Atlantis 33.1

Revista de la Asociacin Espaola de
Estudios Anglo-Norteamericanos
This issue is dedicated to the

fond memory of
CATALINA MONTES MOZO
(1929-2011)
and
SOLEDAD PREZ DE AYALA
BECERRIL (1967-2011)
Vol. 33, nm. 1
Junio 2011
33.1 (June 2011)
33.1 (Junio 2011)
EDITORS
Editores
General Editor: Angela Downing
Universidad Complutense de Madrid
Assistant Editor: Ludmila Urbanov
Managing Editor: Carmen Mndez
University of Brno
Book Reviews Editor: Clara Calvo
Editors Assistant: Juan Rafael Zamorano
Universidad de Murcia

Universitt Bremen
Copy Editor: Jorge Ars Hita

EDITORIAL BOARD
Consejo de Redaccin
BOARD OF ADVISORS
Consejo Asesor
Andrew Blake
Heinz Ickstadt
University of Winchester
Freie Universitt Berlin
Martin Bygate
J. Hillis Miller
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Teresa Fanego
Susheila M. Nasta
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Consejo Cientfico y Evaluador
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Neelam Srivastava
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UNED
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Jo Anne Neff Van Aertselaer
University of Delhi
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Francisco Gonzlvez Garca
Heather Nunn
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Felicity Hand Cranham
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Pedro Javier Pardo
Universidad de Mlaga
Abstracting and Indexing

Atlantis is indexed in the following Thomson Reuters services:
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Atlantis is also indexed or abstracted in the following databases and directories:
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The Years Work in English Studies
Revista de la Asociacin Espaola de

Estudios Anglo-Norteamericanos
33.1 (June 2011)
33.1 (Junio 2011)

Table of Contents ndice
Remembering absent friends Recuerdos de amigos ausentes

Catalina Montes Mozo (1929-2011) ............................................................................ 11
Soledad Prez de Ayala Becerril (1967-2011) ............................................................... 13
Articles Artculos
The Moving Lines of Neo-Baroque in Will Selfs Dorian: An Imitation
Jos M. Yebra
Centro Universitario de la Defensa, Universidad de Zaragoza ............................................ 17
Shakespeare in Garca Lorcas Early Poems
Juan F. Cerd
University of Murcia ........................................................................................................ 33
Marketing Strategies, Consumerism and the Exercise of Democracy in W.H.H.
Murrays Adventures in the Wilderness; or, Camp-Life in the Adirondacks
Claudia Alonso Recarte
Universidad de Castilla-La Mancha .................................................................................. 53
Testimony and the Representation of Trauma in Eva Figes Journey to
Nowhere
Silvia Pellicer-Ortn
University of Zaragoza ..................................................................................................... 69
Reconstructing the Old English Cultural Model for Fear
Javier E. Daz Vera
Universidad de Castilla-La Mancha .................................................................................. 85
The Language of British Teenagers. A Preliminary Study of its Main
Grammatical Features
Ignacio M. Palacios Martnez
Universidad de Santiago de Compostela ........................................................................... 105
The Morphological Structure of Old English Complex Nouns

Roberto Torre Alonso
Universidad de La Rioja ................................................................................................... 127
Reviews Reseas
Gmez Reus, Teresa and Arnzazu Usandizaga, eds. 2008:
Inside Out: Women Negotiating, Subverting, Appropriating Public and Private Space.
reviewed by Rosario Arias ........................................................................................ 149
Silvia del Pilar Castro Borrego and Mara Isabel Romero Ruiz, eds. 2009:
Identidad, migracin y cuerpo femenino.
reviewed by Justine Tally ......................................................................................... 157
Anis S. Bawarshi and Mary-Jo Reiff 2010:
Genre. An Introduction to History, Theory, Research, and Pedagogy.
reviewed by JoAnne Neff van Aertselaar ............................................................. 163
Carol Griffiths, ed. 2008:
Lessons from Good Language Learners.
reviewed by Anik Nandi ............................................................................................. 173
Laura Alba 2009:
Perspectives on Discourse Analysis: Theory and Practice.
reviewed by Noa Talavn Zann ............................................................................. 179
Manuel M. Martn Rodrguez 2009:
Gaspar de Villagr: Legista, soldado y poeta.
reviewed by M. Carmen Gmez Galisteo ................................................................ 185
Josep M. Armengol 2010:
Richard Ford and the Fiction of Masculinities.
reviewed by Peter Ferry ............................................................................................ 191
Gerardo Rodrguez Salas 2009:
Katherine Mansfield: El Posmodernismo incipiente de una modernista renegada.
reviewed by Eva Gmez Jimnez ............................................................................... 197
Acknowledgements ........................................................................................................ 203
Editorial policy and Instructions to contributors ........................................................... 205
REMEMBERING
ABSENT FRIENDS
RECUERDOS DE
AMIGOS AUSENTES
CATALINA MONTES MOZO

(1929-2011)
Cati/Katy Montes, Professor Catalina Montes left us on April 5th 2011. Coquettishly,
her birth-date was always kept incognito and her youthful image at all times
concealed her true age. Professor Montes seemed eternal; we had all come to
consider her a permanent fixture in the English department of the University of
Salamanca. Her death has taken all of us by surprise.
Although she retired some years ago, after her years as Professor Emeritus of the
University of Salamanca, she did keep an office, in which she spent many days, in the
Department of English Philology till the very last. Indeed, she continued in her
retirement what had been her daily schedule from day one: her permanent presence
and availability to all every single working day of the week. Her absence in these last
few weeks since her passing is daily, and heartfelt, noticed by all of us.
Catalina was also a member of AEDEAN and a strong supporter of Atlantis. From
1989 to 1991 she was Director of the journal, in effect the journals third Editor,
following on after Antonio Garnica and Javier Coy.
Cati held degrees in English Philology, History and Music. She became a full
Professor in English Linguistics although her love for English Literature never
declined. I need not mention her many publications in both fields.
Much has been said in national newspapers about her work for the people of El
Salvador as a consequence of the killing of her brother Segundo. I will not add to it,
but, evidently, it shows her great capability to work and produce results under the
hardest circumstances.
We will all miss her because she was such a permanent presence in our lives and
because she was always the lady with the perennial smile. May she rest in peace.
Mara Fuencisla Garca-Bermejo Giner
SOLEDAD PREZ DE AYALA BECERRIL

(1967-2011)
To see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower.
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.
William Blake
These four lines, the prelude to William Blakes Auguries of Innocence, bring to
mind the extraordinary depth that our dear friend and colleague, Soledad Prez de
Ayala, displayed in looking into reality. The lines are not only overwhelming in their
complexity of thought, but also characterize a sentience few people possess. Soledads
capacity for profound emotion, the intensity with which she experienced life, and her
acute awareness of her intuitive senses, her imagination and intelligence, all
contributed to her exceptionally perceptive and empathetic abilities.
Soledad was always a keen and indefatigable scholar and researcher on language
and pragmatics. An eager reader, she traversed the narrow edge between Linguistics
and Literature, navigating the borders of these two provinces that, in her view, were
never apart.
For her 1996 PhD dissertation, supervised by Prof. Angela Downing, Sole chose
the subject of politeness and tension in Prime Ministers Question Time in the
English Parliament. In it Soledad explored the linguistic exchanges of British MPs
during Question time, laying bare strategies that portray an acute, subtle, ironical and
provocative use of language. Her dissertation was later published as a monograph,
Cortesa e Imagen en el Parlamento Britnico: Question Time. Madrid. Congreso de los
Diputados, 2002.
As a lecturer and tutor, she was always able to connect and to interest audiences.
Enthusiastic and passionate, her captivating personality showed us that teaching and
learning were for her works of love.
The circularity of discourse, eternal recurrence brings me back to Blakes two-fold
vision. In his view, this visionary vision lies in the perception of human values in all
things and it reveals infinite life and virtue (ethics and aesthetics harmoniously
combined). Both Soledad Prez de Ayala and William Blake were capable of seeing
through a childs eyes, in a state of Innocence, while still being aware of the state of
Experience. They both knew that Innocence is the ideal state of wisdom, wherein the
sense of wonder is retained, where a person is totally attuned to her surroundings. And
it is in this state of Innocence where, those who attain it, have a healthy regard for their
fellow creatures. This is the purity of the state of Innocence. And thanks to you, dear
Soledad, we know that it exists; we have experienced it innumerable times with you.
Esther Snchez-Pardo Gonzlez
ARTICLES
ARTCULOS
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.1 (June 2011): 1731
ISSN 0210-6124
The Moving Lines of Neo-Baroque in Will Selfs

Dorian: An Imitation
Jos M. Yebra
Centro Universitario de la Defensa, Universidad de Zaragoza
jyebra@unizar.es
This essay aims at reading Will Selfs Wildean Dorian: An Imitation (2002) as part of an
increasingly popular neo-baroque style. Against the minimalism of past decades, there
seems to be a proliferation of things baroque at the turn of the millennium. We will see
how Selfs novel fits the excess and movement characteristic of this aesthetics (against the
harmony and stasis of classicism) and will analyse its purpose. Excess and movement
should not be viewed exclusively as aesthetic concepts, since they involve the reader
politically and ethically. As I will attempt to demonstrate, Dorian: An Imitation relies on a
complex (baroque) structure and on intertextuality to meet this end. The effect of neobaroque manifestations on the one who looks, hears or reads must be inscribed in the
ethics of affects, the language of new technologies and the awe-inspiring power of the
sublime. With this purpose, I will make extensive use of the concept of line as a perennial
metaphor for artistic representation running from Hogarth to Newman, Derrida and
Deleuze.
Keywords: Neo-baroque; lines; excess; intertextuality; sublime; AIDS
Lneas que (con)mueven. El neo-barroco en Dorian: An Imitation

de Will Self
Este ensayo propone una lectura de la novela Wildeana Dorian: An Imitation, de Will Self,
como ejemplo de un estilo neo-barroco cada vez ms popular. Frente al minimalismo de
dcadas pasadas, parece que, con el cambio de milenio, se est experimentando un triunfo de
lo barroco. Veremos cmo la novela de Self refleja el gusto por el exceso y el movimiento de
esta esttica (en contra de la harmona y lo esttico del clasicismo) y por qu lo hace. Ni el
exceso ni el movimiento se plantean exclusivamente como conceptos estticos, ya que tienen
implicaciones polticas y ticas. Como intento demostrar, Dorian: An Imitation se sustenta
sobre una estructura (barroca) compleja y sobre relaciones intertextuales. El efecto de las
manifestaciones neo-barrocas sobre el que ve, escucha o lee se inscribe en la tica de los
afectos, el lenguaje de las nuevas tecnologas, y el poder conmovedor de lo sublime. Con este
propsito, har uso del concepto de lnea como metfora perenne de la representacin artstica
de Hogarth a Newman, de Derrida a Deleuze.
Palabras clave: Neo-barroco; lneas; exceso; intertextualidad; lo sublime; el SIDA
18
Jos M. Yebra
1. Introduction: The baroque Aeon1

Although often denigrated, the baroque has become a perennial mood, spirit or
movement; hence the subtitle of this preliminary section. Strictly speaking, the term
baroque was coined with reference to the artistic manifestations and productions of
seventeenth-century European art. Against normative classicism, the traits of the
baroque are regarded as unusual, vulgar, exuberant, and beyond the norm (Ndalianis
2004: 7). Together with these, excessiveness and beyondness deserve special emphasis,
arguably the most relevant characteristics of Selfs novel. The denigration of the
baroque did not end until the twentieth century. Still in the nineteenth century, as
Ndalianis recalls, critics and historians perceived it as a degeneration or decline of the
classical and harmonious ideal epitomized by the Renaissance era (2004: 7). Just as the
sublime constitutes the necessary other of beauty, the baroque may be said to work as
the underside of classicism. Hence, the baroque was [not] frozen within the temporal
parameters of the seventeenth century It continued to have a life, albeit one beyond
the limits of the canon (2004: 8). It can be argued, therefore, that the baroque
constitutes a liminal and fluid phenomenon, always beyond itself and its alleged spatiotemporal parameters. In other words, the spirit of the baroque existed well before the
movement itself and continues much after its conclusion.
The aeon of the baroque has been targeted by many art historians. As Angela
Ndalianis recalls in Postclassical, Modern Classicism, or Neo-Baroque? Will the Real
Contemporary Cinema Please Stand Up? (2004), art critics like Helena Sassone (1972),
Christine Buci-Glucksman (1986, 1996), Omar Calabrese (1992) and Martin Jay (1994)
find traces of baroquism in Romanticism and in twentieth-century art, particularly the
early avant-gardes. The excess of signifier and the non-normative freedom associated
with the baroque literally flood all artistic and cultural manifestations in the twentieth
century, from literature to cinema, from music to fashion. Ndalianis provides an
exhaustive list of neo-baroque manifestations in the last decades. Despite the diversity
of texts in the list, which includes from Federico Fellinis masterpieces to Sally Potters
eponymous adaptation of Virginia Woolfs Orlando (1992), all of them produce a
similar effect of the hyperbolic and the theatrical. Likewise, baroque traits such as
multiple framing, intertextuality and parody recur in postmodernist neo-baroque texts.
According to Ndalianis, the seventeenth century and the turn of the millennium mirror
each other, as they constitute moments of transformation, transition and, consequently,
ontological and epistemological crises (2004: 21). In other words, the scientific
revolution of the seventeenth century finds its updated counterpart in the era of new
technologies. Ndalianis endorses Francesco Guardinis description of our culture as
being, like the seventeenth-century era that ushered in the scientific revolution, in the
eye of an epochal storm, in the middle of a gigantic transformation of cultural and
socioeconomic proportions (Ndalianis 2004: 22). Just as the discoveries of Galileo,
Kepler and Copernicus changed the perception of reality of their respective eras, ours is
conditioned by cybernetics and the current proliferation of (virtual) realities. Whereas
1
I borrow the term aeon from Eugenio dOrs essay Del Barroco (1934) as a constant in the
history of aesthetic forms (in Ganteau 2005: 194).
ISSN 0210-6124
19
the seventeenth-century baroque constituted the prelude to the era of reason, the turnof-the-millennium neo-baroque may be seen as heralding the era of the homo
cyberneticus.
Fluidity, transformation, movement, chaos, ontological and epistemological
uncertainty, performativity, parody, intertextuality, hybridity, sublimity, excess and
hyperbole are baroque features peppered throughout the writings of various critics
from classics such as Heinrich Wlfflin (1986), Walter Benjamin (1996) and Eugenio
DOrs (1993), to more recent ones such as Christine Buci-Glucksman (1986, 1996),
Gilles Deleuze (1988), Benito Pelegrn (2000) and Jean-Michel Ganteau (2000, 2005)
to characterise turn-of-the-millennium neo-baroque. Thus, although these traits are
recurrent in Western culture, it is the postmodernist updating of former baroque texts
that brings them all together as a potent aesthetics of change. As Jean-Michel Ganteau
points out:
The novels of Angela Carter or Salman Rushdie tend to be classified in a narrative
category or mode that has been called new baroque. Such texts share aesthetic and ethical
traits mainly based on the prevalence of hyperbole, proliferation, depravity of
ornamentation, and flux that tend to challenge prior aesthetic codes and unremittingly
focus on the darker, submerged, neglected sides of contemporary society and history, on
alternative psychological and spiritual experiences, on complementary worlds and
heterocosms on the prevalence of the other in a mass culture generally obsessed with
the rhetoric of the same and its simulacra. (2005: 198-99)
With all this in mind, it is the main concern of this essay to decide whether Dorian:
An Imitation (2002) also partakes of the poetics and politics of the neo-baroque and, if
so, to what extent and with which purpose(s). On the whole, I follow the lead of
Ndalianis and Ganteau. However, I particularly focus on the sexual side of the neobaroque to fully understand Selfs novel.
2. Movement vs. stasis, excess vs. harmony, the sublime vs. beauty. Dorian and the
realm of the liminal
At the risk of being too simplistic, there seems to be an intrinsic tendency to view art as
either harmonious and balanced or convoluted and excessive. The former associated
with Apollonian beauty, reached its apex in the Renaissance, Neoclassicism, Realism
and, recently, in minimalism. Against the normative classicism of the first, there arises
(in Dollimores terms) a perverse dynamic of otherness, which stems from the
Dionysian and the sublime and bursts out in the baroque aeon. Briefly stated, the
baroque is the sign of a compound crisis, whereby the cosmic equilibrium and stasis
that Andrea Cellarius represents in his painting Harmonia Macrocosmica (1660) gives
way to a more complex concept of the world and aesthetics (Eco 2004: 225). In the
seventeenth century, the crisis of knowledge led to a relentless search for new
expressions of beauty. As Eco points out, new art forms were increasingly astonishing
and apparently disproportionate in the attempt to move the reader or spectator (2004:
228-29). Likewise, drawing on Benito Pelegrn, Ganteau argues that, out of the
traditional goals of classical rhetoric (docere, delectare, movere), neo-baroque English
ISSN 0210-6124
20
Jos M. Yebra
literature prefers the third. What this implies, in his view, is that by addressing feelings,
senses and emotions, one courts and instrumentalizes the sensationaleven
sensationalismto win, to convince, to seduce (2005: 210). Echoing the seventeenthcentury baroque, the late-twentieth-century neo-baroque uses the irregular, the
distorted and the excessive so as to involve the reader aesthetically, emotionally and
even physically.2
Seventeenth-century discoveries (particularly on astronomy) can explain the
metaphoric lines that, for Eco, make up baroque aesthetics: There is no line which
does not lead the eye to a beyond that must be reached, there is no line without
tension: the immobile and inanimate beauty from the classic model is replaced by a
dramatically tense one (2004: 234, my translation).3 The readers and spectators of neobaroque manifestations are propelled following a (neo)sublime force, thus defying the
pleasant stasis, or nothingness, of classicism. Etymologically, baroque stems from
Spanish barrueco and Portuguese barroco, both referring to an irregular pearl deviating
from the canon of the perfectly round one (Pelegrn, in Ganteau 2005: 194). Likewise,
the neo-baroque constitutes a deviation, formal and ethical, from the normative, the
regular. This irregularity, which goes beyond and perverts the canon, and leads to
unknown territories, is a complex phenomenon. Moreover, against the insightfulness of
classicism, neo-baroque aesthetics prefers surfaces. Yet, we should be careful on
interpreting the ethos of the neo-baroque, for it is intrinsically contradictory:
paradoxically chaotic, albeit under control; allegedly spiritual, yet highly corporeal (see
Buci-Glucksmann 1986: 96-97). Behind its irregular lines, which lead the eye to the
metaphysical, and subvert classicist straightness and equilibrium, this aesthetics relies
on a multiplicity of layers or frames of representation which, being arranged en abyme,
match the postmodernist poetics of repetition and fragmentation. For example, the
baroque trompe loeil recurs in neo-baroque painting and literature, putting forward the
complex ontological crisis at the turn of the millennium. This logic of endless framing
recalls Roland Barthes sens obtus, a meaning that comes in excess of representation, or
a signifier without a signified, a profusion without a tangible/explicit referent (in
Ganteau 2000: 38). Also following the poetics of postmodernism, the neo-baroque is
essentially auto-referential. Signifiers only mean if related to other signifiers. Despite
this mimetique du rien (see Ganteau 2000: 38), which folds the neo-baroque text within
itself, its extraordinary capacity for affect does not fade away. This apparent
contradiction questions Fredric Jamesons contention that postmodernism invests in
arbitrariness, artificiality, and the waning of affect (1991: 16). The excess of signifier
and physicality of neo-baroque discourse renders it invaluable to explore the
2
The boundaries between the aesthetic and the ethical/emotional are not easily defined in
baroque art, whose ethics relies on the all-embracing totality of artistic creation (Eco 2004: 234). In
this respect, neo-baroque art differs from its seventeenth-century predecessor. At present, when a
totalising artistic creation is no longer conceivable, the relation between ethics and aesthetics has
become much more complex, as the studies of many critics prove. See Eskin (2004).
3
No hay lnea que no gue al ojo hacia un ms all que siempre hay que alcanzar, no hay
lnea que no se cargue de tensin: la belleza inmvil e inanimada del modelo clsico es sustituida
por una belleza dramticamente tensa (Eco 2004: 234).
ISSN 0210-6124
21
unfathomable or sublime. Such a poetics of the limitless, of absolute dispersal,

maximum corporeality and postmodernist transcendence are the constitutive elements
of Dorian: An Imitation.
Selfs novel displays most neo-baroque traits, inhabiting a liminal space. It inscribes
and shows the ontological crisis in the era of simulacra, particularly the sort associated
with the proliferation of realities fostered by new technologies. It operates on the
borderline between the turn of the millennium, its baroque substratum and its actual
hypotexts, especially Oscar Wildes The Picture of Dorian Gray (1891). It also swings
between the poetics of the sublime and the beautiful, preferring the otherness of the
former to the normative character of the latter. Finally, as an overtly gay text revising a
homosexual (albeit canonical) hypotext, the novel is simultaneously marginal and
central to Western culture.
3. Recasting late-Victorian excess for (postmodernist) effect and affect
I have repeatedly made reference to excess and movement as essential features of neobaroque aesthetics, and of Dorian: An Imitation in particular. My main concern
henceforth will be to explore how, why and with what effect both features are
accomplished in Selfs novel. However, I will firstly focus on its intertextual character
and its consequences.
3.1 Imitating what?
The novels subtitle somehow defies the postmodernist concept of intertextuality. In
fact, Selfs novel has been severely criticised for virtually cloning Wildes masterwork,
normally for the worse (Harrison 2003; Leclair 2004; Anon. 2002). As a whole, the plot
of the hypertext coincides almost to the letter with that of the hypotext. Only the girl
Wildes Dorian fancies for a while is replaced by a rent boy in Selfs novel. However,
Dorian: An Imitation cannot be regarded as a mere pastiche of its late-Victorian
predecessor. The homosocial relations between the characters in Wildes novel become
overtly gay in the former, just as obscure perversions turn into violent episodes and
strange scars into signs of AIDS. Moreover, Dorian: An Imitation introduces a
postmodernist, neo-baroque sense of crisis, which goes beyond or, at least,
problematises the art/life binomial in The Picture of Dorian Gray. Whereas Wildes
Dorian finds out his true nature trapped in a self-portrait, Selfs (unempathetic)
Dorian does so in Bazs video installation, aptly named Cathode Narcissus:
The first monitor zigged and zagged into life. It showed the naked figure of a beautiful
young man, posed like a classical Greek kouros, one hand lightly on hip, the other trailing
in groin, half-smile on plump lips. A naked figure that turned to face the viewer as the
camera zoomed in. The second monitor came to life and this displayed a closer view of
the still turning youth. The third view was closer again. The sensation imparted as all nine
monitors came to life was of the most intense, carnivorous, predatory voyeurism. The
youth was like a fleshy bonbon, or titillating titbit, wholly unaware of the ravening mouth
of the camera. The ninth monitor displayed only his mobile pink mouth. (Self 2003: 12)
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Both metaphorspicture and video installationpoint to a common referent, namely

the way in which art (re)presents otherness. The complex crisis of ontological frames
that seventeenth-century art suggested, and Wildes tale confirmed, has become the
core of Selfs novel. It constitutes a sort of hyperreal web of cross-references. Wildes
texts and Dorian: An Imitation, as well as their metaphors for otherness, reflect each
other, not as a mere imitation but feeding each other in what may be described as a
fractalled series. The Picture of Dorian Gray echoes Charles Maturins4 gothic novel
Melmoth the Wanderer (1820). Like Maturins Melmoth, Dorian is magically released
from the marks of age and sins, though he is eventually condemned. However, this is
only part of the story. Behind the obvious moralistic reading, there is a more complex
one. As metaphors of the abject, the picture and Cathode Narcissus are hidden in a dark
room. These metaphoric artefacts and spaces are not simply tropes for otherness. Being
arranged en abyme, they stand for their respective texts as a whole and are projected
beyond, breaking ontological boundaries and interpellating us through the process of
reading. Dorian: An Imitation agglutinates all the texts (baroque and late-Victorian)
mentioned so far, but from a postmodernist neo-baroque stance.
3.2 Trompe loeil and moving lines
As Angela Ndalianis points out, against the widespread view that the baroque implies
losing control, [it] often reveale[s] an obsessive concern with control and
rationality (2004: 4). Likewise, neo-baroque texts generally rely on well-designed
structures. Echoing this, the increasingly chaotic life stories of the different Dorians in
Selfs novel are embedded within a well-tightened (albeit open) pattern. The novel is
split into three parts and an epilogue, which masterfully distorts the meaning and the
logic of the novel so far. Each of the three partsaptly entitled Recordings,
Transmission and Networkends with a death. The first part puts an end to the
eighties with the death of Herman, a black male prostitute and a surrogate of the actress
Wildes Dorian kills in The Picture of Dorian Gray. Dorians body is recorded as points
of light in Bazs nineteen-eighties, when the virus of AIDS was being recorded in gays
bodies. The second part closes with Bazs murder, and stands for most of the nineteennineties, when AIDS was transmitted through what the narrator metaphorically calls
lines of buggery (Self 2003: 154). In the third part, transmission has evolved into a
multi-referential network of death, affecting virtually everybody, even the so-far
unscathed Dorian. However, the death of Dorian eventually turns out to be mere
fiction, part of a roman clef devised by Lord Henry while he himself is dying of AIDS.
In other words, what we have been reading so far is not Dorians real story, but a
meta-fictionalisation made up by one of the characters. Yet, as the epilogue advances,
Lord Henrys roman proves to be rather more reliable than the real Dorian
acknowledges.
4
Charles Robert Maturin (1782-1824) was Wildes uncle. His famous Melmoth the Wanderer
was deeply influenced by Milton, as well as the myths of Faust and the wandering Jew.
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Dorians replication is very complex and is inscribed in a wider context. As

Ndalianis argues, thanks to a number of technical advances and an incipient
consumerism, the baroque era was witness to a nascent popular culture, one that was
accompanied by a new fascination with the serial and the copy (2004: 11). Centuries
later, we are living a world of replicas and virtual realities, which propels us to confront
a number of frames or (in Derridas terms) parerga without content or ergon, when
reading a text like Selfs. In this context, the baroque trompe loeil has gained new
significance.
The trompe loeil constitutes an artistic device which uses different proportions and
perspectives so that the viewer is confused by apparently different levels of
representation. Its ultimate purpose is to question taken-for-granted ontological
boundaries. The eye can be tricked and so can our reason. Thus, as readers, we belong
(albeit vicariously) in the artistic event. In this respect, I think that Derridas concept of
the parergonborrowed from Kantgains significance. The French philosopher
defines it as a negation: the parergon is neither work (ergon) nor outside the work [hors
doeuvre], neither inside nor outside, neither above nor below, it disconcerts any
opposition but does not remain indeterminate and it gives rise to the work (Derrida
1987: 9). Although the imagery of the parergon is especially graphic in the beaux arts,
literature does not escape its logic. Dorian: An Imitation is arranged into different
parerga that somehow stand for and defer the ergon itself. Rather than actual referents,
it is contours that really matter in the novel. Thus, Lord Henry Wottons roman clef,5
or ergon of the novel, only means in relation to its orbiting parerga or frames, namely
the epilogue, Lady Dis tele-visual story and Wildes The Picture of Dorian Gray.
On analysing Derridas The Truth in Painting (1987), Phillip Shaw attempts to explain
the reason why art requires frames. In his view, irrespective of the form it adopts, the
parergon is not peripheral, rather it is directly related to the lack in the interior of the
ergon (2006: 117). Drawing on Cheetham, parergon and ergon are interchangeable for
Shaw. Like the video installation in Lord Henrys roman clef, and the high technology
replicas of the real Dorian and his other, Lady Di, the picture in Wildes novel
constitutes both the core, or ergon, and the parerga of the story. They are essential to
formulate the endless otherness of the hero, yet they remain liminal to the story proper.
Following the paradoxical logic of the baroque, Selfs novel is overwhelmed and
overwhelming owing to its redundant structure and its allegorical story.
The Dorian whom Lord Henry devises is an alter ego both of the real, Blairite
Dorian and of Wildes hero. Like his inter- and intra-textual others, Wottons Dorian
lives in a world of excess that inevitably affects us as readers and witnesses. On entering
the Wottons Chelsea home, we necessarily feel confused, at a loss:
It was impossible to tell whether it was day or night-time. Not only was there this crucial
ambiguity, but the seasons and even the years were indeterminate. Was it this century or
that one? was she wearing this skirt or that suit? Did he take that drug or this drink? Was
his preference for that cunt or this arsehole? (Self 2003: 3)
5
The roman clef is already a liminal phenomenon, swinging between fiction and its real
referent.
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Lord Henry is still the Pygmalion who ushers the hero into aestheticism and
decadentism, though late-Victorian affectation has turned into overt gayness. From the
moment Dorian poses for Baz, he undergoes a frenetic process of corruption whereby
the gothic tone of Wildes novel turns gory and overwhelmingly explicit. It is not only
that most of the characters are overtly gay. The novel tries (and, in my view, manages)
to dissect bodies to the scrutinising eyes of the prospective readers/viewers, following
what for Buci-Glucksman constitutes the main axiom of baroque aesthetics: To be is
to see (in Ganteau 2000: 29). Dorian: An Imitation is extremely visual, to the same
extent as a video game. This is especially so when the narrator recounts the filthy
underworld peopled by the hero and his peers. Lord Henry tells Dorian: You are a
mere corpuscle, travelling along these arteries, whereas I have a surgeons perspective. I
float above it all, and I see Hyde Park as but a green gangrenous fistula in Londons grey
corpse (Self 2003: 26).6 Likewise, as the narrator confirms, Londons brilliant surface
cannot cover up this malodorousness, the swamp that lies beneath the pleasure
gardens, and the miasma percolating up through the run-down ornamental terraces
(2003: 62). Dorians descent to Hell is so vividly described that it necessarily implicates
the reader:
He reclined beside a half-open sash window on a bank of organic detritus. Filthy clothes,
rotting banana skins, used syringes, stale crusts of bread. Dorian had known that there
was squalor like this in London, but he never conceived of himself as part of it This
infective moraine upon which he lay was, Dorian realised, truly sordid They all felt it
Dorian, Herman, Gingerthe giant plunger of darkness pushing down the weeping sides
of the space over their heads, the pressure boiling their blood, then popping their skins,
so that their pured bodies mingled with the grime and muck and the shit to concoct an
ultimate fix: the filthy past injected into the vein of the present to create a deathly future.
(2003: 48-49)
The neo-baroque saturation of matter and filth appeals to our senses and, through
them, to our conscience. Scenes of rapid sex and drug-taking (like the one quoted
above) recur, transmitting a sense of motion and affective unsettlement to the reader.
The technique and effect are analogous to those of recent neo-baroque films like Baz
Luhrmanns Moulin Rouge (2001) and Guy Ritchies Sherlock Holmes (2009), to name
just a couple. By adapting the baroque chiaroscuro to the hyper-realistic imagery of
computers, these films accomplish a characteristic turn-of-the-millennium aesthetics.
Despite (or precisely because of) their excessive explicitness, vividness and gory details,
Luhrmans Paris and Lord Henrys and Ritchies Londons turn out to be convincingly
(un)realistic. All of them emulate the working of the trompe loeil. The optical effect of
this technique, provoked by an excess of realism, has been developed to unimaginable
limits by computer technology. Never before have the boundaries between ontological
realms been more easily blurred. In fact, it is increasingly difficult to dissociate the
virtual imagery from reality, as Selfs novel proves. As the novel comes to an end, the
real Dorian seems unable to detach himself from his alter ego as conceived in Lord
6
The organic rendering of Dorians London as a pestilent body is nothing new. Other cities,
like Venice in Thomas Manns Death in Venice, are also personified as decrepit corpses able to
propagate death.
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Henrys fictional work. This excess of realism is paradoxically accomplished through a

set of mirrors reflecting en abyme the experience of the different intertextual, intra- or
extra-diegetic Dorians. This process of window-opening which trompe loeil painting
and computers alike have exploited escapes its own dimension and grasps the viewer or
reader. This constant shift of perspective, in the form of windows or pages, updates the
concept of baroque movement.
The relation between the classic concepts of stasis and movement is renegotiated in
Dorian: An Imitation. The novels overall effect is one of movement, though it
continues to rely on still images. Warhols Marilyn series, Madonnas computerised
videos or Lady Dis tabloid shots prove the efficiency of the process: the reiteration of
stasis produces a strange sense of movement. This is the way motion pictures work. Yet,
against the truth-effect that most classic films allegedly targeted, neo-baroque texts, like
Selfs, do not aim at truth, at least not in a conventional way. It is my contention that,
rather than at portraying truth per se, the combination of violence, sexual explicitness
and a pleasurable narration of AIDS in the hectic eighties aims at moving the reader. It
is in this sense that I consider Dorian: An Imitation a novel of affects. The leitmotif,
live fast, die young, and you will leave a good-looking corpse,7 fits the protagonist and
his real alter ego, namely Lady Di. If both Dorian and the Princess mirror each other
and project their images outside the text or the screen, we, as readers, become deflectors
of the whole process. Both figures represent the [mutable] spirit of the age (Self 2003:
243), fabricating themselves into visual products in order to be consumed, either in a
BBC interview (2003: 239) or in the video installation of a conceptual artist. In spite of
their emblematic character, their age seems to have had too much of him [and her]
(2003: 243), and they must die: the princess because her name was Di (2003: 274),
and Dorian because it is intertextually necessary. Symbolically, the hero witnesses her
death on the central monitor [of Cathode Narcissus] (2003: 274) when he is going to
die for the second time. If video killed the radio star, new technologies are killing their
own products almost as quickly as they create them. The live broadcast of her death
while entering the underpass on the priphrique hotly pursued by paparazzi (2003:
274) engages the reader or spectator with a postmodernist feeling of immediacy and
movement. Likewise, Dorian ends his days dodging one of his victims in an agonising
persecution.
In Dorian: An Imitation, lines are metaphoric and distorted into sinuous curves, as
Cathode Narcissus shows. Bazs piece of conceptual art is made up of nine screens or
parerga which frame Dorians own contours and high-camp posing. Working like
reflective surfaces (2003: 15), the screens constitute a symbolic line that separates the
piece of art from the outside. For Derrida, framing is a fundamental aspect of rerepresentation whereby we can understand the interiority of the work (in Marriner
2002: 354). Without this mutual implication (of the intrinsic and the extrinsic), Derrida
goes on, the object of art/the aesthetic does not come into being (Marriner 2002:
355). The narcissistic character of Bazs video installation and the whole novel make
7
This is a sentence spoken by Nick Romano, the hero in Willard Motelys Knock on Any Door
(1947), which became a film two years later with John Derek playing Romanos part and
Humphrey Bogart as Romanos lawyer, Andrew Morton.
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Jos M. Yebra
Derridas framing of meaning particularly complex; more so, if we take into account the
implications that narcissism has (had) for gayness. Dorians high-camp posing is
unequivocally gay, theatrical and excessive according to our cultural standards.
Opposed to the depth, stasis and straightness of the hetero-normative, Dorians
cathodic ego and alter egos are superficial, mobile and curvilinear. The reflection of the
hero on the screen, split into dancing Narcissi, reveals an unfeasible and fractured
identity. Moreover, as happens in Wildes novel, Dorian soon catches a glimpse of his
terrible metamorphosis. The perfect lines that originally inspired and made up the
symmetry of Bazs masterpiece are distorted: Dorian saw it: the faces on the screen had
all changedand for the worse He grimaced and drew closer Closer and closer he
drew, until all he could see were lines of dots leading into the future (Self 2003: 70).
Our eye is guided beyond by Dorian, reducing the illusion of a beautiful male body to
mere lines, and its cells into dots of light.
Both Ndalianis and Ganteau make reference to Deleuzes Pli Infini, or Infinite Fold.
Closely connected to Derridas parerga and the way they are multiply folded, as happens
in trompe loeil motives, the infinite fold is designed to create the illusion that it can
leave the surface of the painting freed from all material constraints (Ganteau 2000:
32). Coming from Leibnitz, Deleuzes concept can be applied to literature, as Ganteau
demonstrates in his analysis of Peter Ackroyds English Music. It is my contention that
in Dorian: An Imitation, the infinite fold is both metaphorical and physical, a static and
mobile curve. Thus, characters are connected to each other through congas of
buggery in a spiral of all-embracing pleasure and death (Self 2003: 95).
Drawing on Gottfried Leibnitz and Gilles Deleuzes theories, Ndalianis renders an
acute description of the production and reception of neo-baroque art:
One serial turns into another, and into yet another still: one illusion leads to an alternate
path outside the text, then finds its way back to affect interpretation; or one medium
connects fully to another, relying on the complex interconnectedness of the system as a
whole The series of folds construct a convoluted labyrinth that the audience is
temptingly invited to explore. Yet the baroque and neo-baroque differ in a significant
way: Digital technology has created more literal labyrinths for players to traverse.
Highlighting a crisis in traditional forms of symptomatic interpretation, the multilinear
nature of game spaces suggests that our modes of interpretation need to reflect an equally
neo-baroque multiplicity. (2004: 27)
Although we are not players, as readers we are invited to unfold Dorians labyrinth, or
should we say Henry Wottons? In any case, we must confront the polyhedric nature of
the text and the heroes bodies, the way an illusion turns into another, and how this
wavering effect necessarily affects ourselves as it affects our perception of the reality we
inhabit.
The lines or fibres of Dorians body swing between the beautiful and the sublime.
His symmetry echoes that of Greek kouroi, though its whole effect goes beyond
harmony. The curve of his back is, for Wotton, like the spine of some antediluvian
creature, browsing in the sexual swamp. His haunches quivered as he bowed down,
rose, bowed down, as if abasing himself before a phallic idol, an idol which panted and
groaned and eventually cried out under the pressure of such adulation (Self 2003: 159).
Dorians body and its multiple reflections recall different linear patterns other than
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baroque: namely William Hogarths (1997) line of beauty, Aubrey Beardsleys curve
(Denisoff 2002: 80), and the lines of the postmodernist sublime as represented,
according to Shaw (2006: 120-23), in Barnett Baruch Newmans paintings.
I will finally focus on Newmans painting and his use of lines,8 as approached by
Philip Shaw. This will necessarily lead us to Jean-Franois Lyotards notion of the
postmodern sublime and, indirectly, to AIDS. As Shaw points out, though apparently
simple, the impact of Newmans large, asymmetrical blocks of colour divided by
rectilinear lines, or zips, on the viewer is mesmerising (2006: 121). The brushstrokes
draw the eye into the canvas, to the point where it is impossible to distinguish between
object and subject: the inside of the painting, the ergon, and the outside, or parergon, in
which it occurs. For Newman, the effect of this warping of time and space is
profoundly spiritual. As he writes in his influential essay The Sublime Now (1948), the
intention is to reassert mans natural desire for the exalted, for a concern with our
relationship to the absolute emotions (Shaw 2006: 121).
What is here at stake is how contemporary literature in general, and Selfs novel in
particular, uses different devices and tropes, like lines or intertextual references, to
render the sublime and thus interpellate our emotions. Against (or rather
supplementing) Kantian aesthetic theories, critics like Derrida and Lyotard and artists
like Newman (and other abstract expressionists) still consider the sublime as a notion
worth discussing. Although lacking its former transcendentalism, the sublime forces
disruption, leading critical thought to a crisis [through] its resistance to rationalist
appropriation (Shaw 2006: 129-30). In Shaws view (2006: 122), the blocks of colour
split by zips in Newmans paintings produce a bizarre feeling of extinction and
nothingness. In contrast to the beautiful, which, for Lyotard, relies on the unity of
experience (1984: 72), on producing data that can be grasped by sensibility and that
are intelligible to understanding (1984: 124), the postmodern sublime resists a closed
conceptualization, as far as it can only take place at the price of suspending the
active powers of the mind (1984: 124). Therefore, the question is whether Dorian: An
Imitation makes us feel something akin to what, in Shaws view, Newmans paintings
do. In other words, do the novels overflowed frames of meaning and their metaphoric
lines place us on the edge of otherness, making us revise the astonishment fostered by
the sublime? Are we compelled by its moving lines as we are reading the text?
3.3 The excess of AIDS
The sublime allegedly transports our bodies and moves our minds and conscience to
the limit, i.e. to a disturbing astonishment that cancels reason. However, opposed to the
classic concept of transcendence, the postmodern sublime is rather demythologising.
The feeling of astonishment enmeshed in the face of AIDS and of its victims points to a
sense of undecidability which, paradoxically, demands articulation. This takes us to
8
It may seem contradictory to use Newman one of the forerunners of minimalism in an

article on the neo-baroque. Yet, his artistic production proves to be particularly useful to describe
the postmodern sublime.
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Jos M. Yebra
Lyotards masterpiece, where he points out: In the differend, something asks to be put
into phrases and suffers from the wrong of not being able to be put into phrases right
away (1988: 13). For Lyotard, this state of undecidability, whereby we are surpassed by
our inability to supply a concept for an unspeakable event is ideally represented by the
Holocaust (1988: 88). In Dorian: An Imitation, the Holocaust is replaced by AIDS.
Although literature can still astonish, it can no longer aim at transcending its textuality.
That is, despite the many frames Dorian: An Imitation may overflow, it cannot escape
its textuality, and thus any reference to the transcendental constitutes an ephemeral
delusion. Its characters will always escape our reach, for they multiply ad infinitum, like
Lyotards analoga. Who is the real Dorian? The one Wotton devises? Or the one living
the Blairite dream? Who is the real Lady Di? And, to what extent does she or her
imagery interact with the hero(es)? What do artefacts such as the picture, the video
installation or Wottons roman clef make reference to? Are they metaphors? Of what?
Of beauty, death, the sublime, the crisis of representation, or of our interaction with the
other? All these open questions only corroborate the complex and ironic character of
contemporary transcendence.
The intangible texts and images evoked in the novel refer paradoxically to an excess
of corporeality. Dorian himself is a metamorphic beast whom, owing to his excessive
physicality, Wotton regards as the true retrovirus (Self 2003: 108). The swing between
sexual omnivorousness (2003: 98) and insubstantiality (2003: 112) works like Marilyn
Monroes imagery in Warhols series, simultaneously disembodied and sexually reified.
When we find out that the Dorian we have been reading about is part of another
characters imagination, we confront anew the logic of the sublime. The heros capacity
to multiply fold ontological layers turns into a fake transcendentalism, a mere textual
game. Only as far as we believe Wottons metafiction can we grasp a glimpse of the
sublime. It is only through the process of reading that we have access to the different
Dorians fragmentation and replication.
The outburst of AIDS revived the poetics of the sublime, as Selfs novel proves.
Although published when gayslike the real Dorianhad gained some rights during
Blairs first term and the disease was becoming for many a matter of the past, Wottons
roman clef returns to the nineteen-eighties. The characters intradiegetic narration is
particularly eager to describe the terrifying effect of the disease on youths, whose
radiator-grille ribcages and concentration-camp eyes telegraphed the front line with
Death (Self 2003: 78), and whose faces were studded with Kaposis sarcoma (2003:
78). Wottons apocalyptic discourse defies the blockage of representation that this type
of traumatic episode usually brings about, more insofar as he is also infected by the
virus, both as a diegetic character and narrator and also as an intradiegetic character.
The narrators visual rendering of the physical impact of the disease stands out against
his failing sight, as he suffers from severe viral conjunctivitis [and] post-operative
cararacts (2003: 183). It is, he argues, as if a veil of beauty has been thrown over the
worldbecause, lets face it, the closer you get to someone the uglier they become
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(2003: 183). Wottons discourse recalls Derek Jarmans latest films which, in turn, evoke
Newmans (and Yves Kleins) sublime paintings.9
Like Newmans paintings, Jarmans last film Blue (1993) shows no recognizable
images. It consists of an uninterrupted aquamarine screen revolving around
Jarmans experience of AIDS, an ascetic denial of visual pleasure (Moor 2000: 49).
The monochromatic screen of Blue comments primarily upon the loss of sight which
he suffered as a result of his own illness (2000: 50). Despite the free-floating
immateriality of the film, for Moor, the melding of matter and spirit forms the basis
of Jarmans romantic quest (2000: 52), as it does in Dorian: An Imitation. Blues
monochrome both renders and rejects the materiality of AIDS. Instead of rotten bodies,
Jarman resorts to a semiotic void that is still a signifier, and its cultural connotations of
spirituality or infinity propel the film towards the sublime (Moor 2000: 63). However,
like Selfs novel, other works by Jarman surpass this spiritual sublime to render the
bodily effects of the disease on its (gay) victims. There may be a void of monochromatic
nothingness in what the characters and readers or spectators see, or how they see
themselves reflected; even that nothingness may be particularly effective to represent
the cellular Auschwitz of AIDS (Self 2003: 252). Yet, there must be a more corporeal
response to AIDS. Dorian is insubstantial, but excessively physical. Likewise, Jarmans
Queer exhibition of paintings in 1992 is predominantly red, aggressive and explicit,
connoting carnality and rage, and provocatively suggesting the bodys fluids and the
disease of the flesh, a stark antithesis to the cool of Blue (Moor 2000: 64). Both Self
and Jarman conflate spirit and matter, the sublime and the corporeal, so as to render
testimony of the otherwise unspeakable, and thus astonish the spectator.
4. Conclusion
Dorian: An Imitation constitutes a masterful example of the aeon of the baroque in latepostmodernism. Instead of the safety, stasis and depth of classicism, the novel definitely
prefers the distorted discourse and imagery of neo-baroque. It scrutinizes
contemporary society, particularly its most neglected and dark corners, in search of new
ways of rendering reality. Like the seventeenth century, the turn of the millennium is a
moment of transition which, therefore, needs new formulas to represent a new status
quo. However, this process is especially problematic in our time, when an overall
ontological crisis makes it difficult, or virtually impossible, to represent what lies
outside the text. As the novel focuses on the gay underworld of the nineteen-eighties,
the crisis of representation derived from the outburst of AIDS constitutes a
fundamental issue.
Dorian: An Imitation updates baroque devices and tropes, particularly excess and
movement, in order to affect the reader. Through intertextual references, visual
narratives, frames and metaphoric lines, we are propelled to the realm of the sublime.
9
Moor points to Yves Klein (1928-1962) as a referent for Jarmans monochromatic last films
(2000: 63). In spite of the religiosity implicit in his paintings, Kleins monochromes are
comparable to those by Newman.
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However, this push to the unbounded is not akin to the sublime in Burkes Empiricism
or classic German Idealism, but is controlled by and de-secularised out of the logic of
late postmodernism. Although readers are purportedly affected by the sense of
movement and excess of the frantic narration of Wotton and the extradiegetic voice of
the epilogue, we are never led to transcendence. The novel is blocked within the limits
of the ergon and its surrounding parerga. The ultimate aporia of Dorian: An Imitation is
however that its ergon is a void, which only has meaning through multiple references
and within the artistic paraphernalia of parerga. The story of Wottons Dorian is
deferred to that of Wildes Dorian and that of Blairs Dorian. Likewise, these characters
are reduced to the lines of their delusive beauty, as represented in interconnected artefacts and metaphors, namely Cathode Narcissus, a decadent portrait, and Lady Dis
avalanche of shots. This web of never-ending references produces a sense of frenzy akin
to that produced by action films and video games. This neo-baroque vertigo necessarily
moves readers, confronting them with their own role, as well as with the neglected and
other, particularly that implicit in the act of reading itself.
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Benjamin, Walter 1996 (1928): The Origin of German Tragic Drama. Trans. John Osborne.
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Buci-Glucksman, Christine 1986 : La folie du voir. De lesthtique baroque. Paris: Galile.
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Denisoff, Dennis 2002: Decadence. Claude Summers, ed. The Gay and Lesbian Literary Heritage.
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DOrs, Eugenio 1993 (1934): El barroco. Madrid: Tecnos.
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Luhrmann, Baz 2003 (2001): Moulin Rouge. 20th Century Fox.
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Lyotard, Jean-Franois 1984: The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge. Trans. Geoff
Bennington and Brian Massumi. Manchester: Manchester UP.
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Companion to Art Theory Represented. Oxford: Blackwell Companions in Cultural Studies.
349-59.
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Received 4 September 2010
Revised version accepted 20 January 2011
Jos M. Yebra holds a PhD from the University of Zaragoza, where he is currently Lecturer. His research
interests centre on gender and trauma; postmodernism.
Address: Department of English, Centro Universitario de la Defensa-AGM, University of Zaragoza. Ctra. de
Huesca s/n, 50090, Zaragoza, Spain. Tel.: +34 976739636. Fax: +34 976739824
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Juan F. Cerd
University of Murcia
juanfcerda@um.es
After establishing Lorcas possible access to Shakespeares plays, this essay seeks to
characterise the transformation of Shakespeares dramatic materials especially A
Midsummer Nights Dream and Hamlet, but also Macbeth, Romeo and Juliet and Othello
in Lorcas early poetry (1917-1919). It analyses the neo-romantic reclamation of
Shakespearean drama, and of Shakespeare as a cultural figure, within Lorcas rupture with
the aesthetics of realist poetry. It relates Lorcas assimilation of Shakespeares plays to
Shakespeares reception in Continental symbolist poetry and within the British preRaphaelite movement. It investigates the appropriation of Shakespeares cultural value in
Lorcas early access to the literary field.
Keywords: Shakespeare; Garca Lorca; Spain; Europe; reception studies; poetry
Shakespeare en los primeros poemas de Garca Lorca

Tras establecer las posibles vas de acceso de Lorca a las obras de Shakespeare, este ensayo
persigue caracterizar la transformacin del material dramtico shakesperiano especialmente
El sueo de una noche de verano y de Hamlet, pero tambin Macbeth, Romeo y Julieta, y
Otelo en la poesa de juventud de Lorca (1917-1919). Se analiza la recuperacin neoromntica de la obra y la figura de Shakespeare dentro de la ruptura lorquiana con la poesa de
esttica realista, y se relaciona la asimilacin del teatro shakesperiano de Garca Lorca con el
simbolismo potico de la Europa continental y el pre-rafaelitismo britnico. Se investiga la
apropiacin del valor cultural de Shakespeare en la incorporacin al campo literario del joven
Lorca.
Palabras clave: Shakespeare; Garca Lorca; Espaa; Europa; estudios de recepcin; poesa
34
Juan F. Cerd
1. Introduction
Already in his earliest poems, certain linguistic choices suggest that Garca Lorcas
poetic language was permeated by an early reading of Shakespeares plays. Dated 23
October 1917, the second poem in Lorcas earliest poetry (Yo estaba triste frente a los
sembrados [I was sad before the sown fields]; Garca Lorca 1994b: 30-32) stands as the
first trace of such a relationship. The poem indicates Lorcas familiarity with A
Midsummer Nights Dream at the age of nineteen, while other pieces from this period
(1917-1919) illustrate that Lorca had also access to other plays by Shakespeare.1
Bearing in mind that Lorcas knowledge of English was probably fairly limited, it
seems reasonable to suppose that the edition of Shakespeares complete works which
Mathilde Poms found on Lorcas desk in 1931 was either not in English or an iconic
memento of his brief visit to London and Oxford in the summer of 1929 (Martn 1986:
95-97). In addition to this, since Luis Astrana Marns all-prose translations, which had
the merit of being the first rendering of the entire corpus from the original English,
began to appear in 1921, it is more likely that Lorca initially grew familiar with
Shakespeares work through Rafael Martnez Lafuentes rendering of French versions of
the plays (1915-1918). Four of the eight volumes of Martnez Lafuentes Complete Works
of Shakespeare were found in Lorcas library (Adani 1999: 10). The volumes included: I.
Hamlet, The Two Gentlemen of Verona; IV. The Merchant of Venice, Loves Labours Lost,
Cymbeline; V. Macbeth, Troilus and Cressida, Henry VIII; VIII. A Midsummer Nights
Dream, The Tempest, The Merry Wives of Windsor. These four volumes account for
almost all the references to Shakespeare in Lorcas juvenilia and later work. Familiarity
with Othello and, especially, Romeo and Juliet, which will be appropriated in Lorcas
later experimental dramatic work, must then be attributed to other translations, stage
productions or, as Fernndez Montesinos believed (Adani 1999: 10), to the possibility
that Lorca had owned all eight volumes of Martnez Lafuentes Complete Works. In
these early years, it is perhaps significant, therefore, that the speaker in Yo estaba triste
frente a los sembrados refers twice to his copy of A Midsummer Nights Dream as a
librote: the image of the large book among whose pages the speaker of the poem falls
asleep could be connected with these volumes. Also equally conceivably, Lorca may
have retained an image of the Italian actor Ermete Zacconis highly acclaimed
performances at the Teatro Comedia and the Princesa or more recent productions by
Ricardo Calvo, Jos Tallav, Francisco Morano and Emilio Thuillier.2 In either case,
whether Lorca worked from actual texts or live performances, it is a creative
assimilation of Shakespearean dramaturgy, rather than a precise recollection of the
scripts themselves, that spills over into Lorcas production. It is, precisely, such active
appropriation that serves as a point of departure for the analysis of Shakespeares
presence in Lorcas early poems.
1
The research for this essay was done under the auspices of the projects BFF2002-02019 and
HUM-2005-02556/FILO, financed by the Ministerio de Educacin and Feder.
2
For the performance history of Shakespeares plays in Spain, see Par 1936 and the
Shakespeare in Spain Performance Database from the Shakespeare in Spain research project at
the University of Murcia (www.um.es/shakespeare).
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The analysis of Shakespeares role in Garca Lorcas early poetic production has been
largely overlooked by academic criticism. While Silvia Adanis book, La presenza di
Shakespeare nellopera di Garca Lorca (1999), offers an almost exhaustive inventory of
Lorcas references to Shakespeare, the author does not engage in analysing or
characterising the presence of the English playwright in Lorcas work. Thus, within
Lorquian criticism, where Shakespearean drama is only of marginal interest, the few
passing allusions to Shakespeare tend to cluster round the visible traces of Shakespearean
drama in Lorcas experimental plays such as El pblico and Comedia sin ttulo, where the
explicit theatrical role of Romeo and Juliet and A Midsummer Nights Dream is hardly
avoidable (Martnez Nadal 1976; Laffranque 1978; Huerta Calvo 2006). On the other side
of the critical spectrum, Garca Lorcas El pblico appeared in Fischlin and Fortiers
Adaptations of Shakespeare: A Critical Anthology of Plays from the Seventeenth Century to
the Present (2000). There, their short introduction to the play probably stands as the only
contribution to the study of the relationship between Shakespeare and Garca Lorca
within the field of Shakespeare Studies. Perhaps, the explicit visibility of Shakespearean
drama in Lorcas experimental plays and the late publication and marginality of Lorcas
early poetry within his better known poetic and dramatic production have prevented
critical interest in the topic. Consequently, this article seeks to halt the delay in the study
of Shakespeares role in Garca Lorcas early poetry.
In its first part, this essay interrogates the formal and thematic mechanisms that
Lorca recurrently applied to Shakespearean drama. The analysis of these mechanisms
provides a coherent frame for the otherwise seeming arbitrariness of Lorcas creative
appropriation. At the same time, these processes advance the seminal guidelines of
Lorcas experimental adaptation of Shakespearean drama at the latter stages of his
production in the 1930s. Subsequently, in the second part, the discussion moves on to
describe Lorcas perception of Shakespeare as a literary figure. Here, the early poems
serve to illustrate Shakespeares role in Lorcas aesthetic aspirations, the position that
both are imagined or projected to fill, through the poems, within Lorcas contemporary
cultural landscape and, subsequently, the image of Shakespeare projected by Lorca at
this early stage. As in the case of Lorcas creative mechanisms of adaptation, this section
closes with a discussion of the poems as an anticipation of Lorcas later traits. In these,
Lorca already demonstrates an interest in Shakespeares canonical iconicity, which will
become a problematic concern at a later stage in his experimental dramas.
2. Lorcas early rewriting techniques: The tragic appeal of Shakespearean drama
In this early period (1917-1919), Lorcas engagement with the poetic expression of tragic
love results in the reformulation of Shakespeares forest in A Midsummer Nights Dream
as a central signifier and site for the expression of fatalistic poetic pictures of despair
and frustration, which will later on extend to Lorcas experimental plays El pblico (The
Public; 1930) and Comedia sin ttulo (Play Without a Title; 1936). Lorcas poem from
1917 reads:
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Juan F. Cerd
Yo estaba triste frente a los sembrados.
Era una tarde clara.
Dormido entre las hojas de un librote
Shakespeare me acompaaba
El sueo de una noche de verano
Era el librote.
Estaban
Descansando en la tierra los arados.
La tristeza de aquellos armatostes
Dormidos junto al agua.
Qu hermosas son las nubes del otoo!
Lejos los perros ladran.
Y por los olivares lejanos aparecen
Las manos de la noche.
Mi distancia
Interior se hace turbia.
Tiene mi corazn telas de araa
El demonio de Shakespeare
Qu ponzoa me ha vertido en el alma!
I was sad before the sown fields. 3

It was a clear afternoon.
Asleep among the pages of a heavy book
Shakespeare was with me...
A Midsummer Nights Dream
Was the heavy book.
The ploughs
Were resting on the soil.
The sadness of those big useless objects
Asleep by the water.
How beautiful are the clouds of autumn!
Afar the dogs bark.
And through the distant olive groves appear
The hands of night.
My internal
Distance grows blurred.
My heart has cobwebs...
The demon of Shakespeare
What poison he has poured into my soul!
(Garca Lorca 1994b: 29-30)
Yo estaba triste frente a los sembrados (I was sad before the sown fields) stands as the earliest
trace of Shakespeares dramaturgy in Lorcas verses. In the poem, the English playwright is
blamed for causing the speakers sadness after falling sleep. The speakers melancholy
provoked by the poison poured in to the soul when reading A Midsummer Nights
Dream is explored in parallel to Shakespeares play, which Lorca borrows in order to
reflect on the arbitrariness of affections and the afflictions of unrequited love:
Casualidad temible es el amor!
Nos dormimos y un hada
Hace que al despertarnos adoremos
Qu tragedia tan honda!
Al primero que pasa
A fearsome coincidence love is!

We fall asleep and a fairy
Makes us adore the first passer-by
What a profound tragedy! . . .
When we awake.
(Garca Lorca 1994b: 30)
Like the characters in Shakespeares play, in the poem the speaker suffers the
consequences of love at first sight, a prey to the influence of a fairy. From there, he
moves on to question the nature of a fairy, and the agonic unpredictability of the
human experience of love (Garca Lorca 1994b: 31-32).
In a way, almost all other Shakespearean characters and references in Lorcas early
poems are swallowed by the dark green forest already formulated in Yo estaba triste
frente a los sembrados. As is also characteristic of Lorcas later verse, in these poems
images and metaphors are already constantly revisited and reformulated. At this first
stage, Lorca rewrote Shakespeares materials and adapted them to his early poetic
3
All Lorcas translations are mine.
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37
interests by having their former dramatic characteristics transformed into the mood of
a new poetic locus. Thus, only three months later (30 January 1918), Garca Lorca went
back to some of the ideas included in Yo estaba triste frente a los sembrados when he
united his dark vision of the forest in A Midsummer Nights Dreams with Hamlet in El
bosque (The Forest).
Unlike the earlier poem, in El bosque references to Hamlet are not metaphorical,
thematic or oblique:
El bosque es lo romntico de la naturaleza
Ideales figuras desfilaron por l.
Shakespeare glorioso y triste a Hamlet vio
pasar
Un da que entr en su negra verdura a
meditar.
The forest is that which is romantic in nature.

Ideal figures paraded in it.
Sad and glorious Shakespeare saw Hamlet
walk by
One day as he entered its black greenness to
meditate . . .
In his reformulation of Shakespeares work, Lorca relocates Hamlets meditations at

Elsinore by imagining the character inserted in the Dreams forest. Thus, Lorcas El
bosque offers a rare example of poetic adaptation, through the rewriting and conflation
of two apparently distant dramatic works by Shakespeare;4 this adaptation will become
recurrent when, in La muerte de Ofelia (The Death of Ophelia), Lorca again reunites
disparate Shakespearean elements. Thus, just as he had merged the Dream and Hamlet
in El bosque, in La muerte de Ofelia Lorca potentially summons one image from a
different Shakespearean source:
Hundindose en las sombras. Hamlet con
su siniestra
Mirada ve el espectro que lleva el corazn
Herido y a una daga
Que sangra en las tinieblas.
Sinking in the shadows. Hamlet with his

sinister
Look sees the spectre he bears in his heart
Wounded and a dagger
That bleeds in the darkness.
(Garca Lorca 1994b: 420-421)
Lorca had already diverged form its Shakespearean source when, in his poetic
reconstruction of Ophelias death, Hamlet stood as witness of the scene. In the
In 1930, Lorca will rewrite Romeo and Juliet into the metatheatrics of his experimental play
El pblico (The Public), while at the same time Shakespeares A Midsummer Nights Dream will
operate as underlying theme. As Anderson has suggested, the scenographic and symbolic nexus
of night, darkness, wood and moonlight is a key factor in A Midsummer Nights Dream . . . A
strikingly similar range of scenographic elements, possessing both individual extended
significance and a place in a more complex web of imagery, is to be found in several of Lorcas
plays (Anderson 1985: 189-90). Also, critics such as Anderson or Ernesto Jareo have seen
Shakespeares A Midsummer Nights Dream as the originating locus for the setting in the
unfinished early drama Elenita from 1921 (Jareo 1970: 223), and later of Bodas de sangre (Blood
Wedding; Anderson 1985: 189-190).
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Juan F. Cerd
rewriting, just before Ophelia drowns, Hamlet has a vision of Ophelias wounded heart
and of the dagger that bleeds in the darkness. Certainly, this last image may
autonomously stand as a symbol of Hamlets responsibility for Ophelias death, yet the
hallucination of the bleeding dagger as a response to a guilty conscience does not
belong to the tragedy of the ghost prince, but to Macbeth:
MACBETH
Is this a dagger which I see before me,
. . . A dagger of the mind, a false creation
Proceeding from the heat-oppressd brain?
. . . I see thee still,
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood . . .
(II.i.33, 38-39,45-46) 5
One way to account for Lorcas recycling of the bloody dagger in his poem about
Ophelias death or his placing of Hamlet in the forest of A Midsummer Nights Dream is
to regard such conflation as a case of misplacement, that is, as if Lorca did not know
his Shakespeare. Regardless of the extent of Lorcas familiarity with Shakespeares
plays, the issue that will close the conclusions of this essay, the fact is that throughout
his body of work Lorca never showed an interest in direct quotation or verbatim
appropriation of his sources. It would perhaps be more accurate, therefore, to describe
Lorcas intertextual relationship with Shakespeare as an interested creative derivation or
as an idiosyncratic reworking of selected materials. In the case of Lorca, interest in
Shakespeare can be limited to an image, a symbol, a setting, perhaps even a mood that
eventually travels into the poets writing.
Together with this, La muerte de Ofelia also illustrates two characteristics of Lorcas
appropriation of Shakespeare. On the one hand, the poem provides an active
interpretation of the source, Queen Gertrudes narration of Ophelias Death:
LAERTES
Drowned? O, where?
QUEEN GERTRUDE
There is a willow grows aslant a brook
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream.
Therewith fantastic garlands did she make
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do dead mens fingers call them.
There on the pendent boughs her crownet weeds,
Clambring to hang, an envious silver broke,
When down the weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide,
And mermaid-like a while they bore her up;
5
All quotations from Shakespeare are from Wells and Taylors 2005 edition.
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Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes,

As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and endued
Unto that element. But long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pulled the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.
(IV.vii.138-55).
In the Spanish poem, Ophelias death is connected to the dark green forest which
Lorca extracts from Shakespeares Dream in Yo estaba triste frente a los sembrados in
the way both forests give shelter to those incapable of [their] own distress. As is
characteristic of Lorcas appropriation of Shakespeare in his early poetry, when he
committed himself to reconstructing Ophelias drowning, Lorca is drawn by the plays
potential to develop the theme of unrequited love. On the other hand, the poem fills a
space in the play by providing a poetic picture of Ophelias actual death, which is absent
in the play:
Con qu santa dulzura
Se muere la doncella!
Shakespeare teji con vientos
La maravilla tierna de la mujer extraa
Que pasa en la tragedia del prncipe
fantasma
Como un sueo de nubes
Recogidas y castas,
Hecha de espigas rubias
Y estrellas apagadas,
Que se fue sonriendo por los reinos del
agua
Como una luz errante
Que encuentra al fin su lmpara.
With such a holy sweetness

The maiden dies!
Shakespeare wove with winds
The tender wonder of the strange woman
That passes by the tragedy of the ghost
prince
Like a dream of clouds
Cloistered and chaste,
Made of blonde ears of corn
And extinct stars,
Who left smiling through the kingdoms
of water
Like a wandering light
That finds its lamp at last.
Lorca will re-use this technique again when he opens up a narrative space for Juliet in
the middle of his experimental play El pblico, later on in 1930. For the time being, in
this fragment Lorca casts Ophelia as a virgin through the religious tones of his early
poetry (holy sweetness, sacred sadness, vague corolla of a religious flower), adapting
Shakespeares character to the development of his own field of poetic expression.
As Lorca develops these early poetic landscapes, the collection of juvenile verses
evinces a complex network of Shakespearean intertextuality, which comprises a relative
unity arising from the common objective: putting Shakespeare to work for Lorcas early
tragic project.6 Thus, as Lorca merges Ophelias death with Macbeths imaginary
6
As Silvia Adani points out, Lorcas assimilation of the Shakespearean forest can also be seen
to resonate in other juvenilia poems like Baladas de las nias en los jardines, Lux, or in Lorcas
early prose work, Impresiones y paisajes (Adani 1999: 33-35). Then, Adani locates echoes of
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Juan F. Cerd
dagger, or makes Hamlet witness Ophelia drowning and strides through A Midsummer
Nights Dreams forest of fairies, the disparate Shakespearean references gain uniformity
if perceived as reinforcing the collections tragic ethos. Lorcas initial interest in
Shakespeare relies on tragedy and, even when the Spanish poet incorporates
Shakespearean comedy into his poetry, the festive, harmonious or conciliatory elements
of a play like A Midsummer Nights Dream are reshaped into the despair of the poems
speakers. As fellow poet and scholar, Pedro Salinas put it,
Lorca . . . expresses the feeling for death with an undoubted originality and personal
accent . . . He discovers it all around him, in the native air that gives him breath, in the
singing of the servants in his house, in books written in his tongue, in the churches of his
city . . . (Salinas 1955-1956: 18).
However personal or original, Lorca also found a well of images, symbols and
characters to develop the tragic initial interests of his early poetry in the foreign
dramaturgy of Shakespeare.
The earliest poem, Yo estaba triste frente a los sembrados, is particularly characteristic
of this early phase in the way it assimilates Shakespeares Dream into the tragic mode,
an idiosyncratic example of what will later be developed in subsequent work. Lorcas
rewriting can be compared with one of the seminal characterisations of Shakespeares
forests put forward by Northrop Frye who, writing in the 1950s and 1960s, suggested a
characterisation of Shakespeares archetypical green world. Like Lorca, Frye also
detected the tragic potential of Shakespearean comedy, yet he located and delimited it
to a certain moment in the comic narration. For Frye, the images of chaos, tempest,
illusion, madness, darkness, death, belong to the middle of the action of the comedy, in
the phase of confused identity (Frye 1965: 137), yet, in the case of A Midsummer Nights
Dream, [after] the action moves from a world of parental tyranny and irrational law
into the forest . . . the comic resolution is attained, and the cast returns with it into their
former world (Frye 1965: 141). By contrast, in Lorcas rewriting of the Dreams forest
there is no harmonic return. In fact, in Lorca the forest stands as a site of the opposite
tyrannical and irrational laws of love. While for Frye Shakespeares green world
constitutes a device for the resolution of comedy, Lorcas forest is painted with a black
greenness (Negra verdura [Garca Lorca 1994b: 122]) from which the speaker never
returns. These mechanisms of selection and revision are characteristic of both Lorcas
early relationship with Shakespeare and of his latter incorporation of Shakespearean
elements into his experimental dramas.
Hamlet in Lorcas early prose (Meditacin que trata de nuestra pequeez y del misterio de la noche),
other early poetry (La balada de Caperucita roja) and later poems like Baladilla de Eloisa
muerta, Sombra, Reflexin, El stiro blanco, (from Lorcas Suites), Nocturnos de la ventana
(from Canciones) and Romance sonmbulo (from Romancero Gitano). According to Adani,
echoes from La muerte de Ofelia reach Lorcas very late poem, Casida de la muchacha dorada,
from 1936 Divn del Tamarit (see Adani 1999: 77-110 and Martn 1988: 205).
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The tragic assimilation of Shakespearean drama initiated in Yo estaba triste frente a

los sembrados permeates the rest of Lorcas Shakespearean early poems. Thus, although
the forest in El bosque seems to be initially characterised through brighter tones
El bosque surge en los campos serenos
Como
acorde
profundo
de
azul
profundidad
. . . El bosque es una piedra preciosa con vida
Que oculta melodas de infinito cristal.
Tiene acento de luna su divina maleza,
Tienen sus troncos tonos de una pica
grandeza.
The forest emerges in the serene fields

Like a profound chord of blue
profundity...
. . . The forest is a precious stone with life
That hides melodies of infinite crystal.
Its divine undergrowth has a moon
accent,
Its trunks have tones of epic grandeur.
this ambivalent forest ends up being characterised through attributes that lie closer
to the darker overtones of the earlier poem:
El bosque tiene algo de mstica tragedia,
Tiene melancola de dulce terciopelo . .
Encierran sus encantos un silencio mortal.
The forest has some of that mystical tragedy,

Has melancholy of sweet velvet . . .
Its charms hide a mortal silence.
El bosque can thus be traced back to Lorcas earlier version of A Midsummer Nights
Dream, which, for him, stands as a symbolic location of disharmony. Again, it seems as
if Lorca had dispossessed Shakespeares forest of all of its reconciliatory potential and
focused on the tensions created by the fairies. As in the earlier poem, Lorcas version of
Shakespeares forest generically recasts the Dream into the tragic mode:
Por la noche su orquesta canta en clave de fa.
Sus naves escarchadas de amargura y de pena
Las cruzan silenciosas almas enamoradas
Que vivieron dolientes las antiguas baladas . . .
At night its [the forests] orchestra sings

in the key of F.
Its naves frosted in bitterness and sorrow
Are crossed by silent souls in love
That lived the old ballads in suffering.
Then, in La muerte de Ofelia, which dates from 7 September 1918, the poem starts by
constructing the image of Ophelia, slowly drowning in the green water, a hidden
pool / Among the clear waves of hope/dream/illusion (Agua verde, un oculto
remanso / Entre las ondas claras de illusion [Garca Lorca 1994b: 420]). Lorca, then,
juxtaposes a number of images to construct the symbolic narration of the poem:
Como vaga corola de una flor religiosa
Se hunde y el Amor
Like the vague corolla of a religious flower

She drowns and Love
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Juan F. Cerd
Ha tronchado su arco sobre una encina vieja
Hundindose en las sombras.
Has cracked its arrow on a holm-oak

Sinking in the shadows.
The poem then extends the characteristic religious overtones of Lorcas early writing
through a second image:
Y Ofelia dulce cae
En el abismo blando.
Toda sacra tristeza
Y palpitar de tarde.
Sobre el tenue temblor
De la aguas, su pelo
Se dira una vaga y enigmtica sangre,
Unas algas de oro
Que cayeran del cielo
O un ensueo de polen
De azucena gigante...
And sweet Ophelia falls

Into the soft abyss.
All sacred sadness
And afternoon throb.
Over the faint trembling
Of the waters, her hair
Seemed like vague and enigmatic blood,
Golden seaweed
Thatd fall from the sky
Or a dream of pollen
Of a giant white lily.
The succession of images closes with one last picture of Ophelias hair as she finally
drowns in the river:
No queda en el remanso sino la
cabellera
Que flota. Un gran topacio!
Deshecho por el ritmo
De eterna primavera
Que agita el dulce espacio
De las aguas serenas.
Nothing is left in the pool but the

head of hair
That floats. A great topaz!
Undone by the rhythm
Of eternal spring
That stirs the sweet space
Of calm waters.
The last lines of the poem ratify that, in its melancholic natural setting, this green river
bears parallels to the forest constructed in previous poems:
Ofelia yace muerta coronada de flores.
En el bosque sombro
La llora la Balada.
Ophelia lies dead crowned by flowers.

In the sombre forest
The Ballad weeps for her.
In this way, La muerte de Ofelia seems to secure the recasting of Shakespeares dark forest
in the tragic mode, as Lorca finds points of departure in Shakespeare mainly to engage
with the catastrophic consequences of love, a central theme of the poets juvenilia.
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3. Lorcas initial shaping of the bard: Shakespeares cultural role in the early poems
Within the poetic scenarios of his early verses, Lorca submitted a number of passages
and images from Shakespeares dramas to a process of adaptation. Thus, Lorcas early
adaptation techniques can be thematically characterised by the way they consistently
contribute to the verses tragic drive. Although through elements from Hamlet,
Macbeth, Romeo and Juliet and Othello, Shakespearean tragedy contributes to this
process, it is a comedy, A Midsummer Nights Dream, that turns out to be Shakespeares
most productive material at this early stage in Lorcas writing. As his experimental
dramas will evince, when Lorca turns to Shakespeare, the shadow of the Dreams forest
recurrently taints the other Shakespearean images.
In parallel to this tragic drive, in Lorcas reformulation the Dreams forest is
attributed with certain qualities romantic qualities El bosque suggests. This
characterisation is connected with the opening poem in Paepes anthology of
unpublished poems (Garca Lorca 1994b), that is, Lorcas earliest dated poetry, where
the verses incorporate a number of different Romantic authors. With the
characteristically exalted religious feeling and unbridled sensuality of his early
writings (Exaltado sentimiento religioso y una desenfrenada sensualidad [Herrero
1989: 1825]), in Cancin: Ensueo y confusin (Song: Dream and Confusion),7 Lorca
explores a night of sheer lust (una noche de plena lujuria) through a blend of exotic
geographic settings, Catholic iconography, allusions to Spanish Romantic writers
Larra and Hartzenbusch and European Romanticism Berlioz, Goethe,
Mrime/Bizet (Garca Lorca 1994b: 25-27).
In relation to this first poem, in El bosque Lorca defines the Shakespearean forest as
that which is romantic in nature. It is immediately after this line that the speaker
moves on to reference Shakespeare and establish the connection between Hamlet, his
meditative sadness and the romantic forest. The juxtaposition of these elements
suggests Lorcas initial assimilation of Shakespeare as a Romantic literary figure. As in
the opening poem of the anthology, in El bosque the speaker identifies with Romantic
values, Hamlet is characterised as sad yet glorious and as one of the ideal figures
that visited the romantic forest, which in the poem is filled with strange characters,
with divine animals, with crosses, with ghosts, with pilgrim saints, [and] Christian
romances (Raros personajes, de animales divinos, de cruces, de fantasmas, de santos
peregrinos, [and] romancescos cristianos [Garca Lorca 1994b: 122]). Lorcas neoRomantic imagery seems to recast the forest in A Midsummer Nights Dream, Hamlet
and, ultimately, Shakespeare, as Romantic figures; that is, to insert them as part of the
Romantic literary tradition.
This image of Shakespeare had been circulating around Europe for some time now.
Thus, after the ambivalent response of 18th-century Neoclassicism, in Spain, as in many
other European nations, Shakespeares works secured their canonical status during the
end of the eighteenth century and the first decades of the nineteenth century, thanks to
the impulse of the Romantic movement and the Romantic appropriation of
Dated 29 June 1917 (Garca Lorca 1994b: 25-28).

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Juan F. Cerd
Shakespeare and Caldern started by German critics and translators.8 Also, Lorcas
characterisation of Shakespeare as a Romantic author should not come as a surprise,
since the neo-Romantic appropriation of Shakespeare and his work can be seen as an
early sign of his artistic rupture against realism. In Comentarios a Omar Kayyam
(Comments to Omar Kayyam), an article written only two months after Yo estaba triste
frente a los sembrados, Lorca traces a number of literary and dramatic characters,
establishing a line of metaphysical Romanticism that develops from Cervantes, to
Caldern, to Shakespeare, to Goethe: Los hombres tienen el gran defecto de
considerarse superiores a las obras de los hombres grandes . . . Los personajes que
rodearon a D. Quijote le compadecieron superiores. Y lo mismo pas con Segismundo
y con Hamlet y con Werther... Siempre lo grande produce en nosotros el abismo de la
incomprensin momentnea (Garca Lorca 1994a: III, 376).9
Also, in the misleadingly titled El poema de la carne (The Poem of Flesh), which most
likely is Lorcas first recorded Shakespearean prose reference, Othello is mentioned
among a list of passionate great lovers: El crepsculo tiene en sus colores ardientes
rayos de amor y de pasin. El crepsculo oculta en sus nieblas los corazones de Paolo,
de Othello, de Werther, de Don Juan y todos los grandes amantes. Las nubes rojizas que
parecen ascuas de granates son la sangre derramada por los corazones que amaron y no
fueron amados (Maurer 1994: 245).10
By going back to Romantic themes and aesthetics, and recasting Shakespeare as a
paradigmatically Romantic figure, Lorca advances his early rejection of Realist modes of
feeling and representation, a rejection that will be consolidated and amplified through
the Symbolist and Surrealist features of later poetic and dramatic production.
In parallel to these direct references to Romantic literature, Lorcas early poetry
provides other instances that project a Romantic image of Shakespeare. This time the
connection comes through Lorcas early references to the circle of the English PreRaphaelite Brotherhood, a group of artists, poets and critics who dwelled equally
between a derivative and subordinate relation to that of the great Romantics and the
attempt to revitalise an art that had become stale and stereotyped in the Victorian
period (Ford 1958: 356; Fredeman 1968: 259). In his early poems, Lorca seems to
parallel the use of . . . medievalism [and] an autumnal mood or habit of feeling,
religiosity, and literariness of Pre-Raphaelite poetry and painting (Ford 1958: 364).
Reverting to Romantic paradigms, Lorca connects with Pre-Raphaelite sensibility in El
bosque The soul of forests is a medieval creation or in La muerte de Ofelia when
8
See Calvo 2002, Pujante 2005 and the first volume of Par 1935. For criticism that shows the
transition from the Spanish Neoclassical rejection of Shakespeare to his gradual acceptance
through the perspective of Romanticism, see Pujante and Campillo 2007.
9
Men have the great defect of considering themselves superior to the works of great men . . .
The characters that surrounded D. Quixote superiorly pitied him. And the same happened to
Segismundo, Hamlet and Werther... Greatness always produces in us the abyss of momentary
incomprehension.
10
The twilight has in its burning colours rays of love and passion. The twilight hides in its
fogs the hearts of Paolo [from Dantes Divine Comedy], of Othello, of Werther, of Don Juan and
all the great lovers. The reddish clouds that look like ashes of garnet are the blood spilt by the
hearts that loved and were not loved.
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he produces a poetic picture that can arguably traced back to John Everett Millais
painting Ophelia (1851). Together with the common features that link Lorca and the
Pre-Raphaelites in their recuperation of Romantic values, Millais Ophelia can be seen
in relation to the opening images in Lorcas poem:
Fue sobre el agua verde.
Un oculto remanso
Entre las ondas claras de un ro de
ilusin.
El crepsculo muerto puso en las ondas
hojas
De luz que Ofelia enciende
Con su carne de rosa
De oro blanco y de sol.
It happened over the green water.

A hidden pool
Among the clear waves of a river of
illusion.
In the waves the dead twilight placed
leaves
Of light that Ophelia lights up
With her flesh of pink rose,
Of white gold and sun.
Both Millais and Lorca concentrate on Shakespeare by focalising and reconstructing the
death of Ophelia, yet, while the connections between Pre-Raphaelite painting and Lorca
partly reside in the pre-Raphaelites seminal influence on the Symbolist movement,11
Lorca writing over sixty years after Millais painting was produced moves away
from pre-Raphaelite detail and stasis when his Ophelia ends up as an inkblot in Lorcas
poetic canvas:
No queda en el remanso sino la cabellera
Que flota. Un gran topacio!
Deshecho por el ritmo
De eterna primavera
Que agita el dulce espacio
De las aguas serenas.
Nothing is left in the pool but the head of hair

That floats. A great topaz!
Undone by the rhythm
Of eternal spring
That stirs the sweet space
Of calm waters.
In this way, Lorcas poetic appropriation of Shakespeare stands closer to the Symbolist
aesthetics of the work carried out by Adri Gual and his Teatre Intim (Cerd Martnez
2010: 106-25), where in the sketches for his productions of Romeo and Juliet, A
Midsummer Nights Dream or Hamlet, the paintings are reduced to barely
representational forms and colours, rejecting detail in favour of the symbolic creation
of mood or atmosphere. In this way, La muerte de Ofelia can be seen to extend the
Symbolist appropriation of Shakespeare established by Arthur Rimbaud in his poem
11
For the relationship between the pre-Raphaelites and Symbolism see Kotzin 1966 and
Smith 1981. Then also, Huerta Calvo argues that, together with the influence of the preRaphaelites in the scenery of scene four in The Public, La invocacin al arte de los primitivos, los
llamados pintores prerrafaelitas, es un recurso que ya Lorca emplea en Don Perlimpln: La mesa
con todos los objetos pintados como en una Cena primitiva (the primitives invocation of
art, the so-called pre-Raphaelites, is a resource that Lorca uses already in Don Perlimpln: The
table with all the painted objects as in a primitive Last Supper [Huerta Calvo 2006: 169]).
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Juan F. Cerd
Ophlie, another early poem written by the French Symbolist in 1870 around the age
of sixteen, which has also been connected with Millais painting (Forestier 1984: 25):
Sur londe calme et noire o dorment les
toiles
La blanche Ophlia flotte comme un grand lys,
Flotte trs lentement, couche en ses longs
voiles...
On entend dans les bois lointains des
hallalis
(Rimbaud 1972: 11)
On the calm black water where the

stars are sleeping
White Ophelia floats like a great lily;
Floats very slowly, lying in her long
veils...
In the far-off woods you can hear
them sound the death knell.
(Transl. from Rimbaud 1962: 81)
In Rimbauds poem, Hamlet also stands as mute witness of Ophelias drowning,

rewriting, like Lorca, the Shakespearean source for his own poetic and later, in the case
of Lorca, dramatic project.12 Thus, together with the tragic interest that attracted
Lorcas creative assimilation, in his early poetry Shakespeare is also cast as part of a
wider intertextual network of references, which contributes to Lorcas rejection of
Realism and the search for alternative modes of expression. It is under these
circumstances that Shakespeare is presented as inserted in the Romantic tradition, a
characterisation that sheds light into Lorcas own poetic project.
Thus, at the same time that Lorca reacted against Realist modes of expression by
going back and reclaiming Shakespeare among the names and works of several
Romantic figures, Lorca can be described as seeking legitimacy in the works and figure
of the English playwright as an upcoming literary figure in the making. As Pierre
Bourdieu suggests, within the field of cultural production, the new comers Lorca at
this point was nineteen
are not disposed to enter the cycle of simple reproduction, based on recognition of the
old by the young . . . and recognition of the young by the old . . . but bring with
them dispositions and position-takings which clash with the prevailing norms of
production and the expectations of the [artistic] field. In fact, one never observes either
a total submission . . . or an absolute break . . . a break with the immediately preceding
generation (fathers) is often supported by a return to the traditions of the next generation
back (grandfathers). (Bourdieu 1993: 57-58)
Bourdieus ideas can be applied to Lorcas early verses, by which Lorca can in this
way be seen as formulating his own notion of Shakespeare within his contemporary
cultural field. Yet, as Bourdieu adds, returns to past styles . . . are never the same
thing (Bourdieu 1993: 60; emphasis in the original). Thus, I claim, through rewriting,
12
According to Valerie Minogue, Rimbaud identifies himself with Ophelia. In this Romantic
view of the poet-victim, Ophelia and Hamlet symbolise the frustration of the motherless child
and the poets own aspirations and struggles with poetic language at this early stage (Minogue
1989: 431). This poem has also been connected with Berthold Brechts Ballad of the Drowned
Girl (1919-1920), written shortly after Lorcas, and also sharing the same Shakespearean point of
departure (Ngele 2002).
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Lorca selected and manipulated a number of Shakespearean elements, both reinserting

Shakespeare into the tradition of his early nineteenth-century European reception,
while at the same time reformulating Shakespeares work within the interests of his
early Symbolist agenda and as a reaction against Realist aesthetics, a move which will
later crystallise in the adaptation of Shakespeare into Surreal aesthetics in the plays El
pblico and Comedia sin ttulo.
Thus, Lorcas juvenilia show the early mechanisms that will constitute his
subsequent relation with Shakespeare, while at the same time they illustrate how
Shakespeare, in conjunction with Romantic aesthetics, served Lorca to produce his own
configuration of the field. On the one hand, the poems show the creative manipulation
that will continue to characterise Lorcas use of Shakespearean material while, at the
same time, these Shakespearean elements connect Lorca with a range of cultural
currents that helped construct the characteristics of Lorcas early production. In these
poems, the juxtaposition of decadent images and settings, the already hermetic
narrative, the anti-mimetic landscaping and the metaphorical density of the poems
anticipates Lorcas consolidation as a Symbolist and, later, a Surrealist poet and
playwright. It is through this stylistic and thematic positioning that Shakespeare is
recast as a Romantic figure, even as a predecessor, father, or (in Bourdieus words)
grandfather to Symbolism. At this early stage, Lorcas interest in Romantic and early
Symbolist aesthetics, his rupture with Realism and the uses Shakespeare fulfils in this
process connect Lorcas juvenilia both back to the Romantic tradition and forward to a
future of experimental aesthetics.
This would summarise Lorcas early poetic relation to Shakespearean drama. Yet, a
relatively marginal instance of Shakespearean adaptation in these early verses
anticipates later discussion, when Lorcas experimental dramas are inspected in their
relation to Shakespeare. In Balada (Ballad) dated 31 October 1918 Lorca includes
another element from Shakespeares A Midsummer Nights Dream. Again, in Lorcas
ballad the speaker finds himself in despair, dwelling on the remembrance of past
affection and concerned about future uncertainty:
Y el amor fue un engao
O un dolor imposible.
Y la aurora un momento
De ilusin nada ms.
Tengo el alma bordada
Con puales de noche
Y no s a la ventura
Qu camino tomar.
And love was a deception

Or an impossible pain.
And dawn was nothing
But a moment of illusion.
My soul is embroidered
With dark daggers.
And, aimless , I know not
Which road to take.
As in previous poems, Lorca resorts to the iconology of Shakespeares Dream to draw a

landscape of disharmony. This time, Lorca presents pairs of opposing mythical figures
to establish the mood of the speaker, where dystopian elements prevail over the
symbols of concord and measure:
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Juan F. Cerd
Ay de m que no tengo
Medioda ni aurora!
(Venus y Apolo ceden
Su trono a Baco y Pan.)
Mi corazn reposa
En un gris sentimental.
Alas, I have neither

Midday nor dawn!
(Venus and Apollo cede
Their throne to Bacchus and Pan.)
. . . My heart rests
In a sentimental grey.
Here, Lorca replaces the influence of Apollo and Venus the male deity, always
young, beardless, . . . of harmonious beauty, the ideal ephebe and young athlete, and
the goddess associated with charm and gracefulness with the accession of
Bacchus and Pan the Roman equivalent of Dionysus, whose myths and cults are
often violent and bizarre, a challenge to the established social order, and the equivalent
of Arcadia, which can exercise a type of savage and violent possession (Hornblower
and Spawforth 1996: 122, 1587, 479, 1103). In the poem, the speakers despair is
constructed through this replacement of mythological figures. It follows:
Los silfos se adormecen.
Obern quita al nio
Cupido su carcaj.
Y las frondas marchitas
Del bosque legendario
Derraman sobre el csped
Su llanto milenario
Como un sueo de cuerdas
En arpa de cristal.
The sylphs fall asleep.

Oberon takes away the child
Cupids quiver.
And the withered leaves
Of the legendary forest
Shed on the grass
Their ancient lament
Like a dream of strings
On a crystal harp.
Here, Lorca is reusing images already articulated in previous poems, where the Dreams
forest serves as a site for the symbolic representation of emotional instability and decay.
Yet, here Lorca is introducing Oberon as the symbolic replacement for Cupid, or Eros,
the emblem of romantic and erotic love. In a way, the incorporation of Shakespeares
Dream to the poem functions as in the previous poems although, in this ballad, Lorcas
treatment of Oberon as part of or at least in juxtaposition to the body of Greek and
Roman mythology speaks of Lorcas positioning of Shakespeare as a canonical
figure. By contrast, much later, in his play El pblico, Lorca will address the implications
of such a canonisation when Shakespeares Romeo and Juliet is questioned as a
legitimate or culturally acceptable dramatic work. In this way, Lorcas early poetry
provides yet another of the embryonic guidelines that will support the Spanish poet and
playwrights later appropriation of Shakespeares works.
Thus, in parallel to this, in his early poetry Lorca provides an assessment of the
English playwright himself. The repeated inclusion of the authors name in these
poems, and even some direct allusions, such as that in Yo estaba triste frente a los
sembrados My friend William! / Are you listening? Yes? (Amigo William! / Me
escuchas? S? [Garca Lorca 1994b: 31]) supports the idea that Lorcas writing not
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only appropriates Shakespeares work creatively, but that these poems also rely on the
image of the English playwright as a cultural symbol. In Lorcas early poetry,
Shakespeare appears as an already canonised author on a high cultural pedestal, with
his characters aligned with those of classical mythology. This can be understood as an
initial phase that will later on give way to Lorcas questioning of Shakespearean drama,
where the representation of Shakespeare and his work will prove more problematic.
Thus, the tension between regarding Shakespeare as a cultural emblem and questioning
his work as a valid model for contemporary artistic expression can already be detected,
in embryonic form, in the second stanza of another of Lorcas early ballads, La balada
de las tres rosas (The Ballad of the Three Roses).
In this poem, Lorca attempts a division of love into three kinds, each embodied by
the distinct characteristics of the white, the pink and the red rose. In the neo-Romantic,
early-Symbolist style that characterises these poems, Lorca arranges a number of images
into three groups, each providing a network of allusions, descriptions and metaphors
that gradually construct the characteristics of each of the roses. For the first stanza
the white rose Lorca develops a language close to that in which Ophelia was
described in La muerte de Ophelia. Again, the white rose can be distinguished through
its religious overtones chaste thought, warm and sacred milk / Fallen from the
breasts of motherly sky/heaven (Pensamiento casto, leche tibia y sagrada / Cada de
los senos del cielo maternal [Garca Lorca 1994b: 519, 521]) or through its static
attributes the white rose has the passion of eternity / And the calm of blank stares
(la rosa blanca tiene pasin de eternidades / Y la tranquilidad de las miradas yertas
[Garca Lorca 1994b: 519]). Like Ophelia, the white rose like the other two roses is
destined to die in the poem, and so Lorca provides tragic literary examples for each of
the roses, profiting from the intertextual baggage of each of the characters alluded to in
the poem. While describing the white rose, the speaker adds:
Otelo el gran Sombro
A una de ellas seg.
Crecen en los jardines igual que en los
conventos.
Su luz es filtrada
De un antao sin sol.
Othello the great Dark One

Cut down one of them.
They grow in gardens just as in
nunneries.
Their light is filtered
By a sunless past.
Thus, Lorca uses Desdemona to provide an example for his white rose, summoning the
readers familiarity with the character to be added to the characterisation provided in
the poem.
So far, Shakespearean adaptation in this poem resembles earlier appropriation. Yet,
in the second stanza, as it addresses the significance of the pink rose, the poem can be
seen to contradict, and somehow challenge, Shakespeares initial source. In the poem,
the pink rose stands as the symbol of youth and adolescent love:
Vemos la primavera
de los adolescentes.
We see the spring

Of the adolescents.
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Juan F. Cerd
El seno que se agita
Y el labio que suspira.
. . . Satn es bello y joven
Dios no ve los pecados.
La carne es dulce y rosa
Y canta juventud.
The breast that shakes

And the lip that sighs.
. . . Satan is beautiful and young
God sees no sins.
The flesh is sweet and pink
And it sings of youth.
Next, Lorca draws on a Shakespearean character to embody and complement the

poems characterisation of the rose. This time the character is Juliet, yet Lorca here
diverts from convention where the perhaps expected clich of Juliet as a symbol of
young and inexperienced love is rejected and reformulated into Lorcas poetic vision:
La rosa rosa tiene
La elegancia discreta
De amor apasionado
Pero sin frenes.
Nunca la tomara en sus dedos Julieta!
Ella lleva en sus manos la rosa carmes.
The pink rose has

The discreet elegance
Of passionate love
Yet without frenzy.
Juliet would never hold it between her fingers!
In her hands she holds the crimson rose.
Midway through the poems second stanza, devoted to the pink rose, the lines lead the
reader forward to the last part, that of the red rose, or the phase of passion, lust and
physical contact, deferring Juliets characterisation. Thus, I suggest, Lorcas
appropriation of Shakespeares Juliet is two-fold. On the one hand, the poem partly
assumes the resonances that Juliet might bring to the reader; yet on the other hand, it
also modulates Juliets characterisation into the sexually active attributes put forward in
the last part of the ballad. This last stanza and, extensively, Juliet become characterised
by the explicit language of the passage the billy goat trembles with potent lust . . . /
Rose of turbid water / Of a summer afternoon (El chivo se estremece de lujuria
potente, Rosa de agua turbia / De tarde de verano [Garca Lorca 1994b: 423, 424]).
This characterisation of Juliet may seem contradictory to the nineteenth- and early
twentieth-century conservative perception of Shakespeares Juliet, yet Lorcas interest in
the character precisely resides in reverting the recognisable features of the
Shakespearean character to explore the outcome of alternative associations. Juliet will
become a central character in his play El pblico (1930), where the playwright will
develop some of the ideas and mechanisms only hinted at in this earlier poem (23 July
1919). It is only then that Lorca will question Shakespeares work. Still, this early trace
should serve as marginal anticipation of a later and much more evident crossroads
where Lorcas work can be seen to oscillate between homage and admiration, and a
similar necessity to depart from and radically transfigure Shakespearean drama.
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4. Conclusion
These early poems already show some of the primary traits of Lorcas creative
assimilation of Shakespearean drama. In what can be seen as a line of continuity, Lorca
will freely borrow, interpret and rewrite Shakespeares work at the same time as he
produced his own oeuvre, where Shakespearean elements become both sporadic and
central to Lorcas poetic and dramatic landscape. Thus, the echo of Juliet and of
Shakespeares dark green forest, presented for the first time in these early poems, will
reverberate as far as El pblico (1930) and Comedia sin ttulo (1936), some of Lorcas last
dramatic writings, in what constitutes the beginning and the end of Shakespeares
expanded trajectory within Lorcas production. Nonetheless, the appropriation of
Shakespeares works in these early poems projects the image of the new comer, as
described by Bourdieu. They project the image of the young aspiring Lorca as he started
to arrange the hierarchical order of his subjective poetic field, in which Shakespeare
held a privileged position which contrasts with Lorcas later experimental rewriting of
Shakespearean drama. In turn, from the perspective of Shakespeares reception, Lorcas
early poems open a window onto the early twentieth-century neo-romantic
appropriation of the English playwright, who will witness a revaluation of his work by a
number of cultural agents, from the British Pre-Raphaelites to the European symbolists,
who borrowed Shakespeare as an antidote to the aesthetics of realism.
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Smith, Richard Langham 1981: Debussy and the Pre-Raphaelites. 19th-Century Music 5.2: 95-109.
Wells, Stanley and Gary Taylor, eds. 2005: The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. Second
Edition. Oxford: Oxford UP.
Juan F. Cerd (PhD University of Murcia, MA Shakespeare Institute/University of Birmingham) is Assistant

Lecturer at ISEN/University of Murcia. His main area of research is Shakespeares reception in Spanish
and European culture. He has published in Linguaculture and Borrowers and Lenders: The Journal of
Shakespeare and Appropriation.
Address: ISEN/Universidad de Murcia, C/Real, 68, 30201 Cartagena (Murcia), Spain. Tel.: +34 968 505
313. Fax: +34 968 523 605.
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Marketing Strategies, Consumerism and the Exercise

of Democracy in W.H.H. Murrays Adventures in the
Wilderness; or, Camp-Life in the Adirondacks
Universidad de Castilla-La Mancha
Claudia.Alonso@uclm.es
The aim of this paper is to explore the continuum between the discursive novelties in
W.H.H. Murrays Adventures in the Wilderness; or, Camp-Life in the Adirondacks (1869)
and the social impact the book had, which marked the transition towards modern
wilderness consumption. Adventures ignited a public debate between social classes,
conveying an image of the Adirondacks as a space where democratic ideals competed
with upper-class privileges. Through an analytical depiction of the primitive marketing
and consumerist strategies arrayed in the text, this paper attempts to present the books
booming impact (a sociological phenomenon traditionally referred to as Murrays Rush)
as a natural result of the text itself. Adventures should not be conceived as merely a
conglomeration of exaggerations abusive of the naivety of the middle class, but as a
carefully calculated text exhibiting the naturalized relationship between buyer and
product that characterizes contemporary consumerist dynamics.
Keywords: wilderness; consumerism; marketing; democracy; citizens rights; Adirondacks
Estrategias de Marketing, Consumismo y el Ejercicio

Democrtico en Adventures in the Wilderness; or, Camp-Lfe in
the Adirondacks de W.H.H. Murray
El objetivo de este artculo es explorar la relacin entre las innovaciones discursivas de
Adventures in the Wilderness;, or, Camp-Life in the Adirondacks (1869) de W.H.H.
Murray y la impactante recepcin de dicho libro en la esfera pblica. Adventures dio lugar a
una imagen de los Adirondacks como un polmico espacio en el que principios democrticos
competan con los intereses de las clases privilegiadas. Por medio de un acercamiento analtico
a las estrategias de marketing, se tratar de descubrir el fenmeno sociolgico conocido como
Murrays Rush como una reaccin caracterstica y representativa del mismo discurso
textual. Frente a la acepcin de Adventures como un conjunto de exageraciones que
abusaron de la ignorancia de la clase media, se estudiar como texto minuciosamente
calculado en tanto a su anticipo de la relacin entre comprador y producto que caracteriza la
sociedad de consumo contempornea.
Palabras clave: espacio salvaje; sociedad de consumo; marketing; democracia; derechos del
ciudadano; Adirondacks
54
1. Introduction
Although Adventures in the Wilderness; or, Camp-Life in the Adirondacks (1869) by
William Henry Harrison Murray (1840-1904) is seldom approached by literary scholars
today, its influence on American thought and leisure at the time of its publication raises
a myriad of issues that reach beyond environmental considerations. Adventures was the
first of its kind in that it broke with the romanticist wilderness aesthetic and presented
the northern New York country as a product for consumerism. The object of this article
is to deconstruct the type of discourse applied by Murray and its relation to marketing
strategies in order to decipher the connections between textual claims and the social
upheaval detonated by the book. Although critics have often focused on the impact the
book had on the press and on the Adirondack landscape, the present article attempts to
start off from an in-depth depiction of the text itself, so as to comprehend why the book
created such a breach not only in the literary tradition, but in American culture as well.
Exposing Murrays discourse of consumerist strategies will enable readers of Adventures
to better comprehend why the impact it had on the public was not an unexpected
phenomenon, but a natural reaction to the text.
1.1. Adirondack literature before 1869
Regional writers and historians have termed the epoch prior to the publication of
Adventures as the golden years of the Adirondacks. Considering the overwhelming
amount of literature about the North Country, it is fair to say that it is through
romanticist writing that the region gains its traditional aesthetic identity, even before its
official delimitations as a State Park and Forest Preserve.1 Widespread preoccupation
for the proclamation of nationalistic features in the American territory was responsible
for the quest for identity at a time when deism and transcendentalist creeds embraced
proximity to God through the study and exaltation of his most visible work: nature.
The initial scepticism and hostility with which artists had looked upon the American
vastness eventually transformed into acts of eulogy through the mediums of literature
and landscape painting. Indeed, America lacked European artistry, history and
refinement; but instead the country accounted for one unique feature which could not
be found in the old continent. In Nashs words, in the early nineteenth century
American nationalists began to understand that it was in the wildness of their nature
that their country was unmatched (2001: 69). Through an exhaustive use of Burkes
categories of the sublime and the beautiful,2 writers ventured into wilderness areas and
delivered texts celebrating Americas landscape grandeur.
1
Located in upstate New York, the Adirondack Park is comprised of almost six million acres
of private and public lands. In 1894, New Yorkers voted to approve the State Constitution, where
Article VII, Section 7 (today Article XIV, Section 1) declared that the lands of the State, now
owned or hereafter acquired, constituting the forest preserve as now fixed by law, shall be forever
kept as wild forest lands.
2
Burkes Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and the Beautiful
(1757) was acclaimed by romanticists as the guidebook for the classification of natural features.
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The Adirondacks were certainly not an exception. Between 1836 and 1840, the
geologist Ebenezer Emmons wrote detailed accounts of the Adirondack mountains and
forests at the service of the Natural History Survey. Emmonss task finally placed the
Adirondacks on the map, which, surprisingly enough, still retained its frontier character
at a time when the rest of the northeast of the United States was already considerably
populated. Emmons just as much placed the Adirondacks inside the ideals of industry
and progress, searching for promising soils for farming and prospective mining. As he
recorded the sceneries before him, the aesthetics of the sublime and the beautiful
germinated within his discourse. Describing the Adirondack Pass, for example, he
applies the by then standard technique of comparisons with other regions to exalt the
landscape beheld: We look upon the falls of Niagara with awe, and a feeling of our
insignificance; but much more are we impressed with the great and the sublime, in the
view of the simple naked rock of the Adirondack Pass (1842: 218). In terms of travel
narratives, Charles Fenno Hoffman and Joel T. Headley continued to exploit the
conventions of the sublime and the beautiful in their respective works, Wild Scenes in
the Forest and the Prairie (1839) and The Adirondack; or, Life in the Woods (1849). In
terms of popular fiction, Fenimore Coopers The Last of the Mohicans (1826), set in the
Lake George region, launched Natty Bumppo as the heroic archetype of the Adirondack
woodsman; a model that was to be sought by the growing number of sportsmen visiting
the North Country during the 1840s and 1850s.
Most notably it is Hoffmans and Headleys works which stand as the most
representative texts of romanticist appreciations of the Adirondacks. Aside from their
flaunting of picturesque sceneries, they are credited for the first portrayals of
Adirondack guides as morally immaculate men leading primitive lives. Their innocence,
their skills in woodsmanship and expertise in hunting and fishing reminded the writers
of Coopers Leatherstocking, that mesmerizing character that had captivated their spirit
of adventure during their youth. In a memorable passage, Hoffman casts out his
imagination when describing the legendary guide John Cheney: I could swear that
Cooper took the character of Natty Bumppo, from my mountaineer friend, John
Cheney. . . . The same shrewdness as a woodman, and gamesomeness of spirit as a
hunter, are common to both (2007: 35-36). On a similar note, Headley refers to him as
the mighty hunter, Cheney (2006: 51), and alludes to the simplicity with which the
guide turned to life in the woods as a young man, became enamored of the forest life
and with his rifle on his shoulder, plunged into this then unknown, untrodden
wilderness (2006: 75).
The intertwinement between nationalistic endeavor, the cult of the sublime and the
beautiful, and the mystifying pretences of popular fiction imploded into a conventional
form of literature that presented the wilderness experience, on the one hand, as a highly
While the beholding of beauty aroused in the human mind a sense of tranquillity and harmony,
and provided a continuation of traditional taste, the sublime seemed to awaken irrational
passions in an instant. As Phillips summarizes, the sublime was a way of thinking about excess as
the key to a new kind of subjectivity while beauty was something more reassuringly tempered
(1990: ix).
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spiritual journey where transcendence through nature was achievable, and on the other,
as the ideal space where true American Adams who tested their self-reliance could be
encountered. The result was the golden years of Adirondack writing, a body of
literature that includes authors such as Samuel H. Hammond, Charles Lanman,
William Redfield, Farrand Benedict, and even Emerson, who wrote a poem to
commemorate his 1858 excursion to Follensby Pond in the company of other notable
figures, such as the painter William James Stillman and the scientist Louis Agassiz.
Indeed, it was the more privileged societal and intellectual groups who launched the
Adirondacks as a vacation spot. In the company of his trusty guide, the upper-class
sportsman delighted in the masculine tasks of hunting and fishing while nourishing his
artistic sensibility. All in all, the Adirondacks were slowly developing as an attractive
resort and camping-ground where New Yorkers with generous incomes could dedicate
some time to leisure. This is not to say that middle-class people did not visit the region,
for scattered working-class groups or individuals went to the mountains to practice
sportsmanship or to seek their luck in farming, mining or local-town businesses. But
the concept of vacation was bred in the upper classes, which began to organize
themselves in small private clubs of elitist membership. On August 9, 1864, the New
York Times editorial called the Adirondacks the Central Park for the world where the
jaded merchant or financer or litterateur or politician could cater for the old passion
for nature (1864: 72). With the publication of Adventures, the Adirondacks were finally
conceived as a vacation destination that need not be confined to the custody of the
wealthy, and the New York and New England middle class massively surged north into
the wilderness, shattering the romanticist world that the Adirondacks had previously
represented and offering the cult of consumerism as the titanic new method to
experience nature.
2. Marketing the Adirondacks: Textual novelties in Adventures
Considering the literary fashions described above and the type of visitors such writing
brought into the Adirondacks, the impact caused by Adventures appears all the more
extraordinary. The book was arranged as an organic system where every element
constituting the wilderness (and the entirety of the wilderness itself) was displayed so as
to offer the reader, who played the potential visitor, a perfected product. It is important
to emphasize that consumerist terminology is, of course, absent from the text (the term
consumerism only emerged as late as the 1950s); nonetheless, there is a strategic intent
on the part of the author that prophesizes marketing discourse. Murrays piece marked
the end of the golden years of the Adirondacks, and reflected the national craze for the
wilderness that developed as a reaction to urban landscapes and industrialism. In
Bronskis words, the book was responsible for the tourists that flocked en masse to the
Adirondacks, spurring the development of stagecoach lines and hotels throughout the
region (2008: 26).
Murray had first started publishing short anecdotes of his experiences in the
Adirondacks in 1867 in local newspapers. Two years later, the complete book,
Adventures in the Wilderness; or, Camp-Life in the Adirondacks was published, and
Murray attained national fame. The controversy surrounding Adventures has been given
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ample attention by local writers. William Chapman White (1954) and Paul Schneider
(1997) described the reaction of the masses once they realized they had been deceived,
and renowned historian Philip Terrie (1985, 2008) has analyzed the environmental
impact of Murrays Rush. Such historical records are crucial, and this article aims to
contribute to the study of this chapter in American history through the deconstruction
of the primary source, the text, so as to expose the dynamics between discourse, the
ideology at the time of the books publication, and the consequences the text had over
this ideology.
2.1. Finding a target audience
A native of Connecticut and a Yale graduate, Murray was a minister of the Park Street
Congregational Church of Boston. His dissident behavior and methods, especially
during the years following the publication of Adventures, led him to abandon his
calling, towards which he appeared to have never manifested absolute commitment.
Strauss (1987) establishes the term muscular Christianity to describe the kind of
pragmatist creed initiated in the 1850s by Thomas Wentworth Higginson and Edward
Everett Hale; a creed which Murray elaborated on in his writing. Muscular Christianity
was based on the notion that the body, which houses the soul, is to be kept as healthy
and strong as possible. This belief responded to the growing industrialism and urban
atmosphere in which the middle class was developing, and which not only caused stress
and nervous breakdowns, but more importantly, was turning the city into a nucleus of
epidemics and slums. Strauss concludes that it is within this context where Murrays
advocacy of wilderness was innovative: His predecessors had already proposed city
parks, vacations and gymnastics as healthy alternatives to existing amusements. To this
list, Murray would add the wilderness vacation, a complex fusion of several current
practices (1987: 272).3
Romanticism and Transcendentalism had shifted the importance of the material
world, which included nature and the body, to a more notable sphere than the one it
had been confined to through strict biblical exegesis where the salvation of the soul held
the prevalent position. For Hoffman and Headley, exercise of the body had been of
chief importance as well (in fact, Headleys first trip to the Adirondacks was on account
of his doctors orders). So what was it exactly that made Murrays book so different
from Wild Scenes or The Adirondac? Undoubtedly Hoffman and Headley had
disseminated the topography and the peoples of the northern wilderness to a great
extent, and made it known that such a region existed.4 But in the post Civil War era,
3
Although Murray was a pioneer in promoting the wilderness for the middle class, early
stages of consumerism had already presented themselves in the United States in the 1850s. By the
1870s, multiple advertising agencies were promoting their products with eye-catching techniques
through the use of colorful posters and alluring fashion poses (Stearns 2001: 46); in other
words, the idea of consumption passed from the realm of political economy into popular
culture (Klingle 2003:96).
4
Some scholars have argued that the American romanticists of nationalist sentiments
exercised a form of wilderness consumerism as well. Morton, for example, states that to be a
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what Murrays book provided was a mode of publicizing that was intended to open up
the Adirondacks for the public to visit. According to Kotler et al. (2008: 701) there are
six buyer-readiness-stages: awareness, knowledge, liking, preference, conviction and
purchase. If we are to interpret this evolution at a trans-epochal level, one could
conclude that Hoffman and Headley were successful in bringing potential consumers
through the first three stages. Murray finished the task by explaining why the
consumption of the product (the wilderness) was preferential (health restoration), and
by convincingly ensuring comfort and illusion, leading consumers to the final stage of
purchase. Instead of ambitious, repetitive accounts on the sublime and the beautiful,
Murray opted for a clear, direct discourse. People were asked to take action, to follow
the writers instructions and actually live the experience. In spite of the occasional
allusion to picturesque scenery, the content of Adventures revolved around the theme of
mental and physical restoration, not aesthetics or nationalist endeavors. Thus, while
Hoffman and Headley appealed to a more refined group of readers, Murrays target
audience were the middle-class groups who suffered the hazards of industrialism. It was
the beginning of a significant transformation in the understanding of what nature was
good for. Until the late 1800s, nature had mostly been a space for the harvesting of
goods, but the germination of consumerism within popular culture marked a shift from
one form of utilitarianism to another, for now one went to the wilderness not as a
producer but as a consumer (Cronon 1996: 78).
Before the publication of Adventures, the sportsmen who visited the region were for
the most part acknowledged members of society. In 1857, for example, the recreational
club Browns Tract Association was founded with the purpose of organizing yearly
camping trips for male-bonding activities. The club also established the contemplation
of beautiful landscapes as one of its purposes, emphasizing the importance of beholding
Gods natural creations. Clearly, it was publicized under the same terms that
transcendentalists and nationalist romanticists had applied to depict the Adirondacks.
Moreover, the club captivated people from the same upper class to which the members
belonged to. In Gradys words, it attracted immediate attention among men who were
then identified with important political, business, and professional affairs in and out of
the state. . . . During the clubs sojourns in the woods, practically all the states
important business, legislative excepted, could have been transacted on the shores of
the Fulton Chain (2002: 127). The target audience which Murray addressed was quite
different from this description, and although, just like the objectives of the Association,
recreation and rest were part of his proposal as well, religious relevance was based on
muscular Christianity, not on focusing on the work of God. With this prime objective
consumerist, you dont have to consume anything, just contemplate the idea of consuming.
Consumerism raised to the highest power is free-floating identity, or identity-in process. This is a
specifically Romantic consumerism (2007: 111; emphasis in original). Undoubtedly, aesthetic
exploitation of the wilderness involves a form of consumerism; but for the sake of simplification
the present article applies the notion of consumerism as a collective activity aiming for the
production of material benefits in exchange for commodiousness and pleasure.
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in mind, the wilderness is marketed in accordance with both the target audience and
the assimilation of physicality in Christian doctrines.
2.2. Textual analysis
Each of the chapters in Adventures consists of a series of recommendations regarding a
specific topic about vacationing in the Adirondacks. These suggestions provide, on the
one hand, an image of the Adirondacks where even the frailest of individuals can relax
and enjoy a pleasurable journey, and on the other, a series of do-it-yourself steps to
become a fit an adequate sportsman. These instructions induced the reader to believe
that, because the wilderness was not as hostile nor camping as strenuous as they had
thought, and because successful hunting and fishing seemed to mainly depend on using
the best and the right kind of equipment, the visitor could passively enjoy his or her
vacation.
Why I go to the Wilderness marks the tone of muscular Christianity most vividly.
Murray presents wilderness as a healer and as a space that city men and women ought
to visit temporarily and consistently. It is not a permanent space in which to settle, but
a transitional sanatorium guaranteeing absolute improvements which will maintain the
individual strong and healthy once he returns to urban life. It was Murrays assertion
that in the Adirondacks patients and victims of illnesses that were spreading in the cities
could recuperate: To such as are afflicted with that dire parent of ills, dyspepsia, or
have lurking in their system consumptive tendencies, I most earnestly recommend a
months experience among the pines (2009a: 11). Murray added that he had actually
witnessed a young man whose doctors had given him only a short time to live improve
with wonderful rapidity (2009a: 13). According to the writer, the wilderness received
him almost a corpse, but returned him to the city a happy and healthy (2009a: 14)
man. It is important to notice that Murray often times stresses his position as an eyewitness so as to communicate to his readers that he is a reliable source.
Muscular Christianity requires that the space offered be represented as one
diametrically opposed to the hectic, corrupting and contaminated city. Murray
contends that the forests make up a pristine wilderness where no axe has sounded,
hence providing the perfect environment away from all the businesses and cares of
civilized life (2009a: 17). He continues through inductive pretenses by claiming that
the trip does not have to be strenuous if one does not desire it to be. In his case, he
confesses to having no special love for labor and to abhor tramping (2009a: 18).
But of course this does not cause him any troubles because no actual physical exercise is
required if it is against the sportsmans desires: If you wish to go one or ten miles for a
fish, your guide paddles you to the spot, and serves you while you handle the rod. This
takes from recreation every trace of toil. You have all the excitement of sporting,
without any attending physical weariness (2009a: 18). First of all, the idea of
commodiousness is used to tempt a potential consumer. The guide serves the client so
as to avoid any situation or activity that is either strenuous or boring. Secondly, Murray
touches upon one of the most powerful baiting techniques for consumerism: the
illusion of an experience becomes better than the actual version of it. Sporting is
stripped from the more tiring, boring nuisances but retains all the excitement because it
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is molded so as to satisfy the client, who enjoys it just as much (or even more) than
performing all the activities that such a sport entails. This symbiotic relationship
between comfort and illusion sets the precedent to todays general preference for the
impression of nature rather than actually experiencing, or even contacting it
(McKibben 1993).
Another case argument used by Murray is the conception of the guide as a servant,
that is, as a chief figure in ensuring comfort and complacency for the client. If Hoffman
and Headley had attended to the mythical qualities of the Adirondack guide through
Cheney, now Murray characterizes them not just as the safeguards for the clients
leisure but as an actual product in themselves. Murray enumerates the types of guides
the consumer is likely to encounter: the witty guide, the talkative guide, or the lazy
guide, depending on their personality traits, or the independent guide and the hotel
guide depending on whether they work for themselves or for a business. As if
exhibiting branded products, Murray concludes that the first three types are all faulty
and are hindrances to a partys happiness (2009a: 35). The witty guide is forever
talking and thrusting himself impertinently forward, and therefore the client should
avoid him as [he] would the plague (2009a: 33). The client should as well beware of
the talkative guide because of his vice for bragging (2009a: 34). And finally, the lazy
guide is the most vexatious creature because he is a malfunctioning product in the
sense that he does not live up to the expectancies of the client, who bargained for a
quick, inventive, and energetic (2009a: 34) man, just as Natty Bumppo was.
Murray opts for the independent guides, who will remain true to what the client
expects, for they are models of skill, energy, and faithfulness (2009a: 35). The
Leatherstocking represented the mythical paradigm, the fixed image of national identity
that remained a referent of conduct for Murray just as much as it had for Hoffman and
Headley. The moral immaculateness of Coopers character was central to Murrays
muscular Christianity: there permeates an intrinsic belief that natural matter (the body)
is ontologically bound to the spirit (the mind). A true primitive lifestyle, best
exemplified by Natty Bumppo, guaranteed physical excellence and moral innocence.
What is innovative about Murrays approach is that, contrary to Hoffmans and
Headleys aesthetically-grounded depictions of Cheney, Adventures endorsed
independent guides as assistants at the disposal of the paying customer. This
understanding has profound implications on the mythical status of the frontiersman:
through an analysis of the trial in which Natty Bumppo is judged for his refusal to
comply to game laws in The Pioneers, Slotkin argues that the scene demonstrates that
the two worlds are irreconcilable (2000: 491). By the two worlds he refers to the
Eurocentric, eastern formalisms and the western, frontiersman code. The former
prioritizes the interests of the mass over that of the individual, while the latter defends
the individuals needs. The trial ritually transforms itself into an act where Bumppo is
publicly humiliated for his pride in setting self above society (Slotkin 2000: 491). This
division evidences Murrays inherent paradox in his exaltation of independent guides:
independent guides should authenticate the principles of the frontiersman while
simultaneously submitting to the interests of the paying public. The monetary
transaction in which the guide seals a form of conduct as the core of his services does
not, in his view, violate the frontiersman ethic. As Murray polarizes the types of guides
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through categories of behavior and the mediums of transaction, he suggests that not
only does the relationship between customer and service reconcile those two worlds,
but, moreover, it guarantees the satisfaction of the client. In the end, public interest
prevails over the self without Murray perceiving any form of corruption in between.
For Murray, the possibility of moral corruption is not one stemming from the
monetary transaction itself but from the medium through which such a transaction is
carried out. Contrary to the independent guide, the hotel guide is bound to displease
the client because of the very circumstances of his job: as an employee, he loses a great
part of the responsibility to satisfy the customer because he knows that he is only part of
the product, not the complete package.5 Murray implies that this agreement between a
business and an employee results in a downfall of the guides character: The hotel
guide is often unemployed for weeks if the season is dull; and, hanging around a
frontier hotel in daily proximity to the bar, is very liable to beget that greatest of all vices
in a guide drunkenness (2009a: 36). Murray is sceptical of the corporative system;
corrupted by interests and greed, the hotel broke the honest relationship between guide
and sportsman. What is troubling for Murray is not exactly the downfall of the guide
himself, but the fact that because of such vices, propounded by mediating hotel
businesses, clients are irreparably deceived and miss their chance to hire and be assisted
by an authentic backwoodsman. In this sense, Murray anticipated Service Marketing
Theory, which assumes that the outcome of the service, namely that the service
delivers what is promised, is ultimately more important than the process (Hart and
Hogg 1998: 61). The independent guide is established as the preferential choice because,
by the very nature of his character, he stays true to what is expected of him as a product.
To ensure that the interests of the middle-class public are protected, Murray
furthermore stresses that the client should conceive himself as a small but significant
part inside a wider body of consumerists. Under the characteristic reasoning of
commercialism, he claims that a faulty product should be avoided. In regards to the
irremediably witty, talkative and lazy guides, he had previously advised the reader to
post [the guide] by name on your way out, at every camp and hotel, as an imposition
and a pest (2009a: 35). This would make an example of one or two, and the rest
would take the hint, and would allow the clients conscience to have peace (2009a:
35). Such action attests to Murrays belief that a consumer has rights, and that these
rights are measured by moral parameters. Consumers, as a homogeneous group, have
the common objective and moral responsibility of improving a product, so that the
next consumer in line will benefit from a better version of it. In this sense, Murrays
stance was somewhat inclined towards Relationship Marketing Theory, where the
process of managing the relationship [between business and client] is as important, or
indeed more important, than the outcome (Hart and Hogg 1998: 61).
5
As current histories show, Murray was not wrong in his distinction between independent
and hotel guides in terms of their expertise and dedication to the party. In his history of
Adirondack guides, Brumley states that hotel businesses often hired young inexperienced
guides under the assumption that a dissatisfied customer would be replaced the next day or
week with a new unsuspecting one (2004: 18).
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Murray refused to limit the Adirondacks to the needs and desires of the rich and
notable figures of society. The nature of his target audience constituted in itself an
advocacy for a more democratic appreciation of the wilderness. His adversity towards
upper-class privileges is made clear in his allusions to the ethics of sportsmanship.
Murray claims that a true sportsmans duty must answer to ethical judgment: no matter
how much the sportsman may enjoy hunting or fishing, and no matter his
socioeconomic background, he is not to kill more than the camp can eat (2009a: 20).
However, he is of the opinion that the solution of game laws does not in any way
benefit the middle class. Rather than a regulation favoring the upper class, he proposes
fines that would be equally applied to all citizens: I am not in favor of game laws,
passed for the most part in the interest of the few and the rich, to the deprivation of the
poor and the many, but I would that fine and imprisonment both might be the
punishment of him who . . . directs a ball or hooks a fish when no necessity demands it
(2009a: 20-21).
Friction between social classes was increasingly becoming a problem towards the
end of the nineteenth century, and the North Country, that Central Park for the
world, was effectively reflecting the threat that the middle class represented for the
upper castes. Murray managed to market the Adirondacks not only by guaranteeing
comfort, but also by stating that the vacationer could spend very little money on the
trip. For example, he recommends stores in New York City and in Boston where the
customer may buy good-quality gear as cheaply as possible; he informs the reader of
estimative, reasonable prices for each of the expenses; he lists the names of several
trustworthy independent guides that will ensure that the client receives his moneys
worth; and he describes the advantages and disadvantages of certain routes. The
following is an excerpt on a possible itinerary from the city to the Adirondacks by train
and steamboat: So perfect are the connections on this route, that, having engaged
John to meet me a year from a certain day, at 5 P.M., on the Lower Saranac, I have
rolled up to Martins and jumped from the coach as the faithful fellow, equally on
time, was in the act of pulling his narrow boat up the beach. It is not only easy and
quick, but the cheapest route also (2009a: 42-43). In other words, what the route
supplies is the best quality for the lowest price. Part of the nature of marketing also
includes making sure that the consumer feels that he has control over the product. If
Murray cites several options regarding stores or routes it is not only to afford the
consumer the most convenient possibilities for him, but to imply that he is to choose
from these lists of possibilities and that therefore he has control, and hence power, over
the product. It is significant that he writes John and Martins between quotes. He is
trying to give the impression that these names are actually blank spaces which the
consumer has the right and the power to fill in. The idea of this could be you is flexible
to the extent that the consumer is the one who in the end determines the variables of
the trip so that the vacation may be as fitting and as becoming to each separate
individual. Thus, all suggestions and recommendations are based not only on how to
tips and instructions, but on do-it-yourself guarantees as well.
Adventures also opened up to another social sector: middle-class women. Until the
success of Murrays book, women for the most part did not benefit from wilderness
excursions; much less from the activities of sportsmanship, deemed as masculine. No
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women had been included in Emersons and Stillmans Adirondack Club, nor in
Browns Tract Association. One of the members of the Northwoods Club, Alfred B.
Street, stated in a celebrative note the following: The Ladies: Barred out of the forest by
vindictive crinoline. We miss their presence there, but we see their bright glances in the
glowing sky of morning. We hear their voices in the music of the woodland bird, and
inhale their sweet breath in the fragrant zephyrs of the silent woods (Quoted in Grady
2002: 135). It is not surprising to find that in the age of Romanticism women were
associated with the beautiful features of nature. As an aesthetic that aroused calmness,
delicacy and harmony, beauty was deemed as effeminate as opposed to the powerful
sense of astonishment and awe that the sublime entailed. Women, therefore, were
barred out of sporting clubs which attended to the importance of male bonding, and
the void of their absence was filled in by club members through the beauty of nature.
Murray, however, proclaimed the Adirondacks as a vacation spot from which women
had the right to benefit as well, and several references to the ladies are meant to
encourage them to participate. There is a limit to Murrays openness, however, and
although muscular Christianity was also to be exercised by the weaker sex, this had to
be done at a much more docile level. The image of women as frail, delicate objects
unable to overcome the arduous and demanding work that camp life required is still
very much present in Adventures. In spite of his incentive to bring ladies to the
Adirondacks, Murray maintains the association between beauty and women intact on
the basis of their common delicateness: In beauty of scenery, in health-giving qualities,
in the easy and romantic manner of its sporting, it is a paradise. . . . It is this peculiarity
also which makes an excursion to this section so easy and delightful to ladies. There is
nothing in the trip which the most delicate and fragile need fear (2009a: 19).
3. Murrays Fools and the quest for Americanness
Adventures became an instant bestseller in the spring of 1869; it was on the shelves of
sport stores and station shops everywhere and was continually reprinted throughout
subsequent months. In some places it was distributed as a pamphlet, offering a free
copy of the book with the purchase of a round-trip ticket (Horrell 1999: 129).
Hundreds of tourists swarmed to the northern woods, book in hand, equipped as
Murray had instructed and ready to follow his advice religiously. The sociological
phenomenon was to be known as Murrays Rush, and soon enough, when the gullible
tourists found out that things were not as easy, nor as comfortable, nor as becoming as
Murray had promised, journalists quickly dubbed them Murrays Fools. The infamous
writer was from then on to be known as Adirondack Murray, and the book backfired
with tremendous hostility. Tuberculosis patients discovered that no miraculous
recovery was to happen for them; black flies, which Murray had described as the most
harmless and the least vexatious of the insect family (2009a: 56) were a continual pest;
men looking for relaxation and minimum effort found themselves having to work
harder and more strenuously than they had anticipated; the gear they had bought did
not make them better sportsmen; and many were being cheated by some of the honest,
independent guides that Murray had recommended. Needless to say, the paradisiacal
sanatorium designed for the ladies generally did not please middle-class women. The
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summer following the books publication, Wachusett, a correspondent for the Boston
Daily Advertiser wrote: I think I have known ladies who would not enjoy, even in the
same array, crossing a carry in a rain storm, face and hands dripping with tar and oil,
mosquito bites smarting on wrists and temples, the boots soaked through and through,
the reserve stockings in the carpet bag equally wet, guide and escort so loaded with boat
and baggage as to be incapable of rendering assistance (2009: 170).
Murray was not without a few defenders, however. The same summer in which
Wachusett parodied the back-to-nature craze that Adventures had caused, journalist
Kate Field published an article in the Daily Tribune in which she criticized the
exaggerated and extremist reaction that seekers of health were having against the
bestselling author: If consumptives with both legs in the grave visit the Adirondacks,
and after a few days or weeks leave the woods somewhat less alive than when they
entered, surely their friends display the most extraordinary absence of reason in
attributing their decease to Murrays book (2009: 81).
In spite of the disappointment that the readers felt once they reached the northern
wilderness, floods of tourists did not cease to arrive in the Adirondacks, fomenting the
construction of multiple hotels and a railroad from Saratoga Springs to North Creek. Nor
did Murray ever back down or express any regrets even at the height of his ill-reputation
as a liar. In 1890, he recalled how the great, ignorant, stay-at-home, egotistic world
laughed and jeered and tried to roar the book down, and how these critics called it a
fraud and a hoax. But with prideful determination he credited his book for [carrying]
the fame of the [Adirondack] woods over the continent (2009b: 118).
The author was also to be reprimanded for the democratic creed underlying
Murrays Rush. Along with the lumbering industry, the overwhelming number of
visitors became a serious threat to the wilderness which Murray had so ardently
defended, and within a few years, critics were complaining of the denuded forests and
the decline of fish and wildlife (Strauss 1987: 282). Indeed, conservationist
apprehensions ignited very heated attacks on Murray, especially by Thomas Bangs
Thorpe and Charles Dudley Warner. The latter wrote several pieces for Harpers Weekly
and Atlantic Monthly, and was recurrently vocal about the hazards of Murrays Fools
even a decade after the publication. Warner overtly revealed the elitism implicit in
many of the experienced sportsmens views:
The instinct of barbarism that leads people periodically to throw aside the habits of
civilization, and seek the freedom and discomfort of the woods, is explicable enough; but
it is not so easy to understand why this passion should be strongest in those who are most
refined, and most trained in intellectual and social fastidiousness. Philistinism and
shoddy do not like the woods, unless it becomes fashionable to do so; and then, as
speedily as possible, they introduce their artificial luxuries, and reduce the life in the
wilderness to the vulgarity of a well-fed picnic. (2008: 66-67)
Warner was nostalgically holding on to the romanticist convictions that had brought
the most refined and the most civilized back to nature in the first place. Beneath
polarizations of class taste lay a more unstoppable threat: Murrays Fools prophesized
the new devouring rhythms and labor-saving possibilities of technology. Early
nineteenth-century devotion to the machine for production now found a new form of
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expression in the machine for recreation. Despite the fact that muscular Christianity
offered the wilderness as a sanctuary from urban progress and alienation, vacationers
were reluctant to leave behind their artificial luxuries and became agents of the
contagion of industry. The construction of multiple hotels and the railroad in the
Adirondacks responded solely to tourists demands, turning Warners celebration of
the freedom and discomfort of the woods to an adulation for abundance, minimum
effort and immediacy. As Leo Marx argues, nineteenth-century middle-class infatuation
with comfort bred a new ideological obsession, one that replaced the wilderness
aesthetics of the sublime and the beautiful with a rhetoric of the technological
sublime (1967: 195). Needless to say, Warners elitist proclamation in which the
privileges of the few and the rich were being reinstated clashed deeply with Murrays
unyielding, democratic stance. Where Warner was convinced that middle-class tourists
were exploitatively using and destroying nature, Murray and his advocates believed
such an attitude was an outrageous assault on the founding principles of the nation. In
Terries words, because of their patronizing tone, those horrified by Murrays Fools
were seen to be espousing an essentially un-American position (1985: 76).
However, the vehemence of Murrays critics may also be conceived as a campaign to
nurture yet another nationalistic axiom. Romanticism had launched the notion of
wildness as the distinctive nationalistic feature through an exaltation of Burkes
categories and the mystification of the frontiersman as Americas fixed, androcentric
referent. Developing as a social construct, wilderness had become the untouchable
aesthetic essence of the United States. Vance claims that wilderness is the part of our
environment that is idealized as perfect nature, as, indeed, the highest or purest form
of nature we have, and that nature is at its best when utterly separated from the
human world (1997: 62). The novelty of Murrays approach was that it offered this
romanticist image of the wilderness and its fundamental myths as a commodity, in the
sense that wilderness went beyond being a mere ideological category and entered the
capitalist market. Romantics had succeeded in making the wilderness a fetish with the
inherent powers of sublimity, beauty and moral innocence. Muscular Christianity and
mass vacationing now opened that fetish to commerce through hotel, transportation
and sporting services. The wilderness became a commodity fetish in its full Marxist
sense, where vacationers exchanged their money for the physical and mental
invigoration promised by muscular Christianity. As Davidson argues, the commodity
fetish appeals not so much to the logical and the cognitive as to the emotional and
affective (1992: 169). Indeed, the alleged restorative powers of nature had more to do
with romanticist mystification and Murrays subsequent marketing than with actual
evidence. Viewed in this light, Fields defense of Murray can be interpreted as a
recuperation of the logical and the cognitive to abate the hyperbolism to which
fetishism leads.
While Murray may have believed that romanticist values could be sustained within
what would evolve into consumer culture, Warner and upper-class New Yorkers
deemed this co-existence impossible. In their fetishist adulation of the wilderness,
romanticists marked a distance between man and nature that could only be mediated
aesthetically. But by conceiving the wilderness as a matrix of commodities that could be
modified and improved in accordance to the needs and expectancies of the consuming
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public, connotative appreciations of nature being untouchable and untainted slowly

faded. Klingle notes that consumption is inherently spatial and that it shrinks the
distance that separates us from nature and one another even as it effaces the same
connections (2003: 95). For many, the romanticist distance between the human and
the wild, balanced aesthetically, was condemned to perish in the interest of the
mainstream and technology. Hence, resistance to consumerism raised not merely the
issue of which stance was more democratic, but also, which mode of action was
essentially more American: was it to protect the integrity of the beauties, sublimities
and myths that were the pillars of the nations identity; or was it to promote the
interests of the middle class, the heart of democracy, even at the expense of damaging
Americas pristine wilderness?
4. Conclusions
Adventures represents a turning point towards a more modern conception of the
wilderness in American culture, one that involves the institutionalized practice of
vacationing. It anticipated consumer culture in terms of style, structure and content
just as much as it did in terms of how it was received and reviewed. Also, because of the
crisis it represented, Adventures positions itself not only as a text creating new formulaic
conventions that would become a reference for twentieth-century wilderness
propaganda and ecotourism, but as one that exposed the friction between social strata
and their understanding of their rights over nature.
The controversy surrounding the book is not without its ironies. First of all, the
widespread hostility expressed by Murrays Fools in the end did nothing to aggravate
the image of the Adirondacks as the preferential vacationing spot for the northeastern
middle class. Secondly, despite Murrays proclamations of the wilderness as a space to
exercise democratic rights, the period following the publication of the book would be
known as the Gilded Age of the Adirondacks. By the end of the nineteenth century,
cheap railroad fares and affordable hotels with a rustic appeal continued to attract the
middle class, but these were very rudimentary and modest compared to what came to
be known as the Adirondack great camps. Owned by plutocrats as a second or third
home, these great camps were an exhibition of luxury, opulence and exquisite taste that
promoted the wilderness experience that upper-class New Yorkers demanded. Only the
most exclusive guests and their families were welcome from Wall Street magnates to
politicians, intellectuals and distinguished artists while anti-Semitic and racist
restrictions tainted the guest policies. The great camps were not the only way through
which the more privileged of New York society could comfortably retreat to the
wilderness. In the late 1800s, private clubs bought extensive tracts of lands for their
members to exploit and manage collectively. Private land allowed members to maintain
their social distance from the middle and working-class tourists seeking the
Adirondacks as well.
Thus, the tensions that had finally erupted into the public sphere due to Murrays
Rush would be far from resolved. As much as Murray had envisioned the wilderness as
a space to erode economic differences through a homogeneous form of vacationing, the
emergence of great camps and private clubs evidenced the unwillingness of the upper
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class to mingle with the middle class. The cycle would not long after repeat itself: during
the first decades of the twentieth century the locals and the middle-class would clash
with the game laws and stipulations maintained by private clubs. In only a few years
and in a similar twist of irony, the automobile, which became the ultimate symbol of
democracy, allowed the middle class to surge massively back to the Adirondacks, but in
the process, destroyed and polluted the same wilderness which vacationers sought, thus
desecrating the integrity of nature that the conservationist movement, led by the more
privileged groups, ardently fought to protect.
Works Cited
Bronski, Peter 2008: At the Mercy of the Mountains. Guilford: Lyons.
Brumley, Charles 2004: Guides of the Adirondacks: A History. Utica: North Country.
Burke, Edmund 1990 (1757): A Philosophical Enquiry Into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime
and the Beautiful. Oxford: Oxford UP.
Cronon, William 1996: The Trouble with Wilderness; or, Getting Back to the Wrong Nature.
William Cronon, ed. Uncommon Ground: Rethinking the Human Place in Nature. New York:
W.W. Norton. 69-90.
Davidson, Martin Peter 1992: The Consumerist Manifesto. London: Routledge.
Emmons, Ebenezer 1842: Geology of New York, Part II. Survey of the Second Geological District.
Albany: W. and A. White.
Field, Kate. 2009 (1869): Murray Vindicated. Paul Jamieson and Neal Burdick, eds. The
Adirondack Reader. New York: The Adirondack Mountain Club. 80-81.
Grady, Joseph F. 2002 (1933): The Adirondacks, Fulton Chain-Big Moose Region: The Story of a
Wilderness. Utica: North Country.
Hart, Susan and Gillian Hogg 1998: Relationship Marketing in Corporate Legal Services. Gillian
Hogg and Mark Gabbott, eds. Services Industry Marketing. London: Frank Cass. 55-69.
Headley, Joel T. 2006 (1849): The Adirondack; or, Life in the Woods. Ann Arbor: U of Michigan
Library.
Hoffman, Charles Fenno 2007 (1839): Wild Scenes in the Forest and the Prairie. Vol. 1. Whitefish:
Kessinger.
Horrell, Jeffrey L. 1999: Seneca Ray Stoddard. Transforming the Adirondack Wilderness in Text and
Image. New York: Syracuse UP.
Klingle, Matthew W. 2003: Spaces of Consumption in Environmental History. History and
Theory 42.4: 94-110.
Kotler, Philip, Gary Armstrong, Veronica Wong and John Saunders 2008 (1996): Principles of
Marketing. 5th ed. Essex: Pearson.
Marx, Leo 1967: The Machine in the Garden. New York: Oxford UP.
McKibben, Bill 1993: The Age of Missing Information. New York: Plume.
Morton, Timothy 2007: Ecology Without Nature. Boston: Harvard UP.
Murray, William Henry Harrison 2009a (1869): Adventures in the Wilderness, or, Camp-Life in the
Adirondacks. Charleston: BiblioBazaar.
2009b (1890): Lake Champlain and Its Shores. Ithaca: Cornell U Library.
Nash, Roderick Frazier 2001 (1967): Wilderness and the American Mind. New Haven: Yale UP.
New York State Constitution: Article XIV. Conservation. <http://www.dos.state.ny.us
/info/constitution.htm> (Accessed March 28, 2010)
New York Times editorial, August 9, 1864: Paul Jamieson and Neal Burdick, eds. The Adirondack
Reader. New York: The Adirondack Mountain Club. 72-73.
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Phillips, Adam 1990: Introduction. A Philosophical Enquiry Into the Origin of Our Ideas of the
Sublime and the Beautiful. By Edmund Burke. Oxford: Oxford UP. ix-xxiii.
Schneider, Paul 1997: The Adirondacks. New York: Henry Holt.
Slotkin, Richard 2000 (1973): Regeneration through Violence. Norman: Oklahoma UP.
Stearns, Peter N. 2001: Consumerism in World History. New York: Routledge.
Strauss, David 1987: Toward a Consumer Culture: Adirondack Murray and the Wilderness
Vacation. American Quarterly 39.2: 270-86.
Terrie, Philip G. 2008 (1997) : Contested Terrain. New York: Syracuse UP.
1985: Forever Wild: Environmental Aesthetics and the Adirondack Forest Preserve.
Philadelphia: Temple UP.
Vance, Linda 1997: Ecofeminism and Wilderness. NWSA 9.3: 60-76.
Wachusett 2009 (1869): Some Were Not Charmed. Paul Jamieson and Neal Burdick, eds. The
Adirondack Reader. New York: The Adirondack Mountain Club. 166-70.
Warner, Charles Dudley 2008 (1878): The Complete Writings of Charles Dudley Warner. Vol. 3.
Charleston: BiblioBazaar.
White, William Chapman 1985 (1954): Adirondack Country. New York: Syracuse UP.
Received 5 May 2010
Revised version accepted 23 November 2010
Claudia Alonso Recarte is at the Faculty of Education of the University of Castilla-La Mancha. Her fields of
research include ecocriticism and nature writing, and new jazz studies from the perspective of feminism and
myth criticism.
Address: Departamento de Filologa Moderna, Universidad de Castilla-La Mancha, Facultad de Educacin
de Cuenca, Edificio Fray Luis de Len, Avenida de los Alfares 42, 16071 Cuenca, Spain. Tel.: +34 96
9179100 // Extensin: 4700. Fax: +34 96 9179170.
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Testimony and the Representation of Trauma in Eva

Figes Journey to Nowhere
University of Zaragoza
spellice@unizar.es
The main aim of this study is to show that the triggering force for the contemporary
destabilisation of traditional life-writing genres is trauma. In The Limits of Autobiography.
Trauma and Testimony, Leigh Gilmore argues that the limit case autobiography has been
born out of the complicated relationship between trauma and testimony. I will prove that
the autobiographical work of the British writer Eva Figes Journey to Nowhere belongs in
this category. The mixture of elements of autobiography, biography, memoir, history and
testimony aims at working through the author-narrators experiences of the Holocaust
and denouncing the consequences of the creation of Israel after the Second World War.
The analysis of the various testimonial levels and of the healing stages represented in the
narration shows that it is the conflict between the representation of trauma and the self
that has demanded the writing of this limit case autobiography. Figes testimonial
project proves that the need to represent trauma has affected the production of fictional
narratives and non-fictional testimonies, which has exposed the need to develop new
critical approaches such as Trauma Studies.
Keywords: Eva Figes; testimony; Trauma Studies; Holocaust; limit-case autobiography;
contemporary literature
Los Gneros Testiomoniales y la Representacin del Trauma en

Journey to Nowhere de Eva Figes
El principal objetivo de este artculo es exponer que el conflicto entre la representacin del
trauma y del yo ha introducido cambios considerables en los gneros autobiogrficos. En el
transcurso del artculo, intentar demostrar que Journey to Nowhere, de la autora britnica
Eva Figes, pertenece al nuevo gnero designado por Leigh Gilmore como autobiografa
lmite. El anlisis de los diferentes niveles testimoniales y de las fases de curacin de los
procesos traumticos representados en el texto demostrar que la fusin de elementos de
autobiografa, biografa, memorias, historia y testimonio responden a la necesidad de la
autora-narradora de superar las experiencias traumticas vividas durante y despus del
Holocausto y de denunciar las consecuencias de la creacin de Israel despus de la Segunda
Guerra Mundial. Este estudio ayudar a comprender cmo el concepto de trauma ha
cambiado la produccin de narrativas de ficcin y de testimonios no ficcionales y a su vez, ha
mostrado la necesidad de crear nuevos enfoques crticos como los Estudios de Trauma.
Palabras clave: Eva Figes; testimonio; Estudios de Trauma; Holocausto; autobiografa lmite;
literatura contempornea
70
1. Stories about the past

I am a grandmother now and, like all grandmothers, I have a head full of stories about the
past. But my stories are not like other peoples, which makes them more fascinating for
my descendants, if not always easy to talk about. All of them are strange, in one way or
another, but so were the times. (Figes 2008: 1)1
These words set up the autobiographical journey to the past that the German-Jewish
born British writer Eva Figes will perform in her latest book, Journey to Nowhere. One
Woman Looks for the Promised Land (2008). The story Eva Figes narrates in this book is
set in 2008 when, already a recognised writer, she felt the necessity to tell her own
memories of the time when she and her family had to leave Germany as a result of the
outbreak of the Second World War and, more particularly, to tell the story of her
familys maid. Ediths story can be read as an exemplary account of all those Jews who
survived the Holocaust in Germany and were later attracted by the Zionist cause and
moved to Palestine, where they were unable to find their place because of their German
origins. Figes has declared that she decided to write this book because she felt angry
about what Israel was doing to Palestinians; she has explained that, although she was
afraid of revealing her political views, she felt this was the time to denounce the political
decisions made by the European and American political institutions after the war (in
Pellicer-Ortn 2009: 15).
The connection between the creation of individual identities and writing has
become increasingly important after structuralism. Already in 1977, Roland Barthes, in
his famous essay The Death of the Author, argued that the self is the result of writing
rather than its cause and thus the self can be constantly recreated through the process of
writing. In recent decades we have observed a proliferation of life-writing in its different
manifestations: autobiography, literary biography, biography, autofiction and memoir.
Critics such as Alison Light (2004: 751) assert that literary biography has become the
most successful literary form among the British readership since the 1960s. Roger
Luckhurst considers that a memoir boom has invaded the literary panorama since the
1990s (2008: 117), while Leigh Gilmore asserts that memoir has become the genre in
the skittish period around the turn of the millennium (2001: 1). Although most critics
have read Journey to Nowhere as a memoir (Feigel 2008: 30; Karpf 2008: 7; Cross 2009:
26), focusing on the personal and traumatic component of the stories contained in the
narration, it is my contention that this label is too narrow for such a complex work.
In her article Writing Lives (2004), Alison Light outlines the evolution of lifewriting genres in Britain. As she explains, in the 1970s autobiographical genres
attempted to assert collective identities, while confessional poetry verbalised the
internal suffering of many writers. In the 1980s, novelistic experimentation became the
norm and fictional reports of true lives multiplied. In the 1990s, literary memoirs
produced by well-known writers became the new trend, and the blurring of boundaries
between fiction and reality has predominated in present-day life-writing genres (Light
1
The research carried out for the writing of this essay is part of a research project financed by
the Spanish Ministry of Science and Innovation (MICINN) and the European Regional
Development Fund (ERDF) (code: HUM2007-61035).
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Testimony and the Representation of Trauma in Eva Figes Journey to Nowhere
71
2004: 765). Light and Luckhurst are two of the many critics who believe that most of
the autobiographical genres published in recent decades deal with problematic aspects
concerning the narrativisation of what Figes refers to as the strange events and times
of her childhood (Light 2004: 764). Journey to Nowhere will show that traumatic events
cannot be incorporated into narratives in an easy way, since they are the product of the
internal struggle between the needs to deny and to release the traumatic memories.
Figes author-narrator defines this internal conflict as a complicated process when she
asserts that remembering brings problems (Figes 2008: 139).
Autobiographical works like Figes Journey to Nowhere respond to the double need
to voice the collective and individual traumatic experiences triggered by the Holocaust
and of providing a healing mechanism for the transformation of these traumatic
memories into narrative memories. Certain contemporary critics, particularly those
associated with Yale University in the 1990s, such as Cathy Caruth, Geoffrey Hartman
or Shoshana Felman, adapted the medical ideas on psychic traumatic processes to the
narrative analysis, thus inaugurating trauma studies (Whitehead 2004: 4). As Geoffrey
Hartman explains, the task of the trauma critic is to discover the psychic wounds in
the words provided by literary and nonliterary accounts dealing with traumatic
experiences, since the effects of traumatic processes can be traced in the narrative
devices employed by contemporary writers of different genres (2003: 257, 259). As
literary critics, we have witnessed the proliferation of life-writing genres blurring the
traditional boundaries between fiction and reality and between fictional narratives and
autobiography, thus complicating the representation of the textual self.
The main aim of this article will be to show that the triggering force for this
destabilisation of traditional life-writing genres is trauma.2 Trauma begs for the
representation of the unrepresentable and works against any coherent narrative
representation of the self. Drawing on this, Leigh Gilmore (2001) argues that a new lifewriting genre has been born out of the complicated relationship between trauma and
testimony: the limit case autobiography. These liminal autobiographies blur the
boundaries between autobiography and fiction, autobiography and history,
autobiography and legal testimony, autobiography and psychoanalysis, or autobiography
and theory (Gilmore 2001: 14). They are the product of the paradoxes resulting from the
conflict created when the representation of the self and trauma overlap (2001: 19), a
conflict that darkens the distinction between literature and testimony.
As Shoshana Felman and Dori Laub (1992) argue, our societies have experienced a
crisis of witnessing due to the traumatic historical events that took place in the 20th
century and which required oral or written testimonies in order to be worked through.
Freud and Breuers (1991a: 57, 68) talking cure and Carl Jungs (1990: 117) conviction
that the healing process begins when the traumatised person is able to transform
traumatic events into a chronological narrative are classical examples of the view that
the main step for the recovery of trauma is to verbalise the experience of suffering. In
the same research line as Felman and Laub, Hartman equates the function of literature
2
Traditional autobiography is understood as a text in which the biographer offers a detailed

and complex narrative of his mind and the events that took place during a great part of his or her
life (Buell 1991: 47-69).
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to that of the talking cure (2003: 259). Drawing on this, Suzette A. Henke has defined
the term scriptotherapy as the process of writing out and writing through traumatic
experience in the mode of therapeutic re-enactment (1998: xii-xiii). Thus, one of the
main aims of traumatic life writing would be to articulate some unbearable emotional
crisis that has become unspeakable for the writer, so that what cannot be spoken may be
written (1998: xviii).
The narrativisation of traumatic experiences becomes even more problematic when
the traumatic events refer to the Holocaust and the post-Holocaust years, as happens in
Journey to Nowhere, given the ethical connotations of the Holocaust and the recent
controversies surrounding its fictionalisation (Lang 1988: 38; Henke 1998: xiii).
According to certain specialists in Holocaust Studies, one of the reasons this topic still
generates so much debate is the human incapacity to confront the facts of the Nazi
genocide (Langer 2000: xv). Another lies in the limitations imposed by history and the
dangers of sensationalism that hover over any artistic representation of the singular
events that took place in the Holocaust (Hartman 2002: 36). However, critics such as
Hartman (1996: 133-72) and Felman and Laub (1992: 57-74) consider that oral and
written, literary and non-literary testimonies are useful tools for the individual and
collective working through trauma as well as for the preservation of historical memories
for future generations.
In Journey to Nowhere, Figes appears to have followed these premises, since she
yielded to the power of stories to reveal truths about the Holocaust and to heal those
who survived it. In keeping with this, her work should be studied in relation to the vast
number of Holocaust narratives that have appeared in recent decades, from the early
testimonial works of Primo Levi (1947) or Ellie Wiesel (1958) to the current explosion
of autobiographical and fictional narratives targeted at representing the traumatic
nature of these historical events (Whitehead 2004: 6; Schwarz 1999: 4; Lang 1988: 1-15).
In particular, Figes autobiographical works are representative of the contemporary
group of Anglo-Jewish writers such as Ronit Lentin, Dan Jacobson, Gabriel Josipovici
and George Steiner, who have attempted to narrativise in their literary works their
traumatic experiences and their identity conflicts during and after the Holocaust
(Cheyette, 1998: xliii-liii). More concretely, Journey to Nowhere should be analysed in
relation to preceding autobiographical works such as Anne Karpfs The War After
(1996), Leila Bergs Flickerbook (1997), Jenny Diskis Skating to Antarctica (1997) or
Linda Grants Remind me Who I am, Again (1998). All were published by Anglo-Jewish
female writers who, like Figes, tried to make sense of their own and their families
traumatic experiences of immigration and the Holocaust in their autobiographical
writings (Behlau 2004: 107-22). However, Figes earliest works, published between the
late 1960s and 1970s, were not autobiographical; rather, they were inheritors of the
Modernist stream-of-consciousness techniques and interest in the individual. It was not
until 1978 that Figes published her first autobiographical work, Little Eden: A Child at
War, in which she started to verbalise her traumatic experiences in the Second World
War and abandoned her experimental style. In her following autobiographical work,
Tales of Innocence and Experience (2003), she narrated the transmission of her
childhood memories to her granddaughter through the act of story-telling. And finally,
in Journey to Nowhere Figes succeeds in combining the narration of her and her familys
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traumatic experiences in post-Holocaust Great Britain with her opinions on the

creation of Israel in 1947.
Figes political and testimonial work demonstrates that trauma has influenced the
production of fictional narratives and non-fictional testimonies by breaking the frame
of traditional representation of the self. Thus, after analysing the mechanisms of trauma
representation and the testimonial dimensions present in the narration, I will attempt
to show that it is the conflict between self-representation and the representation of
trauma that has driven the writing of this limit case autobiography.3 My initial
hypothesis is that the mixture of elements of different literary genres is targeted at
working through the author-narrators traumatic experiences of the Holocaust and
denouncing the negative consequences brought about by the creation of Israel after the
Second World War. Journey to Nowhere has a complex structure, since the main
narrative layer combines the retrospective testimonial account of the author-narrators
childhood memories with political and historical issues.
Many of the aspects that turn this work into a limit-case autobiography are rooted
in the testimonial nature of Figes text. Leigh Gilmore argues that limit cases are
testimonial projects by nature because these narrations always require a listener, apart
from a speaking subject. As one of the harms of trauma is the impossibility of saying
you (Gilman 2001: 31), the subject needs to find another to whom the narration can
be addressed in order to try to initiate the overcoming of trauma. In Figes work, the
structure is complicated by the embedding of various testimonial acts, which start from
the individual account of the authors experiences and end with the collective voicing of
the Jewish traumatic experiences represented by Ediths story. Following Shoshana
Felmans definition of the testimonial act:
To testify is more than simply to report a fact or an event or to relate what has been
lived, recorded and remembered. Memory is conjured here essentially in order to address
another, to impress upon a listener, to appeal to a community. To testify is thus not
merely to narrate but to commit oneself, and to commit the narrative, to others. (1992:
204, emphasis in the original)
It becomes clear that in any act of bearing testimony the speaker/writer commits an
emotionally charged testimony to a listener/reader, who becomes the recipient of the
truth lying at the core of the painfully transmitted shocking events. All these elements
are represented in Journey to Nowhere.
At the same time, I will try to show that the testimonial dimensions present in the
narration run parallel to the stages in the overcoming of trauma represented in the text.
As regards the healing of traumatic processes, Dominick LaCapra has had recourse to
the Freudian notion that the original traumatic event must find a way out through
speech in order to introduce it into normal consciousness (Freud and Breuer 1991a:
68) when he explains that the working through of trauma starts when the subject is
able to arrange chronologically the fragmentary pieces that come to the conscious mind
3
Together with the works analysed by Gilmore (2001): Dorothy Allisons Bastard Out of
Carolina (1992), Mikal Gilmores Shot in the Heart (1994), Jamaica Kincaids The Autobiography
of my Mother (1996) and Jeanette Wintersons Written on the Body (1992).
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as nightmares or flashbacks (2001: 21-22). According to the psychiatrist Judith Lewis

Herman (2001), there are three stages in the healing process: safety, remembrance or
mourning and the reconnection with ordinary life, which are embodied in Figes work.
2. Safety
In the first pages of Journey to Nowhere, readers confront the author-narrators statement
that: But the angle of vision changes with time, and at that moment, driving down Lisson
Grove half a century later, Ediths story suddenly seemed worth telling. Just because it
went against the grain, the in-built prejudices of a lifetime (2008: 3). These words bring
to mind Gilmores contention that limit-case works usually begin in mourning when the
narrator recognises that there is something absent in her life that needs to be sought
(2001: 93). At the beginning of her book, Gilmore states that trauma is what breaks the
frame (2001: 8, my emphasis) in contemporary narrative self-representations.
It was not until the second half of the nineteenth century that medics started to
broaden the notion of trauma to the psychical harm caused by an overwhelming event
that the subject could not assimilate in rational terms. First applied to the victims of
railway accidents (Charcot 1887) and then to the shell-shocked soldiers of the First
World War (Mott 1919; Freud 2001a; Myers 1940), the notion of psychic trauma came
to public notice thanks to the works of Sigmund Freud, whose conceptualisation of
traumatic neurosis is still present in contemporary trauma critics such as Cathy Caruth
(1995, 1996) or Roger Luckurst, who has described psychical trauma as:
Something that enters the psyche that is so unprecedented or overwhelming that it
cannot be processed or assimilated by usual mental processes. We have, as it were,
nowhere to put it and so it falls out of our conscious memory, yet is still present in the
mind like an intruder or ghost. (Luckhurst 2006: 499)
This definition focuses on the belatedness of the traumatic experience. This idea also
has its basis in Freud and Breuers inaugural line of thought which explains that the
original traumatic event takes place without the traumatised subject noticing it (Freud
and Breuer 1991a: 53, 60). In their path-breaking works On the Psychical Mechanism
of Hysterical Phenomena (1991a) and Studies on Hysteria (1991b), they pointed to the
repression and failed abreaction of this first shocking event as the origin of the
posterior development of hysterical neurosis (Freud and Breuer 1991a:59). In Moses and
Monotheism (1939), Freud developed this idea by defining the so-called period of latency
as follows: the time that elapsed between the accident and the first appearance of the
symptoms is called the incubation period, a transparent allusion to the pathology of
infectious disease . . . It is the feature one might term latency (Freud 2001b: 67-68,
original emphasis). These notions have become foundational for trauma studies, as
Luckhurst remarks that this two-stage theory of trauma, the first forgotten impact
making a belated return after a hiatus, has been central to cultural trauma theory
(2008: 8), and Caruth has also drawn on Freuds theories to explain the belatedness that
characterises traumatic events: the period during which the effects of the experience
are not apparent, . . . the successive movement from an event to its repression to its
return (1995: 7).
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This trauma-related belatedness typifies the narrative structure of Figes book, as the
author-narrator starts admitting that there is something absent in her present life which
she has to look for in her past and in Ediths story in order to go on with her life. Thus,
it will become evident that one of the main impulses behind this work is the authornarrators need to cope with the traumatic past experiences that were not fully
assimilated at the time the initial shock took place and have continued to haunt her ever
since. The fact that until 2008 Figes has not managed to address her personal story so
directly or to tackle issues concerning the history of her homeland, Germany, and of the
Jewish people who emigrated to Palestine, reinforces the Freudian theory that some
time has to elapse in order for the trauma survivor to try to integrate the traumatic
memories into her self. In Figes case, the sudden encounter with a place of the past
activates the mental processes that make the author-narrator conscious of the unsolved
traumas hidden in her soul. Her act of remembering corresponds to her need to
understand the past and perform the process of transference of traumatic experiences
(Gilmore 2001: 73). As Anne Whitehead clarifies, buried memories must be uncovered
for the subjects soul to heal and the delayed action of remembering allows the past
to develop, to evolve along with changing circumstances over time (2009: 91).
This is the first testimonial dimension identified in Figes work. It corresponds to
the prologue and the epilogue, where the I of the flesh-and-blood author becomes
patent and Figes explains that this is a testimonial text motivated by her feeling that she
owes Edith a debt that she cannot repay (Figes 2008:3). As she further explains, this
work is also based on the research she carried out in order to understand the political
events that took place after the Holocaust (Figes 2008: 3-4). She uses her own voice to
dedicate this story of survival, and the sorrow it so often brings. To Edith and
thousands of others, who were betrayed by the victors of a terrible war, and who were
expected to fight for a homeland most of them did not even want (2008: 4). In this
part, the identities of author and fictional narrator merge explicitly, the author bears
witness to her self in order to arrange her thoughts and reflect on the political goals that
motivated the writing of the book. This first testimonial dimension corresponds to the
first healing stage described by Herman: safety or the feeling experienced once the
problem has been recognised and the subject tries to gain control over her life.
3. Remembrance and mourning
In the second testimonial dimension readers become witnesses to Figes memories
thanks to the testimonial power of language (Felman and Laub 1992: 29), which
allows her to perform a writing-healing process of working through (Henke 1998: xii).
However, at this stage we have to distinguish two different narrative strategies. On the
one hand, the traumatic events that took place between 1939 and 1948 are often
rendered by the adult narrator from her adult perspective, trying to impose a logical
order on the fragmentary memories of her disturbing past. This quotation can clarify
this point: I knew he was smiling because of us, the children. I had begun to divide the
human race into people who smiled at children, and those who did not I was growing
up, suddenly and very fast (2008: 22). In this example, the adult Figes is both narrator
and focaliser. She looks back at her childhood experiences and makes evaluative
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comments on the effects these events had on her maturation process. However, there
are also some moments when the adult-narrator assumes the perspective of the child
she was, as happens in episodes like this:
The Gedachtniskirche already had its Christmas tree, lights sparkling. Why did we not
have one? At the other end of the long corridor I could hear whispering: Edith and the
nursemaid were discussing some sort of secret. Had my father done something wrong,
was he in prison? (2008: 13)
In these instances of child focalisation, the author-narrator can remember German

words, the language of her childhood, and readers may grasp the way little Eva
perceived all the changes in her family when the war broke out.
On the other hand, when the narrator wishes to provide readers with information of
the historical events, she focalises the episodes from her adult perspective, from which
she has more historical knowledge to criticise the political decisions made in the postwar period. These historical passages appear especially at the end; they deal with the
creation of Israel, the conflict in Gaza, the politicians who influenced the course of
events and writers who, like Primo Levy had started to voice their Holocaust
experiences (2008: 141). In general, Figes alternates historical with autobiographical
remarks, introducing testimonial pieces containing the opinions of key socio-political
figures of that moment. This is a fruitful device to lend credibility to the historical
events narrated and to turn them into something tangible.
As Ann Karpf argues in her review of Journey to Nowhere, the book is crowded with
various individual and collective traumatic stories such as the story of Israels birth,
told here polemically, sometimes simplistically, but also courageously; the story of how
Figes adapted to life in England; and, most problematic, the story of her troubled
relationship with her mother (2008: 7). In Beyond the Pleasure Principle (1920), Freud
explains that, after the period of latency, the traumatised subject starts to repeat
compulsively the original traumatic experience (2001a: 36-8). Dominick LaCapra takes
up this idea by formulating various symptoms of this compulsion to repeat or act out
(LaCapra 2001: 22), such as nightmares, a general state of anxiety and unknown fears
that can lead to self- mutilation and other forms of self-punishment. During this phase,
the subjects sense of temporality becomes distorted, so that in acting out, tenses
implode, and it is as if one were back there in the past reliving the traumatic scene
(LaCapra 2001: 21). Echoing this, Figes autobiographical narrator is constantly haunted
by the traumatic shock of her young life (Figes 2008: 18), when she was forced to
emigrate to Great Britain, leaving behind her grandparents. As a result, she suffers from
recurrent nightmares and intrusive memories that take her back to that moment, as she
describes: Always the same dream: the day of departure, a grey March morning, small
figures waving from the edge of the airfield as we waited for the plane to take off
(2008: 10). These flashbacks create a narration full of digressions which interrupt the
logical flux of the telling. This sort of convoluted narration evoking the stagnation of
traumatic time is a key feature of limit cases.
Journey to Nowhere constantly emphasises the separation between the present and
the past, thus enhancing the importance of the passing of time to assimilate traumatic
events, as in the following example: A lifetime separates the events I have been
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describing from the present day, a time of recollection (2008: 139). Figes use of her
childhoods past is related to Gilmores (2001: 65) contention that liminal stories are
often told from a childs perspective or allude to traumatic episodes that occurred
during the protagonists childhood. In this case, the original traumatic event is
constantly re-enacted in Figes narration and became comprehensible to her when her
mother sent the child to the cinema to watch a newsreel about Belsen. The horror of the
images of the concentration camps marked Eva forever and she admits that she has
never been the same person afterwards (2008: 40).
Another aspect of the author-narrators trauma is the strained relationship with her
mother due to her mothers difficulty in coping with the horrible events the family
had gone through (2008: 49). At the heart of this relationship lies the process of
transgenerational transmission of trauma that her mother exercised on her when she
mistreated and blamed her, as the author-narrator notes: She became first depressed,
then increasingly resentful of the whole situation, and she took it out on me (2008:
45). 4 Readers also access the trauma undergone by other relatives; for instance, Figes
explains that her father had constant nightmares about his experience in the
concentration camp of Dachau and one of her mothers cousins is described as
suffering from PTSD, living in a gilded cage, hating everybody (2008: 111). All these
characters experience a common reluctance to talk about these events an unspoken
rule in our household was silence (2008: 7). Since these characters find themselves
living an acting-out process, they are constantly struggling between remembering and
forgetting the past (Whitehead 2009: 121). Nevertheless, as the author-narrator
comments: My need to know what had happened to my maternal grandfather and his
wife was matched by my mothers need not to know (2008: 10). She needs to know her
family past and the historical events that occurred during and after the Holocaust in
order to work through her own trauma of separation, reinforced by the traumas of the
other members of the family that had been transmitted to her.
Finally, Ediths individual trauma comes to the fore through Ediths own narration
of her exile from Germany to Israel after the Second World War and her eventual
further exile to Britain in order to work for Figes family again. Like other traumatised
characters, Edith shows great distress when she tries to render those horrible events
(2008: 78); however, she is finally able to tell little Eva the unspeakable fact that she
found herself totally displaced when she tried to live in the new Israel of 1947. Edith
relates all the hardship she suffered during the Holocaust in Berlin, how she was
marked as a Jew and forced to move from one place to another to avoid being found by
the Nazis. Her story is full of images of decadence, as is shown in the following
comment: We [the Jews] must have been pretty smelly, but the whole city stank. Gas
leaks, bodies under the rubble (2008: 96). Her narration also makes reference to the
feelings of loneliness she experienced when she decided to go to Israel, which even
made her regret having survived the Holocaust,5 as the author-narrator records: Edith
4
This is the trauma transmitted to posterior generations that did not live the traumatic events
as such but have inherited the trauma from their family and experience traumatic symptoms in a
direct or indirect way as if they had suffered the trauma themselves.
5
This is a feeling expressed in many other Jewish survivors works (Brauner 2001: 11-13).
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had never been so depressed. She had survived the war, the deportations, the relentless
bombing of Berlin, but for what? . . . she was quite alone in the world (2008: 119).
Ediths individual trauma mirrors the collective trauma undergone by many people
who were not able to find a place to rebuild their lives after the Holocaust. 6 As Ediths
description illustrates, the actual experience of living in Israel ran contrary to the
smiling faces I had seen on the newsreels (2008: 107). This fact would explain why
Figes felt compelled to go back to Ediths story as a way to give voice to the troubling
burden of collective responsibility (2008: 82) that being a German-Jew meant for her.
As the narrator explains, she made use of Ediths story in the confidence that it would
help to expose the truth (2008: 109) of the emigration of Jewish people after the
Holocaust. She believes that recalling Ediths memories is not just a personal story, a
memoir of private events; it involves what is now history, and our view of important
events inevitably changes with the passing of time (2008: 139). By telling the story of a
common Jewish housemaid, readers are provided with a perspective on world history
that casts light on aspects of the past that had previously been neglected on the grounds
of unreliability. Her work thus proves that individual stories can show that the private
formation and evolution of the traumatised self may be transferred to the public sphere,
another instance of limit cases (Gilmore 2001: 13).
At the same time, Journey to Nowhere confirms that limit-case autobiographies have
a strong political orientation (Gilmore 2001: 147). Figes memoir aims to make a severe
attack on U. S. policies after the Second World War. She argues that the creation of the
new State of Israel was an error and that the U. S.s international policy of immigration
and its political interests were the main causes that encouraged so many Jews who
survived the Holocaust to go to Palestine. She likewise criticises the violence exerted by
Israel upon the Palestinians and, as a Jew, wishes to detach herself from the politics
practised by Israel from that moment.7 Thus, the mature author-narrator reveals such
harsh opinions as: The true story of the creation of Israel is ugly, which is why it has,
with time, been conveniently forgotten and replaced by the myth of global guilt at the
murder of millions of innocent Jews (Figes 2008: 149). Her book is targeted at
revealing new versions of the history of Israel and replacing traditional myths by the
real stories of those people who endured that troubled historical period. It is
remarkable, then, that the political and collective dimension Figes gives to her
testimonial work highlights the intertwining of individual, cultural and political
traumatic experiences. This connection demonstrates that trauma is never exclusively
personal (Gilmore 2001: 31). Rather, all the individual traumatic experiences
represented in Figes work have a collective dimension that the writer does not want to
6
Kai Erikson has defined collective trauma as a blow to the basic tissues of social life that
damages the bonds attaching people together and impairs the prevailing sense of communality
(in Caruth 1995: 187).
7
Figes political views should be related to the group of British Jewish intellectuals who came
together in February 2007 to sign the declaration of Independent Jewish Voices in which they
established some basic principles of their ideology, such as: putting human rights first, rejecting
all forms of racism, respecting international law, and treating as equally legitimate the Palestinian
and Israeli quests for a better . . . future (Karpf et al. 2007: ix).
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ignore. In fact, these interactions between individual and collective processes can
contribute to resilience and reconstruction after a group has gone through a traumatic
experience (Alexander 2004; Robben and Surez-Orozco 2000).8
This second testimonial dimension corresponds to the second stage described by
Herman as remembrance or mourning: the subject explores her traumatic memories
in order to turn them into an integrated coherent narrative, that is, the process whereby
the survivor tells the story of trauma (2001: 175). This is present in this second
testimonial act performed by the author-narrator of Journey to Nowhere when she
decides to narrate all these experiences in order to confront ghosts from the past
(Figes 2008: 139).
4. Reconnection with ordinary life
Finally, the third dimension of testimony is placed at the heart of Figes narration where
readers contemplate the true testimonial relationship established in 1948 between Edith,
the witness-bearer, and Eva, the addressee of her traumatic narration. The reporting of
Ediths testimony is integrated into the narrators exercise of returning to her past
memories. In order to carry out this difficult task, Figes combines different techniques.
Direct speech reporting is used in the early representation of the conversations they
held so many years before, as in: It was my last job in service, she said finally (Figes
2008: 75). On certain occasions, Ediths story is interrupted by the author-narrator,
who assumes the narrative role and gives information about the maids life and her
feelings for her, as when she comments: Edith was poor and single or Edith was
family (2008: 33, 59). Later, there are passages in which reported dialogue brings these
past conversations to life, as in: So you still went out, in spite of everything? Of course,
said Edith, getting up to throw the peapods into the bin, then adding hot water to the
teapot. It was the only way to keep sane (2008: 92). On other occasions the I of the
author-narrator blurs as the narrator adopts Ediths position and fuses her own identity
with that of the maid, rendering the maids own words in free indirect speech, with no
clear transition between the herself and Edith. The following is one of the many
passages in which the author-narrator starts narrating Ediths account in the third
person but then changes to the first, thus expressing her own troubled state of identity,
as Ediths speech now controls the narration, as in 1948.
She was talking about Jews, I knew, who were legally obliged to employ only Jewish maids, if
they lived in and were under the age of 45, to avoid the possibility of sex between master and
servant, thus defiling the purity of Aryan womanhood. But I managed to get by for quite a
while, doing unofficial jobs. . . . Once I even helped out in a family grocery shop. It had a
room at the back where I could sleep. (2008: 76, emphasis added)
As has been explained, in Figes text the collective trauma is that of the Jews who were killed
during the Holocaust, of the ones who had to emigrate leaving part of their families behind and
of those who suffered the consequences of the wrong political decisions made at the time when
they tried to find their place in the new state of Israel. Individual traumas are these of the writer
herself, her relatives and Edith. For more information on the notion of cultural and collective
trauma see Kirmayer Lemelson and Barad 2007 and Anzte and Lambek 1996.
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This part of the book responds to Freuds talking-cure, with the little child as the only
possible witness to Ediths testifying act. At the end of the book, the adult narrator
explains the nature of this relationship as follows: And there she sat, day after day,
waiting for me to come home from school, telling me her story, which nobody wanted
to hear, except an immature schoolgirl who had begun to learn, the hard way, that life
has things to teach us that are seldom in the textbooks (Figes 2008: 180-81). In this
passage a contractual relationship between speaker and listener is established, based on
the assumption that the speaker reports some event that is not easy to talk about while
the hearer assumes the responsibility for that listening. Ediths testimony is initiated by
the innocent question that Eva poses about the situation in Berlin after she and her
family emigrated. The bearer of witness usually finds it very difficult to release her
feelings; however, after several conversations, and just as in the relationship between
psychiatrist and patient, Edith feels more relaxed due to her growing intimacy with the
child. Thus, she eventually manages to unveil her true opinions, for example, that in the
new Israel everybody hated everybody else (2008: 107). As Felman (1992: 47) explains,
the vital function of testimony is to liberate the self from pain. In this case, the greatest
liberation occurs at the moment of intense crisis when the author-narrator describes
how Edith collapsed during her narration: Her voice petered out. For the first time
since her arrival I looked up to see her crying (Figes 2008: 132). It is at this moment
that Ediths pain is finally released.
Evas reaction to this crisis is one of sheer bafflement: What Edith told me about the
newly created state of Israel left me puzzled and incredulous (2008: 133); this exemplifies
the interior crisis undergone by the addressee of testimonial narratives (Felman 1992: 4752). Theoretically, the addressee of a traumatic testimony should not identify with the
victim or appropriate her experience; rather, she should empathise with her and feel the
others suffering to some extent (Levinas 1996: 19). This reaction to the traumatic
experience on behalf of the witness can be related to the Levinasian face-to-face
relationship (1991:13) that takes place throughout the narration when the authornarrator witnesses Ediths pain and assumes her responsibility by including the maids
story in her own testimonial book. From this perspective, the blurring of first- and thirdperson voice may be said to echo at the narrative level the unsettlement experienced by
the author-narrator as the addressee of Ediths testimonial account. Both speaker and
listener feel changed after the testimonial act. Edith transfers her painful recollections to
Eva, who decides to tell this story for the sake of all those countless faces without names
who [like Edith] had been part of a vanished world (2008: 100-01). Figes testimonial
project succeeds in turning the unspeakable into the speakable and in voicing some
silenced versions of the historical events of the Holocaust and its aftermath.
The third phase of recovery, reconnection with ordinary life, the process whereby the
survivor comes to terms with him or herself, with the others and with the external
world by trying to find a survivor mission (Herman 2001: 207) materialises when
Figes finds the mission of being a writer. This is the best means to denounce such
terrible events as those endured by the collective that Edith represents. Although she felt
afraid of the polemic her work might raise, Figes decided that she had to assume this
task: I did what I had to do, asked for and got the necessary information, but the tears,
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kept back for so long, refused to stop. I decided I had no alternative other than to write
a book, being a writer (Figes 2008: 84).
Finally, I would like to emphasise the self-conscious testimonial nature of Journey to
Nowhere since it is full of references to traumatic processes themselves which echo
Freuds ideas and the discourse used by trauma studies. In one instance, the authornarrator describes her traumatic memories of the past as a wound that would not
heal, or remarks that she had been told that men are less deeply affected by the
trauma of displacement and loss (2008: 42, emphasis added). Here, Figes makes use of
the language of trauma to represent her painful experiences, another trait shared by
limit-case autobiographies (Gilmore 2001: 67). Furthermore, comments like This is
not just a personal story, a memoir of private events; it involves what is now history
(2008: 139), show the authors s belief in the power of testimonies to address historical
issues. In other words, Journey to Nowhere narrates and represents Figes and Ediths
testimonies and transmits them to the readers while, at the same time, bearing witness
to the act of bearing witness itself. This second facet gives the text as a whole a
performative function in unveiling the way in which testimonies are rendered and
received. Therefore, it could be stated that the performative engagement of
consciousness and history, characteristic of the literature of testimony, works at two
levels in Figes work. At the most explicit level, it represents the oral communication
between the two women, while less explicitly, it self-consciously mirrors and sets en
abyme the testimonial project carried out by the work as a whole.
5. Made my peace with the country
Taking all these aspects of Journey to Nowhere into account, some relevant conclusions
might be derived from the analysis. Firstly, since the events the author-narrator needed
to unveil were too horrible to be told in realistic terms, following traditional principles
of autobiographical writings, she attempted to work through her traumatic experiences
of the Holocaust by having recourse to the mixture of elements of autobiography,
biography, memoir, history and testimony. Thus, trauma has proved, once again, to
break the frame of self-representational writings.
As regards the process of working through, there are certain points in the narration
where readers can presume that the healing function of the narrative has been achieved, as
in: I have made my peace with the country in which I was born and acknowledge the fact
that I was born there, without caveat (Figes 2008: 82). Or in: Perhaps that is their
function [of the new generation], or part of it. Asking the difficult questions What
Grandmother remembers has become part of history, and it is, after all, their history too
(2008: 140), where the author-narrator makes reference to the transgenerational
transmission of trauma as one of the main mechanisms for healing her soul. In fact, this
transmission of history and trauma is not limited to the third generation embodied by
Figes' granddaughters, since it is extended to all the people the book bears testimony to.
However, although writing this limit-case autobiography has been essential to work
through her past experiences, Figes admits that a complete overcoming of the traumatic
experience is never possible: now I am quite open about my past, and have to reassure a
younger generation that, really, they have nothing to feel bad about but even that is not
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always enough to heal old wounds (2008: 84). It may be stated that the connection
between healing trauma and bearing witness has been demonstrated: written and oral
testimonies are able to transmit historical and political reflections; they can also be useful
for unveiling individual and collective traumatic experiences. Furthermore, Henkes
theory of scriptotherapy is corroborated by Figes memoir, since this life-writing project
brings into being a healing narrative that restores the fragmented self to an empowered
position of psychological agency (Henke: 1998: xvi).
Journey to Nowhere may be claimed to be a limit-case autobiography, since it is a
testimonial project which offers new alternatives to the traditional autobiographical
genres. That is, although neither traditional nor new autobiographical genres attempt to
provide universal versions of history, limit cases are more concerned with the relation
between history and individual stories. The fusion of various literary and non-literary
genres makes Journey to Nowhere a perfect example of limit cases. This blend of genres
has served as a tool to narrativise individual, familial and national stories at the same
time (Gilmore 2001: 72) and to denounce the way trauma ruptures the boundaries of
simple representations of the autobiographical I. Figes also makes use of other liminal
features, such as autobiographical experimentation, the use of self-conscious comments
on trauma and the construction of an embedded narrative made of the testifying acts
which self-reflexively call attention to the testimonial nature of life writing itself. Also
worth noting is the fact that, from Gilmores perspective, these self-representational
projects may be open ended, susceptible to repetition, extendible, even, perhaps,
incapable of completion (2001: 96). As Figes last words before the epilogue confirm,
She [Edith] continued on her journey, as we all must do, and I having listened to her
story all those years ago, decided it was worth recording. Now, while there is still time
(2008: 181). These reflections express the need to continue transferring these individual
stories of pain and survival so that they cannot be blotted out of our collective memory.
The book, then, does not finish when readers reach its ending, as its message must
continue to be spread generation after generation.
Trauma has emerged as the main destabilising force in contemporary literature in
general and, more concretely, in testimonial projects. Trauma has generated a new
relationship between literature and testimony and has brought about the appearance of
new life-writing genres, as happens in Journey to Nowhere. Figes concrete case can be
extended to many other contemporary writers who have organised their autobiographical
narrations around the exposure of a concealed trauma (Luckhurst 2008: 132). In short,
Figes political and testimonial work confirms that the need to voice trauma has opened
up new narrative possibilities that render these experiences speakable; hence, the
explosion of narratives dealing with traumatised lives has increased the importance of
studying trauma itself and its different manifestations in literature. The emergence of
these new miscellaneous literary forms has fostered the development of the new critical
and analytical tools provided by the school of trauma studies, which may allow literary
critics to unveil the individual and collective conflicts present in these narrations.
Works Cited
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Allison, Dorothy 1993 (1992): Bastard Out of Carolina. New York: Plume.
Antze, Paul and Michael Lambek 1996: Tense Past. Cultural Essays in Trauma and Memory. New
York and London: Routledge.
Barthes, Roland 1990 (1977): The Death of the Author and From Work to Text. Stephen
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Behlau, Ulrike 2004: Remembering Their Lives: Leila Berg, Linda Grant Anne Karpf, and Louise
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Berg, Leila 1997: Flickerbook: An Autobiography. London: Granta Books.
Brauner, David 2001: Post-war Jewish Fiction: Ambivalence, Self-Explanation and Transatlantic
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Buell, Lawrence 1991: Autobiography in the American Renaissance. Paul John Eakin, ed.
American Autobiography: Retrospect and Prospect. Madison: U of Wisconsin P. 47-70.
Caruth, Cathy 1995: Trauma: Explorations in Memory. Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins UP.
1996: Unclaimed Experience: Trauma, Narrative, and History. Baltimore and London:
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Charcot, Jean Michele 1887 : Lecons sur les maladies du systme nerveux. Vol. 3. Paris: A. Delahaye.
Cheyette, Bryan, ed. 1998: Contemporary Jewish Writing in Britain and Ireland. An Anthology.
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Cross, Stephanie 2009: Rev. of Journey to Nowhere, by Eva Figes. The Observer 8 Feb.: 26.
Diski, Jenny 2005 (1997): Skating to Antarctica. London: Virago.
Erikson, Kai 1995: Notes on Trauma and Community. Cathy Caruth, ed. Trauma: Explorations
in Memory. Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins UP. 183-99.
Feigel, Lara 2008: Zionism in the Dock: Eva Figes Launches a Vituperative Attack on Israel: Eva
Figes Journey to Nowhere. The Observer 6 July: 30.
Felman, Shoshana and M. D. Dori Laub 1992: Testimony. Crises of Witnessing in Literature,
Psychoanalysis, and History. New York: Routledge.
Figes, Eva 1978: Little Eden. A Child at War. New York: Persea Books.
2003: Tales of Innocence and Experience. An Exploration. London: Bloomsbury.
2008: Journey to Nowhere. One Woman Looks for the Promised Land. London: Granta Books.
Freud, Sigmund 2001a (1920): Beyond the Pleasure Principle. Beyond the Pleasure Principle,
Group Psychology and Other Works. The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works
of Sigmund Freud. Vol. 18. Ed. and trans. James Strachey. London: Vintage. 7-64.
2001b (1939): Moses and Monotheism. Moses and Monotheism, An Outline of PsychoAnalysis and Other Works. The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of
Sigmund Freud. Vol. 23. Ed. and trans. James Strachey. London: Vintage. 1-137.
Freud, Sigmund and Josef Breuer. 1991a (1893): On the Psychical Mechanism of Hysterical
Phenomena: Preliminary Communication, James and Alix Strachey, ed and trans. Studies on
Hysteria. London: Penguin. 53-69.
Freud, Sigmund and Josef Breuer. 1991b (1895): James and Alix Strachey, ed and trans. Studies on
Hysteria. London: Penguin.
Gilmore, Leigh 2001: The Limits of Autobiography. Trauma and Testimony. Ithaca and London:
Cornell UP.
Gilmore, Mikal 1994: Shot in the Heart. New York: Doubleday.
Grant, Linda 1999 (1998): Remind Me Who I am, Again. London: Granta Books.
Hartman, Geoffrey H. 2002 (1996): The Longest Shadow. In the Aftermath of the Holocaust. New
York: Palgrave Macmillan.
2003: Trauma within the Limits of Literature. European Journal of English Studies 7.3: 257-74.
Henke, Suzette A. 1998: Shattered Subjects: Trauma and Testimony in Womens Life-Writing.
London: McMillan.
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Herman, Judith Lewis 2001 (1992): Trauma and Recovery. From Domestic Abuse to Political
Terror. London: Pandora.
Jung, Carl G. 1990 (1959): The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious. Vol. 9, part 1 of The
Collected Works of Carl Jung. Ed. M. Fordham and G. Adler. Trans. R. C. Hull and H. Read.
London: Routledge.
Karpf, Anne 1997 (1996): The War After. London: Minerva.
2008: Rev. of Journey to Nowhere, by Eva Figes. The Guardian 12 July: 7.
Karpf, Anne, Brian Klug, Jacqueline Rose and Barbara Rosenbaum, eds. 2007: Independent Jewish
Voices on Israel, Zionism and Jewish Identity: A Time to Speak Out. London and New York: Verso.
Kincaid, Jamaica 1996: The Autobiography of my Mother. New York: Farrar, Strauss and Giroux.
Kirmayer, Laurence J., Robert Lemelson and Mark Barad, eds. 2007: Understanding Trauma.
Integrating Biological, Clinical, and Cultural Perspectives. Cambridge: Cambridge UP.
LaCapra, Dominick 2001: Writing History, Writing Trauma. Baltimore and London: Johns
Hopkins UP.
Lang, Berel, ed. 1988: Writing and the Holocaust. New York and London: Holmes & Meier.
Langer, Lawrence L. 2000: Foreword. Joshua M. Greene and Shiva Kumar, eds. Witness: Voices
from the Holocaust. New York: The Free Press. xi-xix.
Levi, Primo 2000 (1947): If this is a Man; and The truce. London: Everyman.
Levinas, Emmanuel 1991 (1961): Totality and Infinity: An Essay on Exteriority. Dordrecht: Kluwer
Academic Publishers.
1996: Basic Philosophical Writings. Ed. Adriaan T. Peperzak, Simon Critchley and Robert
Bernasconi. Indiana: Indiana UP.
Light, Alison 2004: Writing Lives. Laura Marcus and Peter Nicholls, eds. The Cambridge History
of Twentieth Century Literature. Vol. 1. Cambridge: Cambridge UP. 751-67.
Luckhurst, Roger 2006: Mixing Memory and Desire: Psychoanalysis, Psychology, and Trauma
Theory. Patricia Waugh, ed. Literary Theory and Criticism. An Oxford Guide. Oxford: Oxford
UP. 497-507.
2008: The Trauma Question. London: Routledge.
Mott, Frederick Walker 1919: War Neuroses and Shell Shock. London: Hodder & Stoughton.
Myers, Charles S. 1940: Shell Shock in France. Cambridge: Cambridge UP.
Pellicer-Ortn, Silvia 2009: Interview with Eva Figes. Unpublished.
Robben, Antonius C. G. M. and Marcelo M. Surez-Orozco 2000: Cultures under Siege. Collective
Violence and Trauma. Cambridge: Cambridge UP.
Schwartz, Daniel R. 1999: Imagining the Holocaust. New York: Library of Congress.
Whitehead, Anne 2004: Trauma Fiction. Edinburgh: Edinburgh UP.
2009: Memory. London and New York: Routledge.
Winterson, Jeanette 1992: Written on the Body. London: Jonathan Cape.
Wiesel, Elie 2008 (1958): Night. London: Penguin Books.
Silvia Pellicer-Ortn (BA and M. A. Zaragoza) is a Research Fellow at the University of Zaragoza (Spain).
Her main research interests lie in contemporary British fiction, with a special focus on the ethical and
traumatic component in the writings of sexual and ethnic minorities, the Holocaust and the question of
Jewishness and feminism.
Address: Departamento de Filologa Inglesa y Alemana, Facultad de Filosofa y Letras, Universidad de
Zaragoza, 50009 Zaragoza, Spain. Tel.: +34 976761535. Fax: +34 976761535.
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Reconstructing the Old English

Cultural Model for Fear
Javier E. Daz Vera
Universidad de Castilla-La Mancha
JavierEnrique.Diaz@uclm.es
This paper explores cultural conceptualizations of fear in Old English texts. My research
is divided into the following steps: (i) definition and onomasiological arrangement of fear
terms (based on their distribution in the corresponding semantic space); (ii) weighing of
words and determining their relative relevance; and (iii) determining their degrees of
literalness within the scale literal meaning metonymy metaphor. I am especially
interested in the reconstruction and description of the cultural model of fear that can be
detected through the fine-grained analysis of the set of fear-related words and expressions
used in the bulk of surviving Anglo-Saxon texts.
Keywords: Old English; emotions; metaphor; fear; cultural models; conceptualization
Hacia una reconstruccin del modelo cultural del miedo en

ingls antiguo
En este artculo presento un anlisis de las conceptualizaciones culturales del miedo en textos
en ingls antiguo. Mi investigacin se divide en los siguientes pasos: (i) definicin y
ordenacin onomasiolgica del lxico del miedo (segn su distribucin en el espacio
semntico); (ii) peso de las palabras para determinar su relevancia relativa; y (iii)
determinacin de sus grados de literalidad dentro de la escala significado literal metonimia
metfora. Me interesa especialmente la reconstruccin y descripcin del modelo cultural del
miedo que puede detectarse a travs del anlisis detallado de un conjunto de expresiones y
trminos de miedo extrados de un corpus de textos anglo-sajones.
Palabras clave: Ingls antiguo; emociones; metfora; miedo; modelos culturales;
conceptualizacin
86
Javier E. Daz Vera
1. Introduction
In The Feeling of What Happens (1999), Damasio claims that we know that we feel an
emotion by sensing that something happens in our organism. Indeed, Damasio defines
emotion as the representation of that transient change in organism state in terms of
neural patterns and ensuing images. When those images are accompanied, one instant
later, by a sense of self in the act of knowing, and when they are enhanced, they become
conscious. They are, in the true sense, feelings of feelings (1999:282).
As to the verbalization of our emotional changes, Scherer argues that in the
evolution of languages certain types of distinctions between different types of
emotional processes have been considered important enough for communication to
generate different words or expressions (2005: 707-08). In order to analyze the
diachronic processes of creation of these new words and expressions, we need to
propose dynamic mappings for the fuzzy and complex semantic fields of each emotion
concept, trying to grasp the specificity of the processes referenced by the respective
lexemes through different historical periods.
The study of how metaphor and metonymy mediate our conceptualization of
emotions is not new; it has been extensively approached by Conceptual Metaphor
Theory (henceforth CMT; Feshmire 1994; Kvecses 1986, 1988, 1990; Lakoff 1987;
Lakoff and Johnson 1980; Lakoff and Kvecses 1987). A central claim by CMT scholars
is that human emotions are largely understood and expressed in metaphorical terms.
Furthermore, metaphorical conceptualizations are described in these studies as
universal, although most of the evidence supporting this claim is derived from PresentDay English varieties (especially from American English). The question remains as
whether, and to what extent, the same claim could hold in other languages and
linguistic varieties, present and past.
In fact, recent studies by Yu (2009) and Geeraerts and Gevaert (2008) have
questioned the universalistic view, showing that metaphors are not necessarily
universal, and that variation in the metaphorical conceptualization of emotions may be
sensitive to cultural and historical influences. Taking this claim as my starting point, in
this paper I propose a study of the lexical and conceptual field1 of FEAR in Old English
(hence OE), as represented by the textual data collected from the Dictionary of Old
English Corpus (diPaolo Healey et al. 2000). Special attention will be paid to the
definition and weighing of OE fear-terms, which I will classify into different groups
depending on their degree of literalness. I am especially interested in exploring how fear
was construed in OE and the role of metaphor in that construal, as suggested by the
fine-grained analysis of the set of fear-related words and expressions used in the
textual corpus. Furthermore, following Sweetser (1990: 45-48), I will try to show that
the system of interconnections between semantic fields is highly motivated, semantic
innovations depending greatly on the mental and physical effects caused by this
emotion.
1 Following Lyons (1977: 253), I will use the term conceptual field in order to refer to a
structured conceptual area, whereas lexical field will be used to refer to the set of lexical items that
covers a specific conceptual field.
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Together with shedding further light to our knowledge of OE fear words and
concepts, this paper forms part of a more general project concerning the
conceptualization of emotions in the history of different varieties of the English
language. Through a combination of historical onomasiology and cognitive linguistics,
my research will propose an analysis and description both of OE expressions literally
meaning FEAR and expressions that do not literally refer to this concept (that is,
metonyms and metaphors, both living and dead). Corpus linguistic methods
(Stefanowitsch 2004; Deignan 2005) will be applied in order to measure the relative
weight of each concept.
2. Methodology and data
Studies of the conceptualization of emotions in present-day varieties of languages
normally rely on data produced by native speakers. Linguists can easily reconstruct the
conceptualizations that lie behind the expressions used by their informants. However,
historical approaches to emotion terms and concepts are severely conditioned by the
lack of native speakers and by the absence of reliable lexicographic tools, such as
historical dictionaries and thesauruses. Consequently, a study of FEAR in past states of
language will necessarily have to start from the analysis of the words and phrases that
people actually produced when referring to fear in surviving, written texts, i.e. from a
reconstruction of the lexical field of FEAR in the corresponding historical period.
In order to describe the set of lexical items that articulate the OE conceptual field of
FEAR, I have used a series of lexicographic tools in which fear and its synonyms can be
searched in the definitions. The list includes the Dictionary of Old English: A-G on CDROM, the Anglo-Saxon Dictionary by Bosworth and Toller: An Electronic Application on
CR-ROM, and the Thesaurus of Old English Online. I have also used the Oxford English
Dictionary on CD-ROM v4.0.
Once the whole set of potential fear-words has been reconstructed, I have used the
Dictionary of Old English Corpus on CD-ROM in order to find all the occurrences of
each lexical unit in the bulk of OE texts. The resulting 2,772 quotations referring to
FEAR were then grouped into conceptual fields and classified into literal and figurative
meanings. Following Geeraerts and Gevaerts discussion on the expression of OE
anger (2008: 327), I will assume here that whenever the fear reading is the dominant
sense of the word, it can be considered literal, whereas words with secondary meanings
related to this emotion are considered figurative expressions. Thereafter, I will try to
show that, as in the case of anger (Geeraerts and Gevaerts 2008: 340-1), figurative
imagery occupies a minor role in the OE conceptualizations of fear.
3. The lexical field of fear in OE
According to the historical dictionaries and thesauruses referred to above, the OE
lexical field of FEAR consisted of, at least, 85 different lexical units, which includes
nouns, strong verbs, weak verbs, adjectives and adverbs. Thereafter, these lexical units
have been grouped into 33 expressions, a term I will use here in order to refer to a lexical
root and all its morphological derivations (such as prefixed verbs or suffixed adverbs)
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Javier E. Daz Vera
and its orthographical, declensional and inflectional variants. For example, the
expression ege fear will be used in this paper in order to refer to the nouns ege and
egesa, the adjectives egefull and egelic, the adverb egefullice and the verb egesian, among
others (up to 16 different lexical units derived from the expression ege).
In a second stage, these 33 OE expressions were classified into 19 etymological
themes (in small caps) and grouped into literal and figurative expressions.2 What
follows is a brief account of the findings of this analysis.
3.1. Fear as a strong emotion
According to the Toronto dictionary, OE anda envy, hatred, zeal, vexation, fear,
resentment (derived from the Indo-European stem *ant- breath) was used in order to
make reference to a wide variety of strong emotions, both positive and negative. The list
of negative emotions includes ENVY, SPITE, PRIDE, MALICE, ANGER, HOSTILITY,
RESENTMENT and FEAR, whereas the group of positive emotions includes FERVENT
DEVOTION, GOOD ZEAL and RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION. Consequently, the exact meaning
of anda is rather general, and it can be considered a hyperonym for the whole lexical
field of EMOTIONS in OE.
OE anda occurs on seven occasions with a clear reference to fear in our corpus: up
to five of these seven occurrences are glosses for Latin words for fear: tremor (one
attestation), timor (three attestations) and formido (one attestation). The remaining two
cases represent instances of the collocation on andan, meaning as a terror to sb, as in
example (1):
(1) a se gst ongan gledum spiwan, beorht hofu brnan; bryneleoma stod eldum on andan.
(Beo 2312)
Then the baleful fiend its fire belched out, and bright homes burned. The blaze stood
high all landsfolk frighting.
The dictionaries used in this research list three different expressions with the basic
meaning fear in OE: OE ege (derived from the Indo-European *agh- fear), OE forht
(from Indo-European *perg- fear, a stem attested exclusively in the Germanicspeaking area and, perhaps, in Tocharian; cf. IEW: 820) and OE racian (from the
Indo-European root *tergu- fear).
With up to 1,731 occurrences in the corpus3 (amounting to 65.08% of the total
number of occurrences of fear-words in the corpus, i.e. 2,656), OE ege is by far the most
frequently used fear-expression in the Toronto Corpus. Within this set of lexical roots,
the noun ege (and its inflectional and orthographical variants) is found in a total of
1,052 occurrences distributed over hundreds of texts of different genres and,
consequently, is the most neutral and most frequently used lexeme to indicate fear in
OE texts.
2 The terms expression and etymological theme are taken from Gevaert (2002) and Geeraerts
and Gevaert (2008).
3 See Appendix 1 for a whole list of OE fear-words and etymological themes, along with their
derivates and number of occurrences.
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Another difference between ege and the other expressions analyzed here has to do
with its capacity to create new derived lexical units from the basic root, not only by
prefixation (for example, OE geegesian) but also by suffixation (such as OE egesa), zeroderivation (as in the adjective OE ega) and word-composition (as in OE egefull). Table 1
shows a list of the 16 lexical units derived from the OE expression ege, their grammatical
function, number of occurrences in the corpus and restrictions to their use in AngloSaxon texts (for example, words that occur only in poetic texts or in glosses).
OE LEXICAL UNIT
ege
egesa
egeslc
ga
egesfull
egelce
egeslce
egefull
egesian
geegesian
egefullc
egesfullce
egesfullnes
egelc
egnes
egesig
GRAMMAR
N OCCURRENCES
n.
n.
adj.
n.
adj.
adv.
adv.
adj.
wk.
wk.
adj.
adv.
n.
adj.
n.
adj.
1,052
193
281
84
76
60
53
33
13
11
7
5
3
2
1
1
FLAG
poetry
glosses
glosses
poetry
Table 1. Lexical units derived from OE ege
This derived vocabulary will be treated here as individual semantic specifications

within the area of meaning expressed by the root expression. Functionally speaking,
they act as determinants of the root, modifying its meaning in the same way as an
adjective does to a noun or an adverb to a verb. The recurrent use by speakers of a
language of a lexical root for the derivation of new lexemes known as The Lexical
Productivity Principle, or LPP (Daz Vera 2002: 55-56) is another clear indicator of the
high degree of prototypicality of the OE noun ege within the lexical domain of FEAR.
A third prototypicality marker has to do with the high degree of morphosyntactic
variation of OE ege, understood as the wider range of syntactic constructions displayed
by this OE noun in the corpus. This general idea has been formulated by Faber and
Mairal (1997: 8) in terms of the Lexical Iconic Principle, which affirms that the greater
the semantic coverage of a lexeme, the greater its syntactic variations. The noun ege can
be followed by any of the following complements:
i. a genitive complement, as in drihtnes ege fear of the Lord;
ii. the preposition to plus a noun in the dative, as in ege to Gode fear of God;
iii. the preposition for plus a noun in the dative, as in ege for re anlycnisse fear
of their appearance;
iv. the preposition of plus a noun in the dative, as in ege of him fear of them.
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Javier E. Daz Vera

v.
the preposition fram plus a noun in the dative, as in ege fram Romanum fear of
the Romans.
Unlike other OE words for FEAR, OE ege has a neutral axiological value, its positive
or negative value exclusively depending on the situational context.4 The type of fear
conveyed by the OE expression ege is, as indicated by Fabiszak, frequently desirable and
commendable, as [t]he fear of God in Heaven or the king on earth constituted
important factors in the construction of social order (2002: 265). Here are some
illustrations of positive (2-3) and negative (4-5) fear in OE:
(2) Hwt sind a gastlican earfan buton a eadmodan e Godes ege habba. & nane
toundennysse nabba. (CHom I, 36 492.181)
That are not the poor in spirit but the humble that have fear of God and have no
arrogance.
(3) And sona swa eos geofu urh Drihtnes miht on heora heortan alegd wes, hie wron
toon frome & toon anrode, t hie forhogodan ege ealra eorlicra cyninga. (HomS
47, BlHom 12, 1272)
And as soon as the gift was put in their hearts through the power of the Lord, they
were so firm and so steadfast that they despised the fear of all earthly kings.
(4) a wear hit arde hi gebringon sceolde. swa mycel ge fram am here. et man ne mihte
geeoncean ne asmgian hu man of e (ChronE 1006.32).
They were so much inspired by fear of the host that they were incapable of devising
or drawing up a plan to get them out of the country.
(5) He [Antecrist] de t fyr cym ufene ... ac se e for s fyres ege him to gebih, he sceal
aa on helle on ecan bryne wunian. (Whom 4 62)
He [the Antichrist] made that fire come from above but those who bend their
knees by fear of the fire will live forever in the eternal flames of hell.
Unlike OE ege, the OE expression forhtu (424 attestations) encodes more negative
aspects of fear, such as physical and mental paralysis and the need to escape away. The
corpus shows very few occurrences of forhtu words with nouns referring to God, kings,
or social superiors in general as sources of fear. On most occasions, the emotion of fear
is provoked by death, as in examples (6) and (7):
(6) Ws him gweer m eadigan were ge seo Godes lufu tos hat & tos beorht on his
heortan, eah he for m deae ne forhtode, ah hine s heardost langode hwanne he
of isse worlde moste (LS 17.1, MartinMor, 271).
Not only was the love of God so fervent and bright in his heart of this blessed man,
but he also was not afraid of death, but longed very greatly for it when he might
depart from this world.
4 Following Dillard and Anderson, I will claim here that negative emotions arise from the
appraisal that the environment is incongruent with the individuals goals and that positive emotions
follow from appraisals of compatibility between goals and environment (2004: 911-12).
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(7) Ne forhta u ana for ysum feondlican cwellere, ac underfoh one dea swa swa ine
gebrora dydon, t ic e eft underfo on eadignysse mid heom (LS, Maccabees, 180).
And fear not only because of this fiendlike murderer, but receive the death, even as
your brothers did, that I may again receive you in blessedness with them.
Less frequently, fear is provoked by the urgent need to carry out an order (as in 8) or
by the risk of committing sin (as in 9):
(8) a he a se biscop as word ... mid mycelre inbryrdnesse heortan & swylce eac
forhtigendre tungan gefylde, a dydon a broor swa he het, ond one lichoman
gegyredon mid neowum hrgle (Bede 4 31.376.25).
When the bishop had said this with great penance of the heart and their tongues
full of fear, the brothers did as he had commanded and dressed the body in new
garments.
(9) Ondrde man domdg & for helle agrise, & ecre reste earnie man georne, & ghwylce
dge a manna gehwylc forhtige for synnum (WHom 10c 182).
Man shall fear Doomsday and tremble at the thought of hell, and man shall eagerly
earn eternal rest and on each day always each man shall be frightened on account of
his sins.
Similarly, OE racian and its derivates racian and onracian (31 attestations in all)
are used in OE texts in order to refer to extreme fear or dismay, normally in relation
with someones inability to cope with peril or calamity (glossing or translating Latin
horrens and terribilis), as illustrated by (10):
(10) Hi anracia to gefarenne lifes wegas. and swa eah ne wandia to licgenne on
stuntnysse heora asolcennysse (CHom II, 43 321.104).
They dread to travel the ways of life, and yet do not shrink from lying in the folly of
their sloth.
Taking all this into consideration, one could confidently affirm that OE ege is the
most prototypical lexeme within the dimension of FEAR and, as a consequence, has the
widest semantic coverage within its semantic space. The remaining lexical units within
this space can thus be treated as hyponyms of OE ege, that is, versions of qualitatively
the same emotion expressing different degrees of intensity, rapidity or duration. This is
the case of OE forht and its causative cognate fyrhtu, as well as OE racian and its
derivates, which encode a clearly negative axiological value in most of the examples
analyzed here.
3.2. Fear and related emotions
According to our analysis of OE words for fear, the emotions that seem more similar to
FEAR are ANGER, DISGUST and SADNESS. The connection between FEAR and ANGER is not
new. According to Kvecses (2000: 21-24), Present-Day English conceptual metaphors
for these two emotions have six different source domains in common, that is, they are
drawn from the same six conceptual fields: HOT FLUID, OPPONENT, INSANITY, BURDEN,
NATURAL FORCE and SOCIAL SUPERIOR. Furthermore, in his statistical approach to
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Javier E. Daz Vera
emotion metaphors, Stefanowitsch (2006: 71-82) identifies up to fourteen common

source domains, including LIQUID, COLD, HEAT, LIGHT and DARKNESS. According to his
analysis of a sample from the British National Corpus, up to 282 occurrences of ANGER
metaphors (out of 388, i.e. 73.06%) illustrate source domains that are shared with FEAR
metaphors, whereas up to 138 occurrences of FEAR metaphors (out of 172, i.e. 80.23%)
represent source domains that are shared with ANGER metaphors.
It is hard to justify this relationship between fear and anger in terms of similar
physical responses. According to Ungerer and Schmid (2006: 134), these two emotions
have completely different physiological effects, namely drop vs. increase in body
temperature; paleness vs. redness in face and neck; dryness of mouth vs. crying and
tears; lapses of heartbeat vs increased pulse rate. From a sociological perspective, Stets
and Turner (2008: 35-36) argue that anger is caused by fear, especially in those cases
where individuals attribute their fear not to their own, personal shortcomings but to
external factors: Fear comes from a lack of power, and if individuals attribute this fear
to their own shortcomings, then fear leads to withdrawal and flight responses; if
individuals make external attributions, fear turns into anger, aggression, and fight
response (Stets and Turner 2008: 36).
From an etymological point of view, the existence of an ancient link between these
two emotions is illustrated by the presence in our lexical list of OE col (16 attestations),
a term exclusively used in poetic texts. Derived from the Indo-European root *aig(originally meaning angry), this adjective has kept its original primary meaning of Old
Norse eikinn angry, fierce, whereas its OE cognate col has changed its original
meaning of anger to fear, as in (11):
(11) No on gewitte blon, acol for y egesan, s e he r ongann, t he a domlicost dryhten
herede, weorade wordum (And 1265).
Never did he cease, stricken by fear, from what he had formerly began, but he ever
most gloriously praised his Lord, honoured Him with words.
On a more synchronic level, the OE polysemic expression l (from Indo-European

*leit- to hate) can be used to refer either to the act of showing anger (as in 12) or to the
act of showing terror (as in 13). However, this second meaning (which is a diachronic
derivation from the original one and, consequently, chronologically later), is restricted
in our OE texts to glosses and translations of Latin horroscere (two single attestations in
the whole corpus):
(12) No y r in gescod halan lice; hring utan ymbbearh, t heo one fyrdhom urhfon ne
mihte, locene <leoosyrcan> laan fingrum (Beo 1502).
But no harm came thereby to the hale body within, the harness so ringed him that
she could not drive her dire fingers.
(13) horrescit alaode (AldV 13.1; from ALDH. Pros.virg. 47, 301.11 verumtamen mens Deo
dedita ... olidos ergastulorum squalores horrescit).
Stefanowitsch (2006: 88-90) refers to up to nine different source domains that link
Present-Day metaphors of FEAR and DISGUST. The list includes not only very general
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emotion metaphors (such as SUBSTANCE IN A CONTAINER, OPPONENT, LIQUID), but also

more specific patterns (as in the case of ORGANISM, SHARP OBJECT). Up to 93 occurrences
of DISGUST metaphors (out of 120, i.e. 77.50%) illustrate source domains shared with
FEAR, but only 111 occurrences of FEAR metaphors (out of 386, i.e. 28.76%) correspond to
source domains shared with DISGUST metaphors. In fact, our physical responses are very
different, the existence of a link between these fear and disgust being justified by the fact
that both emotions are aroused when we perceive a threat from an object.
The OE verb racian (described in 3.1) represents this link from a diachronic
onomasiological point of view. In fact, from the original meaning fear inherited from
Indo-European, OE speakers developed a secondary meaning to regard with disgust,
abhor, as in (14):
(14) u to alysenne u onfenge menn u ne aracodest mdenu innoes (PsCaF 14(10).16).
When you took upon yourself to deliver man, thou did not shun the Virgin's womb.
Similarly, the OE noun atol (from the Indo-European root *od- hate) and its
derivates are used in order to refer to something that produces either fear (as in 15; 121
attestations in the corpus) or revulsion (as in 16, translating Latin deformis), illustrating
the semantic connection between ANGER, FEAR and DISGUST:
(15) Grap a togeanes, gurinc gefeng atolan clommum (Beo 1501).
She groped towards him, seized the warrior, in horrid grasp.
(16) Deformem atole (ClGl 3 1616; prob. from ALDH. Carm.virg. 597 matronae rugosae ...
figuram vidit ... deformem).
As for SADNESS, Stefanowitsch (2006: 84-88) identifies seven different source

domains shared with FEAR in Present-Day English: CAPTIVE ANIMAL, NATURAL FORCE,
PAIN, HEAT/COLD, DARKNESS, DESEASE and LIQUID. The degree of overlap is much lower
here than in the cases of ANGER and DISGUST described above. In fact, only 102
occurrences of SADNESS metaphors (out of 238, i.e. 42.86%) illustrate source domains
that are shared with FEAR metaphors, whereas just 59 occurrences of FEAR metaphors
(out of 386, i.e. 15.28%) represent source domains that are shared with SADNESS
metaphors. The link between FEAR and SADNESS is illustrated by the OE adjective frorig,
used by Anglo-Saxon speakers in order to refer to sad (two attestations) and to scared
(one single attestation), a synaesthetic expression of the sensation of cold that
frequently accompanies these two emotions, as illustrated by (17):
(17) Ongon a hygegeomor, freorig ond ferwerig, fusne gretan (GuthB 1156).
He, mournful, sad and weary of soul, resolved to greet the departing.
3.3. Bodily reactions 1: Fear as uncontrolled movement

In many cases, bodily reactions to fear are metonymically used to refer to the emotion.
This is the case of OE eargian to turn coward, to grow timid (14 attestations in the
corpus), derived from an Indo-European root *ergh- to tremble, shake, which is also
present in Greek to dance. Significantly, OE earge is sometimes used to gloss
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Javier E. Daz Vera
Latin adulter, peccatrix, luxuriosus and other words for socially inappropriate
behaviours, fear being one of the immediate consequences of such acts.
(18) <Generatio mala et adultera signum quaerit> cneorisso yflo & arg becon soecas (MtGl
(Li) 12.39).
He looks for signs of a bad and adulterous generation.
Similarly, OE drdan (from Indo-European *ter- to turn around) and its derivates
(163 attestations in the whole corpus) referred originally to the instinctive reaction of
moving away from the source of fear, turning the face in another direction in order to
avoid seeing it. The semantic change from the original to turn around to the
metonymic to fear was already completed in OE times, as can be seen in example (19):
(19) Ondrde man domdg & for helle agrise, & ecre reste earnie man georne, & ghwylce
dge a manna gehwylc forhtige for synnum (WHom 10c 182).
Man shall fear Doomsday and tremble at the thought of hell, and man shall eagerly
earn eternal rest and on each day always each man shall be frightened on account of
his sins.
Whereas this OE verb, which is frequently used without an expressed object, has
fear as its basic meaning, other Anglo-Saxon predicates have kept their original
meanings related to motion, but are frequently used to refer to the instinctive reactions
and movements produced by fear. This is the case of OE wandian to turn away from
something (from Indo-European *wendh- to wind; 10 attestations), OE feallan to fall
down (from Indo-European *phol- to fall; three attestations) and OE creopan to
creep (from Indo-European *ger- to turn; three attestations). Examples with these
verbs can be seen in (20-22):
(20) Sien gesciende & forwandian scunian fiend mine a sc sule mine (PsGlE
69.3).
Let my enemies be confounded and scared, who seek my soul.
(21) And a eode he lythwon from him, & feoll a ofer his anwlitan, & gebd (HomS
19 64).
And he went a little farther from him and fell on his face and prayed.
(22) & a wreccan munecas lagon onbuton am weofode. & sume crupon under. & gyrne
cleopedon to Gode his miltse biddende. a a hi ne mihton nane miltse t mannum
begytan (ChronE 1083.20).
And the wretched monks lay about the altar, and some crept under, and earnestly
called upon God, imploring his mercy, since they could not obtain any at the hands
of men.
Downward inclination of the body or the head is also considered a sign of

veneration, submission and reverence in the Anglo-Saxon world. In fact, OE writers use
the predicates feallan and creopan in order to refer to the physical expression of these
feelings, showing the existence of a close connection between them and fear. These
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predicates indicate that fear was conceptualized as A NATURAL FORCE (as in OE wandian)
and as A SUPERIOR (as in OE feallan and creopan) by speakers of OE.
Another kind of behaviour that is typically associated with fear is PARALYSIS, as
someone who is scared tends to keep still in order to remain unnoticed. In this group of
predicates we find OE bidan to wait (15 attestations as fear-word) and OE sittan to sit
(eight attestations as fear-word), both of which have the secondary meaning to fear in
OE, as can be seen in (23) and (24), respectively:
(23) Ewit bad heorte min & ermu (PsGlA 68.20).
My heart feared affront and disgrace.
(24) Fela we mihton ymbe issum ingum maelian, ac we asitta t a boceras ascunion
t we ymbe heora digolnyssa us rumlice spreca (ByrM 1 3.3.120).
Many of us might tell about these things, but we feared that the scholars would
regard us with disfavour if spoke at length about their secrets.
Similarly, the OE expression blycgan to frighten (derived from the Indo-European

root *bhlu- weak; 28 attestations) refers to the impossibility to move caused by fear,
as can be seen in example (25):
(25) His magas a & necheburas wurdon earle urh a dde ablicgede. & heora nan ne
dorste am fearre genealcan (CHom I, 34 466.19).
His relatives and his neighbours were struck with fear by these deeds and dared not
approach nearer to them.
3.4. Bodily reactions 2: Fear as change in volume, colour or flexibility

The OE fear-domain also finds a source of metonymic expressions in the field of
physical change, as fear is experienced as becoming small, pale or rigid. Change in
volume is expressed in the OE predicate scrincan to shrink (from Indo-European
*sker- to lean; seven attestations in all). Similarly to other OE fear-words
metonymically derived from verbs expressing paralysis, OE scrincan refers to the need
to remain unnoticed by the cause of fear (an enemy, a danger, etc), as (26) illustrates:
(26) a wear se cyng to an swye afyrht t he eall ascranc & man him ldde to one
wytege Daniel (CHom II, 33( G) 253.142).
The king shrank with fear and they took him to Daniel the Wise.
OE blcian to turn pale (derived from the Indo-European root *bhleg- shine; 3
occurrences as fear-word, e.g. 27) and hw paleness, lack of colour (privative form of
the Indo-European root *kei- dark, i.e. not dark; two attestations in translations such
as 28) can also be used to express fear in OE. From a biological point of view, becoming
pale can be seen either as a direct consequence of the blood pressure decrease that
normally accompanies the sensation of fear or, as in the case of the preceding predicates
of change of volume, as a mimetic mechanism of self-defense.
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Javier E. Daz Vera

(27) a strentstan [-] heold oga ege ablacodon ealle eardigende (PsCaJ 5(4).15).
Trembling seized on the stout men (of Moab) and all the inhabitants (of Chanaan)
became white with fear.
(28) meticulosis <palloribus>, timidis hiwum, ablcungum (AldV 1 4779).
Finally, fear is conceptualized as rigidity of the body or the limbs by OE speakers.

The expressions OE stian to become hard (from the Indo-European root *stennarrow; one attestation) and stfian to become rigid (from the Indo-European root
*stp- stick; four attestations) are used with reference to fear in examples (29) and (30):
(29) a wurdon gedrefede synd fromringas ealdras [-]; a strencgstan [-] heold bifung;
<ablacodon> astiedan ealle eardigende [-] (PsCaG 5(4).15).
Then were the princes (of Edom) troubled; trembling seized on the might men (of
Moab); all the inhabitants (of Chanaan) became pale and stiff with fear.
(30) Ne mg r ni man be <agnum> gewyrhtum gedyrstig wesan, deman gehende, ac
ealle urhyrn oga tsomne, breostgehyda ... and r stnt astifad, stane gelicast, eal
arleas heap yfeles on wenan (JDay II 170).
Nor may there any man, by work of merit, bold become in presence of the judge, but
fear will run alike through all, thoughts of the heart and there will stand, stiffened
like to stone, all the wicked troop in expectation of evil.
3.5. Bodily sensations and the container metaphor

Lakoff (1987: 380-415) analyzes the conceptualisation of certain emotions and feelings
in terms of metaphors and metonymies dealing with the temperature domain. In his
account, many of our everyday words for emotions stem from a combination of two
ontological metaphors: THE BODY IS A CONTAINER FOR EMOTIONS and EMOTIONS ARE
TEMPERATURE CHANGES. It is difficult to know where these metaphors originated; in any
case, they are highly consistent with the general belief that emotions must be released
or they will cause damage, either by being held in or by exploding out of control
(Planalp 1999: 107). The idea of the body container is expressed in the corpus by the OE
predicate fyllan to fill (22 attestations in relation to fear, one of them illustrated by 31):
(31) Foran e ... he us fylled mid Godes ege (CHom I, 22( B) 363.228).
So that he will fill us with fear of God.
The use of the concepts of HEAT and COLD as source domains for a wide variety of
emotions is well attested in many world languages (Kvecses 2005: 39). According to
Stefanowitsch (2006), HEAT is used in Present-Day in order to refer to ANGER, FEAR,
HAPPINESS and DISGUST, whereas COLD is used for ANGER, FEAR, SADNESS and DISGUST.
These synaesthetic conceptualizations are expressed in the OE vocabulary by the
expressions blysian to blaze (one single attestation: example 32) and frosan to freeze
(two attestations, one of which is 33). Furthermore, fear is conceptualized as trembling
in the OE verbs cwacian (from *cwac-, a typically Anglo-Saxon root expressing agitation
or instability; 11 attestations, e.g. 34) and bifian (from Indo-European *bhi- to fear;
22 attestations, e.g. 35):
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(32) Syn gescynde & anracian samod a e seca sawle mine ... gecyrran on bcling &
anracian & ablysian a e wilnia willa me yfelu (PsGlI 39.15).
Are both confused and frightened those who seek my soul repented and frightened
and blazing those who want me badly.
(33) Wara hine wrclast, nales wunden gold, ferloca freorig, nals foldan bld (Wan 32).
The path of exile holds him, not at all twisted gold, a frozen spirit, not the bounty of
the earth.
(34) Swa Dauid cw, a eamodan heortan & a forhtgendan & a bifigendan & a
cwacigendan & a ondrdendan heora Scyppend, ne forhoga a nfre God ne ne
forsyh (HomU 20 9).
As David said, the humble and fearing and trembling and quaking hearts and those
fearing their Creator, God will never despise nor disregard.
(35) On an twelften dige eorne mnn geond eall middeneard byfigende & drdende
Cristes tocyme to demene cwican & deaden (Notes 22 38).
On the twelfth day men ran through all the earth shivering and dreading Christs
coming to judge the living and the dead.
These two concepts imply that fear (and emotions in general) is a fluid that flows
within the body producing changes in its temperature. Furthermore, this fluid can
dissipate or become a vapor once the emotion has come to its end, as in OE dwnan to
disperse (one single attestation, shown in 36):
(36) Witodlice mannes ege is smice gelic & hrdlice onne he astyred bi fordwin
(CHom I, 38 515.242).
Human fear is similar to smoke in that it dissipates quickly when excitation goes away.
3.6. Fear is an opponent

The need to fight fear is represented by the metaphor FEAR IS AN OPPONENT, as
illustrated by the co-occurrence of many OE predicates related to war and fight.
According to the data extracted from the OE corpus, the following verbs could be used
in reference to fear: OE fn to take hold of (two attestations), OE grpan to seize (one
attestation), cuman to come (three attestations) and flygan to put away (1 attestation).
In some cases the reference to fear is rather vague and only contextual information
reveals whether they refer to fear or not.
OE fn is used as a fear-word in the asyndetic parataxis forht, afongen (i.e. scared
and seized by fear), as in example (37):
(37) [heo t deofol genom;] hyre se aglca ageaf ondsware, forht, afongen, fries orwena:
hwt, mec min fder on as fore to e, hellwarena cyning, hider onsende of am engan
ham (Jul 319).
[The wretched monster] gave answer to her, scared, seized by fear,
hopeless of peace: Listen, my father, the king of hell-citizens
sent me on this journey here to you, from that narrow home.
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Similarly, OE grpan is used with reference to fear (i.e. to grip somebody with fear)
in example (38), translating Latin apprehendo to seize:
(38) <fyrhto> bifung begrap hig r sarnessa swaswa eacnigendes wifes (PsGlI 47.7).
Terror took hold of them, as well as sorrow, like a woman in her travail.
As for OE cuman, it is used to translate Latin consternatus seized with fear,

astonished in (39):
(39) & aworden ws miy ohte gelegeno forcumeno woeron of isum heono tuoege
wras gestodon t neh m in gegerelo lixende (LkGl (Li) 24.4).
While they were scared about this, two men in clothes that were as bright as lightning
suddenly stood beside them.
Finally, OE flygan is used to gloss Latin concutere to strike with fear on one single
occasion, shown in (40):
(40) Witodlice nu mid iwracum nu mid witum nu mid onwrigenessum sume flyh t a
e sylfwilles beon gecyrrede (LibSc 11.44).
Certainly now with e stricken with fear until their wills threats and now with
torments and now with revelations some of them werwere changed.
4. OE fear weighed
The overall result of this onomasiological analysis is represented in Table 2. The table,
based on the model proposed by Geeraerts and Gevaert (2008: 339), mentions the
etymological themes used for this research, the actual OE expressions, the semantic
mechanisms they illustrate and their total number of attestations in the OE corpus.
Following Radden (2003), who argues that the distinction literal-metonymy-metaphor
is scalar, three different degrees of literalness will be distinguished here. The table is
divided into three parts: one for literal meanings (upper half of the table) and one for
figurative ones (lower half of the table), which is at its time divided into two subparts:
metonymy and synaesthesia on the one side (upper half) and metaphor on the other
(lower half).
As can be seen form this table, literal denominations (such as ege and forhtu) clearly
dominate in the corpus, whereas figurative expressions represent less than 18% of the
total number of occurrences of fear-words.5 Furthermore, metaphors represent but a
very small part of the whole set of figurative expressions (30 attestations in all), with an
overwhelming preference for metonymy (401 attestations) and, less frequently,
synaesthesia (36 attestations).
5 This estimate of literalness is undoubtedly conservative, as some of the expressions listed

here, marked with (*) in Table 2, have completely lost their original meanings and become literal
fear-words in Old English.
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THEME
OE EXPRESSION
SEMANTICS
STRONG EMOTION
ege
literal
1731
NEGATIVE EMOTION
forhtu, racian
literal
455
EMOTION (GENERAL)
anda
hyperonymy
ANGER
col*, l
metonymy
18
121
GRIEF
atol
metonymy
SADNESS
frorig
metonymy
MOVEMENT BACK
eargian*, drdan*, wandian
metonymy
181
MOVEMENT DOWN
feallan, creopan
metonymy
LACK OF MOVEMENT
bidan, sittan, blycgan
metonymy
51
CHANGE
scrincan, blcian, hw,

stian, stfian
metonymy
16
HEAT/COLD
blysian, frosan, cwacian,

bifian
synaesthesia
37
SUBSTANCE IN
fyllan, dwnan
metaphor
23
fn, grpan, cuman, flygan
metaphor
2193
431
CONTAINER
OPPONENT
30
Table 2. Literal and figurative fear-expressions.
5. Conclusions
In the present paper I have presented a list of OE terms for FEAR and their distribution in
the semantic space. Thereafter, these terms have been classified into etymological themes
and degrees of literalness (literal-metonymy-metaphor). The relative importance of each
expression has then been determined using corpus linguistic methods.
The data shown here makes clear that the OE vocabulary for FEAR derives from a
wide variety of etymological themes or motifs, from the more literal ones (i.e. fearwords directly inherited from Indo-European) to the more figurative ones (as in the
case of the metaphor FEAR IS A SUBSTANCE). However, this analysis has shown a clear
preference for literal expressions for this emotion, whereas non-literal ones are
normally derived through processes of metonymy (as in FEAR IS TURNING BACK or FEAR
IS BECOMING PALE) or synaesthesia (as in FEAR IS COLD).
As can be seen here, metonymy is a pervasive factor of semantic change in OE, given
its contribution to the development of this lexical domain. Up to 17 different IndoEuropean expressions from different domains (such as EMOTIONS, MOVEMENT or CHANGE)
changed their original meanings and developed new senses related to FEAR in OE, losing
their original meanings in some cases (for example OE drdan). However, the
metaphoric expressions analyzed here are limited to very broad conceptualizations for
emotions in general, such as THE BODY IS A CONTAINER and EMOTIONS ARE SUBSTANCES.
Finally, this article shows that the system of interconnections between semantic fields is
highly motivated (semantic innovations depending greatly on the mental and physical
effects caused by this emotion) and enormously consistent over long periods of time (as in
the case of the semantic paths ANGER > FEAR or TURNING BACK > FEAR described above).
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Javier E. Daz Vera

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APPENDIX 1: OE expressions of fear.
EXPRESSIONS
col
ETYMOLOGICAL
THEMES
WORRY
anda
atol
STRONG EMOTION
-hw
bdan
PALENESS
bifian
blcian
blycgan
blysian
cropan
cuman
cwacian
SHAKING
PHYSICAL
DEFORMATION
ANTICIPATION
RIGIDITY
INMOBILITY
HEAT
REVERENCE
ENEMY
SHAKING
SEMANTICS
literal or
hyponymy
hyperonymy
metaphor
synaesthesia
metonymy
metaphor
synesthesia
metaphor
metaphor
metaphor
metaphor
metaphor
LEXICAL UNITS
N
OCCURRENCES
col n.
*(ge)clian wk.
col-md adj.
gecolmdian wk.
anda n.
atol n.
atol adj.
atollic adj.
atolian wk.
geatol-hwian wk.
-hw n.
bdan str.
-bdan str.
gebdan str.
an-bigund n.
bifian wk.
blcian wk.
blycgan
blysian
cropan str.
for-cuman str.
cwacian wk.
gecwacian
3
3
2
7
7
60
50
3
1
2
1
10
1
3
22
1
28
1
3
3
4
9
TOTAL
17
7
121
2
15
22
1
28
1
3
3
13
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102
Javier E. Daz Vera
drdan
VENERATION
metonymy
dwnan
eargian
VAPOUR
ege
FEAR
metaphor
literal or
hyperonymy
literal
feallan
flygan
fn
forhtian
REVERENCE
FEAR
metonymy
metaphor
metaphor
literal
frppigan
REVERENCE
metonymy
frosan
frosan
fyllan
COLD
synaesthesia
metonymy
metaphor
grpan
l
ENEMY
scrincan
SHRINKING
TIMIDITY
WEAPON
ENEMY
SAD
CONTAINER
GRIEF
metaphor
literal or
hyperonymy
metaphor
drdan str.
-drdan str.
on-drdan str.
for-dwnan wk.
eargian wk.
earglce adv.
ege n.
ege-full adj.
ege-fullc adj.
eges-full adj.
eges-fullce adv.
eges-fullnes n.
ege-lce adj.
egnes n.
egesa n.
egesig adj.
egesian wk.
geegesian wk.
eges-lc adj.
eges-lce adv.
-feallan str.
flygan wk.
-fn str.
forhtian wk.
-forhtian wk.
be-forhtian wk.
geforhtian wk.
geforhtian wk.
-forht adj.
forhtiendlic adj
(ge)forht adj
foht-fer adj
forht-full adj
forht-ig adj
forht-lic adj
forht-lic adv
frppigan wk.
gefrppigan wk.
frorig adj.
frorig adj.
fyllan wk.
gefyllan wk.
be-grpan str.
-lian, wk.
30
85
48
1
1
13
1052
33
7
76
5
3
2
1
193
1
13
11
281
53
3
1
2
251
28
1
4
1
1
3
117
2
1
3
5
7
1
1
1
1
11
11
1
1
scrincan str.
-scrincan str.
for-scrincan str.
ge-scrincan str.
5
1
1
1
163
1
14
1731
3
1
2
424
2
1
1
22
1
1
ISSN 0210-6124
sittan
ANTICIPATION
metonymy
stfian
RIGIDITY
metaphor
stian
racian
HARDNESS
VIOLENCE
synaesthesia
literal or
hyperonymy
wandian
VENERATION
metonymy
Received 9 November 2010
103
sittan str.
-sittan str.
stfian wk.
-stfian wk.
-stian wk.
-racian wk.
on-racian wk.
on-rc adj.
wandian wk.
-wandian wk.
5
3
2
2
1
12
14
5
2
2
8
4
1
31
4
2656
Revised version accepted 1 March 2011
Javier E. Daz Vera is a lecturer in English and Linguistics in the Department of Modern Languages at the
University of Castilla-La Mancha (Spain). His research interests focus on historical sociolinguistics and
language change in the history of English, with special attention to diachronic metaphor and the expression
of emotions in different diachronic and dialectal varieties of English.
Address: Universidad de Castilla-La Mancha, Facultad de Letras, Departamento de Filologa Moderna,
13071 Ciudad Real, Spain. Tel.: +34 926 295300. Fax: +34 026 295312.
ISSN 0210-6124
ISSN 0210-6124
The Language of British Teenagers. A Preliminary

Study of its Main Grammatical Features
Universidad de Santiago de Compostela
ignacio.palacios@usc.es
The language of teenagers has been the subject of extensive study in recent years due to its
highly innovative nature and richness of expression. Most attention has been paid to the
phonological and lexico-semantic levels of analysis; grammar and, more particularly, syntax
have been addressed less frequently. In this study I focus on some of the most distinctive
features of the lexico-grammar of this language, using data mainly from COLT (Bergen
Corpus of London Teenage Language) and from the SCOSE corpus (Saarbrcken Corpus of
Spoken English) plus other supplementary materials. At times, comparisons are made with a
comparable sample of adult language extracted from the DCPSE (Diachronic Corpus of
Present-Day Spoken English). The analysis here examines those lexico-grammatical
properties which distinguish teenagers language from the language of adults. Under
discussion will be, among others, the following grammatical features: the verbal and
pronoun systems, the use of non-canonical tags, the system of negation, quotatives, the
expression of vague language, ways of intensifying language and the use of abuse and insult
words as vocatives.
Keywords: teenagers language; vague language; quotatives; intensification; negation;
non-canonical tags
El lenguaje de los jvenes britnicos. Estudio preliminar de los

rasgos gramaticales de mayor relevancia
El lenguaje de los jvenes ha sido objeto de numerosos estudios en los ltimos aos debido a su
carcter innovador y riqueza de expresin. La mayora de estas investigaciones se han centrado en
los niveles fonolgico y lxico-semntico. Su gramtica y, ms en particular, su sintaxis han sido
estudiadas en menor grado. Este artculo se centra en algunos de los rasgos ms caractersticos de la
lxico-gramtica de este lenguaje. Para ello se utilizarn datos de los corpus COLT (Bergen
Corpus of London Teenage Language) y SCOSE (Saarbrcken Corpus of Spoken English),
adems de otro material complementario. En ocasiones se establecern contrastes con el lenguaje
adulto con datos seleccionados del DCPSE (Diachronic Corpus of Present-Day Spoken English).
Este anlisis servir para examinar aquellos aspectos gramaticales que distinguen al lenguaje de los
adolescentes del propio de los adultos. Se estudiarn, entre otros, los siguientes: el sistema verbal y
pronominal, las coletillas no cannicas, la polaridad negativa, los verbos citativos, la expresin de
la vaguedad, modos de intensificacin y el uso de insultos como vocativos.
Palabras clave: lenguaje juvenil; vaguedad; citativos; intensificacin; negacin; coletillas no cannicas
106
1. Introduction
It is generally acknowledged that the language of teenagers is of particular interest
because of the important innovations and changes in language use adolescent and
young speakers make compared to the stability typical of adulthood (Labov 1972;
Romaine 1984; Eckert 1988; Andersen 2001; Rodrguez 2002; Stenstrm, Andersen and
Hasund 2002; Cheshire 2005, Breivik and Martnez Insua 2008).1 Indeed, teenagers are
frequently responsible for linguistic innovations and changes, some of which are
incorporated into the general structure of the language over time. This applies
especially to the lexical level as teenagers are generally creative in their use of the
language and are fond of borrowing new items from other languages and even from
other jargons. Moreover, teenagers constitute an important sector of society in their
own right that certainly deserves attention; the study of their language, then, is a key
component in understanding this social group.
When characterising teenagers language, I am considering this variety as the
product of a series of linguistic features typical of the written and oral productions of
teenagers in informal and colloquial interactions. In this respect, we may assume that
the language used does not differ entirely from other varieties in similar contexts.
However, the age factor together with other sociological constraints (gender, social
class, cultural level, ethnic background) do exert significant influence, conditioning the
nature of language production here. Hence, teenagers language should not be regarded
as completely homogeneous but rather as evolving according to geographical and
contextual factors, age being the most distinctive feature. If this is so, it follows that the
variety of English used by London teenagers should be expected to have certain
elements in common with that of young people in New York or Toronto, for example;
however, important differences will also arise due to a wide range of personal, ethnic
and social factors. From this, we can conclude that under the general umbrella term of
teenagers language can be found a large number of varieties, each one differing from the
other according to personal, social, geographical and situational variables, the age factor
being the common denominator.
Attention in the past has been focused mainly on phonological and lexico-semantic
elements (Romaine 1984; Horvath 1985; Kerswill and Williams 1997; Stenstrm 1995);
grammar and, particularly, syntax, however, have been discussed to a much lesser
extent. This is perhaps due to the fact that external aspects of language are generally
easier to characterise and describe than grammatical features, the latter being more
abstract and internal and, consequently, more difficult to analyse (Herrero 2002).
Chambers and Trudgill also refer to this phenomenon:
A preliminary version of this study was presented in the 34th 2010 AEDEAN conference
held at the University of Almera. I would like to express my gratitude to the members of the
audience for their suggestions as well as to the referees and the General Editor. The research
reported in this article was funded by the Galician Ministry of Innovation and Industry (INCITE
grant no. 08PXIB204033PRC-TT-206 and HU2006/14-0). This grant is hereby gratefully
acknowledged.
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The Language of British Teenagers
107
Dialect grammar has been much less studied than phonology and vocabulary. The most
common reason proffered by dialectologists to explain the discrepancy is the relative
infrequency of syntactic and morphological variants as compared to phonological or
vocabulary variants. In other words, it is harder to gather examples of the former for
study. (1991: 291)
The literature on the grammar of English teenagers points to general trends typical of
this variety: simplified language, avoidance of complex syntactic structures, such as
passives, relatives and cleft constructions, incomplete sentences justified by speakers
shared knowledge. A number of studies have been concerned with specific features, such
as the use of GO as a reporting verb (Butters 1980), like as a marker of reported speech
(Romaine and Lange 1991; Tagliamonte and Hudson 1999; Tagliamonte and DArcy
2004), the omission of the primary verbs BE and HAVE (Andersen 1995), was/were
variation (Cheshire and Fox 2009), just as emphasiser (Erman 1997, 1998), well and
enough as intensifiers (Stenstrm 2000), cos as an invariant starting point for further talk
(Stenstrm and Andersen 1996), innit as a non-canonical question tag (Erman 1998;
Stenstrm, Andersen and Hasund 2002), and the function and meaning of the discourse
markers so who? like how? just what? in conversations (Tagliamonte 2005). In spite of this,
there is still room for further analysis and discussion of other elements that are
idiosyncratic of this variety and which still require a more detailed account.
2. Aims
In this study I will focus on some of the most distinctive grammatical features of
teenagers language, using data extracted mainly from the COLT corpus (Bergen
Corpus of London Teenage Language) with additional material from the Saarbrcken
Corpus of Spoken English (SCOSE) and from other written and oral sources. The
language object of study will be that produced by adolescents and teenagers between the
ages of 13 and 18. Analysis will focus on those lexico-grammatical properties that
characterise this sociolect and identify it as different from other varieties of English.
Specific elements considered will be: the syntactic structure of the clause, the verbal and
the pronoun systems, the use of tags, the system of polarity with particular reference to
negation, quotatives, the expression of vague language, the use of abuse and insult
words as vocatives and ways to intensify language. Some of these features and
tendencies could be regarded as common to other non-standard varieties of English
although in the case of the language used by teenagers, these seem to be either much
more frequent or they are directly or indirectly conditioned by the age factor. For
reasons of time and space, I will deal relatively briefly with some of these elements,
although most would justify more detailed, individual studies.
3. Materials
This study forms part of a broader study of the spoken language used by young people
in Britain. In addition to data from the two corpora, I have also used written and oral
materials related to British teenagers culture and lifestyles: magazines (Sugar, Bliss,
Shout, Mizz, Its Hot, Alternative Press, Seventeen, Cosmo Girl, Oh Boy, Teen now, etc.),
web-based glossaries and dictionaries of teenagers language (see reference section) and
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108
materials selected from the British Library Archival sound recordings. The COLT
corpus, which is part of the British National Corpus (BNC), was compiled in 1993 and
consists of 431,528 words from a total of 377 spontaneous conversations produced by
teenagers from 13 to 17 in the London area. These conversations together represent
roughly 55 hours of recorded speech. Although most of the informants can be classified
as middle adolescents, teachers and relatives of some of the informants also make some
contributions, although their participation is very limited. During this study, I will draw
a comparison between the teenagers production with a comparable sample of adult
language, composed of informal face-to-face conversations (403,844 words) and
assorted spontaneous speech (21,675 words), extracted from the Diachronic Corpus of
Present-Day Spoken English (DCPSE). This will allow us to identify the features which
are typical of the language of teenagers.
Although COLT was compiled in an attempt to represent language produced by
British adolescents, all the speakers are from the London area, with its own
geographical, social and ethnic variables. The London boroughs represented in the
corpus also have substantial numbers of children from ethnic minorities and this itself
could have a bearing on the type of English used. Such a corpus should not be regarded
as fully representative of general adolescent British English, but rather of London
teenager speech. Nevertheless, some of the tendencies observed in the analysis here,
especially in the area of syntax and discourse, could be understood as characteristic of
general teenage British English and even of adolescents language. Several studies have
shown common features in the expression of adolescents across different languages.
Furthermore, features of London English, pronunciation in particular, seem to be
spreading throughout the country (Williams and Kerswill 1999; Foulkes and Docherty
1999), so taking London as a starting-point might be a useful means of assessing aspects
of teenagers language in British English more generally. In addition to the COLT
corpus, I have in particular, a subcorpus from SCOSE of about 12,000 words, compiled
in the London area by researchers from the University of Saarbrcken (Germany) in
2008 and which contains data from London teenagers speech. All the subjects were
students and native speakers of English between the ages of fifteen and eighteen.This
data has the advantage over COLT of being more recent, although its limitations are its
small size, the low number of participants and the fact that the conversations were all
recorded on school premises rather than in daily situations. All this conditions
somewhat the spontaneity of the interactions, which is reflected in the language used.
Finally, the DCPSE is sampled from both the London Lund corpus and the
International Corpus of English. Great Britain (ICE-GB). In the case of the data selected
for the present study, 75 percent is from ICE-GB, which was recorded in the early
1990s, that is, at a similar time as COLT. ICE-GB was designed primarily as a resource
for syntactic studies, and it can be regarded as representative of the general English
variety spoken and written in Britain. Although the component of this corpus selected
does not contain data taken only from London speakers as is the case of COLT, it can
be regarded as comparable to it in terms of its size, general design and the
characteristics of the particular samples considered for the analysis: face-to-face and
spontaneous conversations and verbal interactions.
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109
4. Findings
4.1. Verbal system
Significant reduction and simplification of the verbal system is common. This might
include: use of the base form instead of the present (1), auxiliary omission in questions
(2) and (3), and replacement of one past form (the past tense did ) by another (the past
participle done) (4)
(1) My sister went to Cambridge. She hate the course (SCO2/491)2
(2) Hey, you feeling better? (COB1132503/1)
(3) Where you gonna go? (SCO1/465)
(4) I love the way he done that (COB132901/129)
The lack of agreement between subject and verb is particularly noticeable in the
variation between do/does (5) and was/were (6) forms,3 although it also applies to the
regular third present form, as in (7).
(5) He dont, dont give it to you twice (COB132402/27)
(6) They was like whats whats he doing with you then?(SCO6/58-59)
(7) but he just go like hes really think he was in love (SCO5/24-25)
It is also very common with existential there expressions. A total of 674 instances
of these constructions were recorded in COLT and in 100 cases (almost 15%) there
was lack of agreement. In the sample of SCOSE considered, only 12 cases of
existentials were identified and in three of them lack of agreement was found. Theres
is used most of the times as an invariant form, that is, both for the singular and the
plural. Looking at the data, there seem to be a number of elements within the NPs
following there-constructions that favour this lack of agreement: the adverb only and
the presence of demonstratives, possessives, numerals, quantifiers (some, any, many, a
lot) and particular nouns (men, people).This feature, however, should not be regarded
as completely characteristic of the language of teenagers as it is also frequent in adult
speech.4
2
All the examples included in the study have been transcribed following the corpus
conventions or the way they appear in the magazines and websites considered. Each example will
be followed by an identification code indicating the corpus or source from which it was taken
(CO for COLT, SCO for Saarbrcken Corpus of Spoken English), the code number from which it
was extracted and the conversation turn reference given. Thus, for instance, in this particular
case, the example provided was selected from the Saarbrcken Corpus of Spoken English
(SCOSE), document number 2 and the corresponding conversation turn was 491. This system
clearly facilitates the tracing and retrieving of the original, if necessary.
3
For further information on the was/were variation in young speakers and in non-standard
English, see Tagliamonte (1998), Anderwald (2001) and Cheshire and Fox (2009).
4
For a close study of the lack of concord in existential-there sentences, see Martnez Insua
and Palacios (2003) and Breivik and Martnez Insua (2008).
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110

(8) I could but, theres certain problems (COB132503/163)
(9) Theres these mad people, they dont indicate they just go brrrrrr (COB134103/76)
(10) Theres some drums on it that just sound exactly the same (COB134103/267)
4.2. Negatives
A high frequency of negatives is observed in the production of teenagers, certainly
higher than in spoken adult mainstream English. For the analysis, I considered as
negative those grammatical items that are fully negative forms from both a syntactic
and a semantic perspective such as the particle not, including forms of operators
(aint, isnt, arent, hasnt, havent, dont, doesnt, didnt), modal verbs (cant, wont,
shant, shouldnt, wouldnt, mightnt, etc) and the vernacular form dunno, which
represents in writing the particular pronunciation of dont know by some of the
speakers, not as a modifier to several determinatives (much, many, enough), never,
none, nobody, no as a determiner in a NP structure or modifier in the structure of
comparative ADjPs and AdvPs, nowhere, neither, nor, nothing/nuffink and No as a
negative response to a previous sentence. Apart from all the previous items, I also
included lexical words with an inherent negative meaning (fail, refuse, deny) and cases
of incomplete negation (few, barely, seldom, rarely, etc.). A total of 1,322 examples
were discarded from COLT and 1,392 from DCPSE. These included examples of
subclause, local or constituent negation; unclear cases and cases difficult to classify
for technical reasons (either because the corpus did not provide enough information
or because the context was insufficient); and question tags and repetitions, the latter
being mainly structures where no as a response word to a previous statement was
repeated twice or more, a phenomenon that is typical of speech and which is part of
the normal interaction between speakers. Table 1 summarises my findings.
As table 1 shows, the general count was 14,305 in COLT versus 9,722 in DCPSE. The
frequency of negatives per 10,000 words is 331.49 in COLT versus 228.47 in DCPSE.
The difference is statistically significant (x2 = 788.72, df = 1, p<0.0001). This can be
explained partly by the design of the corpus itself, but also in terms of cognitive and
psychological features typical of teenagers. In their conversation, adolescents tend to
make their points clearly, directly and categorically as a strategy for self-reinforcement.
Furthermore, the data in both corpora suggest that spoken interaction is especially
propitious for the expression of negation. Negatives with aint are common in the
everyday speech of teenagers, despite being long stigmatised (Palacios Martnez 2010).
Aint stands out for its multiple functions since it can be equivalent to forms of BE and
HAVE. The results obtained show that in declarative and interrogative clauses aint is
more common as the equivalent of negativised forms of BE (11) than it is of HAVE (12),
whereas in question tags the opposite tendency is true, and the proportion of aint as
the negative of HAVE is noticeably higher (13).
(11) There aint no laws (COB132503/570)
(12) Considering you aint got your glasses on (COB152601/94)
(13) Well you got a book aint you? (COB132408/82)
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112
Moreover, aint is more commonly used as BE copular verb (14) than as an auxiliary (15).
(14) Are you sure it aint a girl? (COB132803/72)
(15) But I aint gonna be there long anyway (COB132612/111)
In the case of HAVE, it mainly occurs as auxiliary in collocation with got (12) while
the number of occurrences recorded with HAVE expressing perfect aspect is much
more limited (16).
(16) It hasnt, hey its not, well I aint even finished this side (COB132611/24)
Aint is also very frequent in negative concord structures, that is, clauses in which we
find two or more negatives, as in (17) and (18), which do not cancel each other out
(Huddleston and Pullum 2002: 845). Aint occurs in over half of the negative concord
structures identified in COLT. In all cases, aint occupies first position and is found
together with no, nothing, no more, no one and nobody. No instances are recorded of
aint together with never.
As regards the pragmatics of aint, it can be observed that its occurrence is not
always casual; at times there are some pragmatic motivations associated with it. Thus,
some speakers of the COLT corpus opt for this negative when they intend to strengthen
a negative statement (17) or they want to make a story they are telling more realistic and
convincing (18).
(17) I know your mother aint got no lips (COB135001/27)
(18) He goes up to the, he goes up to the bartender, he says excuse me, why is there a bear
sitting over there? And he goes, this joke changes a little bit every time I tell you, I
thought Id warn you though. Right, he goes h= excuse me, why is there a bear sitting
there? He goes well, you know, we erm, well, dont ask okay, but just dont touch him,
okay, cos hes dangerous He goes if you dont touch that bear youre scared of it.
He goes <shouting>I aint scared of no bear! (COB132701/164-171)
Finally, extracts of the corpus are registered where some of the speakers use the aint
form to adapt to the discourse of other speakers who generally use this negative in their
speech.
As far as negative types are concerned, affixal negation is observed to be little used in
teenagers conversations, since their speech is characterised by its informality and
colloquial nature and affixal negation tends to be more closely associated with more
formal registers. Also noted is the adolescents strong tendency to intensify language.
Negative intensification is achieved through the use of three main mechanisms: certain
expressions of negative import, no way being the most common (especially as
compared with the language of adults) (19); negative concord structures (20) and some
negative polarity idioms (21), (22), (23). In addition to this, it is common to find certain
swear words, such as bloody and f***ing, inserted close to the negatives for heightened
effect (20) and (24).
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113
(19) <unclear> No man there is no way. ... <unclear> (COB134202/463)

(20) The third man comes out like this ... he goes whats a matter with you? He goes
Youve got your cigarettes. <shouting>I didnt get no f***ing matches, did I?</>That
was my little joke that ... (COB132701/6)
(21) I couldnt give a toss P.xxx. (COB133901/548)
(22) I havent got a piss boy (COB134901/113)
(23) I dont give a f***! (COB132503/38)
(24) F***ing <unclear> youre f***ing so sad and I was just going right youre clearing the
house f*** off Im not f***ing clearing up the house (COB142105/229)
The abundance of negative concord constructions is also noteworthy since these

were found in 23 percent of the cases where variation occurred between this type of
negative and the single clausal negative.
In the case of adults, the number of negative concord constructions was restricted to
only 14 percent. Geographical factors, social class and style may play a more important
role here than the age of the speakers. Finally, the high frequency of never as a single
negator in the past (25), and the non-existent variation between never and not ever
structures in the data, are both notable findings.5
(25) V.xx. and <unclear>never called for me yesterday. (COB136903/164)
4.3. Quotatives
Constructed dialogue is common among teenagers in general, for whom telling stories,
anecdotes and recounting personal experiences is highly characteristic (Tannen 1984).
Furthermore, it has been attested that their range of quotative markers is much wider
than that of other age groups and that they are rapidly changing and developing
(Tagliamonte and Hudson 1999; Macaulay, 2001; Stenstrm, Andersen and Hasund
2002: 107; Winter 2002; Tagliamonte and DArcy 2004; Rickford et al. 2007; HansenThomas 2008).
In the data analysed, GO under different forms (he goes, I goes, they goes, etc.) is
often used as a verb form to introduce direct speech instead of SAY. It is also the
preferred form for the historic present while SAY and TELL are more frequent in the
past, as shown by (26). This general tendency applies similarly to the two corpora of
adolescents language studied.
(26) <laughing> and she looked at me like that .</> I goes don't you dare, you little cat!
And I picked her up. I picked her up by her neck and I said you bitch and she goes ...
(COB132707/40).
On many occasions, like, together with BE or GO or even on its own, is also used as
a quotative (27), (28). The use of like as a form of reporting not only in the past but also
in the present is found in the magazines addressed to teenagers (29). This means that
this use is fully established in the language in both speech and writing.
5
For further information about the expression of negation by British teenagers, see Cheshire
(1999) and Palacios Martnez (2011a).
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114
(27) First theres Shelley, cos first of all I didn't want to talk in it, you know, I just went
like yeah, yeah, yeah. Now its sort of like yes! I wanna talk down it all the time, I
want them to hear my voice! <nv>laugh</nv> And you know you get carried away
you start swearing dont you? (COB132707/23)
(28) I was like oh my god, I passed (SCO2/56)
(29) Its like Woah girls over the place. I, say. Girls are scary especially in groups
(Sugar Lad, June 2010, p. 7)
The use of this is + subject has also been reported by Cheshire and Fox (2007) as a
quotative in the area of London. They provide the following example:
(30) I walked over to him and this is me, What are you doing?
4.4. Pronominal system

The form youse is very frequently used for the second person plural in its subject (31) or
object form (32). It sometimes collocates with lot (32) and two (33).
(31) Why didnt youse come out? (COB135306/110)
(32) Ill see youse lot later. (COB134602/977)
(33) Why dont youse two work together? (COB140701/52)
Moreover, man may function as an indefinite pronoun equivalent to one (34).

(34) ah mans gonna starve. (COB135703/138)
It is also common to find possessives followed by one, as in the following:

(35) My Dad one was called Rhino and the other was called Elephant and their one died
(COB132707/101)
(36) I told him she could have my one cos it only had that much ink in it
(COB132803/225)
(37) yours one is quite solid (COB136701/195)
Demonstratives are sometimes replaced by object personal pro-forms. This happens

very often with them, instead of those.
(38) Cos shes got one of them voices (COB132701/177)
(39) Whered you get them boots? (COB/134901/263)
4.5. Common use of abuse and insult words as vocatives

There are a large number of words used as vocatives, including certain insult and swear
words generally placed after the pronoun you. The following are the most commonly
found: fool, bastard, c*nt, bitch, w**ker, chiefer, d*ck, d**khead, peanuthead, dirty cat,
tosser, prat, idiot, (stupid) cow, plonker.
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(40) Shut up you fool (COB132614/179)

(41) She goes no it aint <unclear> you f***ing stink, you dirty cat (COB132701/111)
(42) Shut up you d**khead (COB137804/46)
In general, boys production shows a higher frequency of these terms than that of
girls.6 Some of these terms, such as d**k, chiefer, d**khead, are favoured by boys
whereas cow, bitch, whore, are more common in girls language, which is explained by
the fact that this use of verbal abusives is particularly frequent between members of the
same sex, be it, boys to boys or girls to girls; very few cases are recorded of girls to boys
and no single case of boys to girls. It is also interesting that some of these words have
lost their original abusive and pejorative meaning, and are now used as indicators of
familiarity and comradeship, hence functioning as solidarity in-group markers (Fraser
1996). Other common vocatives exist in the data which are not necessarily abusive.
Such is the case with man and boy, for example.7Alternatively, boy may be an
interjection in (44).
(43) look the pictures aint clear man. (COB135004/180)
(44) the Indian place it stinks, man, when you go in there, boy, it blow up your
nostrils. (COB132705/7)
4.6. Vague language

Teenagers talk is also characterised by the high frequency of a number of vague words
and expressions, especially when compared with the language typical of adults. Existing
studies have not demonstrated conclusively whether teenagers are, broadly speaking,
more prone to using vague language than adults (Stenstrm, Andersen and Hasund
2002). However, it has been shown that teenagers express vagueness differently from
adults by resorting very often to expressions which are far less common in the language
of adults (Palacios Martnez 2011b).
Although the general term of vague language includes a wide variety of categories
(Channell 1994), in this study I will consider only placeholders (thingy), quantifiers
(loads of, a bit of) and general extenders or set marking tags (and stuff, or something).
Placeholders are used when speakers cannot remember the name of a person or thing
and include words which replace names, item names or both. They can have different
pragmatic values. They may be used when it is not considered appropriate to mention the
persons name, when a suitable word the speaker intends to refer to does not exist in the
language or even sometimes when the speaker does not want to sound too pretentious
(Channell 1994: 157-59). By far the most common placeholder identified in COLT is
6
On a first analysis of COLA, a similar tendency is found in Spanish. Thus, Madrid teenagers
refer to their peers as cabrn/a, puta, hijo/a de puta, to/a, colega, flipado/a, chaval, maricn/a,
gilipollas, capullo, jodido, tronco/a, pibe/o/a, nena, etc. From all these tronco, gilipollas and pibe
seem to be the most common. Contrary to what is the case in COLT, in this corpus we do find
the use of abuse terms between members of the different sex. Thus, boys refer quite often to girls
as putas, for example.
7
For more about this particular use of vocatives, as well as on appellatives, see Stenstrm and
Jrgensen (2008).
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thing(s), followed by thingy/thingie, whatist and thingamajig. The forms thingummybob,

thingybob and whatsisname are only found once each in this corpus. However,
thingy/thingie is recorded on 37 occasions to mean something indefinite and
indeterminate. It is used as a noun modified by the article, whether definite or indefinite
(45), or even a demonstrative or a possessive (46). Although it very often occurs with
reference to an object, the speaker may also denote a persons name (47). Two cases were
also found in which it appears to be used as an adjective (48).
(45) Theres a thingy on it (COB136301/10)
(46) you know I told you that thingy (COB132503/32)
(47) Go up to Miss thingy (COB132503/14)
(48) how do you know? its thingy how do you know? (COB136301/24)
In DCPSE thing is also the most frequent while only five cases of thingie are
recorded. The language used by teenagers here also reveals a relatively large number of
certain non-numerical vague approximators (Channel 1994: 95), that is, words and
expressions that serve to quantify without providing any specific quantity; examples
include bags of, loads of, lots of, masses of, oodles of, a bit of, a load of, a lot of. However,
table 2 shows that adults resort to these expressions more than twice as more than
teenagers, 723 versus 337 tokens: general normalised frequencies per 10,000 words are
16.99 versus 7.8, respectively. The differences are statistically significant (x2= 145.11, df
= 1, p<0.0001). Both among adults and teenagers, a lot of and a bit of are the most
frequent, adults using them four and one and a half times more, respectively, than
teenagers.
In COLT, the most common, as compared with adults language, is loads of,
recorded on 75 occasions. Loads of is frequent both in COLT and in teenagers
magazines (49). It can be used with both countable (50) and uncountable nouns (51)
and often collocates with people (52), sport, friends and work.
(49) Check out for the chance to win loads of cool prizes (Mizz website, accessed March
26, 2010)
(50) Ive been asked loads of questions (COB140504/113)
(51) he goes inside gets a drink, eats some food cos theres loads of food cos you know
(COB132701/40)
(52) Cos I used to look up to her cos she was older than me. So I dont think her Nan
really knows that Kelly does it to loads of people, do you know, (COB B132707/193)
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The third group of words and expressions that serve to express vague language are
the so-called general extenders.8 These elements generally take the form of a conjunction
(and, or) plus a noun phrase and occupy final position.9 Members of this category are,
to mention just a few, and stuff, and things, and everything, and all, or something, or
whatever, or so, etc. They usually refer to the preceding item, which in most cases will be
a noun phrase. Apart from functioning as set-marking or classifying tags, they may
express other conversational values, such as summarising, creating rapport, establishing
common ground and hedging (Aijmer 1985; Overstreet and Yule 1997; Overstreet 1999,
2005; Cheshire 2007; Tagliamonte and Denis 2010; Palacios Martinez 2011b). In the
data analysed here, the general extenders and stuff (like this/that), and everything (like
that/else) and and that (sort of thing, sort of sh*t, type, kind, lot, sh*t) are commonly used
by teenagers, far more so than by adults. The first of these general extenders occurs in
COLT on 53 occasions with a frequency per 10,000 words of 1.2 while 66 examples of
the second are found with a frequency per 10,000 words of 1.5 and 82 of the third with
a frequency per 10,000 words of 1.9.
(53) That stupid awards like biggest ( ) and stuff like that (SCO1/95)
(54) You can shut all the doors and everything (COB135602/255)
(55) I havent learned my Highway Code and all that sort of sh*t (COB142504/118)
When compared with a sample of adult language of similar size and characteristics
extracted from DCPSE (Diachronic Corpus of Present-Day Spoken English), the general
frequencies obtained per 10,000 words for these three general extenders, once they were
normalised, are 0.44 for and stuff, 1 for and everything and 0.75 for and that, respectively.
The differences in use between adults and teenagers can be clearly seen in table 3.
In both corpora, and that is the most common of the three general extenders,
followed by and everything and and stuff. The figures shown in the second and fifth
columns of the table above indicate the percentage that corresponds to each of these
three extenders with respect to the total number of general extenders recorded in the
two samples of data analysed. This included, apart from the three here mentioned,
others such as and things, and all, or something, or whatever, or anything.
8
The terminology used in the literature to define these items varies considerably from set
marking tags (Dines 1980; Ward and Birner 1993; Stubbe and Holmes 1995; Winter and Norrby
2000), discourse particle extensions (Dubois 1992), utterance final tags (Aijmer 1985), terminal tags
(Macaulay 1985), generalised list completers (Jefferson 1990), post-noun hedges (Meyerhoff 1992),
generalisers (Simpson 2004) to vague category identifiers (Channell 1994), final coordination tags
(Biber et al. 1999) and general extenders (Overstreet 1999, 2005; Overstreet and Yule 2002;
Cheshire 2007; Carroll 2007, 2008; Tagliamonte and Denis 2010; Palacios Martnez 2011b). The
latter is precisely the most neutral and the most widely-used in recent studies.
9
The conjunctions and or or are mostly present in these constructions although we find more
examples where this conjunction is missing. Thus in the SCOSE corpus we find examples like the
following: (i) I might ask a few people who are working on the stock market things like that.
(SCO1/190)
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General extenders in the teenagers language often have the purpose of expressing
solidarity, self-connection and the assumption of a shared experience. For these
subjects it is important to belong to a closed group and community in order to reaffirm
themselves, and this use of language clearly helps them in that direction. Some of these
general extenders become linguistic resources used by teenagers to construct their own
personality and identity as individuals and as a group. Thus, these general extenders
tend to lose their original set-marking and classifying function by assuming new
pragmatic and discursive roles.
4.7. Non canonical tags (innit, yeah, right, eh, okay)
Non canonical tags here mean those items which differ completely from ordinary tags
as in John is a friend of yours, isnt he? and which can perform functions which are
typically attributed to tags, such as checking that the interlocutor is following the
narrative or to keep the listeners attention, a subjective function to reduce the speakers
commitment to what is being said, and even a textual function to organise pieces of
information in chunks and to contribute to the coherence and cohesion of the narrative
(Stenstrm, Andersen and Hasund 2002: 166-67). All these tags are then used as
discourse interactive markers. For reasons of space, I will focus here on the invariant tag
innit, the most common of all and particularly characteristic in the language of British
adolescents. All previous studies have drawn attention to the grammaticalised nature of
this lexical item since it began as a standard tag to become later an invariant tag with
multiple pragmatic values (Stenstrm and Andersen (1996), Andersen (1997),
Stenstrm, Andersen and Hasund (2002), Stenstrm (2005), and in general English by
Erman (1998), Algeo (1988) and Krug (1998)). Consider the following examples:
(56) Oh yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. She dropped over, innit? (COB134803/51)
(57) Hes gone home, innit? (COB13660173259
(58) Its good, innit? (COB/132503/527)
(59) Saira, youre in my class, innit? (COB132804/171)
(60) Sam and Fern werent there innit? (COB132708/21)
(61) Its not too bad innit? (COB135201/67)
(62) That was ages ago though, wunnit? (COB140602/45)
(63) just shows your ignorance dunnit really? (COB142103/452)
From the examples above, it is clear that this tag may be used to represent any
operator HAVE (57), BE (58, 59, 60, 61), or DO (56, 63) or even any modal auxiliary
(will, would, must, should, can, could, might) (62). Furthermore, it does not necessarily
agree with the subject of the main sentence in gender (56), person (57), or number (60),
although it tends to agree with 3rd person singular it, followed by you, he, they, she, I
and we. Apart from this, it does not necessarily agree with the tense of the verb of the
main sentence (56) and it does not even follow the ordinary reversal of polarity pattern
(60). In fact, in only 10 cases in COLT does this not happen. Finally, it normally occurs
at the end of a speakers turn, but may appear at the beginning or in the middle. The
occurrence of wunnit (62) and dunnit (63) may also indicate that this tag has not
become fully grammaticalised as the only form used in all syntactic environments.
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these are recorded in the whole COLT corpus. As regards its pragmatic values, it may
function as an empathiser, expecting a verbal response serving much the same function
as right. Consider the following:
(64) That sounds like a bad move, innit? (COB133203/423)
In turn-initial position it may be used as a simple response or as a response

expressing reinforcement, being equivalent to certainly, definitely, absolutely and even
sure, as in the following:
(65) A: Doesnt he look spastic with that pencil behind his ear
B: Innit? It looks so dumb. It looks like hes got cancer growing behind his ear
(COB132911/8)
It can also have a intensifying effect as equivalent to indeed (66).

(66) A: Annie gets into fights with everybody though
B: Mm. Pro= probably true innit (COB133704/270)
Finally, it can also express surprise as in (67).

(67) A: Ive never, Ive never ever heard Jims voice before
B: Innit?
A: Never (COB132707/302)
4.8. Particular ways of intensifying language

Teenagers use intensifiers very differently from adults. Some linguists such as
Stenstrm, Andersen and Hasund (2002: 140) have shown that adults use intensifiers
twice as much as teenagers. This is explained by the fact that teenagers tend to use other
forms of intensification such as taboo and swear words as, for instance, bloody and
f***ing (Paradis 2000: 154).
This is partially confirmed in our analysis where the total number of intensifiers for
adults is 2,124 versus 1,179 tokens in the case of teenagers. The general frequencies
obtained per 10,000 words, once they were normalised, are 49.9 for adults and 27.32
for teenagers. The figures are statistically significant (x2 = 282.12, df = 1, p<0.0001).
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As Table 4 above shows, really is the most frequent in the language of teenagers
while very is the most popular for adults.10 It is also curious to see how right11 and well
may have an intensifying function in teenagers language and can be used to intensify
any item in the language. It is also curious to see how some teenagers in COLT often
place enough before the item it modifies (71). This means that in these cases enough has
a premodifying position instead of the standard postmodifying one. In SCOSE,
however, we do not find any examples of the kind. Note the following:
(68) Ill be nice and pleased, all my, all my parents mates have a right good laugh
(COB142106/36)
(69) theyve been right bastards to you (COB140601/111)
(70) I think you be a well good mate and everything (SCO5/23)
(71) Its enough funny man Im telling ya! (COB135602/38)
(72) it was just stupid really (SCO1/173)
According to Stenstrm, Andersen and Hasund (2002: 143), females tend to use
these intensifying elements more often than males. Moreover, while girls opt for using
really, boys prefer absolutely, completely, bloody and f***ing. Superlative forms are also
very often intensified.
(73) She had the f***ing funniest voice ever (SCO1/393)
5. Conclusion
Some of the grammatical features listed above could also be regarded as typical of other
types of spoken discourse, particularly of informal, spontaneous and non-standard
varieties. This is the case, to mention just a few, of the simplification of the verbal
paradigm, the lack of agreement between verb and subject, especially in the case of
existential-there constructions, the avoidance of complex syntactic structures (passives,
relatives, clefts), incoherent discourse with lack of cohesion and several other aspects of
the pronominal system. However, our results clearly indicate that the language of
British teenagers is characterised by a number of distinctive lexico-grammatical features
which make it different from the language of adults and which are worth considering: a
common use of abuse and insult words as vocatives (silly cow, d*ck, peanuthead, prat,
idiot, dirty cat, etc.) that in most cases have lost their original pejorative meaning, being
used as expressions of familiarity and comradeship; a particular quotative system in
which the verb GO and the multifunctional form like play a prominent role together
with new emerging markers of reported speech, such as this is plus subject; a
characteristic way of conveying vague language through the use of placeholders (thingie
in particular), approximators (loads of most often) and some general extenders (and
that, and stuff and and everything); a tendency to intensify language which also includes
a characteristic use of some adjectives and adverbs (well, right, bloody, enough, really,
10
For further information about the use of the adverb really in teenagers language, see
Paradis and Bergmark (2003).
11
Macaulay (2005) has also recorded this frequent use of right as intensifier in the language of
the Glasgow teenagers. The use by adults is also reported although not so often.
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absolutely, f***ing), clearly in keeping with the personality and cognitive development
of the individuals of this age group; the use of non-canonical tags, such as right, yeah,
eh, okay, innit, which in most cases have grammaticalised, losing their original meaning
and function by adopting new discursive roles, this applying very distinctively to innit;
and, finally, a negative polarity system of its own, which is characterised by a high
number of negatives, the use of never as a single negator in the past, the high occurrence
of certain vernacular negative forms (aint, nope, dunno, nuffink) and an elevated
percentage of negative concord structures.
A more exhaustive study of these syntactic features would provide a more
comprehensive view of the discourse used by British teenagers, thus contributing more
deeply to the understanding of this age group and to forming a more complete picture
of recent developments and innovations in the English language.
Corpora and other materials
Archival Sound Recordings. British Library. London <http://sounds.bl.uk/> (Accessed 10
February, 2011)
COLT: The Bergen Corpus of London Teenage Language. 1993. Department of English. University
of Bergen <http://www.hd.uib.no/i/Engelsk/COLT/index.html>
COLA: Corpus oral de lenguaje adolescente. 2001. University of Bergen <http://www.colam.org>
DCPSE: The Diachronic Corpus of Present-Day Spoken English. 1990-1993. Survey of English
Usage. University College London <http://www.ucl.ac.uk/english-usage/ projects/dcpse/>
SCOSE: Saarbrcken Corpus of Spoken English. 2008. Department of English Linguistics.
University of Saarbrcken <http://www.uni-saarland.de/fak4/norrick/scose.html>
Teen speak dictionary for rents. BBC <http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/7610006.stm>
(Accessed 15 February, 2011)
Urban dictionary < http://www.urbandictionary.org> (Accessed 17 February, 2011)
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_____ 2000: Its enough funny man: Intensifiers in Teenage Talk. John M. Kirk, ed. Corpora
Galore: Analyses and Techniques in Describing English. Papers from the Nineteenth
International Conference on English Language Research on Computerised Corpora.
Amsterdam: Rodopi. 177-90.
2005: It is very good eh . Est muy bien eh. Teenagers Use of Tags. London and Madrid
Compared. Kevin Mc Cafferty, Tove Bull and Kristin Killie, eds. Contexts. Historical, Social,
Linguistic. Studies in Celebration of Toril Swan. Pieterlen: Peter Lang AG. 279-91.
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and Gisle Andersen. 1996: More Trends in Teenage Talk: A Corpus-based Investigation of
the Discourse Items cos and innit. Carol Percy, Charles F. Neyer and Ian Lancashire, eds.
Synchronic Corpus Linguistics. Amsterdam: Rodopi. 189-203.
, Gisle Andersen and Ingrid Kristine Hasund 2002: Trends in Teenage Talk: Corpus
Compilation, Analysis and Findings. Amsterdam, Philadelphia: John Benjamins.
_____ and Annette Myre Jrgensen 2008: A Matter of Politeness? A Constrastive Study of Phatic
Language in Teenage Conversation. Pragmatics 18.4: 635-57.
Stubbe, Maria and Janet Holmes 1995: You know, eh and other exasperating expressions:
An Analysis of Social and Stylistic Variation in the Use of Pragmatic Devices in a Sample of
New Zealand English. Language and Communication 15: 63-88.
Tagliamonte, Sali 1998: Was/Were Variation across the Generations. Views from the City of
York. Language Variation and Change 10: 153-91.
_____ 2005: So who? Like how? Just what? Discourse Markers in the Conversations of English
Speaking Youth. Journal of Pragmatics 37.11: 1896-915.
_____ and Rachel Hudson 1999: Be like et al. beyond America: The Quotative System in British
and Canadian Youth. Journal of Sociolinguistics 3.2: 147-72.
_____ and Alexandra DArcy 2004: Hes like, shes like: The Quotative System in Canadian
Youth. Journal of Sociolinguistics 8.4: 493-514.
and Derek Denis 2010: The stuff of Change: General Extenders in Toronto, Canada.
Journal of English Linguistics 38.4: 335-68.
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Ward, Gregory and Betty Birner 1993: The Semantics and Pragmatics of and everything.
Journal of Pragmatics 19: 205-14.
Williams, Ann and Paul Kerswill 1999: Dialect Levelling: Change and Continuity in Milton
Keynes, Reading and Hull. Paul Foulkes and Gerard Docherty, eds. Urban Voices: Accent
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Received 17 November 2010
Revised version accepted 1 April 2011
Ignacio .M. Palacios Martnez is Senior Lecturer of English in the Department of English and German of the
University of Santiago. His current interests focus on the description of spoken English according to text
type and from the perspective of teaching and learning.
Address: Universidade de Santiago de Compostela, Departamento de Filoloxa Inglesa e Alem, Facultade
de Filoloxa. Avda. de Castelao, s/n. Campus Norte. 15782 Santiago de Compostela, A Corua, Spain.
Tel.: +34 881811890. Fax:+34 981574646.
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The Morphological Structure of Old English

Complex Nouns
roberto.torre@unirioja.es
This journal article takes issue with the morphological structure of complex nouns in Old
English. This stage of the language is characterised by a rich morphology and, with most
of its lexemes being morphologically complex, Old English provides a fertile field of study
for the kind of analysis here undertaken. The present study analyses the interaction
between affixation, compounding, zero-derivation and inflection in terms of the feeding
of the morphological processes, that is, the successive order in which they appear, thus
allowing for the establishment of regular patterns of noun formation and generalizations
on lexical creation. Overall, 119 different word structures have been identified, depending
on the type and number of morphological processes involved. The conclusion is reached
that non-basic nouns in Old English contain up to six levels of complexity, with the bulk
of the formations consisting of three and four levels, that is, with three or four
derivational steps taking place.
Keywords: Old English; morphology; word-formation; word structure; process feeding;
nouns
La estructura morfolgica de los nombres complejos en el ingls

antiguo
Este artculo se ocupa de la estructura de los nombres complejos del ingls antiguo. Este
estadio de la lengua se caracteriza por su rica morfologa, y dado que la mayor parte del
lxico de este periodo es morfolgicamente complejo, el ingls antiguo se muestra como un
campo de estudio adecuado para el tipo de anlisis que aqu se presenta. El presente estudio
analiza la interaccin entre los procesos derivativos de afijacin, composicin, derivacin cero
y flexin en trminos de alimentacin de procesos, es decir, el orden sucesivo en el que stos
aparecen, lo que permite establecer patrones en la formacin de sustantivos y generalizaciones
respecto de la creacin lxica. En total se han identificado 119 estructuras diferentes, que se
distribuyen en seis niveles de complejidad morfolgica. La mayor parte de los predicados
estudiados, no obstante, contienen tres o cuatro niveles de complejidad, esto es, su derivacin
requiere tres o cuatro pasos.
Palabras clave: Ingls antiguo; morfologa; formacin de palabras; estructura de la palabra;
alimentacin de procesos; nombres
128
1. Aims and data

This journal article engages in the morphological structure of Old English complex
nouns.1 By complex I mean nouns that have been derived lexically by means of wordformation processes, such as those in example (1):
(1)
a. gang journey (gangan)
b. bnama pronoun (nama)
c. dorling favourite (dore)
d. wgmann warrior (wg, mann)
These examples illustrate the derivational processes that turn out the complex nouns
under scrutiny in this work: gang journey is a zero-derivative of gangan to go, bnama
pronoun constitutes a prefixation on nama name, dorling favourite results from
the attachment of a suffix to the base dore dear and, finally, the compound wgmann
warrior combines wg fight and mann man. Whereas the input to the derivational
processes in (1) consists of basic (underived) terms exclusively, the input to the process
offered by (2) is complex (already derived):
(2)
a. ungesibsumnes quarrelsomeness (ungesibsum)
b. dyrneforlegernes fornication (dyrneforleger)
c. eftcennednes regeneration (cennednes)
In effect, the bases to which the noun-forming suffix -nes is attached constitute the
output of previous word-formation processes. For instance, ungesibsum, the base of
derivation of ungesibsumnes quarrelsomeness, results from the previous derivation of
gesib from sib, gesibsum from gesib and ungesibsum from gesibsum, that is, the formation
of the derivative requires four derivational steps. In the light of these examples, the
analysis of complex nouns that is carried out in this article focuses on the interaction of
morphological processes in recursive formations such as those in (2). The aim of the
analysis is to ascertain the degree of complexity displayed by Old English nouns as well
as the interaction of morphological processes that causes such complexity. In this
respect, this article takes its starting point from Martn Aristas (2008) analysis of the
relative ordering of morphological processes in Old English word-formation, which
demonstrates that there is no lexical integrity in this stage of the English language.
The evidence gathered in this research has been retrieved from the lexical database
of Old English Nerthus (www.nerthusproject.com). Nerthus is mainly based on Clark
Halls (1996) A Concise Anglo-Saxon Dictionary and, regarding specific questions, on
Bosworth and Tollers (1973) An Anglo-Saxon dictionary as well as Sweets (1976) The
students dictionary of Anglo-Saxon. It includes 13,670 non-basic nouns. Of these, 4,084
are affixed (1,025 by prefixation and 3,059 by suffixation), and 8,347 are compounds,
1
This research has been funded through the project FFI2008-04448/FILO.
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while 1,239 nouns have been created by means of zero-derivation. I have also identified
a total of 167 nouns that are the result of productive inflection.
Given these aims and data, the article is organised as follows. Section 2 sets the
terminological question of recursivity proper vs. process feeding and deals with some
further methodological aspects of this research. Section 3 focuses on the feeding of
morphological processes and the explanation of the different levels of morphological
complexity that arise in the derived nouns of Old English. Section 4 presents the main
conclusions of the study and, to round off, the appendix includes each of the structures
identified, along with a sample word and the formal notation of its internal structure.
2. Research methodology
According to Martn Arista (2009), the defining properties of derivational morphology
in a structural-functional framework include the possibility of applying derivational
rules to previously derived inputs (recursivity) and the change in lexical category of
some outputs of derivational processes with respect to the inputs (recategorization).
Recursivity and recategorization, in this view, draw a distinction between inflectional
morphology, which cannot apply recursively or change the category of the input to
inflectional processes and derivational morphology. In this article I am concerned with
the latter property, which deserves some attention in this methodological section.
In general, recursivity means rule repetition. More technically, a recursive rule
reduces complex instances to basic instances of a phenomenon, in such a way that the
rule is applied inside the rule. Considered from the perspective of the process for which
the recursive rule accounts, a process is recursive if a step of the process requires the
repetition of the step in question so that the required output of the process is turned
out. In morphology, compounding illustrates the concept of recursive process neatly:
by root compounding we get bank employee out of bank and employee and, by means of
repeated application of the rule of root compounding, we produce bank employee
payroll from bank employee and payroll. In affixation, happy plus -ness yield happiness,
which, by prefixation of un-, produces unhappiness. These examples raise a question
central to the study of morphological recursivity that can be stated in the following
terms: how restrictive must the definition of morphological process be in order to speak
of recursivity proper? In other words, does unhappiness involve recursivity? If
recursivity is understood as repetition of a rule, unhappiness is not recursive because
prefixation and suffixation are not governed by the same rules, neither are they subject
to the same restrictions. Moreover, how are instances of affixed compounds such as
anti-spyware to be handled? What is at stake here is whether the term morphological
recursivity is understood in a wide sense, in terms of which any non-basic input to a
derivational process represents an instance of recursivity, or in a narrow sense, which
requires that a given process feeds the same process, as in instances of compounding
feeding compounding such as bank employee payroll and affixation feeding affixation
such as unhappiness, but not in affixation feeding compounding, for instance in antispyware. To solve this question I align myself with the functional school of linguistics
regarding the functional identity of affixation and compounding as far as the lexeme
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status of derivational affixes (Mairal Usn and Corts Rodrguez 2000-2001) and the
functional equivalence of derivation and compounding (Martn Arista 2008) are
concerned. The solution that is advanced here is based on a distinction between general
processes and specific processes. There is just one general process, namely lexical
creation. The major specific processes of word-formation in Old English include zeroderivation, affixation and compounding. Affixation, in turn, can be broken down into
prefixation and suffixation.
At this point, the concept of zero-derivation also requires some explanation. As I see
it, zero-derivation operating on stems is probably an even more generalised phenomenon
in Old English than Kastovsky (1968) suggests. Zero-derivation is an integral part of any
analysis of Old English word-formation. In this respect, Gonzlez Torres (2009, 2010)
excludes zero-derivation proper from her study and leaves aside the instances of what she
calls derivation by inflectional means, as in drinca drinker from drincan drink. The
analysis of zero-derivation offered by Pesquera Fernndez (2009) focuses on the
phonological motivation of morphosyntactic alternations thus taking a different line than
is pursued here. Martn Arista (forthcoming a) offers a typology of zero-derivation
phenomena in Old English that includes: (i) zero derivation with explicit inflectional
morphemes and without explicit derivational morphemes, as in rdan to ride > rda
rider; (ii) zero derivation without explicit or implicit morphemes, either inflectional or
derivational, as in bdan to delay > bd delay; (iii) zero derivation without inflectional or
derivational morphemes but displaying ablaut, as in drfan to drive > drf action of
driving; and (iv) zero derivation with ablaut and formatives that can no longer be
considered productive affixes, such as -m in flon to fly > flam flight. In general, there
is consensus regarding the fact that the change from stem-formation to word-formation is
over by the end of the Old English period. Zero-derivation is of paramount importance in
the period of stem-formation but loses weight and ultimately disappears. In this sense,
Kastovsky (2006: 165) states that nominal and adjectival inflection as well as denominal
and deadjectival derivation in Old English were predominantly word-based, but Gonzlez
Torres (2009) has shown convincingly that the existence of more than one base available
for the formation of a significant number of nouns goes in the direction of variable bases
produced by inflectional processes and made ready for derivation. In other words,
Kastovsky (2006) might overestimate the importance of word-formation with the
corresponding underestimation of stem-formation in the period. For all the reasons just
given, zero-derivation will be considered along with the other specific processes of wordformation in this work, the whole inventory including zero-derivation, affixation and
compounding.
Specific processes of derivation are accounted for by rules, which can be broken down
into word-formation rules and redundancy rules. While this typology is generally
accepted in the fields of lexicology and word-formation, it is adapted to the study of a
historical language in the following way (Caballero Gonzlez et al. 2004-2005; Torre
Alonso et al. 2008; Martn Arista 2010a, forthcoming c, d): word-formation rules are fully
operational in a synchronic analysis whereas redundancy rules capture morphological
relations no longer accountable for by word-formation rules. In Starks (1982)
terminology, word-formation rules explain what is productive in synchronic analysis and
redundancy rules, on the other hand, explain what is recoverable in diachronic analysis.
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An important difference between redundancy rules and word-formation rules is

that the latter apply gradually, whereas the former do not. This distinction raises the
issue of graduality. The transformational school has assumed some sort of graduality
understood as "one affix, one rule" (Aronoff 1976: 89) in a parallel with the binarity
principle governing X-syntax. In a similar vein, the Adjacency Condition (Siegel 1979)
stipulates that in determining whether an affix can be attached to a complex word, the
only relevant information is provided by the most recently attached element by means
of a morphological rule. Williams (1981), as Spencer (1991: 187) notes, replaces the
Adjacency Condition with the Atom Condition, which predicts that affixation processes
can be sensitive only to the most recently attached morpheme. Although in a more
indirect way than Aronoff (1976), Siegel (1979) and Williams (1981) also impose a
graduality constraint on word-formation processes. In the specific area of Old English
word-formation, Martn Arista (forthcoming b) has demonstrated that the derivation is
gradual except in some instances of parasynthesis that basically comprise frequent
affixes such as ge- and un- and, above all, adjectival derivatives.2 Consequently,
theoretical and descriptive reasons advise a gradual analysis of the processes that turn
out morphologically complex nouns in Old English.
A gradual analysis of the formation of complex nouns calls for the following steps.
All predicates (lexemes) must be ascribed to a lexical category and classified as basic or
non-basic. Basic predicates do not undergo any derivational processes. Within nonbasic predicates, a further distinction has to be made between non-recursive predicates
(those which undergo a single derivational process of affixation, compounding or zeroderivation), and recursive predicates (those which undergo a derivational process that
puts an end to the derivation, i.e. terminal process, preceded by another process that
does not put an end to the derivation, i.e. non-terminal process). Non-terminal
processes may be derivational, but also inflective, as in the inflection of drincan drink
for the past participle (druncen) as a prerequisite for obtaining druncennes
drunkenness by means of suffixation. Non-terminal and terminal processes are
represented as shown by (3), which is based on Torre Alonso et al. (2008). (3a)
represents the pre-terminal processes previous to the application of the terminal
processes unfolded in (3b):
(3)
a. [[]Af[sendan]V]V
[{drincan}V{drunken}V]Adj
b. [[in]af[sendan]V]V
[[druncen]Adj[nis]Af]N
sendan to send forth

druncen drunk
insendan to send in
druncenis drunkenness
This formalism calls for some further comment. Square brackets represent derivational
processes, while curly brackets are used to account for inflections. Another relevant
notation property is that both the terminal and non-terminal process make use of a
metalanguage, rather than the actual realizations of the predicate. At this point it must
be stressed that the use of metalanguage in terminal derivational chains makes it
2
See also Martn Arista (2010a, 2010b, forthcoming e) on the question of recursivity in Old
English word-formation.
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necessary to consider as prefixed bases some elements that lose their prefixation
throughout the lexical creation processes. In the process of the identification of the
bases of the complex words in Old English (and the adjuncts in the case of compounds)
the loss of the prefix ge- throughout the derivations is not relevant for the research.
However, when identifying the internal structure of the complex word, the situation is
different, and some questions must be set beforehand.
In the first place, a derivational process represents one level of complexity. Basic
items show no morphological complexity. In the second place, if, as stated above, the
loss of an affix has no consequences for the identification of a base as affixed, such a loss
is relevant to the analysis of the internal structure of words, in such a way that if the
affix is lost, the constituent loses one level of complexity. More specifically, if a
predicate is the result of adding ge- to an underived base, and in a second step the
structure is suffixed with the corresponding loss of the prefix, the final complex word
will be represented as the combination of an underived base plus a suffix and the
structure will be described as having one level of complexity. This is the case with the
derivatives in (4):
(4)
a. gerf pressure
b. rft contentiousness
[[ge]Af1[rf]N]N
[[rf]N[t]Af1]N
As can be seen in (4), gerf pressure is a complex noun made out of a noun plus the
prefix ge-. When this complex noun enters a second process of affixation (suffixation
with a suffix -t) the prefix is not present. Thus, in the analysis of the complex structure
of rft contentiousness, the prefix ge- is not taken into consideration and,
consequently, both the initial prefixed element and the second generation lexeme are
analysed as having one level of complexity, with prefixation and suffixation,
respectively, as the only morphological processes taking place.
Before discussing the main results obtained from the analysis, two final remarks
should be made upon the analytical notation. Consider the examples in (5):
(5)
Inflected adjunct + underived base:
Crstesmsse Christmas [[{Crst}N{Crstes}N]N[msse]N]N
Prefix + Suffixed base < Compounding:
tendebyrdnes order, series [[t]Af2[[[ende]N[byrd]N]N[ness]Af1]N]N
Compound base (basic adjunct + zero-derived base) + Suffix:
mancwealmnes manslaughter [[[man]N[(cwelan)Vb(cwealm)N]N]N[nes]Af1]N
For the sake of clarity, the category of the lexeme has been added at the end of each
derivational step. Similarly, the processes of zero-derivation and inflection have been
distinguished, with round brackets denoting the former process and curly brackets
indicating inflectional derivation. Finally, the order in which derivational processes
occur and interact is also represented by means of formal notation. In this description a
plus sign (+) represents attachment. It may be of an affix to a base or the joining of two
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free predicates. A minor than symbol (<) indicates that the process to the left of the sign
occurs after (is fed by) the one to the right of the sign. Between brackets I represent the
internal structure of compound elements.
3. Morphological process feeding and the structure of Old English nouns
After dealing with the relevant terminological and methodological questions relevant for
this study, this section concentrates on the results of the analysis. For a detailed scrutiny of
all the evidence furnished for this research, I refer the reader to the appendix.
The data analysed prove the quantitative and qualitative relevance of process feeding
for the derivational morphology of Old English. On the qualitative side, all morphological
processes play a role in the recursive formations found in Old English lexical creation. On
the quantitative side, a significant part of the lexicon of the language constitutes the
output of recursive processes of word-formation. As a matter of fact, recursive nounformation outnumbers non-recursive noun-formation, as table 1 shows:
Prefixation
Non-recursive
217
Recursive
548
Suffixation
1,010
3,059
Compounding
2,503
5,844
Zero-derivation
357
882
Table 1. Recursive and non-recursive noun-formation.
Within the realm of affixation, only 217 of the 754 prefixed nouns analysed in this work
consist of the combination of a prefix plus an underived base (28.7%). The situation with
suffixation does not differ much from these data. Of the 3,059 suffixed nouns under
scrutiny, 1,010 display an underived base (33%). Within compounding, the number of
compounds made by the addition of two basic predicates is 2,503, just above 1/4 of the
total (26.7%). That is, the attachment of an affix to underived bases or the combination of
two basic predicates to form a compound is rather limited when compared with the
number of elements in which at least two derivational processes take place.
These recursive nouns can be grouped around 119 different morphological structures,
which suggests that lexical creation at this stage of the English languange is relatively
unconstrained. The complexity levels of these structures range from single-level
formations those of a complex elements with an underived base in the case of affixation,
zero derivation and inflection, and underived base and adjunct in compounding to the
six level structure of the compound pstgnestd ascension-tide shown in (6):
(6)
Suffixed adjunct < Inflection < Prefixation < Prefixation + Zero-derived base (1)
[[[{[p]Af2[[]Af1[stgan]Vb]Vb}Vb{pstigen}Vb][ness]Af3]N[(ton)Vb(td)N]N]N
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On the grounds of the number of predicates that display each morphological structure,
the classification given in table 2 can be put forward:
Number of predicates
Number of structures
Levels of complexity
1000+
1-2
500+
2-3
100+
16
1-2-3
50+
2-3
10+
20
1-2-3-4
5+
17
2-3-4
2+
26
2-3-4
28
3-4-5-6
Table 2. Type frequency of morphological structures
Table 2 shows that there is an inverse ratio between frequency and complexity: the
more complex the morphological structure, the less frequently it is displayed by
complex nouns. More significantly, table 2 also evidences that the higher the level of
complexity, the more different morphological structures partake of the level of
complexity in question. In order to get a more refined interpretation, these data must
be related to the total number of predicates created by the whole set of structures
displaying the same level of complexity. If we focus on all the derivatives that display a
certain structure in a given complexity level, the results are those shown in table 3:
Structural complexity
Number of Predicates
Number of Structures
1 level
4,095
2 levels
7,790
24
3 levels
1,819
61
4 levels
118
26
5 levels
6 levels
Table 3. Word-formations by level of structural complexity
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Although in general terms recursive lexical creation is common in Old English, high
complexity in word-forms is strongly disfavoured. In fact, 5 and 6 complexity level
structures must be regarded as exceptional, with only three combinations giving rise to
three different predicates. The bulk of Old English complex nouns display a three-level
internal structure. Nonetheless, the most frequent morphological structure found in
complex nouns is that of two complexity levels, which is responsible for the creation of
over half the predicates analysed in this research.
Regarding the final morphological process occurring in complex words, another
two aspects deserve comment. On the one hand, the number of structures to which
each derivational process puts an end, and, on the other hand, the number of predicates
they create by complexity level. Table 4 presents the number of structures to which
each process puts an end:
1 Level
2 Levels
3 Levels
4 Levels
Prefixation
Suffixation
17
Compounding
10
33
13
Zero-derivation
Inflection
5 Levels
6 Levels
2
1
Table 4. Word structures by final derivational process.
Compounding and suffixation are responsible for the vast majority of the structures
identified in this article. This is predictable to a certain extent, considering that these
processes are final in 11,803 predicates, which represent 83.4% of the grand total of
complex nouns. The relation between the three major lexical creation processes is of
arithmetic progression, with compounding doubling the number of structures with
respect to suffixation, and suffixation presenting twice as many structures as
prefixation. This again reflects very neatly the proportion of predicates analysed. These
three processes can be final with respect to all other processes. Only inflection and zeroderivation which can be final with respect to underived, prefixed and compound
bases only are more constrained.
By process and level of internal complexity, the formation of complex nouns can be
summarised as follows in table 5.
Along with the relative frequency of more and less complex morphological
structures, tables 1 to 5 offer a picture of noun formation in which the different
derivational processes interact in a rather unrestricted way. In this respect, I concur
with Martn Arista (2008), who has pointed out that there is no lexical integrity in Old
English word-formation, be it understood as a constraint on the recursive application
of morphological processes or as a principle imposing a certain relative ordering on
derivational and inflectional processes. Although the analysis I have carried out, unlike
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Martn Aristas (2008), includes inflection and zero-derivation, lexical integrity does
not hold in these areas either. Consider the examples in (7), where suffixation occurs
before and after prefixation in (7a), and before and after compounding in (7b):
(7)
a. midfsten mid-Lent
ontimbernes material; teaching
b. ornfel thorn bush
nedearfnes need, necessity
1 Level
2 Levels
3 Levels
4 Levels
Prefixation
206
511
67
Suffixation
1,010
2,236
418
24
Compounding
2,503
4,013
1,331
85
Zero-derivation
357
Inflection
19
148
5 Levels
6 Levels
2
1
Table 5. Total number of predicates by final derivational process and complexity level
As (7) shows, no relative ordering of processes can be put forward on account of these
data. Lexical creation in Old English is a considerably free process in which complexity
is achieved with little restriction. Whereas in Present-day English prefixation occurs
systematically before compounding, these processes can feed each other in Old English.
Thus, in midfsten the prefix mid- is attached to the suffixed element fsten, while in
ontimbernes the suffix -ness is final with respect to the prefixed lexeme ontimber. As
regards the examples in (7b), suffixation occurs in fel before this lexeme becomes
part of the compound ornfel, while suffixation is final and takes place once a
compound word has been created in nedearfnes.
The instances in (7) constitute 2 complexity level structures. Morphological
processes interact in a more pervasive way when more complex formations with
processes taking place at least twice, with another derivational element inserted in
between, as in (8):
(8)
a. ungesibsumnes quarrelsomeness
b. Prefixed base < Inflection < Prefixation + Suffix: unlfednes licentiousness
c. Prefixed base < Sufixation < Inflection + Suffix: unrowendlicnes impassibility
In example (8), we find identical processes being separated by a different derivational

item, in such a way that a derivational process occurs before and after another
derivational process identifiable in the same lexeme. Even more, (8a) presents
subsequent affixation comprising prefixation + suffixation + prefixation + suffixation,
with both intermediate processes feeding each other successively. In (8b) two
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prefixations occur before and after inflection, with suffixation occurring finally. In (8c)
it is suffixation that occurs before and after inflection. The evidence against lexical
integrity, as reflected by these examples, is compelling. Further instances of reversible
feeding processes arise when compounding plays a role in lexical creation. Structures
such as Prefix + Compound Base (suffixed adjunct + underived base) and Compound base
(basic adjunct + prefixed base) + Suffix confirm that no relative ordering of processes
can be claimed for this stage of the language. In the former case suffixation is prior to
compounding, and compounding occurs before prefixation, while in the latter
prefixation is found at the beginning of the derivation, entering a process of
compounding with the resulting predicate being finally suffixed.
While I agree with Martn Arista (2008) on the lack of lexical integrity of Old
English derivation, I part company with this author regarding the maximum degree of
complexity displayed by Old English complex words, at least of the lexical category
noun. Martn Arista (2008) puts forward a morphological template with two structural
positions to the left (prefield) and another two to the right (postfield) of the
morphological head. This template is offered in figure 1:
[PREFIELD 2][PREFIELD 1]BASE[POSTFIELD 1][POSTFIELD 2]
Figure 1. Old English morphological template (from Martn Arista 2008)
Whereas this proposal does not take into account zero-derivation or separate affixation
from inflection in the rightmost position, I have opted for a maximum degree of
complexity that consists of six positions, although I must admit that these structures are
to be seen as exceptional rather than as the product of a generalised rule of wordformation (at least as far as to the category noun is concerned). A second point of
divergence with the template given in figure 1 lies in the ordering of the constituents; I
agree with Martn Arista (2008) in that the highest level of complexity without zeroderivation is four. On the other hand, the analysis I have carried out shows that the
maximum number of elements attached to a base is two to the right and another two to
the left. A structure as Suffixed base < Suffixation + Suffix, of which I have been able to
identify a few instances, is a three-level structure which requires three postfield
positions, as is the case with the examples in (9):
(9)
ealdordmlicnes authority, control
[[[[ealdor]N[dm]Af1]N[lic]Af2]ADJ[nes]AF3]N
wuldorfstlicnes glory
[[[[wuldor]N[fst]Af1]Adj[lic]Af2]Adv[nes]Af3]N
But for these exceptional instances, the template in figure 1 is valid for the vast majority
of Old English complex nouns.
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4. Conclusions
The study of the structure of complex nouns reported in the previous sections yields the
following results.
In the first place, this study has demonstrated the recursive character of complex
nouns, which favour complex morphological structures that result from the successive
application of different rules of word-formation. Overall, 119 different morphological
structures have been identified on the grounds of the degree of complexity and the
processes exhibited by complex nouns.
Secondly, a study based on the identification of the bases of complex nouns,
considering the pre-final and final derivations only, underlines the inadequacy of any
statement of lexical integrity in Old English, if this term is understood as relative
ordering of the morphological processes of inflection and derivation.
And thirdly, some differences have arisen regarding the complexity levels that each
process admits. Up to three complexity levels, all the derivational processes analysed in
this work (prefixation, suffixation, compounding, zero-derivation and inflection) may
be final in the structure. Beyond this point, prefixation, suffixation and compounding
only may turn up as final. Whereas prefixation, suffixation and compounding appear as
final in four-level structures, suffixation only is final to five-level structures and
compounding stands out as the final process in the only six-level structure identified in
this research. Leaving aside five and six-level structures, which must be regarded as
exceptional, the differences do not lie in the morphological structure of the formation,
but in the number of structures of a given level to which each process can put an end.
Thus, compounding is, in three- and four-level structures (by far the most frequent
structures), the most frequent terminal process, followed by suffixation, and
prefixation. Considering the final process, it is compounding that offers the greatest
variation as regards the number of structures it puts an end to, which cannot be isolated
from the fact that compounds constitute more than half of the corpus of analysis and
that they are the result of the combination of two analysable constituents.
Works Cited
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Caballero Gonzlez, Laura, Elisa Gonzlez Torres, Ana Ibez Moreno and Javier Martn Arista
2004-2005: Predicados verbales primitivos y derivados en ingls antiguo. Implicaciones para la
elaboracin de una base de datos lxica. Revista Espaola de Lingstica Aplicada 17-18: 35-49.
Clark Hall, John Richard 1996 (1896): A Concise Anglo-Saxon Dictionary. Toronto: U of Toronto P.
Gonzlez Torres, Elisa 2009: Affixal Nouns in Old English: Morphological Description, Multiple
Bases and Recursivity. Unpublished Ph.D. thesis. University of La Rioja, Spain.
2010: The Inflection-Derivation Continuum and the Old English Suffixes -a, -e, -o, -u.
Atlantis 32.1: 103-22.
Kastovsky, Dieter 1968: Old English Deverbal Substantives Derived by means of a Zero Morpheme.
Unpublished Ph.D. thesis. Eberhard-Karls-Universitt, Tbingen.
2006: Typological Changes in Derivational Morphology. Ans van Kemenade and
Bettelou Los, eds. The Handbook of the History of English. Oxford: Blackwell. 151-77.
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Mairal Usn, Ricardo and Francisco Corts Rodrguez 2000-2001: Semantic Packaging and
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Inquiry 12: 51-97.
Appendix
1 LEVEL OF COMPLEXITY
a) prefix + Underived predicate (217)
oferbrw eye-brow [[ofer][brw]N]N
b) Underived predicate + Suffix (1,010)
ofung thieving [[of]N[ing]]N
c) Underived adjunct+ Underived base (2,503)
stntorr stone tower; crag, rock [[stn]N[torr]N]N
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d) Zero-derived nouns from Underived bases(357)
ece ache, pain [(acan)Vb(ece)N]N
e) Nouns from inflection of underived predicates (19)
bidden petitioner [{biddan}Vb{biddend}Vb]N
2 LEVELS OF COMPLEXITY
I) Prefixation
a) Prefix + Prefixed base (31)
undertdal secondary division [[under]A2[[t]A1[dl]N]N]N
b) Prefix + Suffixed base (167)
midfsten mid-Lent [[mid]A2[[fst]Adj[en]A1]N]N
c) Prefix + Compound base (underived + underived) (17)
forelttow leader [[fore]A1[[ld]N[ow]N]N]N
d) Prefix + Zero-derived base (275)
ymbcyme assembly, convention [[ymb]A1[(cuman)Vb(cyme)N]N]N
e) Prefix + Inflected base (21)
foret front teeth [[fore]Af1[{t}N{t}N]N
II) Suffixation
a) Prefixed base + Suffix (1,152)
ontimbernes material; teaching [[[on]A1[timber]N]N[ness]A2]N
b) Suffixed base + Suffix (368)
hligdm holiness [[[hl]N[ig]A1]Adj[dm]A2]N
c) Compound base + Suffix (143)
nedearfnes need, necessity [[[ned]N[earf]N]N[ness]A1]N
d) Zero-derived base + Suffix (386)
tere eater, glutton [[(etan)Vb(t)N]N[ere]A1]N
e) Inflected base + Suffix (187)
strecednes bed, couch [[{strecan}Vb{streced}Vb]N[ness]A1]N
III) Compounding
a) Prefixed adjunct + underived base (46)
gedlland land under joint ownership [[[ge]A1[dl]N]N[land]N]N
b) Suffixed adjunct + underived base (290)
bltsingsealm the Benedicite [[[blts]Vb[ing]A1]N[sealm]N]N
c) Compound adjunct + underived base (64)
hlfordrimm dominion, power
[[[hlf]N[weard]N]N[rymm]N]N
d) Zero-derived adjunct + underived base (821)
flotscip ship, bark [[(flotan)Vb(flot)N]N[scip]N]N
e) Inflected adjunct + underived base (35)
Crstesmsse Christmas [[{Crst}N{Crstes}N]N[msse]N]N
f) Underived adjunct + prefixed base (279)
odgestron peoples treasure
[[od]N[[ge]A1[stron]N]N]N
g) Underived adjunct + suffixed base (417)
ornfel thorn bush [[orn]N[[f]N[el]A1]N]N
h) Underived adjunct + compound base (75)
lrow teacher of the law [[]N[[lr]N[aw]N]N]N
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i) Underived adjunct + zero-derived base(1,982)

lif eternal life [[]Af1[(lfan)Vb(lf)N]N]N
j) Underived adjunct + inflected base (4)
bencsittend one who sits on a bench [[benc]N[{sittan}Vb{sittend}Vb]Vb]N
IV) Zero-derivation
a) Zero-derivation from prefixed bases (368)
ymbsprc conversation [([[ymb]Af1[sprecan]Vb]Vb)Vb(ymbsprc)N]N
b) Zero-derivation from compound bases (7)
swara oath-swearing, oath [([[]N[swerian]Vb]Vb)Vb(swara)N]N
V) Inflection
a) Predicates resulting from the inflection of prefixed bases (143)
ondlend one who imparts, infuser [{[on]Af1[dlan]Vb}Vb{ondlend}Vb]N
b) Predicates resulting from the inflectioGn of compound bases (5)
hearmcweend slanderer [{[hearm]N[cwean]Vb}Vb{hearmcweend}Vb]N
I) Prefixation
a) Prefix + Suffixed base < Prefixation (15)
onbescawung inspection, examination [[on]Af3[[[be]Af1[sceaw]Vb]Vb[ung]Af2]N]N
b) Prefix + Suffixed base < Suffixation (5)
mishealdsumnes carelessness [[mis]Af3[[[heald]N[sum]Af1]Adj[ness]Af2]N]N
c) Prefix + Suffixed base < Compounding (2)
tendebyrdnes order, series [[t]Af2[[[ende]N[byrd]N]N[ness]Af1]N]N
d) Prefix + Suffixed base < Inflection (5)
tgecorennes adoption [[t]Af2[[{cosan}Vb{gecoren}Vb][ness]Af1]N]N
e) Prefix + Compound Base < suffixed adjunct (3)
twpnedmann stranger [[t]Af2[[[wpn]N[ed]Af1]Adj[mann]N]N]N
f) Prefix + Compound Base < Inflected base (1)
unlandgend not owning land [[un]Af1[[land]N[{gan}Vb{agend}Vb]Vb]N]N
g) Prefix + Zero-derived base < prefixed verb (33)
unbelimp mishap, misfortune [[un]Af2[([be]Af1[limpan]Vb)Vb(belimp)N]N]N
h) Prefix + Inflected base < Prefixed predicate
underandfnd receiver (Sweet) [[under]Af2[{[on]Af1[fn]Vb}Vb{andfnd}Vb]N]N
II) Suffixation
a) Prefixed base < Prefixation + Suffix (18)
prisnes resurrection
[[[un]Af2[[]Af1[ris]Vb]Vb]vb[nes]Af3]N
b) Prefixed base < Suffixation + Suffix (26)
unwstmfstnes barrenness [[[un]Af2[[wstm]N[fst]Af1]Adj]Adj[nes]Af3]N
c) Prefixed base < Compounding + Suffix (1)
unleouwcnes inflexibility [[[un]Af1[[leou]N[wc]N]N]N[ness]Af2]N
d) Prefixed base < Zero-derivation + Suffix (3)
onbringelle instigation [[[on]Af1[(bringan)Vb(bring)N]N]N[el]Af2]N
e) Prefixed base < Inflection + Suffix (3)
forewritennes proscription, exile [[[fore]Af1[{wrtan}Vb{written}Vb]Vb]Vb[ness]Af2]N
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f) Suffixed base < Prefixation + Suffix (60)
andgietlast want of understanding [[[[and]Af1[giet]Vb]Vb[las]Af2]Adj[t]Af3]N
g) Suffixed base < Suffixation + Suffix (5)
wuldorfstlicnes glory [[[[wuldor]N[fst]Af1]Adj[lic]Af2]Adv[nes]Af3]N
i) Suffixed base < Compounding + Suffix (5)
hearmcwidolnes slander [[[[hearm]N[cwid]Vb]Vb[ol]Af1]Adj[nes]Af2]N
j) Compound base (prefixed adjunct + underived base) + Suffix (3)
geyldmdnes patience
[[[[ge]Af1[yld]N][md]N]N[ness]Af2]N
k) Compound base (suffixed adjunct + underived base) + Suffix (3)
mgenrymnes great glory, majesty [[[[mag]Vb[en]Af1]N[rym]N][ness]Af2]N
l) Compound base (compound adjunct + underived base) + Suffix (2)
fyrwitgeornes curiosity [[[[fyr]N[wit]N]N[georn]N]N[ness]Af1]N
m) Compound base (underived adjunct + prefixed base) + Suffix (7)
laslecung empty flattery [[[las]Adj[[]Af1[lecc]Vb]Vb]Vb[ung]Af2]N
n) Compound base (underived adjunct + suffixed base) + Suffix (6)
lmihtignes omnipotence [[[eal]Adj[[miht]N[ig]Af1]Adj]Adj[ness]Af2]N
o) Compound base (underived adjunct + zero-derived base) + Suffix (3)
mancwealmnes manslaughter [[[man]N[(cwelan)Vb(cwealm)N]N]N[nes]Af1]N
p) Compound base < underived adjunct + inflected base) + Suffix (3)
elborennes nobility of birth or nature
[[[el]Adj[{beran}Vb{boren}Vb]Vb]Adj[ness]Af1]N
q) Zero-derived base < Prefixation + Suffix (94)
ofercymend assailant [[([ofer]Af1[cuman]Vb)Vb(ofercyme)N]N[end]Af2]N
r) Inflected base < Prefixation + Suffix (176)
ymbsetennes siege [[{[ymb]Af1[sittan]Vb}Vb{ymbseten}Vb]Vb[nes]Af2]N
III) Compounding
a) Underived adjunct + Prefixed base < suffixation (2)
bcgesamnung library [[bc]N[[ge]Af2[[samn]Vb[ung]Af1]N]N]N
b) Underived adjunct + Suffixed base < Prefixation (5)
eftforgifnes remission, reconciliation [[eft]Adv[[[for]Af1[gief]Vb]Vb[nes]Af2]N]N
c) Underived adjunct+ Suffixed base < Inflection (1)
hrgelgefrtwodnes fine clothing
[[hrgel]N[[{frtwan}Vb{gefrtwod}Vb]Vb[ness]Af1]N]N
d) Underived adjunct + Compound base (Suffixed adjunct + underived base) (2)
sumorrdingbc summer lectionary [[sumor]N[[[rd]Vb[ing]Af1]N[bc]N]N]N
e) Underived adjunct + Compound base (prefixed adjunct + underived base) (1)
sundorgerfland land reserved to the jurisdiction of a gerfa
[[sundor]Adv[[[ge]Af1[rf]N]N[land]N]N]N
f) Underived adjunct + Compound base (underived adjunct + prefixed base) (1)
rihtlandgemre lawful boundary (of land) [[riht]Adj[[land]N[[ge]Af1[mre]N]N]N]N
g) Underived adjunct + Compound base (zero-derived adjunct + underived base) (5)
eoforhafodsegn banner with a boars head design?
[[eofor]N[[(hebban)Vb(hafod)N]N[segn]N]N]N
h) Prefixed adjunct + Prefixed base (2)
unrihtgestron unrighteous gain [[[un]Af2[riht]Adj]Adj[[ge]Af1[stron]N]N]N
i) Prefixed adjunct + Suffixed base (17)
fulwihtnung baptismal service [[[ful]Af2[wiht]N]N[[egn]N[ung]Af1]N]N
j) Prefixed adjunct + Zero-derived base (57)
arcebiscoprce archbishopric, post of archbishop
[[[arce]Af1[bisceop]N]N[(rcan)Vb(rice)N]N]N
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k) Prefixed adjunct + Inflected base (2). Two cases lose ge- in the adjunct.
unrihtdnd evildoer [[[un]Af1[riht]N][{dn}Vb{dnd}Vb]N]N
l) Suffixed adjunct < Prefixation + underived base (2)
forligerbed bed of fornication [[[[for]Af1[lig]Vb]Vb[ere]Af2]N[bed]N]N
m) Suffixed adjunct < Suffixation + Underived base (1)
hligdmhs a place where holy things are kept, a sacrarium
[[[[hl]N[ig]Af1]Adj[dm]Af2]N[hs]N]N
n) Suffixed adjunct + Prefixed base (8).
mgenfultum mighty help [[[mg]Vb[en]af2]N[[ful]af1[tum]N]N]N
o) Suffixed adjunct + Suffixed base (17)
bisceophdnung episcopal service [[[bisceop]N[hd]Af2]N[[egn]N[ung]Af1]N]N
p) Suffixed adjunct + Compound base (5)
nungwerod body of serving-men [[[egn]N[ung]Af1]N[[wer]N[rd]N]N]N
q) Suffixed adjunct + zero-derived base (123)
rplingweard warder [[rp]Vb[ling]Af1]N[(weoran)Vb(weard)N]N]N
r) Suffixed adjunct + Inflected base (1)
tancumen stranger, foreigner [[[t]Adj[an]Af1]Adv[{cuman}Vb{cumen}Vb]Vb]N
s) Compound adjunct (inflected adjunct + underived base) + underived base
crstelmlbam tree surmounted by a cross?
[[[{crst}N{crstes}N]N[ml]N]N[bam]N]N
t) Compound adjunct + Prefixed base (2)
marmstngedelf quarrying of marble [[[marm]N[stn]N][[ge]Af1[delf]N]N]N
u) Compound adjunct + Suffixed base (12)
dgrdoffrung morning sacrifice [[[dg]N[rd]Adj]N[[offr]Vb[ung]Af1]N]N
v) Compound adjunct + Compound base (1)
oredweorod band, company [[[eoh]N[rd]N][[wer]N[rd]N]N]N
w) Compound adjunct + Zero-derived base (39)
msseprostscr district for which a mass-priest officiated
[[[msse]N[prost]N]N[(scieran)Vb(scr)N]N]N
x) Zero < Prefixation + Underived base (134)
andfengstw receptacle [[([on]Af1[fn]Vb)Vb(andfeng)N]N[stw]N]N
y) Zero-derived adjunct + Prefixed base (49).
bealuinwit deceit, treachery [[(belgan)Vb(bealu)N]N[[in]Af1[wit]N]N]N
z) Zero-derived adjunct + Suffixed base (132).
wordpredicung preaching [[(weoran)Vb(word)N]N[[predic]Vb[ung]AF1]N]N
aa) Zero-derived adjunct + Compound base (Underived adjunct + Underived adjunct) (14)
sealtherpa road to salt-works [[(sealtan)Vb(sealt)N]N[[here]N[pa]N]N]N
ab) Zero-derived adjunct + Zero-derived adjunct (653)
brynegield burnt-offering [[(biernan)Vb(bryne)N][(gieldan)Vb(gield)N]N]N
ac) Zero-derived adjunct + Inflected base (8)
burgsittende city-dwellers [[(beorgan)Vb(burg)N]N[{sittan}Vb{sittende}Vb]N]N
ad) Inflected adjunct < Zero-derivation + Underived base (39)
hildestrengo vigour for battle [[{(healdan)Vb(hild)N}N{hilde}N]N[strengu]N]N
ae) Inflected adjunct < Prefixation + Underived base (1)
infangeneof right of judging thieves caught within the limits of ones
jurisdiction, and of taking the fines for the crime
[[([on]Af1[fn]Vb)Vb(infangen)Vb]Adj[of]N]N
af) Inflected adjunct + Suffixed base (1)
haransprecel vipers bugloss [[{hara}N{haran}N]N[[sprec]N[el]Af1]N]N
ag) Inflected adjunct + Compound base (1)
langafrgedg Good Friday [[{lang}Adj{langa}Adj]Adj[[frge]N[dg]N]N]N
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ah) Inflected adjunct + Zero-derived base (27)
oxanslyppe oxanlip [[{ox}N{oxan}N]N[(slpan)Vb(slyppe)N]N]N
IV) Zero-derivation
a) Zero-derived < Compounding (underived adjunct + prefixed base) (2)
eftrist resurrection [([eft]Adv[[]Af1[rsan]Vb]Vb)Vb(eftrist)N]N
V) Inflection
a) Predicates resulting from the inflection of compound nouns with prefixed adjuncts (1)
unrihthmend adulterer [{[[un]Af1[riht]Adj][hman]Vb}Vb{unrihthmend}Vb]N
I) Prefixation
a) Prefix + Suffixed base < Prefixation < Suffixation (1)
ungemdignes contentiousness [[un]Af4[[[ge]Af2[[md]N[ig]Af1]Adj]Adj[ness]Af3]N]N
b) Prefix + Suffixed base < Suffixation < Prefixation (4)
ungehrsumnes disobedience [[un]Af4[[[[ge]Af1[hr]Vb][sum]Af2]Adj[ness]Af3]N]N
c) Prefix + Suffixed base < Suffixation < Compounding (1)
ungearuwitolnes dulness of mind
[[un]Af3[[[[gearo]Adj[wit]Vb][ol]Af1]Adj[ness]Af2]N]N
d) Prefix + Suffixed base < Inflection < prefixation (3)
unforhfednes incontinence
[[un]Af3[[{[for]Af1[hebban]Vb}Vb{forhfed}Vb]Vb[ness]Af2]N]N
II) Suffixation
a) Prefixed base < Suffixation < Prefixation + Suffix (13)
ungesibsumnes quarrelsomeness [[[un]Af3[[[ge]Af1[sib]N][sum]Af2]Adj][ness]Af4]N
b) Prefixed base < Sufixation < Inflection + Suffix (1)
unrowendlicnes impassibility
[[[un]Af2[[{rwian}Vb{rwiend}Vb]Vb[lic]Af1]Adv]Adv[ness]Af3]N
c) Prefixed base < Inflection < Prefixation + Suffix (2)
unlfednes licentiousness [[[un]Af2[{ []Af1[lefan]Vb}{lfed}Vb]Vb]Vb[ness]N]N
d) Suffixed base < Prefixation < Suffixation + Suffix (1)
unmihtiglicnes inability [[[[un]Af2[[miht]N[ig]Af1]Adj]Adj[lic]Af3]Adv[ness]Af4]N
e) Suffixed base < Inflection < Prefixation + Suffix (2)
oferflwedlcnes excess, superfluity
[[[{[ofer]Af1[flwan]Vb}{oferflwed}Vb]Vb[lic]Af2]Adv[ness]Af3]N
f) Compound base (underived adjunct + Inflected base < Prefixation) +Suffix (1)
eftcennednes regeneration
[[[eft]Adv[{[]Af1[cennan]Vb}{cenned}Vb]Vb]Vb[ness]Af2]N
g) Compound base (underived adjunct + suffixed base < prefixation) + Suffix (1)
rihtgelaffulnes right belief [[riht]Adj[[[ge]Af1[laf]N]N[ful]Af2]Adj]Adj[ness]Af3]N
h) Compound base (Compound adjunct (Underived adjunct + Prefixed base) +
Underived base) + Suffix
welgelcwirnes good pleasure [[[[wel]Adv[[ge]Af1[lc]N]N]N[wir]Adj]Adj[ness]Af2]N
i) Inflected base < Prefixation < Prefixation + Suffix (2)
onweggewitennes departure
[[{[onweg]Af2[[ge]Af1[wtan]Vb]Vb}Vb{onwegewiten}Vb]Vb[ness]N]N
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III) Compounding
a) Underived adjunct + Suffixed base < Inflection < Prefixation (7)
flscbesmitennes defilement of the flesh
[[flsc]N[[{[be]Af1[smtan]Vb}Vb{besmiten}Vb]Vb[ness]Af2]N]N
b) Underived adjunct + Suffixed base < Suffixation < Prefixation (1)
dyrneforlegernes fornication [[dyrne]N[[[[for]Af1[leg]Vb]Vb[ere]Af2]N[nes]Af3]N]N
c) Underived adjunct + Suffixed base < Suffixation < Suffixation (1)
mdstaolfstnes firmness of mind
[[md]N[[[[sta]Vb[el]Af1]N[fst]Af2]Adj[ness]Af3]N]N
d) Underived adjuct + Suffixed base < Zero-derivation < Prefixation (1)
eardbegengnes habitation [[eard]N[[([be]Af1[gangan]Vb)Vb(begeng)N][nes]Af2]N]N
e) Suffixed adjunct + Suffixed base < Prefixation (1)
tanymbstandnes surrounding [[[t]Adj[an]Af3]Adv[[[ymb]Af1[stand]Vb]Vb[nes]Af2]N]N
f) Suffixed adjunct < Prefixation + Zero-derived base (2)
behrowsungtd time of repentance
[[[[be]Af1[hrows]Vb]Vb[ung]Af2]N[(ton)Vb(td)N]N]N
g) Suffixed adjunct + Zero-derived base < Prefixation (5)
hlsunggebed prayer in a church service
[[[hls]Vb[ung]Af2]N[([ge]Af1[biddan]Vb)Vb(gebed)N]N]N
h) Suffixed adjunct + Compound base (underived adjunct + Zero-derived base) (1)
dryhtealdorman paranymphus
[[[dryh]N[t]Af1]N[[ealdor]N[(munan)Vb(mann)N]N]N]N
i) Compound adjunct + Inflected base < prefixation (1)
middangeardtdlend cosmographer
[[middan]adj[geard]N]N[{[t]Af1[dlan]Vb}Vb{tdlend}Vb]Vb]N
j) Compound adjunct (Suffixed adjunct + Suffixed base) + Underived base (7)
sanwestanwind a south-west wind
[[[[s]Adj[an]Af1]Adv[[west]Adj[an]Af2]Adv]Adv[wind]N]N
k) Zero-derived adjunct + Zero-derived base < Prefixation (36)
feohbeht promise of money [[(fon)Vb(feoh)N]N[([be]Af1[htan]Vb)Vb(beht)N]N]N
l) Zero-derived adjunct < Prefixation + Suffixed base (9)
forweardmercung heading
[[([for]Af2[weoran]Vb)Vb(forweard)N]N[[mrc]Vb[ung]Af1]N]N
m) Zero-derived adjunct + Suffixed base < Prefixation (2)
wilgedryht willing band [[(willan)Vb(will)N]N[[[ge]Af1[dryh]N]N[t]Af2]N]N
n) Zero-derived adjunct < Prefixation + Zero-derived base (12)
forfangfeoh reward for rescuing cattle or other property
[[([for]Af1[fn]Vb)(forfang)N]N[(fon)Vb(feoh)N]N]N
I) Suffixation
a) Prefixed base < Suffixation < Inflection < Prefixation + Suffix (1)
uncumenlicnes unbearableness
[[[un]Af3[[{[]Af1[cuman]Vb}Vb{cumen}Vb][lic]Af2]Adv]Adv[ness]Af4]N
b) Suffixed base < Suffixation < Zero-derivation < Prefixation + Suffix (1)
gemyndiglicnes remembrance
[[[[([ge]Af1[munan]Vb)Vb(gemynd)N][ig]Af2]Adj[lic]Af3]Adv[ness]Af4]N
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146
I) Compounding
a) Suffixed adjunct < Inflection < Prefixation < Prefixation + Zero-derived base (1)
pstgnestd Ascension-tide
[[[{[p]Af2[[]Af1[stgan]Vb]Vb}Vb{pstigen}Vb][ness]Af3]N[(ton)Vb(td)N]N]N
Received 5 July 2010
Revised version accepted 9 November 2010
Roberto Torres Alonso (PhD U. de La Rioja) is a member of the Functional Grammars Research Group
responsible for the development of the lexical database Nerthus (www.nerthusproject.com) which includes
formal, morphological and semantic information of over 30,000 Old English predicates.
Address: Departamento de Filologas Modernas. Universidad de La Rioja. C/ San Jos de Calasanz s/n,
26006 Logroo, La Rioja, Spain. Tel.:+34 941299547. Fax: +34941299419.
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REVIEWS
RESEAS
Gmez Reus, Teresa and Arnzazu Usandizaga, eds. 2008: Inside Out: Women
Negotiating, Subverting, Appropriating Public and Private Space. Amsterdam and
New York: Rodopi. 364 pp. ISBN 978-90-420-2441-0
Rosario Arias
Universidad de Mlaga
rarias@uma.es
There is no doubt that spatial criticism has recently become one of the most productive
fields in contemporary theory. The topographical turn from the 1970s onwards, inspired
by the work of Henri Lefebvre, among others, prompted the publication of several studies
on spaces and places. The New Geographers radically challenged former versions of
space, and stress[ed] interaction and exchange, thus exposing space as a site of complex
social, historical, and economic struggles (Mergenthal 2002: 131). In the light of this,
gender studies made a foray into the gender-specific separation-of-spheres discourse to
argue that it was possible to see beyond the limitations of this traditional dichotomy,
according to which women were invisible in the public area. Inside Out: Women
Negotiating, Subverting, Appropriating Public and Private Space comprises the outcome of
the seminar Teresa Gmez Reus co-organised with Deborah Parsons, Women and Public
Space: Practice and Representation, at the 2004 ESSE Conference held in Zaragoza, plus
the roundtable conducted in AEDEAN (Jan, 2005) and other invited contributions.
Clearly enough, the result is an excellent contribution to the field of spatial studies, as well
as to that of gender studies.
This timely volume interrogates the standard ideology of separate spheres, by means of
which public and private spaces are immutable and gender-specific, in multiple ways,
preceded by a foreword by Janet Wolff. Her seminal essay on the flneuse in the 1980s,
The Invisible Flneuse: Women and the Literature of Modernity, paved the way for the
ongoing interest in the female counterpart of the nineteenth-century flneur. For those
who are familiar with Janet Wolffs work, it is fascinating to re-encounter her vibrant
prose in the foreword to this collection twenty years after she published her often-cited
essay. She most tellingly points out one of the remarkable achievements of this collection:
[the essays in this book] remove us from what has increasingly seemed to be the cul-desac of complaints about womens absence from (or invisibility in) the public sphere (15).
In fact, in their co-authored introduction, Teresa Gmez Reus and Arnzazu Usandizaga
trace the evolution of the relationship between women and the space from the 1980s
onwards, and most interestingly, underline the need to revise the standard ideology of
separate spheres (22). They give full credit to Janet Wolffs pioneering essay in providing
the theoretical backbone of Inside Out, as it seeks to problematise the neat distinction
between the public and the private spheres. Bearing in mind the restrictions women have
had in the access to the public sphere, the co-editors strive to call attention to the ways in
which women writers negotiate the blurred lines between the domestic and the public.
The volume is divided into six sections of three chapters each, with the exception of
the last two, Transformations in Nature and Negotiating the City, which consist of two
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chapters each. In addition, the collection finishes with Janet Floyds concluding remarks
and an index. The sections aim to give order and a chronological (and thematic) sequence
to the negotiation of the public and the private in the work of women writers, and as a
consequence, their headings point out the link between the chapters of each section. This
structure is particularly praiseworthy, as it gives coherence and unity to a multifaceted
and complex topic. Moreover, the essays complement one another very well, and when
put together, they reveal unexpected aspects of the authors and works under
consideration.
Early Escapes into Public Spaces, the first of the six sections, encompasses three
essays dealing with incipient attempts at escaping from the suffocating private room into
the public realm, thus suggesting the porosity of the boundaries between the two spheres.
Lucy Bending undertakes an examination of Harriet Martineaus fight for her freedom
through the re-configuration of the sick-room as a double space: a physically-realised
space with firmly demarcated, yet strangely elastic, walls that both imprison the patient,
and yet allow a wider freedom, however mediated, through the windows, pictures
(42). Efterpi Mitsi, in turn, explores the Turkish bath, the hammam, and considers it a
liminal space, as full of potentialities as the modern Parisian arcade. Mitsi equates the
figure of the nineteenth-century woman traveller with that of the invisible flneuse, who
writing [her] impressions of different cultures often strove to attain the aesthetic distance
associated with the flneur (48). Mitsis essay suggests that the hamman represents a
(feminised) space of power relations, and most importantly, points out the link between
the space itself and the body of the other. This is a particularly fascinating chapter as it
incorporates orientalism in a subject matter usually deprived of references to racial
differences. Whereas class issues are often invoked when dealing with the blurring of
boundaries between the public and private spheres in the Victorian period, especially in
relation to nineteenth-century women strollers as noted by Judith Walkowitz in City of
Dreadful Delight (1992) and Lynda Nead in Victorian Babylon (2000), references to
ethnicity are lacking in spatial studies on the Victorian age. The last essay in this first
section, Ladies on the Tramp: The Philanthropic Flneuse and Appropriations of
Victorian Londons Impoverished Domesticity, by Cathleen J. Hamann, precisely calls
the readers attention to class issues as it delves into the philanthropic work carried out by
upper- and middle-class women in the poor and working-class homes of Victorian
London. Notwithstanding the new social roles available for women in late Victorian
England, such as theatre-goer, shopper and friendly visitor, Hamann argues, one should
not forget the dangers of womens mobility in the Victorian street, as Janet Wolff posited
in her aforementioned essay. However, Hamann indicates the relevance of the double
condition of the modern city that made the private space of the poor a vital element of
public discourse (81). Recent criticism has shown that women philanthropists enjoyed a
certain degree of mobility in Victorian England as seen in Dorice Williams Elliotts The
Angel out of the House: Philanthropy and Gender in Nineteenth-Century England (2002). It
is possible to argue that philanthropy and gender have found a niche in contemporary
historical fiction set in Victorian times, what is now known as neo-Victorian fiction, for
example in Sarah Waterss Affinity (1999), where one of the protagonists is an uppermiddle-class woman philanthropist, Margaret Prior.
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Women on Display proves to be one of the most enticing sections of the whole book
as its main concern is the question of women on display in the work of well- and lesserknown women writers such as George Eliot or Edith Wharton, on the one hand, and
Gertrude Atherton and F. Tennyson Jesse, on the other. Very innovative and suggestive,
these three essays tackle the spectacularisation of female characters to varying degrees, in
both the domestic and public spheres. Anna Despotopoulou draws on Jrgen Habermas
analysis of the thin line dividing private and public domains to argue that in Victorian
times the private domain came to be governed by the rules of the marketplace. The author
of this essay proves how [c]oncern about the effect of the market is abundant in the
Victorian novel (91). Gwendolen Harleth in George Eliots Daniel Deronda (1876)
illustrates the ways in which a womans domestic position is defined by the market, and
how she can possibly challenge received notions of female subjectivity, torn between
visibility and invisibility, in a novel concerned with spectacle and performance. In The
Wings of the Dove (1902) Henry James adopts theatrical gestures and enactments to
highlight the performative nature of human interaction. The private sphere, she argues,
gives the false impression of freedom to women when they gain visibility through
theatrical exposure. Anne-Marie Evanss essay on Edith Whartons The House of Mirth
(1905) mobilises theories about the drawing-room as theatrical spectacle to describe the
relationship maintained between Lily and Selden. The author compellingly contends that
Wharton utilises the popular contemporary pastime of the tableaux vivant as a metaphor
for the urban, sophisticated woman as spectacle (117). Lastly, Janet Stobbs Tracing the
Female Triptych of Space: Private, Public, and Power Strongholds in Gertrude Athertons
Patience Sparhawk and Her Times (1897), and F. Tennyson Jesses A Pin to See the
Peepshow (1934) examines two lesser-known novels from the point of view of the
murderess, and the challenges this figure poses to the public and domestic spaces. Both
novels feature a courtroom scene in which the trials that take place in these novels are
emblematic of the debate on womens position in society, mirroring deeply-entrenched
fears that womens independence was conducive to criminal behaviour (128). Extremely
well-researched and documented, this essay shares with the previous ones the relevance of
the theatrical metaphor, since the courtroom is regarded as a stage. This would appear to
have mileage for future analyses of other narrative texts in which the trial occupies a
central position.
The third section, entitled Approaching the City, comprises three chapters which
offer valuable insights into womens intervention into the city. It is true that there are
already a number of studies on the literary treatment of the Victorian and/or the modern
city in womens writing such as Deborah Epstain Nords Walking the Victorian Streets
(1995), Christine Wick Sizemores A Female Vision of the City (1989) and Deborah
Parsonss Streetwalking the Metropolis (2000), and the aforementioned Walkowitzs City
of Dreadful Delight and Neads Victorian Babylon, alluded to in the editors joint
introduction. These essays, however, explore uncharted territory as far as women and the
city are concerned. For example, Valerie Fehlbaums chapter on Eliza Lynn Linton and
Ella Hepworth Dixon successfully demonstrates that late-nineteenth-century women
writers found the way to challenge sanctioned codes of behaviour in the modern city of
London, a few decades before Virginia Woolf wrote Mrs Dalloway (1925) and Street
Haunting: A Public Adventure (1930). This essay is highly informative and it will prove to
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be substantial for other critics to deal with late-nineteenth-century female strollers. The
second chapter, by Melinda Harvey, discusses Dorothy Richardsons Pilgrimage (19151967), an often-neglected novel, key to any discussion of women and space. Miriam
Henderson, the flneuse par excellence, breaks down the distinction between public and
private, and enjoys a certain freedom in the interstitial in-between spaces where the
porosity of public and private is patent the live space (168), a borrowed term from
Richard Sennett. Again ethnicity comes to the fore, as happened in the first section, in the
authors analysis of the relation Miriam holds with Mendizabal, the Jewish character
Miriam does have an affinity with. Mendizabal is instrumental in introducing Miriam to
the continental caf, and in incorporating the strangeness of the other into the fabric of
the city. M Lourdes Lpez Roperos essay on the London life-writing of Janet Frame and
Doris Lessing convincingly compares two writers whose background, education and life
apparently have nothing in common. However, the authors argument reveals unexpected
links between these two writers as white colonial writers pursuing writing careers in the
metropolis, and both of them documented their urban experiences in their life-writing
(191). From the standpoint of the colonial observer and flneuse, Frame and Lessing are
able to read the city of London and to turn the public spaces of the metropolis inside out
to affirm their presence. On a marginal note, one cannot help but comment on the
authors opinion about The Golden Notebook, [Lessings] longest and most ambitious
novel (192; italics mine): this one is not the longest by far, since The Four-Gated City
(1969), a novel which maintains some parallelisms with The Golden Notebook, is
acknowledged as the longest of Lessings novels.
Conquering the Spaces of War, the fourth section of the volume, is devoted to the
exploration of womens presence in the sphere of war. Teresa Gmez Reus and Peter
Laubers chapter examines Edith Whartons Fighting France (11), her personal account of
World War I. Their main aim is to claim the relevance of Edith Whartons eyewitness
testimony in war literature through a study of the spatial images: [they] help to convey
Whartons reverence for French civilization and its resilience in the face of troubled
times (209). One such image is the house on fire (210), which functions as a motif that
runs through Whartons account, or houses in ruins (211), a metaphor of utmost
importance to Whartons depiction of wartime France. Wharton portrays the houses (and
other spaces) as victimised beings, since she took pains not to show the French people as
helpless, but according to the authors, Fighting France is simultaneously a homage to the
creative force of human life (217), clearly shown in her depiction of gardens, hospitals
and markets. This fascinating essay underlines key issues in Whartons text that have
previously received scant attention. Laurel Forsters essay, entitled Women and War
Zones: May Sinclairs Personal Negotiations with the First World War, concentrates on
May Sinclairs autobiographical text, A Journal of Impressions in Belgium (1915), a record
of her short experience on the Belgian front line. This chapter offers a useful introduction
to womens role in World War I, and then proceeds to the analysis of Sinclairs personal
account of her war experience. Forster makes it clear that Sinclair held an ambiguous, inbetween, position in war areas, as both an insider and an outsider, and that this is
reflected in her Journal: Sinclairs war writings ... start to investigate whether war zones
could also be understood and imagined as female spaces (231). The author of this essay
explores the ways in which Sinclairs highly personal account markedly connects psychical
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and physical places to the extent that the internal and the external approaches to war
conflate and fuse together. Therefore, [p]lace becomes a catalyst for stating the truth of
her experience (243), not only in her Journal but also in her war novels, as Forster
develops in the final pages of her essay.
The last chapter of this section, by Arnzazu Usandizaga, delves into the complexities
of Vera Brittains Testament of Youth (1933), an autobiographical text that explores war
spaces. Brittains work is particularly relevant to war literature, the author argues, because
it became very influential in the writing of later autobiographical texts and war texts by
women (252).The personal and the political cannot be divorced, and thus the stress is
placed on the blurred lines between the private and the public spheres. Usandizaga
explores the autobiographical texts key issues such as the relevance of [Brittains] literary
persona (255), her daring invasion of narrative space both physical and metaphorical
(256), and the gradual destruction of her own pre-war self as well as of that of her lovers,
her brothers and her friends during the war (260). Particularly fascinating is the authors
account of Brittains intervention into three post-war spaces: the spaces of the past, issues
of class (related to her move away from literature), and the discourse of feminism and
pacifism (262). In her concluding remarks, Usandizaga underlines the difficulties Brittain
encountered to translate her war experiences, and those of her generation.
Transformations in Nature, as the co-editors state in the introduction to the
collection, represents an innovative approach to women and nature from the perspective
of ecocriticism. The first of these essays, Stephen E. Hunts Friends of our Captivity:
Nature, Terror and Refugia in Romantic Womens Literature, provides an insight into
the different ways in which four women writers of the Romantic period Mary Robinson,
Charlotte Smith, Helen Maria Williams and Mary Wollstonecraft saw their relationship
with nature as nurturing and comforting. To varying degrees, these Romantic writers
found in the natural landscape solace and a potential source of inspiration and creativity,
but their approach to nature was manifestly different from that of the male Romantic
poets. For example, in Hunts view, Smith and Robinson portray a relational self in
contrast to the individualized unitary self to be found in Wordsworths The Daffodils
(278). The second chapter, by Lilace Mellin Guignard, focuses on women and wilderness,
and the difficulties women face when engaging in outdoor activities, especially in the
American wilderness. Her essay offers coping strategies for women to access those
restricted spaces, and interestingly, sets out to study a womans performative abilities in
outdoor activities in texts by Gretchen Legler, written within the tradition of the pastoral
essay. Prompted by the analysis of these texts, Guignard poses the following question:
What could women achieve if they had access to the self-knowledge acquired through
wandering that is associated with great male thinkers and artists? (309). She provides
answers to this question, and affirms that outdoors a woman achieves freedom and
liberation from cultural inhibitions (210).
The last section of the volume, Negotiating the City, consists of two essays, each
dealing with the negotiation between public and private. Kirsten Bartholomew Ortegas
Adrienne Richs City Poetry: Locating a Flneuse heavily draws on Charles Baudelaires
nineteenth-century figure of the flneur to explore the particular perspective conceded by
a twentieth-century flneur in Richs work. The influence of the French poet can be
perceived in city poets such as Walt Whitman and T.S. Eliot, and Rich bases her urban
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poetics on their findings: Rich looks to her poetic forefathers to provide methods for
translating the complexities of city life into poetry (322). It is interesting to note that the
recurrence of words like map and atlas in Richs work underlines the importance of
reading the city for Richs poetics, a subject which has been so far neglected, according to
Ortega. Some poems like Frame (1980) emphasise the emotional response to the act of
streetwalking. At times, however, this tendency clashes with her own commitment to
reflect race, class, gender and sexuality. The author of this essay concludes that Rich
attempts to appropriate and revise the figure of the flneur, but the restrictions of the
form consistently disappoint the poems speakers (333). The last chapter of the volume,
by Sara Sullivan, engages in a comparison between the domestic spaces in Eavan Bolands
poetry and the public sphere of the nation. Boland sees the suburb as an in-between space,
a hybrid zone well-suited to the complexities of her poetry (338), a positive area that
nurtures her creativity as seen in Object Lessons (1995). In dissolving the boundaries of
domestic and public spaces, Boland connects the personal and the political, as well as
succeeds in circumventing the idealisation and objectification of women, clearly perceived
in the Irish lyric mode. In other words, Boland believes her political and historical
engagement with Ireland is absolutely connected to her attempts to create poetry about a
suburban womans life (345). This chapter nicely links up with the previous one since
Sullivan comments on the influence Adrienne Rich exerted on Boland, and how both
share the belief in the transformative power of the written word (349). It is to the editors
credit that these essays have been placed consecutively in the last section.
Inside/Out closes with the Concluding Remarks, by Janet Floyd, who aptly rounds up
the subject of space and gender by referring to the highlights of this collection. Floyd
poses several questions that, in her view, remain unexplored, proving that the dynamics
established between inside and outside should be considered of utmost relevance to
spatial and gender studies, and to contemporary criticism as a whole. Floyd sustains the
notion that the title provides the reader with the key to understanding the complex
ambiguities of the porous area demarcating public and private spheres, using a tactic: to
turn the terms inside and outside inside-out, thus giving ourselves the opportunity to
expose and know thoroughly the invisible workings of both terms (354).
This extremely well-structured and well-written collection is flawless. Perhaps one
misses a reference to Marc Aug and the application of his concept of non-place to some
chapters i.e. Mitsis essay on the Turkish bath or Evanss chapter on consumerism in
Whartons The House of Mirth. Augs definition of this notion would perfectly fit in the
topics developed in those essays: the word non-place designates two complementary
but distinct realities: spaces formed in relation to certain ends (transport, transit,
commerce, leisure), and the relations that individuals have with these spaces (Aug 1995:
94). Despite the fact that some chapters bibliographies are divided into primary and
secondary texts/sources/references (chapters 10, 13), and others are not, the style and
format of the collection are impeccable. Inside Out is, undoubtedly, a turning point in
contemporary criticism about gender and social space. Useful and amenable, this
collection reads as the most thorough examination of womens writing and the concept of
social space, which will be of future reference to anyone interested in gender, space and
the (contested) dichotomy of the separate spheres.
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Works Cited
Aug, Marc 1995: Non-Places: Introduction to an Anthropology of Supermodernity. London and

New York: Verso.
Elliott, Dorice Williams 2002: The Angel out of the House: Philanthropy and Gender in NineteenthCentury England. Charlottesville and London: UP of Virginia.
Mergenthal, Silvia 2002: Whose City?: Contested Spaces and Contesting Spatialities in
Contemporary London Fiction. Susana Onega and John A. Stotesbury, eds. London in
Literature: Visionary Mappings of the Metropolis. Heidelberg: Winter: 123-39.
Nead, Lynda 2000: Victorian Babylon: People, Streets and Images in Nineteenth-Century London.
New Haven and London: Yale UP.
Nord, Deborah Epstain 1995: Walking the Victorian Streets: Women, Representation, and the City.
Ithaca and London: Cornell UP.
Parsons, Deborah L 2000: Streetwalking the Metropolis: Women, the City and Modernity. Oxford:
Oxford UP.
Sizemore, Christine Wick 1989: A Female Vision of the City: London in the Novels of Five British
Women. Knoxville: U of Tennessee P.
Walkowitz, Judith 1992: City of Dreadful Delight: Narratives of Sexual Danger in Late-Victorian
London. London: Virago.
Waters, Sarah 1999: Affinity. London: Virago.
Wolff, Janet 1985: The Invisible Flneuse: Women and the Literature of Modernity. Theory,
Culture and Society 2.3: 37-46.
Received 26 October 2010
Accepted 22 February 2011
Rosario Arias is Senior Lecturer in English Literature in the Department of English, French and German
Philology at the University of Mlaga. Her research interests centre on contemporary fiction, gender
studies, critical theory, spatial studies and literature.
Address: Departamento de Filologa Inglesa, Francesa y Alemana. Facultad de Filosofa y Letras, Campus
de Teatinos. 29071 Mlaga, Spain. Tel.: +34 952131794. Fax +34 952131843.
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Silvia del Pilar Castro Borrego and Mara Isabel Romero Ruiz, eds. 2009: Identidad,
migracin y cuerpo femenino. Oviedo: KRK. 289 pp. ISBN 978-84-8367-213-6
Justine Tally
jtally@ull.es
Identidad, migracin y cuerpo femenino is a nicely edited volume of essays, a product

of the contributions of a group of international academics who participated in the
first international conference on Identity, Migration and the Female Body,
organized by the editors at the University of Malaga in December of 2008. Its English
title, however, is perhaps more revealing as to the specific thrust of the essays,
Identity, Migration and Womens Bodies as Sites of Knowledge and Transgression, taken
in fact from the full title of the original conference. (In accordance with the use of
two official languages at the conference, both English and Spanish contributions are
included in the volume.) It is this focus on the intersection of the physical, the
psychological and the geographical that distinguishes it from other volumes on
Gender Studies and is perhaps most eloquently illustrative of the move away from
essentialist views in which women, by nature of their gender, are somehow
inseparably linked, independently of their specific contexts. These essays
demonstrate that the incredible variety of experience in the movement of femaleness
across borders more accurately reflects a post-positivist realist approach to gender
studies and thereby broadens the scope of our understanding of women. In the
words of Karina Valle Olsen in the last essay in the book, entitled La
interseccionalidad a debate desde la teora crtica feminista: la interseccionalidad
habra de producir no solo conocimiento nuevo, sino nuevas formas de pensar sobre ese
conocimiento, helping us to construir argumentos de equidad; and providing una
herramienta que ha de usarse en pro de la justicia social (286). But as Grace
Kyungwon Hong has written, while the concept of intersectionality (a term coined
and popularized later by Kimberl Crenshaw) is well-known, the epistemological
implications are too infrequently theorized (2007: 35). Valle-Olsen not only
theorizes but is also quite adept here at relating the theoretical to the practical. As a
review of the postulations as well as the critique of intersectionality within a
methodology of research, this essay might have been productively situated at the
beginning rather than the end of the volume (although I do understand that, because
Dr. Valle-Olsen is based at the University of Mlaga, the editors possibly did not wish
to open with the home front). On the other hand, coming at the end of five different
sections, this final essay certainly ties together the multiple testimonies to a wide
array of experiences that might be usefully incorporated into intersectional research,
or which at least should serve as a compass to guide our further study. So much is
suggested and discussed that the spectrum of possibilities for further research is
daunting, not to mention the challenges for developing a theoretical approach which
would meaningfully encompass and yet allow for and respect such variety.
Although all participants in the conference were invited to submit their
contributions for publication, this quite heterogeneous volume is in fact a selection of
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twenty-nine essays, nine of which, in addition to the Introduction, are written in

Spanish, the remaining twenty in English. The grouping of these twenty-nine studies
under five seemingly arbitrary headings helps to break up the volume into manageable
reading. Some of the subtitles seem so similar that they are distinguishable only after a
bit of thought, but all insist on the issues of identity in a complicated world of
transition. Not all of the essays are cutting edge to a seasoned reader, but perhaps
fulfill their mission of introducing the novice in gender studies to the manifold
possibilities of the field as well as to historical moments that are too often forgotten (or
at least taken for granted) in contemporary discussion. And from those contributions in
which the discussion is more informative than analytical, there is much to be learned
(or to be reminded of), even by those of us who have been around for a while. It is
obviously impossible to enter into a detailed discussion of each of the twenty-nine
essays, so I wish here to group certain contributions which engage similar approaches
or themes, and to select (obviously according to this readers own preferences) certain
representative pieces, either because of exceptionally perceptive analysis, clarity of
writing, or because the content itself is an innovative addition to the field.
Castro and Romero open the discussion in a thoughtful Introduction which
explains the raison dtre and the genesis of this volume as an attempt to
examinar factores determinantes para la construccin de una identidad femenina como
sujeto colonial y poscolonial, como son el gnero, la liminalidad y la frontera, as como
las realidades ms oscuras de la alienacin, la discriminacin, el trauma, el desequilibrio
mental y espiritual (15). It is important to note that the position of the physical body
is foregrounded in particular in the first section, entitled Body, Identity and Female
Sexuality, in which the essays address not only the abuse of the female body
(through rape or appropriation) but also resistance (in film and in performance art,
as in Noem Acedo Alonsos Las palabras de los cuerpos heridos), and even health
(Romano Maggi examines the benefits of Shiatsu for women specifically). Daniela
Corona illustrates the Mediterranean Crossings in the Fiction of Marina Warner
with a comparison of the Queen of Sheba, Rahab and Leto. Anabella Di Tullio reexamines in an erudite historical review the development of a feminist perspective on
the nature of the female body right up to the opening years of the new century,
engaging not only Foucault (and his study of the French Hermaphrodite, Herculine
Barbin) and Judith Butler but also Laqueur, Diana Maffa and Mauro Cabral. Latitia
Lefvre-Thierrys thoughtful essay on the use of the rape of the black body as strategy
for combating racial stereotypes prevalent at the beginning of the twentieth century
is a good example of the double-bind of feminist inquiry: is the violent ab/use of the
female body (even though it is insinuated and not visually portrayed in the two Oscar
Micheaux films discussed) justified as a means to an end? Or does the voyeuristic
attraction of such a portrayal trump the politics? The films may be old; the dilemma,
unfortunately, continues to be contemporary, a theme picked up by Inmaculada
Pineda Hernndez in Section IV in her discussion of Women in Hip-Hop Culture:
just how subversive can these performers be if consumer culture demands that they
conform to a specific way of behaving/dressing/performing in order to be
commercially successful? (Such a dilemma, though not specifically nor theoretically
addressed, underlies Mara Teresa Silva Ross look at the attempt to trangress
estereotipos de gnero en la msica country norteamericana, also in section IV). Lastly
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in section I, zlem Tre Abaci looks at Strategies of Subversion and Resistance,

using a literary analysis to show how Grace Nichols works to undermine just such
stereotypes in her poetry.
The title of Section II, Identity, Migration and Diaspora, would seemingly shift
the focus of the discussion to the challenges of forming an identity when forced
migration shatters links to homeland and community; yet the essays herein focus
almost exclusively on internal migration or on problems of acculturation in the lives
of African Americans, Hispanic Americans and Asian Americans within the U.S.,
trying to negotiate the cultural values of their original communities with the
demands of an omnipresent Anglo influence. Mara Luz Arroyo Vzquez returns to
an analysis of the visual through a look at the artistic representation of black
American life, particularly the paintings of Jacob Lawrence. Laura Gillman, drawing
on the work of Satya Mohanty in his article The Epistemic Status of Cultural
Identity, argues for the theoretical advantage of using post-positivist realism to
approach the issues of identity as a source for the generation of knowledge, and
focuses on the political and social dimensions of mestiza identity. For post-positivist
realists identity is socially constructed because identities refer outwardly to categories
and structures of race, class, gender and sexuality in the real world. Identities also
have an epistemic content to them because, from their particular location, people
create interpretations out of their lived experiences. As Gillman concludes, by
testing out the accuracy of their interpretations against imposed identity schemas,
members of marginalized groups are able to negotiate the social world, gaining more
reliable theory-mediated knowledge about themselves, and reorganizing their
identity in order to make it cohere with their material interest (94). Gillman then
proceeds to apply Amalia Mesa-Bains concept of domesticana mestizaje to Ana
Castillos So Far from God, arguing that the novel is an excellent example of the
tension inherent between subjugated identities of domestic life and mestiza
womens attempts to reclaim domestic space and to explore the hidden meanings of
mestiza identity.
Patrycja Kurjatto-Renard is particularly adept at depicting the ways in which Asian
American fictional women succumb to or surmount the pressures of adaptation. How
much of the past is usable or even desirable for a future in the U.S.? Carolina Soria
Somoza looks specifically at the ways in which authors Maxine Hong Kingston and Ha
Jin subvert the skin-deep characteristics of their women protagonists through
Weakening the Strong, Strengthening the Weak. Turning to black minorities, Silvia
Castro discusses the presence of the diasporic past in African American womens
literature, while Bibian Prez Ruiz relates certain communal functions to Africa, adds
the problem of aging and the stereotypes associated with the process, and then
introduces us to literary works by women from South Africa, Senegal and Egypt by way
of example. Both of these essays provide contextualizing background for Mnica
Glonzalez Caldeiros discussion of the Intersections of Race and Gender in Zora Neale
Hurstons Color Struck and Wallace Thurmans The Blacker the Berry.
For the actual shift to transnational movement and the diasporic migration we must
turn to Secion III: Identity, Migration, Interculturality and Transnational Feminism,
in which the complex issues of immigration are complicated even more by the
stereotyping of the female body. An analysis of Marjane Strapatis Perspolis both in
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Justine Tally
its comic and film versions is broached by four different yet coordinated researchers
(Adela Cortijo, Mireiia Calafell, Meri Torras and Begonya Saez) who, in the words of
Sez, discuss the creativity of this very cutting-edge text as a transit novel. The
protagonist, exiled from her native Iran as a very young teenager, must factor in
movement, both physical and cultural, across national boundaries and add the
experience of extraamiento to the difficult process of building an identity as an
adolescent who, in essence, belongs nowhere. In an excellent theoretical contribution,
Yousef Awad underscores the feminist agenda that underlies Ahdaf Soueifs The Map of
Love and Leila Aboulelas Minaret, while Antonia Naravvo Tejero uses Edward Saids
concept of Orientalism to critically examine the case of Ayaan Hirsi Ali, concluding that
while it may be her objective to denounce and combat the misogynist violence in Iran
through her film, texts and interviews, the rhetorical strategies that she employs, in fact,
reinforce the orientalist stereotyping of Islam and Muslim people. This type of textual
deconstruction also underscores Valentina Castagnas reading of Michle Robertss The
Book of Mrs. Noah as subversive rewriting of patriarchal myth. Castagna draws on
classical Greek myth, however; had she looked past the Greeks to their origins in the
ancient Egyptian veneration of Isis, she might also have demonstrated more clearly how
the patriarchy wrested dominance from the original mother figures and powerful
goddesses, turning them into the submissive handmaidens of their powerful
brothers/fathers/husbands.
In a section dominated by the exotic (read unknown) other, the inclusion of
Antonia Sagredo Santos more sociologically-oriented discussion of Irish Women
Migration and its Impact in the U.S. Labour Market is certainly a change in pace.
Nonetheless, there can be no doubt that the massive forced migration (and I mean not
physically coerced but economically compelled) of the Irish to the United States
certainly determined important segments of its history, the labor movements included.
The struggle of these women first for survival and then for dignity is a story of which we
need to be reminded.
Section IV, Female Identity and Creativity through Music, Drama and
Literature, again situates the analyses of contemporary women in the U.S. in the
fields of theater and music, of which Claudia Alonso Recartes critical look at
Mythistory? Womens Blues and Feminism offers an excellent analysis.
Deconstructing the myth of female blues singers as prototypical feminists, she
explains that, in fact, as a business primarily handled by men the personas created in
the songs had to appeal for the most part to a masculine audience. Women appear as
objects just as much as subjects (199). This is a strong piece that dares to take on
veritable heavy-weights in the field: Writers such as Angela Davis, Alice Walker, and
Daphne Duval Harrison have endorsed an image of these women that is just that: an
image (193). As feminists we certainly need our myths of strong women, but we
need to keep our eyes open and our sense of reality in check as well.
In addition to the two essays on popular U.S. music mentioned above, two
contributions to this section deal specifically with the theater: Mars Dolores Narbona
Carrin sees the stage as a place for ethnic women to develop both acceptance and
defense of their othered bodies; Raquel Ruz Garca discusses the search for identity in
the characters of Ze Akins. In the eyes of all the contributors to this section, the arts
have a fundamental place in both the reclamation of the female body and the
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subversion of pernicious stereotypes which, in spite of major progress, continue to

plague women in the U.S.
In Colonial and Postcolonial Legal and Medical Discourses, two essays rely on
literary and historical record to document female participation in oppressive colonialist
attitudes by English and German women in the past. While we would do well to
recognize our participation in suppression of the Other, it is also not irrelevant to
consider that the women under discussion here were also products of their time.
Science of the nineteenth century predicated a hierarchy of the human species as to
the development, capacity and intellect of different races, and it would have taken a
true visionary equipped with postcolonialist/feminist theory at the time to recognize
scientific racism for what it was. Such an unusual woman is the subject of Mara del
Rosario Piqueras Fraile, who resurrects the history of Elizabeth Blackwell, A Pioneer in
the American History of Medicine, yet another woman from the past who should be an
example of just what one individual can accomplish against daunting odds. And Mara
Isabel Romeros study on the Vile Traffic of prostitution complicated by migration
and transnationalism is certainly sine qua non for a volume of this nature and still
horrifyingly pertinent in a world that has yet to come to terms with, and eradicate,
female slavery. This is a problem that acutely, albeit painfully, distills the relationship of
Identity, Migration and the Female Body.
Part VI, Intersectionality, Globalisation and Gender Politics, not only contains the
Valle Olsen essay discussed at the beginning of this review, but also introduces an
innovative approach to the language adopted by young British and Spanish adolescent
girls via web blogs, who seem to be attempting to construct an identity of Mean Girl.
Antonio Garca Gmez argues that
the analysis makes it possible to argue that this British and Spanish female adolescents
construction of their self-concept does not only function at the level of the individual but
must be regarded as an integrated multi-dimensional process, where the individual self
struggles to meet both interpersonal (i.e. relational self) and social demands (i.e.
collective self ) (271).
The adoption of what the author terms masculine agressiveness to express their
feelings, particularly for the opposite sex after a break-up in the relationship, is
noteworthy (Im trying hard here not to date myself by saying alarming). If indeed, as
the author suggests, this verbal posturing indicates a nascent culture-specific change in
Spanish female adolescents social representation of verbal aggression (277), what it
seems to me to be is rather an indication that we might be losing the younger
generations to a poor imitation of males rather than fomenting those values we cherish
as feminists. I cannot but protest the authors choice of terminology when he designates
this type of aggressive language as androgynous femininity (e.g. feminisation of
masculine expressions) (272). We need to keep our terms clear here: to my
understanding androgyny would not feminize the aggressive masculine but continue
to be a cultural goal through which both sexes would accept equality and respect for all
other creatures, male and female alike, without resorting to the violence of aggressive
(sexualized) language. What this essay does indicate is that more work like the
contributions to this volume should be continued, promoted and published.
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Justine Tally
Perhaps not every one of the essays will appeal to each and every one of us. In their
entirety, however, they speak to the impressive scope of research that is currently being
undertaken in Gender Studies; in doing so they provide a daunting view of the vast
amount that is still to be done.
Works Cited
Hong, Grace Kyungwon 2007: The Ghost of Transnational American Studies: A Response to the
Presidential Address. American Quarterly 59.1: 33-39.
Received 9 August 2010
Accepted 13 December 2010
Justine Tally is Professor of American Literature at the University of La Laguna where she specializes in
African American Literature and Culture. She is author of Paradise Reconsidered: Toni Morrisons
(Hi)stories and Truths (Lit Verlag, 1999), The Story of Jazz: Toni Morrisons Dialogic Imagination (Lit Verlag,
2001) and Toni Morrisons Beloved: Origens (Routledge, 2009). She has edited the Cambridge Companion
to Toni Morrison (CUP, 2007), and co-edited, with Walter Hlbling, Theories and Texts (Lit Verlag, 2007,
2009)
Address: Departamento de Filologa Inglesa y Alemana, Universidad de La Laguna. 38201 Tenerife, Spain.
Tel.: +34 922317645. Fax: +34 922317611.
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Anis S. Bawarshi and Mary-Jo Reiff 2010: Genre. An Introduction to History, Theory,
Research, and Pedagogy. West Lafayette: Parlor Press and The WAC Clearinghouse. xi
+ 263pp. Glossary and Annotated Bibliography by Melanie Kill. ISBN 978-1-60235-173-8
JoAnne Neff van Aertselaar
jneffvan@filol.ucm.es
Genre theory and research contributes to and draws on a number of academic

traditions: literary (from typological classifications to cultural studies); linguistics
(applied linguistics, sociolinguistics, discourse analysis and critical discourse analysis,
English for Academic Purposes [EAP] and English for Specific Purposes [ESP]);
communication studies (film and news media, i.e. digital and electronic forms);
philosophy (phenomenological and social action theories); anthropology
(ethnomethodological research); and psychology and education (Rhetorical Genre
Studies [RGS] and Vygotskian approaches).
Given the range of disciplinary communities studied, all of which are underpinned
by genre systems, this 2010 book, titled Genre: An Introduction to History, Theory,
Research, and Pedagogy (hereafter Genre), provides a timely critical review of a rich body
of scholarship that has brought about a reconceptualization of genre in multiple
contexts. Although each academic community may make use of the concept in diverse
ways, in all contexts genre is presently conceived of as encompassing social ways of
knowing and acting in order to bring about consequential, recognizable effects (Miller
1984). In this respect, in this volume of 11 chapters grouped into 3 parts the authors
concept of genre provides a central nexus for the book: genre is considered as
communicative action carried out within typified, recurring social situations and
forming part of genre systems which are used by agents to enact conventionalized
behaviors. Such a broad definition as this one may be put to work for unifying the goals
of university departments that encompass both literary and language studies (discussed
below), as is the case in many European universities.
Part 1 of Genre, Historical Review and Theories of Genre, presenting various
approaches to the application of genre in diverse disciplines, is subdivided into the
following chapters (2 through 6): 2, Genre in Literary Traditions; 3, Genre in Linguistic
Traditions: Systemic Functional and Corpus Linguistics; 4, Genre in Linguistic Traditions:
English for Specific Purposes (a particularly interesting section in that these studies
challenge process-based writing instruction); 5, Genre in Rhetorical and Sociological
Traditions; and 6, Rhetorical Genre Studies. It is Part 1 that might provide the appropriate
unifying framework for university degrees which combine Language/Linguistics with
Literature studies. By structuring their syllabi around genre features and their semantic
processing (i.e. making meaning with the choice of textual features), Language/Linguistics
and Literature studies, which often times appear to be working in opposition to each
other, might unify their pedagogy around genre-based approaches involving scaffolded
modelling and text deconstruction (Byrnes 2006: 240-43).
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For those of us who teach EAP (in L1 or L2 contexts, the latter is this reviewers
context) and have only kept up with literary studies insofar as they are present in
cultural studies approaches to genre, the chapters of Part 1 (chapter 2: Neoclassical
approaches to genre; Structuralist approaches to genre; Romantic and Post-romantic
approaches to genre; Reader response approaches to genre; and Cultural studies
approaches to genre) provide an opportune comparison of the various analytical
methods that have been used to classify literary texts. Although genre analysis has come
in for very heavy criticism (Patton 1976; Conley 1979, cited in Miller 1984) and not
only in literary studies, but in linguistic studies as well (see the discussion below)
humans are classifying animals and any type of cultural artefact that is similar and has
been previously observed will inevitably be used to make associations (Rumelhart
1980). For humans, categorization permits conceptualization. As Jauss has noted:
[A literary work] awakens memories of that which was already read, brings the reader to a
specific emotional attitude and with its beginning arouses expectations for the middle and
end, which can then be maintained intact or altered, reoriented, or even fulfilled ironically
in the course of the reading, according to specific rules of the genre or type of text. The
psychic process in the reception of a text is, in the primary horizon of aesthetic experience,
by no means only an arbitrary series of specific instructions in a process of directed
perception, which can be comprehended according to its constitutive motivations and
triggering signals, and which also can be described by textual analysis (1986: 167).
The idea, springing from Romanticism, that the use of genre theory may stultify
literary creativity or criticism by setting up too many rhetorical constraints is as bogus
in literary studies as it is in applied linguistics (see the discussion of Part 2). It is
precisely the recognition that a text, literary or otherwise, forms part of one (or several)
genre types that creates the basis for the recognition of a change of horizons (Jauss
1986: 168) in the readers/publics expectations (Culler 1975, 1980). And this is so
because genre analysis situates texts within textual and social contexts, putting emphasis
on the social nature of the production and reading of texts.
Part 2 of Genre (chapters 7 through 9), Genre Research in Multiple Contexts,
examines an important body of empirical research carried out in a wide range of
contexts: the learning, teaching and production of academic, workplace and public
documents. Included are studies, mostly concerning EAP in L1 contexts, which display
diverse developments relating to the focus and purposes of research, designs and
methods, and possible application of results for pedagogical purposes. This section of
the volume can offer readers insights into how different types of training for the
comprehension and writing of texts may or may not transfer from the academic setting
into workplace genres. It seems that, of the three areas listed above, workplace writing
might show the least transfer of EAP training. But this is most probably because most
EAP or composition classes for native or non-native students in Anglophone contexts
have a mixed population of students (i.e. from various disciplines), which sometimes
limits the specificity of the texts that composition teachers may work with. However,
this problem does not necessarily affect EAP courses given to non-native students
within specific academic disciplines, as is the case in English Studies in Spain
(comprising Linguistics and Literature), or in the various technical studies areas in
Spain and some other European countries.
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Part 2 is potentially the most controversial section of the volume, as it deals with
fiercely debated issues such as the implicit/explicit teaching of genre features, the
differences among genre traditions of RGS, ESP, SFL (Systemic Functional Linguistics,
especially the Sydney Schools application of genre-based teaching in primary and
secondary schooling) and the validity of the use of dichotomous terms in
developmental psychology (un/conscious learning, procedural/declarative knowledge,
etc.), issues which are all linked to larger philosophical questions.
Part 2 includes the following chapters: 7, Genre Research in Academic Contexts; 8,
Genre Research in Workplace and Professional Contexts; and 9, Genre in Public and
New Media Contexts. Of these, chapter 7 is perhaps the most interesting in that it takes
up the question of whether the explicit teaching of genre features can, or should, be part
of university courses (e.g. EAP courses for native or non-native speakers), or, on the
other hand, whether students can acquire genre tacitly as they become increasingly
inducted into their disciplines uses of genres. Far from being a conflict limited to local
disciplinary concerns, this debate points rather to one more modern manifestation of
the historical conflict (Crick 2003) between social constructivism and expressivism,
sometimes referred to as the opposition of the skills approach to the experience
approach (Vygotsky 1960; Bruner 1966).
Regarding the implicit/explicit teaching of genre characteristics, there has been very
heated debate since the 1993 publication of a special issue of Research in the Teaching of
English, in which the Canadian writing scholar Aviva Freedman proposed two hypotheses:
a strong hypothesis (explicit teaching of genre features is neither necessary nor useful, and
perhaps even harmful) and a restricted hypothesis (there are certain carefully specified
conditions under which explicit teaching of genre features may be helpful). Freedmans
abstract makes a plea for more focused research and theoretical consideration of genre
teaching in the varieties of school writing in native-speaker Anglophone contexts, but, in
reality, her article only considers the strong and the restricted hypotheses and does not do
justice at all to the idea of pushed output (Swain 1985), i.e. explicit teaching of concepts
or features at the next level of student development, or the zone of proximal development
(Vygotsky 1960), that is, the level at which optimal learning takes place, the learning of
something that is neither too easy nor too difficult.
Since Barwarshi and Reiff do not criticize Freedmans rather protracted insistence
(over a period of at least 10 years) on implicit learning of genre features nor do they allude
to any of Freedmans underlying assumptions about learning processes, they appear to be
much too indulgent with Freedmans evidence, which is not based on diverse empirical
studies. The implicit/explicit debate is important since is underpins the significant discord
between ESP/EAP and SFL, on the one hand, and RGS, on the other.
In her first article (Freedman 1993) and successive articles (Freedman 1994) and
several books (Freedman and Medway 1994a and 1994b), Freedman turns to L2 specialist
Krashen (Competence in writing does not come from the study of form directly ...
Writing competence ... is acquired subconsciously; readers are unaware they are acquiring
competence while they are reading and are unaware that this accomplishment has taken
place, quoted in Freedman 1993: 230-13) and to Chomsky, whom Freedman (1993: 232)
alludes to by stating that: those who discuss first-language acquisition like to point to the
tremendous complexity and sophistication of the laws of syntax, morphology, phonology
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such that even Noam Chomsky cannot, at least not yet, adequately formulate a set of
rules to account entirely for the grammar of our language.
It is puzzling that such a distinguished writing specialist would use the hypotheses
put forth by either of these two theorists. It is well-known that Krashen (1993, 1981) has
carried out most of his L2 research on reading, and therefore, has few empirical results
to show as far as explicit or implicit learning of textual features in writing instruction
are concerned. Regarding Freedmans comments on Chomskys laws of syntax,
morphology, phonology, this argument is beside the point when one is considering
native speakers of English in secondary and university contexts (Freedmans declared
area of research). These students knowledge of their own language is well beyond the
morphological and syntactic competencies referred to in syntactic theories (which have
little to say about the construction of rhetorical elements in extended texts). In any case,
the rules or laws a writing instructor might find useful will most probably be those
that stem from usage-based research, quantitative approaches such as corpus linguistics
or qualitative methods such as discourse analysis, on a variety of expert texts, whose
features can then be contrasted with the characteristics found in the texts of novice
writers, native or non-native. To be fair to Freedman, it must be stated that she does
refer to Elliss 1990 model of instructed acquisition, but again to emphasize that Ellis
proposes a model similar to Krashens, i.e. that implicit knowledge is unconscious and
procedural while explicit knowledge is conscious and declarative and that these two
kinds of knowledge usually do not interact.
In their review of this implicit/explicit knowledge debate, Bawarshi and Reiff
present much evidence to counter Freedmans weak hypothesis, but they do so in a
context of also referring to Freedmans plea for more genre research (alluded to more
than 15 times) rather than criticizing her unsubstantial arguments. Nor do Bawarshi
and Reiff turn to developmental psychology, a field in which the dichotomy between
implicit and explicit knowledge in learning processes (and the concomitant dichotomous
terms: un/consciousness, voluntariness-automaticity, procedural/declarative knowledge,
etc.) has been increasingly questioned (McLaughlin 1990; Widdowson 1990). For one
thing, explicit knowledge is not synonymous with verbalizability, and, at least some
types of explicit expression of knowledge include the implicit attitude or belief in the
necessary supporting facts, i.e. presuppositions which are not verbalized but must
necessarily be implied (Dienes and Perner 2010).
Bawarshi and Reiff, like many North American RGS specialists most of whom
were first trained in English and Composition or Rhetoric Departments have lacked
explicit instructional frameworks (Hyon 1996: 701), probably due to their focus on the
situational contexts in which the genres at hand occur. According to Miller, a
rhetorically sound definition of genre must not be centered on the substance or the
form of the discourse but on the action it is used to accomplish (1984: 151). Although
this view provides a much richer perspective of how discourse communities work, it
also raises the question as to how, without focusing on the substance or form, the reader
is able to comprehend what action is being accomplished by the text. As Devitt notes,
genre becomes visible through perceived patterns in the syntactic, semantic and
pragmatic features of particular texts (1993: 580), which can be identified. Another
reason for the RGS scepticism regarding pedagogical applications is that because genres
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are always in a state of flux, the linguistic characteristics really might not be sufficiently
recurring to be made use of in classroom applications. However, if genres actually
changed so rapidly, publishing an academic paper would probably turn into a chaotic
process rather than having to go through the present strenuous reviewing procedures in
which genre expectations loom large on the part of the reviewers. This rationale of
genre fluctuation is then related to the alleged unauthentic nature of the classroom
teaching of genres, which, supposedly, does not lead students to be co-participants in
disciplinary communities (Hyland 2004: 39). But this begs the question of whether
teaching students argumentation patterns (problem-solution, general to specific
structuring of arguments, etc., [Freedman 1996]), with their related linguistic
expressions, should really be considered to be outside the disciplinary fields in which the
students are inserted. Even if the student is writing for the teacher, the generic patterns
practiced are still part of becoming a member of an academic community.
In the section within chapter 7, titled Intercultural Research on Genre within
Academic Settings, Bawarshi and Reiff give an account of cultural influences in genre
acquisition but, disappointingly for an EAP teacher in non-Anglo contexts, they focus
mostly on genre acquisition in L1, for example, in the Brazilian system of education
studies linked to Bazermans Brazilian genre projects with Brazilian Portuguese in L1
writing (Bazerman, Bonini and Figueiredo 2009). This chapter also presents one British
study carried out by Myhill (2005), mostly on the influence of social class in the
acculturation processes to academic genres. Not surprisingly, Myhill found that
middle-class children were those most well-positioned to make use of school genres. At
the end of this section, two final studies are included: Kapp and Bangeni (2005), a case
study of first-year students of humanities at the University of Cape Town; and Sunny
Hyons study of EFL students enrolled in a writing course at the University of Michigan.
Kapp and Bangeni found that while students can learn from explicit teaching of forms,
acquiring genre knowledge and discourse knowledge takes time (quoted by Bawarshi
and Reiff [129]), a truly unamazing finding. Hyons excellent 2002 study on ESL
university student writing (one of the few ESL studies included in this volume) led her
to state that ESL university students may be among the some for whom explicit
genre-based teaching is helpful, as they have not had as much tacit exposure to Englishlanguage genre as their L1 counterparts (2002: 136).
At this point, this researcher of Spanish EFL writing convinced of the usefulness of
explicit genre instruction, as Bawarshi and Reiffs 15-year review of research seems to
support is beginning to become rather impatient with these authors constant
reference to the arguments first set out by Freedman (1993, 1994), since it does not
seem that Freedman has ever presented sufficient evidence that would support either
the strong or weak hypotheses regarding explicit genre instruction. Bawarshi and Reiffs
cautious sidestepping of this contentious issue seems to point more to the existence of a
strong pecking order in North American RGS.
With some sense of relief from these tedious references to the implicit/explicit
methodology debates, the reader advances to chapter 9, which presents Genre Research
in Public and New Media Contexts, with an emphasis on RGS as used in historical
studies (i.e. tracing the historical process of a particular genre) of widely diverse
documents, such as tax forms (Bazerman, Little and Chavkin 2003), journalistic
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contexts (Bonini 2009), personal narrative in public discourse (Segal 2007), radio
genres (Edwards and McKee 2005), and blogs and other internet media (Miller and
Shepherd 2004/2007). This information opens up useful avenues of research for
writing across the curriculum specialists. Finally, in the conclusion to Part 2, after 171
pages of the 209-page volume, Bawarshi and Reiff state that Freedman (2006)
acknowledges that especially extensive empirical research ... has provided
composition researchers with a very rich body of highly textured, largely qualitative
work that has explained and elaborated on the discursive practices of professionals in
their workplace and students in universities; and that Freedman also acknowledges
the complex, reciprocal relationship between theory and empirical research, noting
that sometimes the data force researchers to reconsider the theory to modify, revise or
even reject aspects or the whole of a theory that had been in use (2006: 102).
With this last statement Bawarshi and Reiff seem to suggest to the reader that they
have given sufficient evidence in order to have warded off some of RGSs past harsh
criticism of pedagogical applications of genre theory in North America. Thus, in Part 3
(chapters 10 and 11) of the volume, Genre Approaches to Teaching Writing, as its
subtitle indicates, Bawarshi and Reiff move ahead to focus on genre as used in writing
instruction. Chapter 10, From Research to Pedagogy: Multiple Pedagogical Approaches
to Teaching Genres, focuses on a range of pedagogical approaches informed by genre
research and scholarship .... The authors discuss varied but overlapping pedagogical
approaches (176) by presenting a review of Hyons 1996 study of three different
approaches: 1) the Sydney School approach (curriculum development based on SFL); 2)
ESP (teaching of specific genres, much of which is based on Swales 1990 text-based
theory of discourse moves); and 3) the New Rhetoric (RGS), with a focus on critical
analysis of genres, including the rhetorical and social purposes. In addition to these,
Bawarshi and Reiff propose a fourth approach, which they call the Brazilian educational
model, and which draws on Bakhtinian communicative interaction and Vygotskian
learning theories. The authors describe the new approach as marked by the following
working principles: 1) characterization of the social context of the genre; 2) study of the
social history of the genre; 3) characterization of the context of production; 4) analysis
of the thematic content; and 5) analysis of the compositional construction of the genre
style of the genre and of the author. Bawarshi and Reiff suggest that the Brazilian
approach brings together a focus on genre awareness, analysis of linguistic conventions
and attention to social context (177).
In the remainder of this chapter, Bawarshi and Reiff (177-88) present various
frameworks for genre pedagogies: Freedmans model of (tacitly) acquiring new genres,
and other explicit pedagogies the SFL approach of the teaching-learning cycle; Swales
CARS model; Devitts project model; and Guimarerss didactic workshop sequence
approach. All of these models might provide useful starting points for EAP teachers to
draw up a syllabus adapted to their contexts.
In chapter 11, Rhetorical Genre Studies (RGS) Approaches to Teaching Writing,
the center of attention is on the transfer of genre knowledge, both from teachers to
students and in student learning, from one genre context to another. Here again, the
authors suggest a series of frameworks, including their own which they presented in a
book with Amy Devitt, Scenes of Writing: Strategies for Composing with Genres (Devitt,
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Bawarshi and Reiff 2004), which offers the following guidelines: 1) collect samples of
the genre; 2) identify and describe the situation of the genre; 3) identify and describe
patterns of the genres features; and 4) analyze what the patterns reveal. Actually, much
of this methodology has already been suggested in discourse analysis or critical
discourse analysis (Titscher et al. 2000).This chapter also incorporates indications
about how to teach critical awareness to students so that they can use alternative
responses to a genre context. This is a somewhat curious ending to the volume, since
Bawarshi and Reiffs own response to genre throughout the book seems to be overly
anxious about RGSs reaction to genre pedagogy.
In the introduction to their book, Anis Bawarshi and Mary Jo Reiff state that their
overarching goal is to provide readers with an overview of what genre approaches have
to offer for the study and teaching of writing (10). As the title indicates, the authors
must weave together various different perspectives Historical, Theoretical, Research
and Pedagogical of the term genre, itself fraught with confusion, not least because of
the different implications arising from its deployment in various disciplinary endeavors.
To a specialist in applied linguistics, the extended discussion of the implicit/explicit
debate provided by Bawashi and Reiff may seem somewhat superficial. The underlying
assumptions of RGS are not discussed critically and the authors discussion of
methodologies focuses almost completely on the findings from qualitative studies, while
almost ignoring (they include only 4 pages) the wealth of information coming out of
text-based quantitative studies, especially in L2 research. No doubt these oversights
arise out of the different theoretical concerns of RGS, and the authors attempts to
reduce some of the contention between various disciplinary groups. However, the RGS
perspective of the volume is apparent to some extent in the Glossary by Melanie Kill
(210-19) in that it contains mostly linguistic terms, implying that RGS readers will need
to have some of this background information at hand. One certainly cannot deny the
RGS contributions to the study of written texts, but any detailed view of genre must
include linguistically oriented research because authors language choices constitute
part of the information readers receive in order to be able to classify a text as belonging
to a particular genre. Authors ideas are set out in patterns of argumentation, but the
construal of those meanings occurs through the deployment of linguistic features.
Works Cited
Bazerman, Charles, Adair Bonini and Dbora Figueiredo, eds. 2009: Genre in a Changing World.
Fort Collins: The WAC Clearinghouse and Parlor Press.
Bazerman, Charles, Joe Little and Terry Chavkin 2003: The Production of Information for
Genres Activity Spaces: Informational Motives and Consequences of the Environmental
Impact Statement. Written Communication 20.4: 455-77.
Bonini, Adair 2009: The Distinction between News and Reportage in the Brazilian Journalistic
Context: A Matter of Degree. Charles Bazerman, Adair Bonini and Dbora Figueiredo, eds.
Genre in a Changing World. Fort Collins: The WAC Clearinghouse and Parlor Press. 199-225.
Bruner, Jerome 1966: Toward a Theory of Instruction. Cambridge: Harvard UP.
Byrnes, Heidi, ed. 2006: Advanced Language Learning: The Contribution of Halliday and Vygotsky.
London: Continuum.
Crick, Nathan 2003: Composition as Experience: John Dewey on Creative Expression and the
Origins of the Mind. College Composition and Communication 55.2: 254-75.
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Culler, Jonathan 1980: Literary Competence. Jane Tompkins, ed. Reader-Response Criticism:
From Formalism to Post-Structuralism. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP. 101-17.
1975: Structuralist Poetics. Ithaca: Cornell UP.
Devitt, Amy 1993: Generalizing about Genre: New Conceptions of an Old Concept. College
Composition and Communication 44: 573-86.
Devitt, Amy, Anis S. Bawarshi and Mary-Jo Reiff 2004: Scenes of Writing: Strategies for Composing
with Genres. London: Longman.
Dienes, Zoltan and Josef Perner 2010: A Theory of Implicit and Explicit Knowledge.
<http://www.lifesci.sussex.ac.uk/home/Zoltan_Dienes/BBS> (Accessed 10 November, 2010)
Edwards, Mike and Heidi McKee 2005: The Teaching and Learning of Web Genres in First-year
Composition. Ann Herrington and Charles Morgan, eds. Genre across the Curriculum.
Logan: Utah State UP. 196-218.
Ellis, Rod 1990: Instructed Second Language Acquisition: Learning in the Classroom. Oxford:
Blackwell.
Freedman, Aviva 2006: Interaction between Theory and Research: RGS and a Study of Students
and Professionals Working in Computers. Natasha Artemeva and Aviva Freedman, eds.
Rhetorical Genre Studies and Beyond. Winnipeg: Inkshed. 101-21.
1996: Genres of Argument and Arguments as Genres. Deborah P. Berrill, ed. Perspectives
on Written Argument. Cresskill: Hampton. 91-120.
1994: Do as I Say: The Relationship between Teaching and Learning New Genres. Aviva
Freedman and Peter Medway, eds. Genre and the New Rhetoric. London: Taylor and Francis.
191-210.
1993: Show and Tell? The Role of Explicit Teaching in the Learning of New Genres.
Research in the Teaching of English 27: 222-51.
and Peter Medway, eds. 1994a: Genre and the New Rhetoric. London: Taylor and Francis.
eds. 1994b: Learning and Teaching Genre. Portsmouth: Boynton/Cook.
Hyland, Ken 2004: Genre and Second Language Writing. Ann Arbor: U of Michigan P.
Hyon, Sunny 1996: Genre in three Traditions: Implications for ESL. TESOL Quarterly 30. 4:
693-718.
Hyon, Sunny 2002: Genre and ESL Reading: A Classroom Study. Ann Johns, ed. Genre in the
Classroom. Multiple Perspectives. Mahwah: Lawrence Erlbaum. 121-41.
Jauss, Hans R. 1986: Literary History as a Challenge to Literary Theory. Hazard Adams and
Leroy Searle, eds. Critical Theory since 1965. Tallahassee: Florida State UP. 164-83.
Kapp, Rochelle and Bongi Bangeni 2005: I was just never Exposed to this Argument Thing:
Using a Genre Approach to Teach Academic Writing to ESL Students in the Humanities.
Anne Herrington and Charles Moran, eds. Genre across the Curriculum. Logan: Utah State
UP. 109-127.
Krashen, Stephen 1993: The Power of Reading. Boulder: Libraries Unlimited.
1981: Second Language Acquisition and Second Language Learning. Oxford: Pergamon.
Miller, Carolyn 1984: Genre as Social Action. Aviva Freedman and Peter Medway, eds. Genre
and the New Rhetoric. Bristol: Taylor and Francis. 23-42.
Miller, Carolyn and Dawn Shepherd 2004/2007: Blogging as Social Action: A Genre Analysis of
Weblog. Laura Gurak, Smiljana Antonijevic, Laurie Johnson, Clancy Ratliff and Jessica
Reyman, eds. Into the Blogsphere: Rhetoic, Community and Culture of Weblogs.
<http://blog.lib.umn.edu/blogosphere/> (Accessed 10 April, 2007)
McLaughlin, Barry 1990: Conscious vs. Unconscious Learning, TESOL Quarterly 24.4: 617-34.
Myhill, Debra 2005: Prior Knowledge and the (Re)production of School Written Genres.
Triantafillia Koustouli, ed. Writing in Context(s): Textual Practice and Learning Processes in
Sociocultural Setting. New York: Springer. 117-36.
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Patton, John 1976: Generic Criticism: Typology at an Inflated Price. Rhetoric Society Quarterly
6.1: 4-8.
Rumelhart, David E. 1980: Schemata: The Building Blocks of Cognition. Rand J. Spiro, Bertram
C. Bruce and William F. Brewer, eds. Theoretical Issues in Reading Comprehension. Hillsdale:
Lawrence Erlbaum. 33-58.
Segal, Judy 2007: Breast Cancer Narratives as Public Rhetoric: Genre itself and the Maintenance
of Ignorance. Linguistics and the Human Sciences 3.1: 3-23.
Swales, John M. 1990: Genre Analysis. Cambridge: Cambridge UP.
Swain, Merrill 1985: Communicative Competence: Some Roles of Comprehensible Input and
Comprehensible Output in its Development. Susan Gass and Carol Madden, eds. Input in
Second Language Acquisition. Rowley: Newbury House. 235-53.
Titscher, Stefan, Michael Meyer, Ruth Wodak and Eva Vetter 2000: Methods of Text and
Discourse Analysis. London/Thousand Oaks/New Dehli: Sage.
Vygotsky, Lev 1960 (1934): Collected Works. Vol. 1. Robert Rieber and Aaron Carton, eds. Trans.
N. Minick. New York: Plenum: 39-285.
Widdowson, Henry G. 1990: Aspects of Language Teaching. Oxford: Oxford UP.
Received 13 January 2011
JoaAnne Neff is Associate Professor at the Universidad Complutense de Madrid. Her research interests
include L2 Acquisition of English, Contrastive Linguistics, Corpus Linguistics, Feminism and Stylistics.
Address: Departamento de Filologa Ingles I, Facultad de Filologa, Universidad Complutense de Madrid,
Ciudad Universitaria. 28040 Madrid, Spain. Tel.: +34 913945274. Fax: +34 913945478.
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Carol Griffiths, ed. 2008: Lessons from Good Language Learners. Cambridge:
Cambridge UP. xi+324pp. ISBN 978-0-521-71814-1 (Paperback)
Anik Nandi
University of Santiago de Compostela
anik.nandi@rai.usc.es
Since the late 1960s, the effective learning of languages has been a burning issue for
language researchers, especially for those who have been dealing with successful
learning strategies for second or foreign languages.1 The present research in this field
shows that some learners are capable of picking up the L2 rapidly and easily, while
others, in comparison, never achieve complete fluency or are incapable of expressing
themselves accurately in the foreign language (Cook 2002). Effective individual
strategies, in fact, enable some to be comparatively good or effective learners of L2.
Carol Griffiths, the editor of Lessons from Good Language Learners (2008), is an
eminent academic and also an experienced language instructor who has contributed
independently and co-authored several chapters to this seminal work published by
Cambridge University Press (CUP), a venerable name in the field of scholarly
publications on second language teaching/learning. This volume has been designed
with a specific format containing short chapters. Each article is well-defined and begins
with an overview of previous research, continues with the concordances and
disagreements with regard to respective studies and, finally, concludes with welldefined implications for the teaching/learning situation. Even though each chapter is
stylistically distinct from the others, the structural consistency provides coherence to
the book as a whole. It is worth mentioning that, in these articles, more often than not
the authors seek references from fields outside ELT, such as psychology, educational
theories etc., thus enriching the contents of this work.
Lessons from Good Language Learners (hence LGLL) is written to commemorate the
30th anniversary of Joan Rubins pioneering article What the Good Language
Learner can Teach us (1975), published in TESOL Quarterly, in which she had set out
to identify the useful strategies followed by successful L2 learners. Rubin stated that "if
we knew more about what the 'successful learners' did, we might be able to teach these
strategies to poorer learners to enhance their success record" (1975: 42). Therefore, this
edited collection takes into account the same topic in the light of current thinking and
research, analysing the implications for the language teaching and learning fields, and
re-examines some of the questions which are hitherto unresolved.
This volume contains 23 chapters in two sections. The first deals with Learner
Variables in 11 chapters on Motivation and Good Language Learners, Age and Good
Language Learners, and so on, thus examining the individual characteristics or
behaviours which make each learner unique. The second brings into focus the Learning
1
I am indebted to (MAEC-AECID) for their generous funding, which I acknowledge with
gratitude.
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Variables commencing with a chapter entitled Vocabulary and Good Language

Learners and ends with Tasks and Good Language Learners. Each of these two
sections encompasses both research-based and state-of-the-art articles, thus providing a
variety of perspectives on the issues concerned.
LGLL starts with a prologue by Andrew D. Cohen providing an explanation of the
inspiration behind the book along with an overview of the field. This prologue also
recounts some touching anecdotes about Joan Rubin. The chapter entitled Reflections,
by Joan Rubin herself, contains her major observations. This section ends with a lucid
and comprehensive synopsis of the whole book in the chapter titled The Learners
Landscape and Journey.
The first chapter bearing the title Motivation and Good Language Learners, by
Ema Ushioda commences with the universally accepted hypothesis that basically
good language learners are motivated. Motivation has been accepted by Rubin (1975)
as one of the most essential variables on which the proficiency of an efficient language
learner virtually depends. The first section takes into account the social-psychological
and socio-educational perspectives of Robert C. Gardner (1972, 1988), which point not
only to the learners rudimentary attitudes towards the target language community, but
also to more education-friendly approaches to language learner motivations providing
more comforting insights for language teachers and learners. Apart from highlighting
the social context of motivation, she reassesses several prior studies related to selfmotivating strategies (Drnyei 2001), self-regulatory skills (Ott 1998), and
motivational self-regulation (Ushioda 2003, 2007), which lead her to the valid
conclusion that motivation will suffer unless ways are found to regulate it (26).
Further discussions on the connection between identity and self-regulated motivation
can be found in Drnyei and Ushioda (2009).
The second chapter entitled Age and Good Language Learners, by Carol Griffiths,
corresponds to the age of L2 learners. Rubin (1975) categorized age of L2 learners as
content demanding further investigation, and even after three decades, the research on
age retains its controversial character in the field of L2 Teaching and Learning. While
adult learners acquire language more rapidly at the initial stage, children reach the
expected level of perfection in the long run. After recounting multiple success stories of
adult language learners from various socio-cultural backgrounds, Griffiths finally drives
home the axiom that younger is better. Recent studies by Garca Mayo and Garca
Lecumberri (2003), Singleton and Ryan (2004) and Muoz (2006), however, question
her claim on the matter.
Chapters on Style (Chrisma Nel), Personality (Madeline Ehrman), and Gender
(Martha Nyikos) of good language learners come next. Rubin (1975) included learning
style as a subject of further research. After reassessing certain research literatures on
Learning Style and Good Language Learners (Chapter 3), Nel concludes that each and
every L2 learner has his/her unique learning style, containing various preferences
related to instructions, environment, personality and so forth.
The personality factor of a successful L2 learner has always been a vulnerable factor
in L2 research. Madeline Ehrman, in Personality and Good Language Learners
(Chapter 4), finally settles for the reflection that successful L2 learners tend to have
introverted personalities (70), a thought which clearly goes beyond pedagogical
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intuitions. In chapter 5, Martha Nyikos touches upon issues related to gender in L2

acquisition. Gender has been argued as one of the many important facets of social
identity, [which] interacts with race, ethnicity, class, sexuality, (dis)ability, age and
social status in framing students language learning experiences, trajectories and
outcomes (Norton and Pavlenco 2004:504). To conclude, the author finally
acknowledges that the commonly held view that women are more successful learners
than men may not be substantiated by empirical research.
The succeeding three chapters are associated with Strategies (Carol Griffiths),
Metacognition (Neil J. Anderson) and Autonomy (Sara Cotterall) of good language
learners. According to Rubin, language learning strategies are techniques or devices
which a learner may use to acquire knowledge (1975: 43). In Strategies and Good
Language Learners (Chapter 6), Griffiths marshals a large amount of data regarding the
devices adopted by efficient L2 learners. But she keeps this research open-ended, since
individual learners are infinitely variable. Next comes the discussion on Metacognition
and Good Language Learners (Chapter 7); in ELT, the students without metacognition
have been treated as learners without direction who cannot monitor their process of
learning. Previous investigations in this field propose that efficient L2 learners apply a
number of metacognitive strategies to learn the target language (TL). However, in the
concluding section of his article, Anderson places more emphasis on well-structured
language programmes and efficient language instructors than on self-regulated learning
experiences. In Autonomy and Good Language Learners (Chapter 8), Cotterall closely
examines the autonomy-fostering approach of language learning where she correlates
learners psychological kinship with both the language learning process and the
methodological aspects of language learning.
The concluding chapters of Learner Variables move on to explore the Beliefs
(Cynthia White), Culture (Claudia Finkbeiner) and Aptitude (Leila Ranta) of good
language learners. Unlike prior approaches where beliefs have been considered as
somewhat static and monotonous, White attempts to re-examine learners beliefs from
a socio-cultural outlook in Beliefs and Good Language Learners (Chapter 9). The 10th
chapter, by Finkbeiner, who discusses and elaborates the importance of culture and
ethnic identity in a language teaching/learning classroom, is highly engaging. Not least,
in the final section focussing on Aptitude and Good Language Learners (Chapter 11),
Ranta strongly challenges the long-fostered thought that aptitude is undemocratic and
irrelevant to language learners and teachers (151).
The first four chapters of Learning Variables examine the good language learners
approach towards learning Vocabulary (Jo Muir and Paul Nation), Grammar
(Margaret Bade), Functions (Zia Tajeddin) and Pronunciation (Adam Brown). The
importance of teaching vocabulary in a language teaching/learning programme has always
been a debatable question for language researchers; Moir and Nation in Vocabulary and
Good Language Learners (Chapter 12) analyse diverse ways of acquiring target language
vocabulary. There is no doubt that the study of grammar is essential and rudimentary for
effective communication in any language. However, the appropriate method of teaching
grammar has always been debated. In Grammar and Good Language Learners (Chapter
13), Bade endeavours to look into the most effective ways of learning grammar. The
following section (Chapter 14) by Tajeddin focuses on the functional approach of
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language teaching and learning, a notion which has been designed to compensate for
learners needs. This article mainly investigates language learners approaches towards
achieving functional competence in the target language, an area which was left untouched
by Rubin (1975) in her seminal article. In Pronunciation and Good Language Learners
(Chapter 15), Adam Brown investigates learners attitudes towards pronunciation, and
concludes that each efficient L2 learner is strongly aware of it since he/she has a strong
desire to communicate (Rubin 1975: 46).
The next four chapters study good language learners relationship with the art of
Listening (Goodith White), Speaking (Yasushi Kawai), Reading (Karen Schramm)
and Writing (Louise Gordon) in L2. Even though effective language learning does not
depend only on good listening skills, White, in Listening and Good Language Learners
(Chapter 16), finds that efficient L2 learners often are good listeners. He further claims
that the methodologies related to teaching listening skills are still underdeveloped, and
far from acquiring momentum. Fruitful strategies to develop oral proficiency in a
foreign language have always been questioned in SLA research. Kawai, in Speaking and
Good Language Learners (Chapter 17), clarifies that an introvert attitude towards oral
communication in the (TL) does not inevitably indicate that the learner is lessmotivated and therefore, unable to communicate in the TL. However, previous research
shows that an active participation in the class by teachers as well as learners is necessary
in order for the learner to develop oral skills. Schramms contribution, Reading and
Good Language Learners (Chapter 18), investigates good language learners attitudes
towards the reading process in the TL. Schramm finds that efficient L2 learners can
successfully monitor their own comprehension, evaluate problems and take
appropriate action (238). This chapter, I find, is more closely directed to teachers than
any other. Louise Gordon, in Writing and Good Language Learners (Chapter 19),
deals with language learners attitudes towards writing in the TL. Composing
something in a new language has always been a challenging task for L2 learners. Even
though the communicative classroom does not recognise the importance of extensive
writing, Gordon finds it essential for those who would like to carry out their further
studies within a target language.
The succeeding two chapters of Learning Variables are concerned with good
language learners attitudes towards Teaching/Learning Method (Carol Griffiths) and
Strategy Instruction (Anna Uhl Chamot). Although innumerable approaches have
been introduced over the years in order to learn and teach foreign languages, Griffiths
in Teaching/learning Methods and Good Language Learners (Chapter 20), advocates
strongly in favour of a contemporary eclectic approach which actually is a melting-pot
of diverse language teaching/learning techniques. In effect, Griffiths maintains that
proficient L2 learners generally do not stick to any specific method of learning; rather,
they switch to diverse learning techniques according to their needs. Chamot, in
Strategy Instruction and Good Language Learners (Chapter 21), takes into account
questions associated with strategy instruction in SLA. Learning strategies of efficient as
well as those of unsuccessful learners have always been a question of extensive research.
Chamot, in this article, not only criticizes explicit, implicit, integrated and discrete
strategy instructions, but also investigates the wide range of consequences related to
strategy research and its reflections on language teaching. Above all, there is no single
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method which can be proved unanimously helpful for each and every learner in the
classroom. Therefore, language teaching, at any level, should be learner-centred.
Chapter 22 entitled Error Correction and Good Language Learners, by Michael
Roberts and Carol Griffiths engages those readers analysing good language learners
attitudes to error correction or corrective feedbacks. This chapter will be useful for
classroom practitioners, for the importance of error correction has always been
questioned in SLA research. While a certain group of linguists condemn it as erratic,
ambiguous, ill-timed and ineffective in the short termed (286), others find it useful for
the learners development. However, the teachers role in the classroom has also been
criticized, since excessive emphasis on errors may prove disappointing and
demoralizing for students. Therefore, correction and encouragement should go hand in
hand. To sum up, Roberts and Griffiths affirm Rubins observation that an efficient
learner accepts the feedback and learns from his/her mistakes.
In the 23rd chapter, titled Tasks and Good Language Learners, Joan Rubin and
Patricia McCoy make an important observation on task-based language teaching and
learning. Task-based language teaching/learning curricula have been designed to
modify learners communicative abilities outside the classroom. This article could be
seen as a development of Wendens (1995) tripartite task analysis procedure, which, by
and large, explains studies related to task purpose, task classification and task
demands. Task analysis has often been associated with planning, one of the five main
metacognitive procedures (Rubin 2001, 2005). Efficient L2 learners use their knowledge
to analyse tasks. Depending largely on their analysis of tasks, expert learners finally
decide their goals of learning. After an extensive study, the authors come to the
conclusion that task analysis has been used widely by successful language learners.
The final section bearing the title The Learners Landscape and Journey: a
Summary, by Rebecca Oxford and Kyoung Rang Lee sums up the whole body of
research on good language learners. This chapter, I find, outlines a wide range of studies
related to learner identity, learner self- regulation, the learning situation and the
learning destination, a perfect synopsis of extensive research on SLA as in LLGL. The
hypothesis associated with the detectabilty of a unique set of characteristics possessed
by the good language learner and the possible transferability of those characteristics to
less-successful learners slowly but surely gave way to the insight that no ideal set of
characteristics existed.
LGLL is a thought-provoking book opening windows for further enquiries and
explorations. Reading such a well-planned book is a pleasure. While in Rubin (1975),
the focus was mainly on language learning strategies, LGLL goes one step further and
approaches the question of how effectively successful language learners learn from a
more elaborate perspective. This collection relocates some of the genres Rubin
identified as requiring further investigation, and includes others which were not
mentioned by her directly (such as gender, personality or autonomy). These variable
factors have also been accepted as virtually important contributors to achieving
proficiency or otherwise in the learning of the target language(s).
However, more extensive research is needed to determine whether L2 acquisition is
an innate ability (Saville-Troike 2006: 17) and how far it can be channelled so as to
facilitate successful L2 teaching/learning results. It has been found that while some
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people are endowed with inborn qualities to be good language learners, others can also
be aided to become equally efficient. The articles in this book are immensely inspiring
and contribute effectively to the improvement in the field of language teaching/learning
in the next few years. After all, good language learners have a lot to teach us, and even
after three decades, several lessons are still to be learned.
Works Cited
Cook, Vivian 2002: Portraits of the L2 User. Clevedon: Multilingual Matters.
Drnyei, Zoltan 2001: Motivational Strategies in the Language Classroom. Cambridge: Cambridge UP.
and Ema Ushioda, eds. 2009. Motivation, language identity and the L2 self.
Bristol,
UK.Multi-Lingual Matters.
and Istvan Ott 1998: Motivation in Action: a Process Model of L2 Motivation. Working
Papers in Applied Linguistics (Thames Valley University) 4: 43-69.
Garca Mayo, Mara del Pilar and Mara Luisa Garca Lecumberri, eds. 2003: Age and the
Acquisition of English as a Foreign language. Clevedon: Multilingual Matters.
Gardner, Robert C. and Wallace E. Lambert 1972: Attitudes and Motivation in Language Learning.
Rowley: Newbury House.
1988: The Socio-educational Model of Second Language Learning: Assumptions,
Findings, and Issues. Language Learning 38: 101-26.
Muoz, Carmen, ed. 2006: Age and the Rate of Foreign Language Learning. Clevedon:
Multilingual Matters.
Norton, Bonny and Aneta Pavlenco 2004: Addressing Gender in the ESL/EFL Classroom. In
TESOL Quarterly 38.3: 504-14.
Rubin, Joan 1975: What the Good Language Learner can Teach us. TESOL Quarterly 9.1: 41-51.
2001: Language Learner Self-management. Journal of Asia Pacific Communication 11.1: 25-37.
2005: The Expert Language: a Review of Good Language. Keith Johnson, ed. Expertise in
Second Language Learning and Teaching. Basingstoke, Hants, England: Palgrave MacMillan.
37-63.
Saville-Troike, Muriel 2006: Introducing Second Language Acquisition. Cambridge: Cambridge
UP.
Singleton, David and Lisa Ryan 2004: Language Acquisition: The Age Factor. Clevedon:
Multilingual Matters.
Ushioda, Ema 2003: Motivation as a Socially Mediated Process. David Little, Jennifer Ridley and
Ema Ushida, eds. Learner Autonomy in the Foreign Language Classroom: Teacher, Learner,
Curriculum and Assessment. Dublin: Authentik. 90-102.
2007: Motivation, Autonomy and Sociocultural Theory. Phil Benson, ed. Learner
Autonomy 8: Teacher and Learner Perspectives. Dublin: Authentik. 5-24.
Wenden, Anita L. 1995: Learner Training in Context: a Knowledge Based Approach. Leslie
Dickinson and Anita L. Wenden, eds. Special Issue on Autonomy, System 23.2: 183-94.
Received 20 July 2010
Anik Nandi is a PhD Candidate at the Universidad de Santiago de Compostela. His research interests
centre on sociolinguistics and include English language teaching (ELT), foreign language teaching (FLT),
psycholinguistics, language policies and minority issues.
Address: Facultad de Filoloxa, Campus Universitario Norte. Universidad de Santiago de Compostela 15782,
Santiago de Compostela, Spain. Tel.: +34 981563100- Ext:11777. Fax: +34 981 572 770.
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Laura Alba 2009: Perspectives on Discourse Analysis: Theory and Practice. Newcastle
Upon Tyne, UK: Cambridge Scholars. X + 409pp. ISBN 978-1-4438-0597-1
Noa Talavn Zann
Universidad Nacional de Educacin a Distancia
ntalavan@flog.uned.es
The description of discourse analysis (henceforth DA) can be viewed as a challenging

enterprise, given the variety of approaches that this field encompasses. However, the
approach taken in Perspectives on Discourse Analysis has managed to overcome this
difficulty by presenting a thorough overview of most of the different aspects and
approaches involved in this discipline. This type of proposal turns the present volume
into a very practical resource from the point of view of students and scholars wanting to
learn or review all the possible aspects involved in DA.
The organization of the book is well suited to didactic purposes, given that each
chapter starts with an outline, moves from general to specific headings, ends up with a
summary of the main aspects, and provides, not only self-evaluation questions and
specific practice related to the contents described, but also suggestions for further
reading and a list of useful websites on the corresponding subject matter examined. It is
clearly a book for university students. In fact, as the author acknowledges in the
introduction, this volume is a completely revised version of a previous book published
in 2005 by Alba herself and entitled Discourse Analysis for University Students. However,
this updated version can also serve as a general guide for scholars who want to learn
more about DA, or even check particular aspects of some of the approaches that are
included in this vast field.
After stating the main objectives of the book (i.e. to identify the different
approaches to DA, to learn to carry out analyses of different texts and apply the DA
tools in a practical way), the book offers twelve chapters moving from broader to more
specific perspectives. The first two chapters are in fact rather general. Chapter 1,
Introduction to Discourse Analysis, outlines the organization of the book, discusses
the categories of definitions for discourse and explains the basics of Text Linguistics and
DA. It should be noted that the author is careful to distinguish between formal and
functional approaches; in contrast to other types of linguistic trends, the focus of DA is
on what people do with language, that is, on the use of language in context (16), and
not on the formal relationships between language constituents. In the same general line,
chapter 2 (entitled The Data) introduces Corpus Linguistics, describing the main
methods of data collection, surveying sources of data typically used for investigations of
DA and discussing transcription conventions and ways of selecting appropriate samples
of discourse for specific research.
The first part of the book, after the two introductory chapters described above, is
dedicated to the mainstream approaches to DA. Chapter 3 presents Pragmatics,
described as a division of DA, with special attention to Grices (1975) ideas; it contains a
practical introduction to Speech Act Theory and to the concepts of implicature, deixis,
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Noa Talavn Zann
reference and presupposition. Chapter 4 deals with Interactional Sociolinguistics,

providing examples of analysis, and presenting the theories of Gumperz (1982) and
Goffman (1959); it also devotes special attention to Brown and Levinsons (1987)
Theory of Politeness, which is thoroughly described from various angles. Chapter 5
focuses on Conversation Analysis (presented as one of the most practical approaches
to DA), by explaining its central concepts: turn-taking, adjacency pairs, preference
organization and other sequences. The author centers her discussion on the
contributions of Sacks, Schegloff and Jefferson (1974), and stresses that "the core of
Conversation Analysis is the exploration of sequential structures of social action" (112).
The focus of Chapter 6 is Ethnography of Communication, which delves into Hymes'
(1970) contributions in general, together with his concepts of Communicative
Competence and the SPEAKING grid, and emphasizes the interdisciplinary nature and
the multiple research possibilities of this ethnographic approach. Chapter 7 begins with
a discussion of Labov's (1972) Variation Analysis, which explains the phenomenon of
linguistic change (including an outline of the main techniques of data collection and
analysis), before taking the reader into the exposition of Narrative Analysis; this
chapter also leads to considerations of social and cultural identity, as well as to the
concept of narrative voice. It concludes that narrative analysis can provide the answers
to many questions about the construction of local and global identities (163). The title
of Chapter 8 is Functional Sentence Perspective: Thematic and Information
Structures. It is a rather dense chapter that deals with Functionalism, the Prague School
and Thematic and Information Structure; here, Albas words remind the reader that DA
does not offer one definitive approach to the study of language in context, but is more
an attempt to describe and understand the different ways human beings understand
their linguistic messages (196).
The last part of the book is devoted to more recent perspectives. Chapter 9 discusses
Post-Structuralist Theory and Social Theory, mainly through Foucaults (1980),
Bakhtins (1981) and Bourdieus (1991) contributions to DA. This chapter introduces
these two theories as the basis of Critical Discourse Analysis and Mediated Discourse
Analysis, which are further discussed in the following two chapters. First, chapter 10
examines two Post-Structural perspectives: Critical Discourse Analysis and Positive
Discourse Analysis, the latter viewed as a response to the former. Critical Discourse
Analysis is presented by the author as a multidisciplinary approach that critically studies
social problems and power structures in relation to discourse from diverse areas such
as rhetoric, stylistics, sociolinguistics, pragmatics, ethnography, conversation analysis,
etc. (238). The aim of Positive Discourse Analysis, on the other hand, is presented with
the emphasis being put on the discourse we like rather than on the discourse we want
to criticize (254), that is to say, stressing more the positive than the negative aspects of
power. The texts and exercises contained in the practice section give the reader the
opportunity to examine discourse from a critical perspective, having examined texts
using these two Post-Structural methods. Then, chapter 11 exposes one more PostStructural approach, Mediated Discourse Analysis, a perspective that centers on
human social action and explores every aspect of the environment as part of a larger
context. The author emphasizes the interdisciplinarity of this approach and stops to
analyze the position of Geosemiotics. Finally, the last chapter, entitled Further Issues in
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Discourse Analysis, constitutes a very good closing for this comprehensive explanatory
review. It lists other key aspects and concepts that should be borne in mind when
studying DA, such as the selection of different units of analysis depending on the
perspective chosen. It also provides a quick insight into some of the main types of
genres and includes a note on textual cohesion and coherence, discourse markers and
discourse strategies and functions. All in all, the volume ends with a solid conclusion,
focusing its attention once again on interdisciplinarity and emphasizing what all the
possible perspectives on the study of language in context have in common.
Although Albas work is not theoretically as thorough as that of Shiffrin, Tannen
and Hamilton (2003) The Handbook of Discourse Analysis, it likewise contains a variety
of discourse studies and a synergy between theory and data analysis, although at a lower
level than that of Shiffrin et al., given that Albas book is clearly more specifically
addressed to students than to experts. In fact, along the same line of Downing and
Lockes (2006) well-known reference book English Grammar. A University Course, the
present publication is very practical and self-explanatory, something that makes it
suitable for self-study and distance learning education. Each chapter outline is always
directly related to the main goals of the chapter; furthermore, every chapter contains an
extensive number of textual examples and data analysis that illustrate the theory
provided in the most appropriate manner, in a style similar to Tannens (1993) Framing
in Discourse. Then, the summary of the main ideas does not only help the reader to
recap or review the information contained in the chapter but can also be valuable in
terms of information scanning for the scholar who is looking for specific information
throughout the book.
As to the self-evaluation questions that are placed at the end of each chapter, they
are multiple choice questions that address mainly the theoretical issues discussed in
each chapter, and can help for study review, but, given their closed nature, do not seem
to help in checking if the reader has really understood the main ideas presented therein.
Fortunately, these self-evaluation questions are complemented by practical exercises, in
which students are asked to analyze different types of texts from various DA
perspectives; here, readers can actually put the contents into use, that is to say, they can
apply the theories described and really test their understanding of the concepts just
read. Shiffrins (1994) Approaches to Discourse also provides this type of practice at the
end of each chapter, although when similar chapters of both works are compared,
Shiffrins usually contain a wider number of practical open exercises, and this entails a
more varied and thorough practice in some cases.
Since the author does not treat in depth any of the approaches to DA presented, the
further references section at the end of every chapter turns out to be handy for the
reader who finds a specific stance worthy of further study whenever it suits his/her
academic interests. As far as the useful websites recommended in each chapter are
concerned, although they complement the previous information in terms of interesting
supplementary sources of information, it must be noted that this type of resource is
very ephemeral and changeable (even more so when references to Wikipedia are
provided). Thus, although they may be considered valuable today, they might not be so
in a few months time if they happen to be modified or deleted, which is very often the
case on the World Wide Web.
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Noa Talavn Zann
The reference system of Perspectives on Discourse Analysis can be said to be

genuinely exhaustive. The main authors who have studied this scientific field are
addressed whenever necessary and so are all those who have played an important role in
the evolution of the field: Austin (1962), Brown and Yule (1983), van Dijk (1985), Lakoff
(1990), Tannen (1993) and Jefferson (2007), among others. In addition, the various
approaches described are presented in a more or less chronological manner, something
that enables the reader to understand how some perspectives on DA may have evolved
from previous ones. In this sense, one remarkable aspect of the book is the neutral tone
with which it addresses the various tendencies and authors. The author does not allow
herself to be carried away by the possible criticisms that the various tendencies and
authors may have received; thus, it is [truly] up to analysts to choose a given approach
or certain elements of different approaches in order to best suit the needs of their
research (196).
To describe DA is not an easy task (6), as the author points out towards the
beginning of this volume. However, Alba ends up proving this first statement wrong,
thanks to the mixture of pedagogical and critical style she uses to describe this field in
the most comprehensive way possible for 409 pages. It could even be considered a
somewhat reduced and updated version of van Dijks volumes entitled Handbook of
Discourse Analysis (1985). Apart from commenting on almost everything that has been
said on DA, the author provides a series of in-depth analyses of different text types, as
well as practical exercises that constructively supplement the theoretical description. All
in all, a very good reference book for students, thanks to its instructive approach, and a
handy resource for scholars drawn to such a fascinating field.
Works Cited
Austin, John Langshaw 1962: How to Do Things with Words. Oxford: Clarendon P.
Bakhtin, Mikhail 1981: Discourse in the Novel. Michael Holquist, ed. The Dialogic Imagination.
Austin: U of Texas P. 259-422.
Bourdieu, Pierre 1991: Language and Symbolic Power. Adam Jarworski and Nikolas Coupland,
eds. The Discourse Reader. London and New York: Routledge. 502-13.
Brown, Paul and Stephen C. Levinson 1987: Politeness. Some Universals in Language Usage.
Cambridge: Cambridge UP.
Brown, Gillian and George Yule 1983: Discourse Analysis. Cambridge: Cambridge UP.
Downing, Angela and Philip Locke 2006: English Grammar. A University Course. London and
New York: Routledge.
Foucault, Michel 1980: Power/Knowledge: Selected Writings and Other Interviews 1972-1977. Colin
Gordon, ed. New York: Pantheon Books.
Goffman, Erving 1959: The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. New York: Anchor Books.
Grice, Paul 1975: Logic and Conversation. Jerry Cole, ed. Syntax and Semantics 3: Speech Acts.
New York: Academic P. 41-58.
Gumperz, John J. 1982: Discourse Strategies. Cambridge: Cambridge UP.
Jefferson, Gail 2007: Sequence Organization in Interaction: A Primer in Conversational Analysis.
Vol. 1. Cambridge: Cambridge UP.
Hymes, Dell 1970: On Communicative Competence. J.B. Pride and Janet Holmes, eds.
Sociolinguistics. Harmondsworth: Penguin.
Labov, William 1972: Sociolinguistic Patterns. Oxford: Blackwell.
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Lakoff, Robin 1990: Talking Power: The Politics of Language. New York: Basic Books.
Sacks, Harvey, Emanuel A. Schegloff, and Gail Jefferson 1974: A Simple Systematics for the
Organization of Turn-taking in Conversation. Language 50.4: 696-735.
Shiffrin, Deborah 1994: Approaches to Discourse. Malden: Blackwell Publishing.
Shiffrin, Deborah, Deborah Tannen and Heidi E. Hamilton 2003: The Handbook of Discourse
Analysis. Malden: Blackwell Publishing.
Tannen, Deborah 1993: Framing in Discourse. New York: Oxford UP.
van Dijk, Teun A. 1985: Handbook of Discourse Analysis. 4 vols. London: Academic P.
N. Talavn Zann works as a Lecturer in the Foreign Languages Department at the Universidad Nacional
de Educacin a Distancia (UNED) in Madrid. She is a certified translator and currently holds the position of
academic coordinator of English CI at the Centro Universitario de Idiomas a Distancia (Open University
Language Centre), Spain.
Address: Universidad Nacional de Educacin a Distancia, Facultad de Filologa, Departamento de
Filologas Extranjeras y sus Lingsticas, Senda del Rey, 7, 28040 Madrid, Spain. Tel.: +34 913988626.
Fax: +34 913987399.
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Manuel M. Martn Rodrguez 2009: Gaspar de Villagr: Legista, soldado y poeta.

Len: Servicio de Publicaciones de la Universidad de Len. 347 pp. ISBN 978-84-9773487-5
M. Carmen Gmez Galisteo
ESNE Universidad Camilo Jos Cela
mcarmengomez@aol.com
Until fairly recently, it was commonplace to open a U.S. history textbook only to find it
beginning with an account of the foundation of the first British settlement in North
America, Jamestown, in 1607. According to the way American history has been
conventionally taught, the nations historical roots were to be found either in
Jamestown or, preferably, in the Puritan communities which sprouted in New England
following the arrival of the Pilgrim Fathers in 1620 and the Great Migration of the
1630s. In presenting such a view of Americas past, History books as well as literary
anthologies dealing with the United States have, with very few exceptions, consistently
ignored the Spaniards contribution. History books in particular have traditionally
dated the origins of American literature back to the publication in 1588 of Thomas
Harriots chronicle, A Briefe and True Report of the New-found Land of Virginia. By
considering American literature only that originally written in English, Spanishlanguage texts were more often than not left out from history books even when they
had been written on North American soil.
This omission, of course, was far from being accidental, for it reflected nationalistic
agendas that have for long decisively shaped the study and teaching of United States
history (Mulford 1999: 1; Baym 1989: 459). As a result of this critical neglect, Spanish
conquistadors such as Gaspar Prez de Villagr or lvar Nez Cabeza de Vaca, to
name but two, have not enjoyed the historical credibility paid to contemporary English
explorers such as Captain John Smith or Thomas Harriot. Until a couple of decades
ago, contemporary Anglo-Americans may have scaled back their historical horizons to
Plymouth Rock and 1776, leaving 1492 for Hispanics to worry about (Butzer 1992:
346) while the New England Puritan Fathers were heralded as the forerunners of the
true American identity and history (Baym 1989: 460). The Spanish presence in North
America was not only regarded as distinct and separate from the British colonization
process, but also most conveniently omitted. It is because of this scholarly neglect that
the figure of Gaspar Prez de Villagr, the first poet who wrote in the present-day
United States, has not until recently become the object of a more serious and thorough
study by the American academe. Evident of this change in sensibility is the entry
devoted to Gaspar Prez de Villagr in the latest edition of the Heath Anthology of
American Literature (Bruce-Novoa and Winans 2005).
More often than not, the study of Villagrs work has been limited to critical
editions of his Historia de la nueva Mexico or confined to histories devoted to the
Spanish exploration of the Americas. When it comes to the former, Villagrs only work
has certainly been the object of a number of critical editions, including those by
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Mercedes Junquera (1989), Victorino Madrid Rubio, Elsa Armesto Rodrguez and
Augusto Quintana Prieto (1991), Miguel Encinias, Alfred Rodrguez, and Joseph P.
Snchez (1992), or Felipe I. Echenique (1993). However, when it comes to Villagrs
labor as a conquistador and explorer of New Mexico, Wigets 1991 landmark essay
Reading Against the Grain: Origin Stories and American Literary History is an
exception to this trend in scholarship in that it compares Villagrs Historia with a
Native American account as well as with Pilgrim Father William Bradfords Of
Plymouth Plantation, thus placing Villagr in the context of more canonical
interpretations of Americas literary history.
However, until now there had been no fully-fledged study of Gaspar Prez de
Villagrs work and historical context. Manuel Martn Rodrguezs book comes to solve
this telling and flagrant gap in scholarship. Gaspar de Villagr: Legista, soldado y poeta
constitutes the most exhaustive biography of Gaspar Prez de Villagr to date and, as
such, is a valuable piece of scholarship for anyone interested not only in colonial
Hispanic Studies but in Early American Studies as well. The introduction of the book
explains the relevance of Villagrs Historia de la nueva Mexico and its publishing
history. First published in Alcal de Henares in 1610, it combines poetry and history in
its depiction of the origins of New Mexico, making of Villagr the first poet in what is
nowadays the Southwest of the United States. The volume follows a chronological order
to chronicle Villagrs life and is divided into nine chapters preceded by Villagrs
genealogical tree, a chronological chart of the main events in his life and an
introduction.
Chapter 1, Antecedentes familiares, recounts Villagrs family history. Born Gaspar
Prez in Puebla de Los ngeles in New Spain around 1555, he was subsequently better
known as Gaspar (Prez) de Villagr, this being the Spanish village from which his
parents, Hernn Prez and Catalina Ramrez, hailed (present-day La Unin de Campos
in Valladolid). While the names of many of those who participated in the Spanish
conquest campaigns in America have fallen into oblivion, his name stands apart from
that of other, lesser-known conquistadors because of his authorship of the Historia de la
nueva Mexico.
Chapter 2, Etapa salmantina, collects information about Villagrs formative years
in the city of Salamanca. Having arrived in Spain for the first time with his father in
1569, Villagr did not begin his university education until 1571, most probably spending
the two years in between completing his Latin and educational background in
preparation for his university studies (39). Education at the time put special emphasis
on rhetoric, grammar and the study of classical sources, a formal training that proved
decisive for Villagrs later life (46, 52). The volume offers the transcription of
documents related to Villagr as well as first-hand testimonies of his contemporaries.
The information that is missing about Villagrs particular experiences as a student in
Salamanca is supplied by means of other, contemporary testimonies. It is a particular
strength of the book that Martn Rodrguez has checked out the original documents
himself, rather than relying on previous transcriptions of them (which, by means of
Martn Rodrguezs scholarship, are sometimes proved to be inaccurate). A number of
false truths and lies have made their way into Villagrs biography, which, after being
repeated endless times, have come to be considered the true official history on the basis
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of their reiteration; these are now being proved wrong and amended. Martn
Rodrguez, after a close examination of the Universidad de Salamanca records, comes
out with the rather surprising revelation that Villagr did not major in arts (letras), as
has been held, but that he read law. With this, the doubts and confusion raised as to
why Villagr transcribed legal documents in full in his poem are put to rest (24). This is
the first time that this valuable piece of information regarding Villagrs academic
formation has been proved, constituting one of the many strengths of this volume.
The following chapter, El regreso a Nueva Espaa: Villagr en la Nueva Vizcaya,
offers new information at the same time as it advances some new venues for research in
Villagrs biography still to be explored, such as, for instance, whether he had a
daughter (apart from his two sons), as some scholars contend on the basis of the
existence of a will penned by a so called son-in-law of Villagrs (59). The significance
of this section comes from the fact that mystery surrounds the life of Villagr once he
returned to America; only snippets of information are known about the following two
decades of his life. During this period in his life, Villagr was a participant in the wars
against the local Native Americans, and on July 23, 1596 Juan de Oate appointed him
to the post of Procurador General del Campo in his expedition to New Mexico, a post
that he unwillingly accepted only after much persuading (66-69).
In Itinerario de la expedicin de Juan de Oate (1597-1599) and Gaspar de
Villagr en la Nueva Mxico, Martn Rodrguez not only offers the trajectory of the
expedition but also points out probable reasons why the only two chroniclers of the
expedition, Villagr himself and the author of the Ytinerario de las Minas del Caxco,
chose to put an end to their respective works after the brutal slaughter of Native
Americans, interpreting this event as a decisive shift in the character of the colonization
of New Mexico (107). Villagr stated his intention of resuming his poem with a second
part recounting the massacre of coma and what followed, but he never managed to
write it. His silence speaks louder than words. Martn Rodrguez points out the
difficulties that Villagr would have had to recount this incident in the same heroic
mode as that of the Historia (107). These chapters also show how Villagrs academic
formation and religious zeal had a profound impact on his time in New Mexico (110).
For Villagr, the conquest of New Mexico no se trat de una experiencia exclusivamente
militar, sino que su compromiso con la colonizacin posterior fue constante (177).1 It
was not a case of veni, vidi, vici, but a long-term commitment to the lands he had
discovered.
Nuevo viaje a Espaa y publicacin de la Historia de la Nueua Mexico recounts the
events leading to the publication of the Historia, which was supported by several
Spanish scholars who praised the work in a number of poems as a sort of introduction
preceding the Historia (188-89). The existence of these poems praising Villagrs work is
especially significant, for this scholarly support was more often than not unattainable to
the majority of conquistadors. Conquistadors such as Mario de Lobera (in Chile),
Alvar Nez Cabeza de Vaca (in the U.S. Southwest), Bernal Daz del Castillo (in New
Spain) and others, failed to win scholars endorsement of their works, unless they had
1
It was not an exclusively military experience; his commitment to the future colonization
was constant.
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them extensively re-written by more trained voices, as happened in the case of Lobera
(Gmez Galisteo 2009: 119). Villagr, by contrast, enjoyed both support and praise for
the publication of his Historia.
Regreso a Nueva Espaa: Juicio, defensa y condena presents Villagr as suffering a
fate similar to that of his fellow conquistador Cabeza de Vaca. Villagr was accused by
his detractors of the muertes, justicias, y castigos que el Adelantado don Iuan de Oate
dizen que hizo en la Nueua Mexico (qtd. in 218). Tried in 1613, Villagr was sentenced
in 1614, deprived of his rank and condemned to banishment from the capital of New
Spain, thus having the misfortune of sharing a fate common to a number of Spanish
conquistadors fallen out of royal favor.
In Nuevo viaje a Espaa (1615), we are introduced to a Villagr already back in
Madrid, where he was given back la certificacin de mritos de la Audiencia de Nueva
Galicia (251). It seems that Villagr spent the years between 1615 and 1620 in Spain
trying to rehabilitate his tarnished reputation, to secure royal pardon and a new post in
reward for his past services to the Crown. Moreover, Villagr apparently worked hard
to obtain the same rights for Oate (253-54) although there is no documentation left of
this. The book closes with Villagrs will, his last signature and the inventory of
Villagrs possessions compiled after his death at sea in the ship taking him back home
(278). The last chapter, Los herederos de Gaspar de Villagr, 1621-1625, recounts the
life experiences of Villagrs two sons, Jos and Gaspar. The two appendixes that follow
consist of a list of the participants in the Oate expedition (1598-1602) and a
comparison of the two versions of the Memorial de Justificacin.
In sum, this volume is a most valuable piece of scholarship and a much-welcomed
contribution to the field of Early American Studies in general and to the study of Early
American Spanish-language texts in the United States of today in particular. Because of
the reasons detailed above, this is a book to take into account as a reference for future
studies on Villagr or his Historia, a book appropriate for anyone interested in the
colonial history of New Mexico. This book is the first volume of an ongoing threevolume study, the second volume being an annotated critical edition of the Historia
whereas the third will consist of a new, critical analysis of the Historia. We shall be
looking forward to the publication of the next two volumes.
Works Cited
Baym, Nina 1989: Early Histories of American Literature: A Chapter in the Institution of New
England. American Literary History 1.3: 459-88.
Bruce-Novoa, Juan and Amy E. Winans 2005: Gaspar Prez de Villagr (1555-1620). Paul
Lauter, ed. The Heath Anthology of American Literature. 5th edition
<http://college.hmco.com/english/lauter/heath/4e/students/author_pages/colonial/devillagra.
html> (Accessed 15 November, 2006)
Butzer, Karl W. 1992: The Americas Before and After 1492: An Introduction to Current
Geographical Research. Annals of the Association of American Geographers 82.3: 345-68.
Gmez Galisteo, M. Carmen 2009: Leaving the New World, Entering History: lvar Nez
Cabeza de Vaca, John Smith and the Problems of Describing the New World. RAEI: Revista
Alicantina de Estudios Ingleses 22: 115-26.
Mulford, Carla, ed. 1999: Teaching the Literatures of Early America. New York: The Modern
Language Association of America.
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Villagr, Gaspar de 1989: Historia de Nuevo Mxico. Ed. Mercedes Junquera. Madrid: Historia 16.
1991: Historia de Nuevo Mxico. Ed. Victorino Madrid Rubio, Elsa Armesto Rodrguez and
Augusto Quintana Prieto. Astorga: Publicaciones del Centro de Estudios Astorganos Marcelo
Macas.
1992: Historia de la Nueva Mxico, 1610. Ed. Miguel Encinias, Alfred Rodrguez and Joseph
Snchez. Albuquerque: U of New Mexico P.
1993: Historia de la Nueva Mxico. Ed. Felipe I. Echenique. Mxico, D. F.: Instituto
Nacional de Antropologa e Historia.
Wiget, Andrew 1991: Reading Against the Grain: Origin Stories and American Literary History.
American Literary History 3.2: 209-31.
Received 28 August 2010
Revised version accepted 10 December 2011
M Carmen Gomez-Galisteo currently teaches at the Universidad Camilo Jos Cela in Madrid. Her research
interests are Early American literature, captivity narratives, adaptation studies, and American popular
culture. Her most recent publication is The Wind is Never Gone: Sequels, Parodies and Rewritings of Gone
With the Wind. Jefferson, NC and London: MacFarland, 2011.
Address: ESNE Universidad Camilo Jos Cela, English Department, Avda. Alfonso XIII, 97, 28016
Madrid, Spain. Tel.:+34 915552528. Fax: +34 915556337.
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Josep M. Armengol 2010: Richard Ford and the Fiction of Masculinities. New York:
Peter Lang. xi+138 pp. ISBN 978-1433110511
Peter Ferry
Queens University Belfast
pferry01@qub.ac.uk
In an interview with The Paris Review in 1996, Richard Ford is asked, Some critics have
said that they consider you a particularly male writer. Do you see yourself that way?
Fords reply is emphatic: I think thats a load of crap (Lyons 1996). As Michael
Kimmel states in his article Invisible Masculinity, to men ... gender often remains
invisible. Strange as it may sound, men are the invisible gender. Ubiquitous in
positions of power everywhere, men are invisible to themselves (1993: 29). The great
project of the burgeoning field of Masculinity Studies, therefore, is to make the invisible
visible. With this task in mind, Josep M. Armengols Richard Ford and the Fiction of
Masculinities (2010), the winner of the 2010 AEDEAN Literary Scholarship Prize, is a
landmark text. In the act of gendering the writing of one of the heavyweights of
contemporary American fiction, Armengol is not only breaking new ground in the field
of research on Richard Ford, but he also, and some might say even more importantly,
affirms the value of literary representations of masculinity in the study of social
construction of (American) masculinity.
Masculinity Studies, a branch of the diverse and dynamic field of Gender Studies, has
enjoyed steady progress for the last three decades within the disciplines of sociology,
psychology and cultural studies (Lea and Schoene 2002: 319). Challenging the universal
belief of a masculine essence, scholarship within the field has demonstrated that
masculinity is a historically contingent construction (Foucault 1981; Connell 1987, 2005;
Butler 1990; Kimmel 1996, 2000). Despite these advances within the fields of sociology
and psychology, it is only in the last ten years that the field of Masculinity Studies has
begun to recognise the wider cultural and social value of literary representations of men
and masculinities. Studies such as Ben Knights Writing Masculinities (1999), Berthold
Schoene-Harwoods Writing Men: Literary Masculinities from Frankenstein to the New
Man (2000) and Alice Ferrebes Masculinity in Male Authored Fiction 1950-2000 (2005)
have demonstrated the ability of the novel to elucidate, illustrate and critique the social
condition of masculinity. Josep M. Armengols Richard Ford and the Fiction of
Masculinities not only builds upon the emerging awareness of the wider social value of the
literary text, but also points towards the potential of the American novel to offer new
models of manhood in contemporary American society.
The main body of the text is made up of five chapters of material previously published
as journal articles in Atlantis: Journal of the Spanish Association for Anglo-American
Studies, Journal of Mens Studies and Revista de estudios norteamericanos. In the preceding
introductory chapter, Armengol offers a succinct summary of the main critical
approaches to the study of Richard Ford. Recognised as a writer of American realist
fiction alongside Raymond Carver and Tobias Wolff, we learn that Fords fiction is either
deemed an illustration of working-class experience (Folks 2000), a rumination on
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southern attitudes (Hobson 1991), or a reflection upon feelings of alienation (Guagliardo

2000). Armengols argument that critics have focused on epistemological, ontological,
and/or stylistic questions (7) and have therefore overlooked the perhaps less
philosophical and more materialist, gender issues in his works (7) is crucial both to
Armengols study of Ford and the growing scholarly interest in the literary representations
of masculinity. Drawing on a range of feminist critics that shape his theoretical approach
to the study of masculinity, Armengol is intent on displaying that the deconstruction and
reconstruction, or indeed the decentring and recentring, of the modern man is not an
abstract theoretical notion but is fundamental to the very fabric of society. And it is Fords
fiction that proves to be the ideal case study to explore this hypothesis.
Chapter one, Masculinity as Success? Self-Made Manhood in A Piece of My Heart and
Rock Springs, targets one of the fundamental ideals of American masculinity self-made
manhood. Setting Ford neatly into a historical lineage of American authors who have
challenged this myth, including Mark Twain, Herman Melville, F. Scott Fitzgerald and
Arthur Miller, Armengol argues that Richard Ford has deconstructed the American myth
of self-made manhood by re-presenting it as a fictitious, damaging, and ultimately,
unattainable ideal (26). Armengol reads Ford alongside the revolutionary ideas of the
Liberationist Movement of the 1970s that identified the restrictions and oppressions of
the male sex role, and Michael Kimmels writing on male power. Fords contemporary
revision of this American myth is characterised by three distinct yet interrelated features.
The first is Fords illustration of the liberationist claim that mens obsession with money
and success ends up having a detrimental effect on their lives and bodies (31). A Piece of
My Heart proves to be the ideal case study. The father of Sam Newel, one of the novel's
main characters, strives towards this unfeasible projection of true masculinity until both
his physical and mental health deteriorate and he suffers a fatal accident at work. In his
attempts to become a self-made man he pays the ultimate price. The second warning
given by Ford illustrates how the obsession with wealth can easily turn into moral
irresponsibility, and ultimately, into family dissolution and emotional isolation (35). Earl
Middleton, the protagonist of the short story Rock Springs, is a man who believes that he
can fulfil his American Dream by stealing cars as he makes his way to Florida to start a
new life with his girlfriend and daughter. As his dream turns into a living nightmare, Ford
makes it clear that Earls inability to recognise what is real in his life will force those that
love him to leave him. Armengol suggests that these stories demonstrate that the
American males sense of his own masculinity is shaped in the juxtaposition of his public
and private masculinities. This conflict is played out by Ford with these opposing
masculine types represented by the two male characters of Fireworks, Eddie Starling and
Louis Reiner. Unemployed after being fired at work, Eddie has moved to a poor
neighbourhood with his wife Lois. One day Lois happens to meet her ex-husband, Louis
Reiner, a man whom Eddie despises for his financial wealth and success. Ultimately it is
the feminine voice of Lois, the woman who connects these two men, who repeatedly
undermines the mythical image of Reiner as a self-made man (39) and outs Reiner as a
fraud. Armengol puts forward the character of Eddie Starling a man who accepts the
reality of having to depend, both financially and emotionally, on his female partner as
Fords proposition of another fulfilling masculine identity that is obtainable and
achievable.
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In the second chapter, The Buddy as Anima? Mens Friendships in The

Sportswriter, Armengol attempts to move beyond what he identifies as the binary
opposition of literary and empirical male homosocial relationships. Beginning with a
historical overview of literary depictions of male friendship, Armengol introduces Leslie
A. Fiedlers Love and Death in the American Novel (1960). This is undoubtedly sound
judgment. Fiedler identifies the main theme of American literature as the male figures
rejection of women and (hetero) sexuality in favour of male comradeship away from
the civilizing nature of society. Armengol sets this almost mythical fictional
representation of male friendship against the social reality of homosocial relations
between men. Citing a range of scholars, including Michel Foucault, Michael Kimmel
and Lynne Segal, who identify the birth of the modern homosexual as the point at
which homosociality took on its modern form, Armengol states, when the term
homosexual changed from an adjective to a noun, homophobia came to play an
increasingly central role in mens lives (47). The relationship between the protagonist
of The Sportswriter, Frank Bascombe, and a man he meets at The Divorced Mens
Club, Walter Luckett, appears as the ideal case study. Armengol underlines the key
aspects that define their relationship: Franks uneasiness in the role of the listener, his
fear of emotional attachment, and a rejection of intimacy.1 Armengols argument
throughout is measured, well structured and lucid. The only concern I would have is
that on two occasions in this chapter Armengol accuses Frank Bascombe of portraying
blatant homophobia (49, 56). I am not entirely convinced that this is the case. The
Sportswriter is certainly a text that illustrates the specific influence of masculinity
ideals, particularly male homophobia, on the gendered construction of male
friendship (49), but I wonder if Armengol is overstating the influence, or indeed
appearance, of manifest homophobia in Franks relationship with Walter. Walter is not
rejected by Frank because of his homosexual encounter with Warren, nor even when
Walter later kisses Frank. Walter is rejected by Frank for not conforming to Franks idea
of the traditional definition of masculinity. Frank and his friends in the Divorced
Mens Club maintain a strict code of masculine behaviour. Frank sees masculinity as
defined by isolation, rationality, self-control and a non-display of emotional feeling.
Does this, however, make him blatantly homophobic? I cant help feeling that this
reading of Frank is a leap too far.
The third chapter of the book, Where are Fathers in American Literature? Fatherhood
in Independence Day and The Lay of the Land, addresses an area of American literary
studies that is characterized by a distinct lack of research. With his overview of
representations of fatherhood in the American literary tradition, Armengol identifies two
major themes: the absence of the father in American fiction or, if the father is present, his
existence as a figure enforcing patriarchal authority. The two novels analysed in this
chapter, Independence Day (1995) and The Lay of the Land (2006), challenge these
established patterns and offer a contemporary model of fatherhood. The role of the absent
1
It must be said that Armengol, dedicating a substantial paragraph to Franks issue with
intimacy, repeatedly quotes from Fords 1995 novel Independence Day but incorrectly attributes
these lines to The Sportswriter. Armengol repeats the quotation at a later point but sources the
quotation correctly on page 69.
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father that Frank Bascombe played in The Sportswriter, the first instalment of the trilogy
that these two novels complete, has now evolved. Frank still believes in a certain
masculine code of behaviour, which is demonstrated when he gives his son Paul a copy of
Emersons Self-Reliance and the Declaration of Independence, and yet we see Frank
undergo a transformation in Independence Day. Armengol offers a perceptive reading of
the pivotal scene with Frank and his son Paul when Paul is struck in the eye with a
baseball at a pitching range. As Armengol argues, Pauls accident is also the catalyst that
begins to push Frank out of the Existence Period (71), a time characterized by isolation,
cynicism and emotional disengagement into the Permanent Period with his new role as
an emotionally committed, nurturing, closer father and man (73). Franks journey
reaches its conclusion in The Lay of the Land. Franks self-awareness and acceptance of
his, perhaps necessary, self-transformation is complete. Frank feels he must move on from
the Permanent Period and embrace what he calls the Next Level, a state of mind
characterized by acceptance acceptance of his frailties as a father, and acceptance of who
his son and his daughter have become. Armengols analysis of the second and third parts
of what has now become the Frank Bascombe Trilogy is extremely significant. Through
his careful reading of the effect of fatherhood on Fords famed American everyman,
Armengol underlines the force of fatherhood in shaping contemporary American
masculinity. It is ultimately fatherhood that makes Franks masculinity visible to himself.
It is fatherhood that offers Frank the opportunity to question his traditional masculine
beliefs and reconsider what it is to be an American male in the 21st century.
The majority of research into sexuality within the field of Masculinity Studies is
focused on what are considered marginalised sexualities. Armengols book affirms itself as
a pioneering piece of scholarship by concentrating its efforts on denaturalising the
dominant category of heterosexuality. Armengol achieves this by presenting masculinity
and male sexuality as a product of sociohistorical processes. The seminal study on
sexuality in American literature is undoubtedly Leslie A. Fiedlers Love and Death in the
American Novel (1960) and this text anchors the overview section of chapter four, Sexing
Men: Male Sexualities in Rock Springs and A Multitude of Sins. Despite its influence upon
the field of American literary studies, Armengol attempts to follow on from Fiedlers
canonical contribution to reach a contemporary reading of male sexuality in American
fiction. It would appear that Fords fiction upholds the American novels dismissive or
immature treatment of sexuality and masculinity identified by Fiedler. However,
Armengol argues that Fords fiction is centrally concerned with depicting, and rewriting,
the traditional connection between masculinity and male sexuality in American
literature (89). Armengol offers a solid and persuasive argument that suggests that
selective pieces of Fords fiction, particularly his short fiction, do subvert traditional
notions of masculine sexual behaviour whilst pointing to new alternative images of male
sexuality. Armengol presents Fords short story Privacy, from the collection A Multitude
of Sins, as the ideal case study of a central element of heterosexual masculinity the male
gaze. Citing the feminist critics Lynne Segal and Laura Mulvey, particularly Mulveys work
on scopophilia, Armengol argues that in the story Privacy Ford challenges the
traditional gender dichotomies between activity/passivity, looking/to be looked at, and
masculinity/femininity (91-92). The second short story analysed in this chapter,
Winterkill, from Rock Springs (1987), also revises concepts of patriarchal masculinity.
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Applying the theory of Eve Sedgwick on the power relations at play within male-malefemale love triangles, Armengol argues that the rivalry between the two male characters
over the female character proves a method for Lester Snow and Troy Burnham to display
their superior masculinity to each other. Although Les and Nola have a sexual encounter
in a car, it is Troy, disabled from the waist down, who takes Nola Foster to his room as the
story ends. In doing so Armengol declares that moving beyond reductive phallic notion
of sexuality, Ford opens up the world of male (hetero)sexuality to different bodily
pleasures and sensations, as well as to a new world of feelings and emotions (96). Fords
fiction is often considered asexual and therefore Armengols argument appears as a new
starting point for further research on the effect of Fords subversion of traditional
conceptions of male sexuality on American masculinity.
In the final chapter of the book, Richard Fords Revisions of Violence as a Test of
Manhood, Armengol demonstrates Fords subversive approach to male violence by
setting him alongside the author whom many would consider the father figure of literary
representations of masculinity and violence: Ernest Hemingway. Hemingways
posthumously published piece of short fiction, An African Story (1954), serves as the
perfect example for Armengol to demonstrate that masculine acts of violence in
Hemingways fiction are associated with bravery, virility and heroism. Although it would
seem that Ford, in some ways, follows Hemingway within the lineage of American
literature, Armengol identifies a major distinction. Rather than violence being celebrated
as a fundamental element of masculinity as in many of Hemingways novels, acts of
violence in Fords Rock Springs lead to imprisonment (Sweethearts), loss of love and
affection (Empire) and family dissolution (Optimists) (108). Violence is therefore
rejected as a form of masculine self-definition and is re-appropriated as a form of selfdestruction. Armengols case study of choice, Communist, not only reaffirms this view
but demonstrates the theoretical findings of Masculinity scholars, namely Myriam
Miedzian, Lynne Segal and Michael Kimmel, who have identified that male violence does
not occur when men feel most powerful, but when they feel relatively powerless (113).
The protagonists of these short stories, both younger men witnessing the negative impact
of the violent acts committed by the father figures in their lives, embody the possibility of
a new, alternative, and nonviolent model of manhood (116). Armengols hopeful
conclusion of Fords fiction offering positive images of boys and men who manage to
move away from violence, leaving abusive fathers and aggressive friends behind (119)
connects directly to the overall premise of this study. In gendering the fiction of Ford, a
writer, it must be said, who considers his work as genderless, Armengol has skilfully and
persuasively posited that Fords writing displays changing patterns of masculine
performance. As such Fords fiction suggests the possibility of the American male
embracing new forms of masculinity as we settle into the 21st century.
As this book is a collection of previously published material on a diverse range of
issues that underpin the study of contemporary American masculinity, it might be
expected that the text would lack a strong sense of cohesion. On the contrary,
Armengols text displays the depth and range of scholarship required for a successful
study into literary representations of masculinity. In the foreword of the book Michael
Kimmel states that the critical study of masculinity is in its earliest stage, calling
Masculinity Studies an offshoot of Gender Studies (ix). The question remains,
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therefore, of when Masculinity Studies will be recognised as its own stand-alone area of
research. Will it forever be the younger brother of Gender Studies? In my estimation it
is only a matter of time before further academic investigation of the quality
demonstrated here by Josep M. Armengol will lead to this burgeoning academic
discipline becoming a fully formed, dynamic and innovative project. The greatest
accolade that can be laid upon Richard Ford and the Fiction of Masculinities is that it will
surely be recognised as a seminal text in the continuing development of Masculinity
Studies. The text undoubtedly achieves its own specific aims and objectives in
gendering the fiction of Richard Ford whilst, arguably even more significantly, affirms
the value of literary representations of masculinity in sociological investigation.
Works Cited
Butler, Judith 1990. Gender Trouble. New York: Routledge.
Connell, Raewyn 1987: Gender and Power. Cambridge: Polity P.
2005 (1995): Masculinities. Cambridge: Polity P.
Ferrebe, Alice 2005: Masculinity in Male-Authored Fiction 1950-2000. Houndmills: Macmillan.
Fiedler, Leslie. A. 1998 (1960): Love and Death in the American Novel. Champaign, IL: Dalkey
Archive P.
Folks, Jeffrey J. 2000: Richard Fords Poststructuralist Cowboys. Huey Guagliardo, ed.
Perspectives on Richard Ford. Jackson: Mississippi UP. 141-56.
Foucault, Michel 1981 (1976): The History of Sexuality Vol. 1: An Introduction. Trans. Robert
Hurley. London: Penguin.
Guagliardo, Huey 2000: Introduction. Perspectives on Richard Ford. Ed. Huey Guagliardo.
Jackson: Mississippi UP: xi-xvii.
Hobson, Fred 1991: The Southern Writer in the Postmodern World. Athens: Georgia UP.
Kimmel, Michael 1993: Invisible Masculinity. Society 30.6: 28-35.
1996: Manhood in America: A Cultural History. New York: Methuen.
2000: The Gendered Society. Oxford: Oxford UP.
Knights, Ben 1999: Writing Masculinities: Male Narratives in Twentieth-Century Fiction.
Houndmills: Macmillan.
Lea, Michael and Berthold Schoene 2002: Introduction to the Special Section on Literary
Masculinities. Men and Masculinities 4.4: 319-21.
Lyons, Bonnie 1996: Richard Ford, The Art of Fiction No. 147. The Paris Review
<http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/1365/the-art-of-fiction-no-147-richard-ford>
(Accessed 18 December, 2010)
Schoene-Harwood, Berthold 2000: Writing Men: Literary Masculinities from Frankenstein to the
New Man. Edinburgh: Edinburgh UP.
Received 17 February 2011
Accepted 10 April 2011
Peter Ferry is a second year PhD student at Queen's University, Belfast. His thesis explores literary
representations of American masculinity in contemporary fiction set in Manhattan. His research interests
include the areas of Masculinity Studies, particularly the work of Raewyn Connell and Michael Kimmel,
contemporary American fiction, and postmodern theory.
Address: Queens University Belfast, School of English, 2 University Square, Belfast, BT7 1NN, UK. Tel.:
+44 (0)2871312404. Fax: +44 (0)28 90973334.
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Gerardo Rodrguez Salas 2009: Katherine Mansfield: El Posmodernismo incipiente de

una modernista renegada. Madrid: Verbum. 280 pp. ISBN 978-84-7962-456-9
Eva Gmez Jimnez
Universidad de Granada
emgomez@ugr.es
Katherine Mansfield (1888-1923) is considered one of the best and most representative
British writers of short fiction. Historically speaking, it is acknowledged that she
belonged to the modernist era, and, consequently, to my knowledge, every study that
has been published on her work has been carried out from a modernist approach.
Gerardo Rodrguez Salas is the first scholar to develop a monographic study in which
Mansfield is analyzed from a new perspective; he claims that Mansfield is a modernist
writer who anticipated the postmodernist movement. This he does on the strength of
certain features that prominently belong to this later literary period.
The structure of the book follows a clear pattern. It consists of four chapters, each
corresponding to one or several postmodernist features that Rodrguez Salas finds in
Katherine Mansfields work. The chapters are preceded by an introduction and
followed by Conclusions, an extensive Bibliography and an Index. Each chapter is
related to the rest, since although they make reference to different features and are selfcontained, there is interdependence between one concept and the others.
In the introductory chapter of Katherine Mansfield: El posmodernismo incipente de
una modernista renegada, Gerardo Rodrguez Salas focuses his attention on the
distinction between Modernism, Postmodernism and Post-Postmodernism, both in
terms of chronology and ontology. Although Katherine Mansfield belongs to
Modernism according to time, the intention of the author is to dissociate her from this
movement. He also introduces the term marginality in Postmodernism, an aspect that
will undoubtedly determine the whole book. Taking the option that politics is one of
the main concerns of this movement, Postmodernism has an important social scope
related to dedoxification. Finally, the author takes the nine postmodernist features
defined by Hassan in 1987 and brings them together into four groups which correspond
to the next four chapters in the book and which are found in Mansfields stories:
characters as split subjects, language as a key to dismantling oppression, intertextuality
and parody.
Chapter one is devoted to the split subject. In order to explain this concept, the
author starts by introducing the term indeterminacy, closely related to Postmodernism
and its impossibility to be defined. The split subject, the central aspect of this chapter, is
better understood thanks to the clear explanation of the differences between subject and
individual and the concept of the sublime. Here, Rodrguez Salas illustrates the different
perspectives of Modernism and Postmodernism in relation to the subject: while the
former seeks the truth, the latter accepts the idea of chaos, although it does not offer
any solution; this is a crucial criterion for placing Katherine Mansfield in the second
movement. After giving the opinions of several scholars, the author justifies his
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preference for Wildes theory (1981). Finally, Rodrguez Salas explains the three
attitudes towards essence in Postmodernism: apocalypse, optimism and conciliation.
He adopts a conciliatory position, suggesting a fragmented, split subject whose inner
world is always an interrogation. This first part of the chapter provides the theoretical
background, in places somewhat densely, that underpins the thesis proposed
throughout this book. Subsequently, he applies this theoretical background to
Mansfields texts. Starting with the autobiographical material, the author shows that,
while the letters give an optimistic vision (they show the social projection of the
subject), the diary is the perfect example of the conciliatory position (Mansfield uses
this material to defend artificiality and fragmentation, and admits the concept of the
sublime).The textual analysis involving The Daughters of the Late Colonel, The
Garden Party, Je ne parle pas franais and A Married Mans Story provides many
examples to justify the authors position.
Chapter two, Lenguaje, dogmatismo y estrategias subversivas, is similar in
structure. It starts by presenting language as a powerful tool for society, together with
the concept of mask. This part calls attention to ideology, the concept of catachresis,
denotation and pronouns, while also introducing silence and paraliterature. In this way,
Rodrguez Salas attempts to define Katherine Mansfields type of metafiction and her
use of silence and paraliterature as subversive strategies, although the latter is not used
as an incipient feature of her work. As regards silence, Rodrguez Salas analyses Weak
Heart, The Dolls House, The Daughters of the Late Colonel and The Garden Party:
in all of them, the position of Katherine Mansfield towards silence is systematized and
there are two levels of significance, which Rodrguez Salas justifies with a profusion of
examples. Regarding paraliterature, having analysed Miss Brill, Je ne parle pas franais
and A Married Mans Story, Rodrguez Salas finds common features, such as the
references to theatre, the artificiality of language, or even the consciousness of the
literary process.
Chapter three is the longest, and also the one which contains a deeper textual
analysis. This section focuses on intertextuality and, just as in the previous chapters, the
author starts by clarifying the meaning of this term, stating the relation between it and
paraliterature. For the sake of better understanding, the author selects Genette (1989)
and Bakhtin (1994), taking from the first one the clarification of the main concept as
the relation of coexistence between two or more texts. The relevant aspect in Bakhtin is
the ludicrous, an aspect that, according to the author, is always present in Mansfields
production. As Bakhtin points out, there is a clear union between the former and
Postmodernism, for both are subordinated to the dominant canon. As before, the
remarkable point of this section is the presence of clear explanations of all the terms
that are to be used in the textual analysis, for example, dialogism, polyphony,
heteroglossia, or the role of the reader. Once everything has been explained, fairytales are
selected by the author to represent this postmodernist feature in Mansfield. Rodrguez
Salas then proceeds to focus his attention on the conscious use of intertextuality made
by Mansfield. He completes his theoretical frame by citing Propps Morphology of the
Folktale (1985) as the starting point for the deepest textual analysis in the book. This
analysis distinguishes the early fairytales from those written in adulthood. The first,
written when Mansfield was a teenager, follow the traditional fairytale structure,
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although, as Rodrguez Salas emphasises, their themes are usually those of death,
darkness or sex. In Summer, A Fairy Tale, The Green Tree: A Fairy Tale, His Ideal
and Les deux trangres are the analyzed texts. The author reveals their structure
according to Propps theory, and draws our attention to those elements that make these
intentionally subversive. Katherine Mansfield uses the structure of the classic fairy tale
in order to question the dominant social values, though in most we can infer a magical
atmosphere. Things become different in Mansfields fairytales about adulthood:
realism, the absence of a magic element, a modernist approach and a new treatment for
the themes that were already used before are the features of these texts. Rodrguez Salas
discusses intertextuality in Sun and Moon, A Suburban Fairy Tale and The Tiredness
of Rosabel, in particular the influence of Hansel and Gretel, The Bible or
Cinderella.
The last chapter in the book is devoted to irony, parody and pastiche. Here again,
Rodrguez Salas starts the section by explaining the differences between these three
subversive strategies and their relation to paraliterature and intertextuality. His
intention is to clarify the situation of irony in Postmodernism, since traditionally it has
been placed as a typical feature in Modernism. Different types of irony are also used to
distinguish this aspect. Subsequently, he summarises the debate for parody and its
comic effect, ending this first section by distinguishing the differences between both
concepts. Textual analysis in this last chapter is exemplified, in this case, in Taking the
Veil, Violet and Picture. The sentimental novel and Katherine Mansfields inversion
of its features are the central elements of this analysis. Rodrguez Salas explains how the
author uses such features as womens passivity, sentimentality or extreme passion in
order to show how we should infer the need for change in society. Irony, of course, is
Mansfields tool; immaturity and sacrifice are the result of womens reading sentimental
novels. A summary of the structure important aspects of the chapters serves as a
conclusion and justification of Salas postmodernist claim, defending the constant idea
that she anticipated this new movement.
Rodrguez Salas offers in this book a consistent, clear account of bibliographical
references on Mansfield and Postmodernism. [w]hat we need to develop now with
Mansfield criticism and scholarship is what might be called a postmodern view
(Morrow 1990: 42). This statement encapsulates the starting point of this study, and
transforms this book into the first volume that defines Mansfields works by means of a
new critical perspective. At the same time he makes use of the recent modernist
approaches that were developed, providing the reader with an excellent, recent
bibliographical background.
Theoretically speaking, the book by Rodrguez Salas is deep and clarifying. Almost
the same length is devoted to theoretical discussion as to textual analysis. This is
helpful, since it provides a complete framework for readers to understand the authors
analysis. The length of the book also helps to deal with the matter in depth, which can
be increased if the other monographic study, Hijas de la diosa Blanca: ginocrtica y
feminismo restaurador en la narrative de Katherine Mansfield (2007), is taken in
consideration.
Leaving aside critical aspects, Katherine Mansfield: El posmodernismo incipiente de
una modernista renegada is a well-structured book. An important aspect of the study is
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its simplicity in structure, since every chapter is divided into two main parts: the theory
and the analysis, thus enabling readers to find their way around when seeking a certain
part. The length of the Index likewise contributes to the facility in locating discussions
or analysis of the short stories. Footnotes have been judiciously employed by Rodrguez
Salas to clarify certain sections, a feature for which readers will be grateful since
footnotes are much more manageable than endnotes.
My only concern about this book is the absence of references to other studies and
publications related to Mansfield. Apart from a brief mention of Patrick D. Morrows
four-page piece of 1990, which points to the absence of a monographic study of
Mansfield in terms of Postmodernism, there is nothing of relevance.
It is true that Rodrguez Salas initiates his introduction by citing certain names and
perspectives apart from his own, and throughout the whole book he makes reference to
many scholars. Nevertheless, the volume does not offer the possibility for the reader to
know the content of these other works in relation to that of the author. It would have
been of great interest to readers if the author had included and discussed these
publications, enabling the reader to form a balanced comprehension of Rodrguez
Salas contribution to the subject of Katherine Mansfields oeuvre.
In this sense, it is surprising that, apart from Rodrguez Salas dissertation, in Spain
there is only one thesis on Katherine Mansfield, Recurrencias temticas y formales en el
cuento de autoras en lengua inglesa: de Mansfield a Carter, by Maria Isabel Carrera
Surez, defended in 1988. The subject of this thesis is unrelated to that of Rodrguez
Salas, and furthermore, does not deal exclusively with Mansfield. Outside Spain, there
are a number of dissertations that also deal with this author with regard to feminism,
but none studies Mansfield from a postmodernist perspective. At the same time, the
number of theses on Mansfield in the last decade is very low. The effort carried out by
Rodrguez Salas has the merit of producing a work that is innovative, exhaustive and
pioneering. Rodrguez Salas undoubtedly contributes to clarifying understanding of
Mansfield, and his book can be compared to neither contemporary nor previous
studies. In this respect its contribution to this field is essential reading.
This reviewer sees it as a work that will not disappoint and will, on the contrary,
provide a stimulus to re-read Mansfields short stories, this time from a postmodern
perspective.
Works Cited
Bakhtin, Mijal Mijilovich 1981 (1965): From M. M. Bakhtin, Rabelais and His World, 1965.
Pam Morris, ed. Trans. H. Iswolsky. London and New York: Edward Arnold. 89-96.
Carrera Surez, Maria Isabel 1988. Recurrencias temticas y formales en el cuento de autoras en
lengua inglesa: de Mansfield a Carter. Unpublished Ph. D. thesis. Universidad de Oviedo,
Spain.
Genette, Gerard 1989 (1962): Palimpsestos: La literatura en segundo grado. Trans. Celia Fernndez
Prieto. Madrid: Altea, Taurus, Alfaguara.
Hassan, Ihab 1987: The Postmodern Turn: Essays in Postmodern Theory and Culture. Ohio: Ohio
State UP.
Jameson, Fredrick 1984: Introduction. The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge. Trans.
Geoff Bennington and Brian Massumi. Manchester: Manchester UP.
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Morrow, Patrick D. 1990: Katherine Mansfield and World War I. David Bevan, ed. Literature
and War. Amsterdam and Atlanta. 39-43.
Propp, Vladimir 1985 (1929): Morfologa del cuento. Trans. F. Dez del Corral. Madrid: Akal.
Rodrguez Salas, Gerardo 2003: La marginalidad como opcin en Katherine Mansfield:
postmodernismo, feminismo y relato corto. Unpublished Ph. D. thesis. Universidad de
Granada, Spain.
Rodrguez Salas, Gerardo 2007: Hijas de la diosa Blanca: ginocrtica y feminismo restaurador en la
narrativa de Katherine Mansfield. Oviedo: Septem.
Wilde, Alan 1981: Horizons of Assent: Modernism, Postmodernism, and the Ironic Imagination.
Baltimore and London: The John Hopkins UP.
Received 7 January 2011
Revised version accepted 9 April 2011
Eva Mara Gmez Jmnez (MPhil Granada) is a postgraduate researcher at the University of Granada.
Her research interests centre on e.e.cummings, Modernism, experimental poetry and translation studies.
Address: Departamento de Filologa Inglesa y Alemana, Universidad de Granada, Campus de Cartuja s/n
18071 Granada, Spain. Tel.: +34 958243677. Fax: +34958243678.
ISSN 0210-6124
203
Acknowledgements
The Editors wish to thank all those members of the Editorial Board of Atlantis who have
given their time and expertise to this journal. Likewise, we thank Gisle Andersen
(Norwegian School of Economics & Business Administration); Marc Amfreville
(Universit Paris XII); Dieter Kastovsky (University of Vienna); Beln Martin-Lucas
(Universidad de Vigo); Marta-Sofa Lpez Rodrguez (Universidad de Len); Rachel
Whittaker, Universidad Autnoma de Madrid for their willingness to collaborate with
us in assessing certain articles.
205
Editorial policy, Instructions to contributors and abridged Guidelines

What we publish
Atlantis publishes articles, reviews and interviews in the field of Anglo-American
studies. Contributions submitted to Atlantis should meet the following criteria:
Suitability for the aim and scope of the journal.

Originality and interest in relation to subject matter, method, data or findings.
Relevance to current research in the field.
Revision of previously published work on the topic.
Logical rigour in argumentation and in the analysis of data.
Adequate use of concepts and research methodology.
Discussion of theoretical implications and/or practical applications.
Command of recent bibliography.
Linguistic appropriateness, textual organisation and satisfactory presentation.
Readability and conciseness of expression.
Concurrence: Authors are expected to know and heed basic ground rules that preclude
simultaneous submission, duplicate publication or any other kind of self-plagiarism.
Prospective contributors to Atlantis commit themselves to the following when they
submit a manuscript:
That no concurrent consideration of the same, or almost identical, work by

any other journal and/or publisher is taking place.
That the potential contribution has not appeared previously nor is about to
appear within two years, in any form whatsoever, in another journal,
electronic format or as a chapter/section of a book.
If, after two years, a contribution first published in Atlantis is to be reprinted
elsewhere, permission is not required but the author should credit Atlantis for
the contributions first appearance. If in doubt about any of the above, the
author should consult the General Editor.
What to send
The recommended length for articles and interviews is between 6,000 and 8,000 words.
Book reviews should be between 2,500 and 3,000 words. Manuscripts should be
double-spaced with wide margins. The first page of each article must include a 100-200
word summary written in English, followed by six keywords. A similar summary and
keywords are required in Spanish, on a separate file. These will be provided by the
Editors for those contributors who do not handle Spanish.
Your contribution should reach the Editor in TWO double-spaced, point 12 clear
computer printouts with wide margins. Additionally, please send the General Editor an
electronic version (MS Word for Windows) as an e-mail attachment. Please see the
inside front cover for the Editors addresses.
206
Anonymity policy. All details of personal identification, including your name in
citations and references, must be absent from both the hard copy and the electronic
manuscript, as well as from the file properties. The author's name should be replaced by
author throughout the paper. If the submission contains any element of identification
of the author, it will not be sent to referees.
The author must submit the following information on a separate sheet. Personal
details should be absent from the manuscript itself.
Title of the manuscript

Authors name
Institutional affiliation and full postal address
Home address
Telephone numbers (both home and office)
Fax number and e-mail address (if applicable)
Word processor and version used to format the document
Total number of words, including works cited and notes
Assessment policy
Submissions to Atlantis are evaluated anonymously (double-blind) by three specialists
from the journal's international Board of Referees. Acceptance by at least two specialists
is a condition for publication.
Conventions and style
Titles of contributions. For articles, type the title at the top of the page on which the
text begins. Do not italicize your title or capitalize it in full. Italicize only a published
work in the title or a cited word in a linguistic study. Capitalize only the first letter of
the first word and of all significant words (nouns, adjectives, verbs and adverbs) as well
as proper nouns which appear in titles. Do not use a period after titles. The title should
not carry a reference to a note, unless by the Editor; in articles or other contributions
put necessary acknowledgements or explanations in a footnote to the first or last
sentence of the first paragraph, not to the title.
Quotation marks. Double quotation marks ( ) are used to enclose quoted speech or
writing only. For quotations within run-on quotations use single quotation marks. If
there are quotes within an indented quotation, the double quotation marks are used.
Single quotation marks ( ) are used in the following ways: a) to enclose titles of articles,
essays, short stories, short poems, songs, chapters and sections of books, lectures and
unpublished works other than dissertations; b) to enclose quotations within quotations;
c) (usually called scare quotes) to indicate that the word or phrase is being used
deliberately in an unusual or arguably incorrect sense, as well as for not yet wholly
standard terms; d) for English or Spanish translations of words or phrases from a
different language (agua water)
Section headings. The inclusion of section headings should be kept to a minimum.
Section headings must begin from the left margin, with no period at the end. Headings
should be numbered. The use of Arabic numerals is recommended. Centred Roman
207
numerals may be used when there is no heading title. If absolutely necessary, further
division within a section should follow the same format used for section headings. They
must be preceded by Arabic numerals separated by full stop (e.g. 1.1). Do not capitalize
headings in full.
Punctuation. In general, make your usage as consistent as possible. Although the finer
points of punctuation are often a matter of personal preference, the main purpose is
clarity, and here it is wiser to follow established convention. Do not use commas (,)
before and and or in a series of three or more. Never use a comma and a dash
together. A comma can never precede a parenthesis; it must always follow it (such as
this), if required by the context. A dash () is not the same as a hyphen (-). The former
is used to introduce an explanation (you must arrive on timenot two hours late), and
the latter joins words in a compound such as twenty-four. Do not confuse them.
Question marks (?) and exclamation marks (!) should not normally be used in scholarly
writing. Periods (.) close notes and bibliographical citations as well as complete
sentences in text and notes. The period is placed within the parenthesis when the
parenthetical element is independent: . . . the language is both subliterary and
transpersonal (in contrast, allegory, for example, is transpersonal but not subliterary).
but . . . the language is both subliterary and transpersonal. (On the other hand,
allegory, for example, is transpersonal but not subliterary.) Square brackets ([]) are
used for an unavoidable parenthesis within a parenthesis, to enclose interpolations or
comments in a quotation or incomplete data and to enclose phonetic transcription.
(Slash marks [/] are used to enclose phonemic transcription.)
Note that a period or comma is placed before a superscript indicating a note, for
example: with whose king he has negotiated the monopoly of the sugar trade with
England.14
Works Cited. In the titles of books and articles each main word is capitalized, i.e.
nouns, adjectives verb and proper nouns. The first names of authors and editors should
be given in full, rather than as initials. Publishers names are appropriately abbreviated
in the list of works cited. For example, Macmillan Publishing Company, Inc. becomes
simply Macmillan. Any university press will be abbreviated according to one of two
patterns: U of Miami P or Toronto UP.
Bibliographical references should follow the following style:
Danby, John F. 1961: Shakespeares Doctrine of Nature: A Study of King Lear.
London: Faber.
Carnero Gonzlez, Jos 1982: Calipso y Penlope en Ulysses. James Joyce: A New
Language: Actas/Proceedings del Simposio Internacional en el Centenario de
James Joyce. Ed. Francisco Garca Tortosa, et al. Sevilla: Depto. de Literatura
Inglesa de la Univ. de Sevilla: 167-74.
Kastovsky, Dieter 1986: The Problem of Productivity in Word-formation.
Linguistics 24: 585- 600.
For full details visit our website: www.atlantisjournal.org

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This issue is dedicated to the

Vol. 33, nm. 1

33.1 (June 2011)

33.1 (Junio 2011)

Assistant Editor: Ludmila Urbanov

Managing Editor: Carmen Mndez

Universidad Complutense de Madrid

Book Reviews Editor: Clara Calvo

Editors Assistant: Juan Rafael Zamorano

Universidad Complutense de Madrid

Copy Editor: Jorge Ars Hita

Freie Universitt Berlin

University of California at Irvine

Universidad de Santiago de Compostela

Francisco J. Ruiz de Mendoza

Universidad de Alcal de Henares

Maggie Ann Bowers

Universidad Complutense de Madrid

Kris Van den Branden

Katholieke Universiteit Leuven

Jess Benito Snchez

Josip Juraj Strossmayer University

Marcella Bertuccelli Papi

University of British Columbia

Texas A & M International University

Jorge Luis Bueno Alonso

University of East Anglia

Juan Carlos Hidalgo

Aristotle University of Thessaloniki

Javier Prez Guerra

Juan Camilo Conde-Silvestre

University of Newcastle upon Tyne

The Open University

Francisco J. Corts Rodrguez

Isabel de la Cruz Cabanillas

Universidad de Alcal de Henares

Etvs Lornd University

Francisco J. Ruiz de Mendoza

Denise deCaires Narain

Universidad Complutense de Madrid

Universidad de Alcal de Henares

Catholic University of Eichsttt

Mara Jos Lpez Couso

Mara Josep Sol Sabater

Dmaso Lpez Garca

Universitat Autnoma de Barcelona

Javier Franco Aixel

Universidad Complutense de Madrid

Mara Losada Friend

Ricardo Mairal Usn

University of Newcastle upon Tyne

Mara del Pilar Garca Mayo

Ana Mara Manzanas Calvo

Universidad del Pas Vasco

Juan Antonio Surez

Javier Martn Arista

University of Buffalo / Yale University

Paloma Tejada Caller

Silvia Molina Plaza

Universidad Complutense de Madrid

Universidad Politcnica de Madrid

Universit di Roma Tre

I. M. Tieken-Boon van Ostade