anxieties about speech and silence for early modern men forced to be competitive yet circumspect to make their voices heard.