Illuminations. How far do they attract?
J. W. Saunders’ study, ‘The Stigma of Print’ (1951) touched an important nerve on the subject of publication. The premise is that with the advent of print in the Tudor period, the commercialisation of writing, the move from manuscript to print, was clearly regarded by many as a vulgar and defamatory practice. Literature was imbued with a mode of exclusivity; whilst the circulation of manuscripts around small coterie circles was a cultured activity, the opportunity to disseminate to a wider audience for fame, prestige, careers (although not profit) devalued the whole basis of writing.
My third PhD chapter considers why Marvell published 3 poems in 3 different collections in the late 1640s, but very little else besides. My argument follows that during this short spell, Marvell convinces himself that publishing is not his vocation. It is difficult to know his reasoning. One of the poems, praising Richard Lovelace’s Lucasta, is entered following problems with the licensing of the volume, and tackles two prominent issues with immaculate ambiguity. ‘Swarms of insects … of wit corrupted’, which are said to surround and harass the poet, could refer either to censors preventing material from being published, or else the hundreds of hack poets, critics and pamphlet propaganda artists who saturate bookshops and market stalls with their trash. With no barriers to entry, every publication not by an established name faces a harder battle to be read. To those ends, where would Lovelace’s elegant poetry stand amidst the clamour of the King’s execution and the country in turmoil? Later in his career, Marvell announced his hatred of the media, and there are signs that he developed an earlier distrust with the agents and consumers of publicity. Another perplexing suggestion is that Marvell’s own self-critical impulse led to insecurity at his own material in print. The question that remains is: can we imagine anyone writing poetry purely for themselves?
Richard Lovelace: The True Cavalier
As with the majority of issues that I encounter with this thesis and the enigmatic Marvell, I find myself enveloped in a solipsistic bubble with my own enterprises. Already this blog has threatened to become everything that I hoped to break free from. A scroll down the page, a sense of pride at the carefully crafted essays, and disappointment arises. Clearly, I do not write this just for myself – I could not justify the effort. ‘Fame’, as John Milton kindly points out, ‘is the spur’. I seem to envisage, in blinkered passion at the time of writing, an audience so in tune with me that they indulge my identical, lengthy paragraphs. It looks neat, even, considered, thoughtful … I then don’t update because I don’t want the most recent effort [Knightmare, in this case] to be uprooted by something less meaningful or less artistic. Yet, it is all in vain, for who reads this kind of material other than those who feel obliged?
Nothing is harder on the eyes than blocks of identical, lengthy paragraphs.
There are fewer fine writers than Al, and yet even in bringing up this very subject, I regularly break a multitude of his suggestions. Simplicity: unlikely. Formatting: dense. Bad words: why on Earth is this blog found through the term ‘boy erection‘? Cliché: guilty. I’m used to listing my sources / inspirations, and the fine Al is mine here.
I am not a copywriter in my own space; I am a commentator. In the article I am working on for publication, I try to become an up-and-coming academic. My offerings here are like editorials, of which I have had some formal practice. My aim, governed by an over-complicated interdisciplinary PhD, is often to tie a multitude of dissonant ideas together seemlessly. Thus, grasshoppers become alive [*]; introverted musical behaviour brings together cultural theory, Gareth Malone and Libera [*]; and Knightmare becomes a form of counselling [*].
But what I have failed to grasp is versatility. My PhD is detailed academia; journal articles are succinct (and perhaps more tactful) academia. I have been fortunate that the Noted team in Geneva gave me the freedom to publish the likes of Crackpot Culture. But, out on my own, for my own purposes here, I am actually a copywriter. If this blog is ever to develop an outside readership, it can only do so by gaining interest. Another of Al’s teachings concerns self-branding, which is true to the word. I am likely to read the long and highly entertaining columns of a Caitlin Moran or John Sutherland, but not a great deal that I stumble across accidentally. Hence, the aesthetic style with full paragraphs and bizarre allegory that I cherish fails to advertise my writing to any but the most dedicated (and I’m not sure this space procures any).
When everything fights just as hard to be read in 2009 as 1649, how does Keith, in place of Richard Lovelace, stand any hope of interest over the rest of the seemingly infinite space that is the internet, less still without the marketing accolade of poetic testimony by the likes of Andrew Marvell? Perhaps the abrupt ending of Marvell’s last published poem of the 1640s, before he seemingly relapsed into private writing, says it all: ‘Art indeed is long, but life is short’.
Life is short? Too true, dear Whiteboard of Bewilderments.
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