Suture VIII: Spring 2023

Suture

SUTURE

Issue VIII, Spring 2023

EDTIORS-IN-CHIEF

Bella Moses

Lillian Norton-Brainerd

EDITORIAL BOARD

Kate Broeksmit

Olivia Chandler

Sabina Feder

Ally Feisel

Alex Glogoff

Morgan Hodoroweski

Alison Isko

Caitlin Moehrle

Lucas Jonathan Wang Zheng

Suture is a student-run academic journal associated with Hamilton College that showcases insightful and eloquent critical essays in the humanities, arts, and social sciences. Suture is a peer-edited journal grounded in the belief that access to incisive, original criticism is essential to anyone’s development as a reader, scholar, and informed citizen.

EDITOR’S NOTE

Dear readers, Suture began in Spring 2018 as a continuation of the now defunct journal Forty Three North , published under the guidance of what was then the Hamilton Department of Comparative Literature. Forty Three North was Hamilton’s first and only interdisciplinary journal, intended to promote discussion and collaboration between students from different academic backgrounds and to address and challenge the fragmentation of Hamilton’s intellectual life. In 2018, our editors were left with a container, a form to remold into a new space which honored our community’s history while making room for experimentation, complexity, and ambiguity.

This semester, our contributors have honored this commitment, using their scholarship to mold old forms into new shapes that celebrate questioning and contradiction. Madison Lazenby’s essay on Madame de Staël’s C orinne, or Italy questions how gendered ideals are constructed and reformulated within literary texts that reimagine the social practices of the past even while insisting on their own limited version of Ideal Womanhood. Elizabeth Gaillard’s “Create God In Your

Own Image: Reimagining Religious Texts In The Comic Form,”

makes a convincing argument for the necessity of imagination and interpretation, as she interrogates how reinterpretations of Biblical narratives use alternate forms to grant readers the autonomy to become active participants in narrative construction. Lucas Jonathan Wang Zheng brings together Arendt’s and Marcuse’s thoughts on impartiality, illuminating how placing disparate thinkers in conversation with each other brings forth new possibilities in the midst of contradiction. These and the

other essays in this edition of Suture remind us to question what we think we know and to trust in our imagination. Our hope in bringing together these thematically, formally, and disciplinarily diverse essays in one journal issue is to create a space where scholars with vastly different approaches can work together to answer (and to complicate) vital questions. This is our last semester as editors of Suture and students at Hamilton College and we could not be more proud of the work our writers and editors have put into this edition. To quote our predecessor Zachary Deming, the mind behind the first edition of Suture, “we hope it’s slick, and that you like it.”

Farewell and happy reading, Bella and Lillian

Create God In Your Own Image: Reimagining Religious Texts In The Comic Form

ELIZABETH GAILLARD

In traditional Christian teachings, followers are told that the Bible should be understood as the “word of God.” Belief in this direct transmission, however, negates consideration of the Bible’s authorship. Elimination of the human intermediary positions readers of religious texts as receivers rather than conduits, minimizing the opportunity for personal interpretation and instead advancing literalist readings. Liana Finck’s Let There Be Light challenges conventions of both the comic and Biblical genres by retelling the story of Genesis as a graphic narrative. As opposed to purely textual works, the comic medium not only encourages, but requires creative involvement of the audience. Finck uses the Biblical she-demon Lilith to represent, and subsequently interrogate, the importance of reader imagination to the creation of the comic form and, by extension, to finding meaning in religious texts. By ultimately granting Lilith the power of creation, Finck subverts the relationship that typically exists between Biblical narratives and their audiences, instead permitting the reader to interpret, and therefore create, religion for themselves. The comic form inherently depends on the reader as an active collaborator in its completion. As described by Scott McCloud in his work Understanding Comics, authors of comics construct narratives by placing separate images in “deliberate sequence” with one another (9). Distribution of a storyline across sequential panels, however, requires that the author fragment this storyline into distinct instants. In deciding which moments to depict, the comic author selects against the depiction of other moments, creating conceptual gaps between panels where the authorial intention cannot be witnessed and must be inferred. Therefore, when reading a comic, one experiences not the intact narrative

typically presented by purely written works but a collection of “unconnected moments” from which one must recollect the “unified reality” intended by the author (McCloud 67). Readers thus complete the comic by performing “closure,” the process by which one perceives a whole from its observed, unconnected parts (McCloud 63). The blank spaces between adjacent panels, referred to as gutters, literally reflect the withdrawal of authorial direction, providing space for the reader to imagine connections between panels that are not explicitly present. Thus, in contrast to other literary forms, comics rely on the imagination of the reader to bring them into existence by creating a unified narrative. Despite the importance of closure as the mechanism by which a reader participates in the synthesis of the comic narrative from its parts, Let There Be Light contains few gutters between panels, a creative decision which saturates the existing gutters with symbolic significance. In place of gutters, most pages feature a singular block of imagery divided into distinct panels by perpendicular lines. Though this lack of gutters may seem to indicate an imposition of the author on the physical space designated for audience interpretation, fragmentation of a continuous narrative across panels necessitates closure on the part of the reader regardless of whether panels adjoin. Closure, an unavoidable element of the comic form, does not depend on the existence of the gutter, as it occurs within images as well as between them. Despite this fact, the gutter retains significance as the representation of that which cannot be illustrated but must be imagined. Thus, the gutter symbolically denotes the withdrawal of authorial direction and, subsequently, the importance of the reader as a “collaborator” with the medium (65). Given the infrequency with which Finck includes gutters between panels, an examination of existing gutters provides critical insight into the relationship encouraged between Genesis and its readers. Finck’s decision to insert Lilith into the space of the gutter on page 38 and to draw attention to this insertion inextricably relates Lilith to the process of closure, as the

author positions her as an agent of the reader’s imaginative process. Page 38 includes two smaller, equally sized panels above a larger third panel. While the first and second panels conjoin, a thin, shaded gutter separates these first two panels from the third, bottommost panel. This shaded gutter extends to frame the perimeter of the third panel. As the panels occupy only the central portion of the page, inches of imposing blank space between the border of the panel block and the end of the page surround them on all sides. The contrast between the darker shaded frame and surrounding whiteness emphasizes the third panel against the page’s surface. As the reader progresses through the sequence, the lack of text in the third panel quells the narrative voice, generating a deliberate pause that slows the pace to create a breathless moment of standstill. This sense of suspension, in conjunction with the starkness of the framing and the panel’s large size, highlights the panel as worthy of select attention. From the top right corner of the frame, Lilith’s arm extends to meet the woman’s hand, which reaches upwards from the bottom left. Finck shades the figures of both Lilith and the woman to exactly match the darkness of the gutter. Though the lines of the woman’s body overlap rather than merging with the frame, Lilith’s arm disappears into a collection of leaves that obscure the top corner of the panel. In this way, Finck depicts Lilith as one with the gutter and, therefore, the frame, reaching out from the space between panels. Because Lilith not only projects from but also becomes the gutter, the interpretive space reserved for the reader in the absence of the writer, one can view her action in this moment as an extension of the imaginative process that occurs in the mind of the audience. Lilith closes the gaps between God and her people, illuminating God’s unknown intention in a way that further associates her with the process of closure. The third panel on page 38 illustrates the portion of the Genesis narrative wherein the serpent impels the women to eat the fruit from the tree of knowledge. In the image, Lilith passes the fruit, depicted here as a bright red apple, to the woman, urging her to “take it”

(Finck 38). Upon eating the apple, the woman, in keeping with the traditional narrative, becomes knowledgeable. Like the process of closure, which defines for the individual reader what the author has left undefined, the passing of the apple to the woman illuminates for her what God has previously obscured. This parallel corroborates the association established by Finck’s portrayal of Lilith in the gutter to further compare Lilith’s function as instigator in the text to the role of the reader as a participant in the creation of the comic. Working in tandem with their respective rulers (God in the case of Lilith and Finck in the case of the reader,) both Lilith and the reader are mechanistic in advancing the plot and reducing the disparity between what is known and what is unknown. In two other instances, Lilith makes humanity aware of the realities of their God. Following the loss of Abraham’s faith, Lilith brings his soul to see God, instructing that, while God can only be “glimpsed indirectly” by man, she can be seen by the “soul” (187). This reconciliation with God emulates the process of closure by which the imagination allows for “indirect glimpses” of an unknown purpose that the reader cannot view directly. Lilith’s role as facilitator of this reconciliation thus reinforces her as a medium of the reader’s imaginative process. Lilith leads Abraham’s soul to the conclusion that “God is a girl” (187). Similarly, in response to the treatment of Noah’s nameless wife by her husband, Lilith informs her that “God is a woman” (85). In these instances, Lilith makes the humans aware of God’s true nature by revealing to them that God is female. Therefore, by closing the gap between the people and God, Lilith performs an act of closure in a secondary sense. By anthropomorphizing the process of closure in the form of the she-demon Lilith, who brings awareness to that which God obscures, Finck draws parallels between Godliness and authorship, further equating the phenomenon of closure with belief in God. As the comic author constructs an incomplete narrative, so too does God, and the human imagination must then elucidate what is not particularized. In his discussion of closure, McCloud argues that the generation of thematic

narrative from individual moments occurs despite the fact that “nothing is seen between the two panels” because “experience tells you that something must be there” (67). Religious faith is similarly predicated upon the belief that, though “nothing is seen” directly, experience of God in indirect ways informs the conclusion that “something” exists beyond oneself. In this sense, belief in God, because it requires imagination of a concept one sees, not directly, but in pieces, is an act of closure, an “act of faith based on mere fragments” (McCloud 62). Thus, by reinventing the creation story in a comic form, Finck not only offers a non-traditional recapitulation of the Biblical narrative but also uses the medium itself to equate belief in God with the reader’s performance of closure when reading a comic. By legitimizing Lilith, a representation of the reader’s imaginative process, Finck, as a creator, suggests that interpretation is sufficient for creation, further encouraging the reader to create God in their own image. Page 325 of Let There Be Light, similarly to page 13, characterizes Lilith as a God-like creator. Page 13, which describes God’s creation of man and Lilith from the soil, presents a gutterless block of six, evenly sized panels positioned across three rows. Whereas panel three shows God’s full body, knelt on the ground with a single arm outstretched, panels four and five narrow directly to her hands as they collect and compile dirt. This lens widens in the final panel to show God’s face and hands. This drastic variation in magnification across the panels, which collectively render a brief moment in time, is replicated almost exactly on page 325. Page 325, the final page, similarly breaks the narrative across six conjoined panels of equal size. Each of the six panels depict Lilith as she scoops a mound of dirt from the ground. As the sequence of panels progresses, the scope of the frame narrows from her whole body to her hands before broadening to her face and hands to show her wonder, an expansion of perspective that is almost perfectly replicated on page 13. Interestingly, while page 13 contains textual narration, page 325 is silent, evoking a sense of reminiscence. Careful examination of the pages

side by side, however, reveals that the textual narration of the panels on page 13 applies directly to the panels on page 325 such that the words from page 13 could feasibly overlay the images from page 325. For example, the fifth panel on page 13 reads “she combined them into a big pile,” an explanation that also aptly describes the fifth panel on page 325. By paralleling God’s creation of humanity from the soil with a scene in which Lilith grabs a mound of dirt, Finck substitutes Lilith in place of God. Thus, Finck further suggests that Lilith, like God, has the power to create. More broadly, by attributing the power of creation to Lilith, a representation of the imaginative process of closure, the book concludes that imagination can create. The phenomenon of closure emphasizes the importance of the reader such that the comic form retains no meaning in their absence. Thus, Finck validates closure as a means of creation, returning agency to the reader and encouraging them to imagine God for themselves. Let There Be Light therefore motivates its readers to reshape or reinterpret God from their own experiences. Imagination, the work argues, is a legitimate means of engaging with Biblical narratives.

By retelling Genesis as a comic, a uniquely interactive and interpretive medium, Finck suggests that fundamental texts should be told and retold from the myriad perspectives of those who interpret them. Interestingly, though Lilith typically exists in the Biblical text as a primordial demon, the characterization of Lilith as representative of the reader’s imaginative process mediates the conveyance of this ultimate message. Thus, Finck’s treatment of the narrative, which positions Lilith as uniquely agentic and creative, critiques both the erasure of women from discussions of religious texts and the systemic devaluing of women’s art. By legitimizing Lilith as a creator in the book’s final pages, Finck validates not just the right of the reader to create a God in their image but, more specifically, the right of female readers, who are traditionally neglected by representations of God, to do the same.

WORKS CITED

Finck, Liana. 2022. Let There Be Light. New York, NY: Random House.

McCloud, Scott. 1994. Understanding Comics. New York, NY: William Morrow Paperbacks.

A Guide to the Concept of Impartiality in Arendt and Marcuse

LUCAS JONATHAN WANG ZHENG

While the essays “Truth and Politics” (1966) by Hannah Arendt1 and “Repressive Tolerance” (1965) by Herbert Marcuse2 were written around the same time and both address the concept of impartiality, they have distinct perspectives on it. Arendt argues that impartiality is fundamental to objective political discourse, whereas Marcuse critiques it for potentially reinforcing dominant power structures and contributing to repression rather than objective political discourse. This introductory essay seeks to compare the notion of impartiality in Arendt and Marcuse’s writing, and to explore two questions: What role does impartiality play in political life, and what is the relationship between impartiality and truth?

To Arendt, impartiality involves the equal treatment of all opinions, a practice that rests on liberation from personal biases and preconceived notions—in her words, “freedom from self-interest in thought and judgment.”3 Her notion of impartiality is based on the observation that “political thought is representative,” that is, impartiality requires one to represent the viewpoints of others along with one’s own.4

Arendt believes that impartiality should play a vital role in the political realm because it makes decision-making more objective by allowing one to treat all opinions as having equal merits or limitations. Drawing on Immanuel Kant’s differentiation between the private and public use of reason,5

1 Hannah Arendt and Jerome Kohn, “Truth and Politics,” in Between Past and Future: Eight Exercises in Political Thought (London, etc.: Penguin Books, 2006), pp. 227-264.

2 Herbert Marcuse, “Repressive Tolerance,” in A Critique of Pure Tolerance (Boston: Beacon Press, 1970), pp. 81-123.

3 Arendt, “Truth and Politics,” 262.

4 Ibid., 241.

5 Immanuel Kant, “What Is Enlightenment?,” trans. Mary C. Smith, http://www.columbia.edu/acis/ets/CCREAD/etscc/kant.html. Kant

Arendt characterizes opinions as opposed to truth, and the multitude as opposed to the individual. These two sets of oppositions set the stage for her argument that impartiality is fundamental in the political realm. Drawing from the first set of oppositions, the argument for impartiality is made on the grounds that the political realm concerns opinions rather than truth—the tension between truth and politics is suggested throughout the essay—as Arendt argues that impartiality is an approach to treating and forming opinions, not truth. Drawing from the second set of oppositions, the argument for impartiality is made on the grounds that politics is by definition a public matter—it matters to all, and all should matter to it— and impartiality, which inherently is not private, involves a broad spectrum of opinions from all segments of the public. Apart from ensuring a diversity of opinions, impartiality entails using power for the common good rather than the interests of a particular individual or group. Therefore, in an ideal world, everyone is able to represent everyone else while forming an opinion. Arendt makes clear the role impartiality should play by stating that “the very quality of an opinion, as of a judgment, depends upon the degree of its impartiality.”

6 To Arendt, judgments could certainly differ in quality. Even though they cannot be entirely objective in nature, a more impartial perspective helps one form a more valid judgment. In the context of Arendt’s argument, truth does not refer to an absolute or objective truth that is coercive and beyond debate; rather, truth arises out of the ongoing process of dialogue and debate that aims at arriving at a shared understanding of reality that can be broadly accepted. This process must be guided by impartiality, which means engaging in a “disinterested pursuit,”7 free from personal believes that individuals have the right to exercise their private use of reason in pursuing personal interests and goals, such as in everyday decision-making and civic posts, but they also have a duty to engage in open and critical dialogue in the public sphere, to challenge unjust laws and institutions through the use of reason.

6 Arendt, “Truth and Politics,” 242.

7 Ibid., 262.

interests. Meanwhile, the idea of the factual truth is also important in understanding impartiality: Arendt’s departure from Theodor Adorno’s “Opinion Delusion Society”8 is marked by her acknowledgement of a factual basis that freedom of expression and practice of impartiality can rely on. While Adorno was skeptical about the possibility of achieving a consensus on the most basic factual reality in contemporary society, Arendt argues that such a consensus is possible. She maintains that even though facts and events are constantly subject to interpretation, there is a factual basis which fabrications “can never compete [with] in stability,” simply because “it happens to be thus and not otherwise.”9

In comparison to Arendt, Marcuse has a different take on the concept of impartiality. In “Repressive Tolerance,” impartiality refers to the equal tolerance of all opinions in modern societies, particularly in liberal democracies. Since Arendt and Marcuse share the idea of impartiality as an absence of preconceived notions, but differ in Marcuse’s added concept of tolerance, meaningful comparisons and contrasts can be drawn.

According to Marcuse, impartiality does not result in equality, let alone facilitate social changes; instead, it can serve to reinforce present inequalities. Certainly, this argument rests on the assumption that society has asymmetrical power structures, an assumption that Arendt would likely agree with. Marcuse points out that the rationale of universal tolerance consists of autonomy, consciousness, and individuality. In reality, this rationale fails because “indoctrinated individuals parrot, as their own, the opinion of their masters.”10 Universal tolerance becomes problematic, as indoctrination results in individuals accepting ideas without engaging in critical thinking or independent evaluation. Utmost impartiality, he argues, actually serves as an instrument of repression in

8 Theodor W. Adorno, “Opinion Delusion Society,” trans. Henry W. Pickford, The Yale Journal of Criticism (Johns Hopkins University Press, October 1, 1997), https://muse.jhu.edu/article/36759.

9 Arendt, “Truth and Politics,” 258.

10 Marcuse, “Repressive Tolerance, 90.

what he called “a democracy with totalitarian organizations,” where the line between right and wrong is blurred.11 This kind of impartiality can be deceptive, and the resulting objectivity false. For example, Marcuse discusses the “neutralization of opposites” on a newspaper page that attempts to present both positive and negative aspects of reality by juxtaposing “gorgeous ads with unmitigated horrors.”12 While such media may appear to fulfill the requirements of objectivity, they often promote viewpoints that align with the status quo, while peripheral voices are further suppressed. What people want to see and are used to seeing tends to have a significant influence on their attitudes and behaviors. To be sure, impartiality in politics is not inherently unacceptable to Marcuse, but he would likely have argued that its extent should correspond to the degree of power imbalance—in other words, the more significant the power imbalance, the more necessary it becomes to depart from impartiality.

Although Marcuse does not explicitly discuss how impartiality is related to truth, it could be argued that he sees real objectivity as always related to truth, which can sometimes be clouded by universal tolerance in the name of impartiality. He contends that truth cannot be arrived at by merely engaging in a public exchange of opinions.

Arendt and Marcuse are both concerned with transcendence from one’s preconceived ideas, which is essential in pursuing truth in politics. However, their views diverge on how to achieve this transcendence: Arendt believes that an impartial stance enables such transcendence, whereas Marcuse recognizes the stubbornness of societal preconceptions, as individuals are never tabulae rasae, or blank slates.13 In terms of achieving this transcendence, Arendt calls for an open and impartial political discussion, whereas Marcuse rejects passive forms of tolerance and advocates for “the practice of discriminating tolerance,”14

11 Ibid., 97.

12 Ibid., 97.

13 Ibid., 98.

14 Ibid., 123.

which involves “intolerance toward prevailing policies, attitudes, and opinions, and the extension of tolerance to [those] which are outlawed or suppressed.”15 This radical approach urges individuals to challenge oppressive systems while embracing alternative viewpoints. Nonetheless, Arendt and Marcuse’s philosophies are multifaceted and cannot be reduced to a simple dichotomy. Arendt’s advocacy for an open and impartial political discussion does not mean she rejects the importance of judgment, as she also highlights the need for critical thinking and the ability to distinguish between truth and falsehood. Similarly, Marcuse’s critique inherently acknowledges the value of tolerance and the need to extend it to marginalized and oppressed groups.

15 Ibid., 81.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Adorno, Theodor W. “Opinion Delusion Society.” Translated by Henry W. Pickford. The Yale Journal of Criticism. Johns Hopkins University Press, October 1, 1997.

https://muse.jhu.edu/article/36759.

Arendt, Hannah, and Jerome Kohn. “Truth and Politics.” Essay. In Between Past and Future: Eight Exercises in Political Thought, 227-64. London, etc.: Penguin Books, 2006.

Kant, Immanuel. “What Is Enlightenment?” Translated by Mary C. Smith. http://www.columbia.edu/acis/ets/ CCREAD/etscc/kant.html.

Marcuse, Herbert. “Repressive Tolerance.” Essay. In A Critique of Pure Tolerance, 81–123. Boston: Beacon Press, 1970.

The Madonna or the Sibyl?: Reframing the Ideal Woman in Madame de Staël’s Corinne, or Italy

MADISON LAZENBY

The “Ideal Woman” has been observed to change throughout history and culture, and in Madame de Staël’s Corinne, or Italy, the changing ideal of the first years of the 19th century is documented. The novel follows the intense love affair between the titular character of Corinne, a famous poet living in Rome, and Oswald, a Scottish nobleman who heavily identifies with the customs of England, on his travels to Italy for his health. After learning that Corinne is actually the elder half-sister of Lucile, the young girl that Oswald’s father intended him to marry, Oswald returns to England to clear Corinne’s name of scandal. Corinne follows him to England, sees Oswald interacting with Lucile—who he has already started to become attracted to—and she breaks off their relationship. Throughout the novel, there is significant tension regarding the characteristics of Oswald’s ideal woman, as he constantly compares Corinne to proper Englishwomen but then becomes distant from Lucile after they marry. This tension of what makes an Ideal Woman creates anxiety for both Corinne and Lucile. Towards the end of the novel, Lucile disguises a question of truth and attraction as an artistic opinion: “... she finally dared to go up to [Oswald] and ask him shyly if Domenichino’s Sibyl appealed to him more than Correggio’s Madonna” (Staël 386). The question refers to the paintings, Madonna della Scala by Correggio and one of Domenichino’s paintings of the Cumaen Sibyl, with the two different subjects respectively symbolizing Lucile and Corinne (Raphael 410). The first painting reflects duty and purity while the second is defined by genius and independence. By asking Oswald which painting “appealed to him more,” Lucile reveals her knowledge of his previous relationship with Corinne—but the question is also one of

attraction: which woman is his ideal (Staël 386)? By placing these two archetypes of women in tension with one other, Staël reframes what is considered to be an Ideal Woman, challenging the constrictions of Oswald’s ideal Englishwoman and advocating for an ideal womanhood that values individual happiness, producing a sort of hybrid of Corinne and Lucile.

Lucile is described throughout the novel in terms of her similarities to the Virgin Mary or Madonna. Before her character is introduced in the novel, Oswald notes her youth and his father approves of her as the only woman worthy of being married to his son. When Oswald meets her, he is immediately attracted to her innocence and reservedness. Her sheltered nature can specifically be observed in how her “paleness gave way to blushes in a moment” (Staël 306). Lucile is unable to hide her emotion due either to a lack of practice talking to men or to her tanned features, a result of being outside or traveling. This lack of experience with the world and men contribute to her characterization as both a literal and metaphorical virgin. These markers of innocence are enough to suggest her association with the Madonna, but the clearest indication comes at the end of the paragraph, when she is described as having “heavenly purity” (Staël 306).

The comparison between Lucile and the Madonna is made even more explicit later on. When traveling through Italy, the family sees Correggio’s Madonna della Scala, a fresco depicting the Virgin Mary with the baby Jesus. Lucile lifts her own child, Juliet, to see the painting better in such a way that mirrors the painting, and Oswald immediately notices the similarity: “Lucile’s face was so like the ideal of modesty and grace painted by Correggio that Oswald turned his gaze alternately from the picture towards Lucile and from Lucile towards the picture” (Staël 384). Lucille resembles the Madonna in her modesty and duty to her child. In comparing Lucile to the Madonna, Staël compares her to the original vision—in the Western world—of the Ideal Woman. She fits the profile of the most important woman in Christianity, making her the most worthy of marriage to Oswald.

Lucile’s innocence and duty are also seen in how she expresses her Christianity. Her faith is distinguished by a clear order, something that Oswald also desires in religion. These characteristics are notable in her daily prayer: “After praying for the servants of the house, for relatives, for the King, for the country, came the words, ‘Oh God, vouchsafe us the grace that the daughter of this house may live and die without her soul being stained by a single feeling in discordance with her duty’” (Staël 309). Lucile’s “duty” is not explicitly named in the prayer itself, but from the greater context of the prayer, it can be concluded that her duty lies with her family, England, and God. These lines of duty—and their succession from one to the next—exemplify the kind of woman Oswald was taught to seek out. Years prior, Oswald’s father had described her as having “the most touching modesty in her features… She is the kind of truly English woman who will make my son happy” (Staël 319). For Oswald’s father, duty to country and “touching modesty” are inseparable (Staël 319). Ultimately, this Ideal Woman is what Oswald is supposed to be attracted to: a woman who exemplifies duty and modesty rather than power. Contrastingly, Corinne, whom Oswald loved before Lucile, is described throughout the novel as a Sibyl and shown to have significant power. According to Sylvia Raphael, the translator of the 1998 edition of the novel, Sibyl is a “name applied to a number of prophetic women; the most famous was the Cumaean Sibyl, said to have been consulted by Aeneas before he entered the underworld” (410). The ability of prophecy and the fact of being sought out for help by a man suggests a significant amount of power in a Sibyl’s words. For Corinne, this association gives her not only fame, but also power in Italy. When first introduced in the novel, she is shown on her way to her coronation in Rome for her poetic achievements, where she is described as “dressed like Domenichino’s Sibyl” with an “Indian turban… wound round her head” and a white dress “with a blue stole fastened beneath her breast” (Staël 23). Corinne even makes her home within view of a temple to Sibyl, who is described as a “woman stimulated by divine

inspiration” (Staël 149). Corinne’s fashion and literal proximity to Sibyl draws a connection between the two and ultimately elevates Corinne’s poetic genius to that of divine prophecy. The Romans seem to believe this connection may be more literal than metaphorical. They build up a mythical image of Corinne by following her everywhere she goes, waiting to hear her every word, and even describing her as a “goddess surrounded by clouds” (Staël 22, emphasis original). Further, when Corinne asks for a theme for her improvisation at her coronation, the crowd demands a poem about “The glory and happiness of Italy!” (Staël 28, emphasis by the author) This request reveals the trust—and thus power—that the Romans bestow upon Corinne, as they want to be guided by her “divine inspiration” the same way that Aeneas was by his Sibyl (Staël 149). Although he loves Corinne, Oswald is less impressed by her influence over the Romans, and thus it is clear that he has a distaste for her power. Importantly, it is not Corinne’s poetic talents that he deplores—far from it, he is in fact enthusiastically entranced by her talents from the beginning of the novel: “he expressed his admiration by the most rapturous applause, and this time the acclaim of the Italians themselves did not equal his” (Staël 33). Rather, he is bothered by her presence in Italian society due to her talents. Before Corinne performs her own translation of Romeo & Juliet,

Oswald’s feelings were a mixture of apprehension and pleasure; he was enjoying the performance in advance, but he was also jealous in advance, not of any one particular man, but of the public who would be spectators of the talents of the woman he loved. He would have liked to be the only one to know how witty and charming she was; he would have liked Corinne to be as shy and reserved as an Englishwoman and to reveal her eloquence and genius to him alone. However distinguished a man may be, he never appreciates the superiority of a woman without mixed feelings (Staël 122).

Not only does Oswald wish that Corinne’s talents were his alone to enjoy—likely opening them up to his control— he wishes that she were more “shy and reserved as an Englishwoman” (Staël 122). Although this scene comes before Lucile is introduced, it is clear after her initial meeting with Oswald that her character mirrors that of the perfect Englishwoman that he describes in this quote. However, Corinne’s experience of living in England as an adolescent makes Oswald’s ideal vision impossible. While there, she was not allowed to pursue her poetic talents and had to take on the role of a homemaker waiting on the men of the family. Fleeing to Italy after her father died was a choice not of duty to another person or a country but one made for her own happiness. This happiness deeply contrasts Lucile’s life with Oswald. Although she fulfills the picture of perfection of the Madonna—duty, innocence, and all—she is still not happy in her marriage and struggles to understand him. She is, after all, the one who asks him the question of whether he prefers the image of the Madonna or the Sibyl. In fact, Oswald never explicitly tells Lucile that he loves her. He only states in a letter to Corinne, “I respect my ties, I love your sister” (Staël 392). It is clear from this statement that Oswald’s love for Lucile is not based in passion or emotion but rather “respect,” which is itself a kind of duty (Staël 392). Further, Lucile spends the first four years of their marriage in turmoil, learning about Oswald’s previous relationship with Corinne and raising their daughter without him while he is away with the military. The knowledge about their relationship makes loving him difficult in many ways: “She was in turn jealous of Corinne and displeased with Oswald for having been so cruel to a woman who loved him so much, and it seemed to her that, for her own happiness, she must fear a man who had thus sacrificed the happiness of another” (Staël 370). In short, how would it be possible for Lucile to be happy in the first place if Oswald may very easily cast aside her happiness? Did Oswald truly love her or did she only fulfill all his desires for an Ideal Woman?

Only when Lucile reunites with her half-sister Corinne does she find a way to achieve happiness in her marriage by taking Corinne’s advice on how to manage Oswald’s moods. Corinne advises her that Oswald “[needs] her spontaneous confidences because his natural reserve [prevents] him from asking for them; he [needs] her to show more interest because he was liable to be discouraged, and he [needs] cheerfulness precisely because he suffered from his own sadness” (Staël 398). This is to say that Lucile needs to reduce her modesty and show some initiative with her feelings towards Oswald in order for him to know that she loves him. Corinne also encourages Lucile to take up the artistic pursuits that she had tried to teach her as a child and to continue to nurture them in her daughter Juliet. In short, Corinne proposes a balance between both of their characters: a dutiful wife and mother and an engaging conversationalist and artist. This coupling of characteristics suggests that in order to find happiness in her marriage, Lucile needs to become an independent actor playing a role in a partnership. Her duty is no longer solely to her husband but also to her own accomplishments and personhood. This plan immediately strengthens their relationship, as “Every day [Oswald’s] curiosity grew stronger as he noticed Lucile’s new charms” (Staël 399). He shows Lucile more attention and is ultimately charmed by her new, more independent character. This Corinne-Lucile hybrid is Staël’s proposed Ideal Woman, as it is a combination of both characters’ best qualities—at least in the eyes of Oswald. This new Ideal Woman severs the dichotomy of duty towards family/country/God and individual happiness, suggesting that both are possible when a woman has the ability to act as an independent person in a partnership with her husband. If Lucile is to be truly happy in her marriage to Oswald, she needs to focus on her individual happiness and accomplishments and not just her devotion to higher powers. Although this logic seems to suggest that Corinne would need to give up some portion of her talents in order to devote time to Oswald or England, she dies in the final pages of the book before such a thing

can happen. Her death suggests that there is nothing that she could have done to change herself into an Ideal Woman. Despite this, the fact that Lucile, who is at first depicted the image of a rigidly devout Englishwoman, is able to adapt in order to find true happiness in her marriage, shows that any woman can. In Madame de Staël’s Corinne, or Italy, even the Madonna herself can stretch the boundaries of the role that was given to her to find happiness and love.

WORKS CITED

Raphael, Sylvia. Explanatory Notes. Corinne, or Italy, by Madame de Staël, Oxford University Press Inc., 1998, New York, pp. 410-422.

Staël, Madame de. Corinne, or Italy. Translated by Sylvia Raphael, Oxford University Press, 2008.

Private Property, the “Right to Place,” and Environmental Regulation

OLIVIA CHANDLER

Private property is a pillar of America and has been cemented in the American ethos since the settler colonial project began in 1492. But when dissected, the implications of this “right” are complex, nuanced, and often harmful. Does owning private property mean the owner can use the land however they wish? Do individuals and the public have a right to environmental protection and to prevent harms perpetuated on others’ private land? Is the state justified in intervening on an individual’s use of private property for the sake of environmental regulations? And backgrounding all these questions is one of justice: what does it even mean for Americans to have a “right to place” or to own private property on stolen land? To explore these questions, I bring competing conceptions of private property into debate and highlight the use of property rights in the justification of colonialism. Next, the case of the environmental growth boundary and Measure 37 in Portland, Oregon is used to illuminate the complexities and considerations of collective conceptions of private property rights and the environment. The American concept of property is a construct rooted in John Locke’s theory of private property and natural law. Addressing the modern-day private property and environmental debates requires one to first unsettle Locke’s notion of property rights and to build an understanding of the connection between property rights and settler colonialism. In this paper, I explore the dominant theories of property rights and their implications, the tensions between environmental regulation and private property, and how this debate applies to the case study of growth management policies in Portland, Oregon. Through dissecting the roots of private property, I seek to unsettle the assumptions that perpetuate environmental exploitation and injustice without

disregarding the central role property plays in American society. What are property rights? Do they give individuals a “right to place”? The dominant theory of property in the United States draws from John Locke’s conception of private property as an inherent right. He claims the right to own private property is an element of “natural law,” predating any societal arrangement in the “state of nature” (Snyder 1986, 726). Locke argues that protection of property is the very reason people consent to be governed, so private property is absolutely integral to the character of the state (725). Locke’s theories are fundamental to the conception of property in American society, and the way society and governmental bodies interact with property rights. Richard A. Epstein argues along a Lockean vein concerning property rights in his book, Takings: Private Property and the Power of Eminent Domain (1985). He uses the metaphor that property ownership is a bundle of sticks consisting of possession, use, and disposition, and discusses what happens when sticks are taken out of the bundle, usually through the eminent domain clause (59). Epstein discusses the role of police power in property rights, arguing that police power is an “inherent attribute of sovereignty” in government (108), but if unrestricted can infringe upon private property ownership (109). He argues police power should only be used to protect property against force, fraud, and very few environmental harms, like pollution, but only because it directly violates individual rights (121). Epstein concludes his evaluation of the necessity of nearly unrestrained private property ownership with the assertion that owners should be compensated for regulations on their land that result in economic or aesthetic losses (123). Through this vein, an individual has a “right to place” if they own the land, and that “right to place” means almost any regulation or infringement on that right must result in just compensation.

This conception of private property rights, as understood and promoted by John Locke and scholars such as Richard Epstein, can actively harm and violate communities that follow other theories of property, namely, the indigenous

communities within the United States. Settler colonialism in America attempted to destroy indigenous peoples’ “right to place” by expropriating land, forcing assimilation, and committing mass murder. Locke’s theory of private property provided European settlers with a justification for these actions, as they attempted to reason that the indigenous people used the land “unproductively,” and their own acquisition of property was an inherent right. This destructive theory was violently imposed onto indigenous communities through the project of settler colonialism, and continues to erode indigenous land rights today (Murray 2022, 2). Julian Brave NoiseCat describes the destruction of the environment and indigenous land expropriation resulting from the American concept of property, and argues that justice could be found by uplifting indigenous voices about land use and moving away from the dominating logic of limitless productivity (Brave NoiseCat 2017). Indigenous conceptions of property and relationships to land constitute a very different “right to place” than the Lockean and European theories. Settler colonialism is a clear example of the dangers of Locke’s private property right theory when it is taken to the extreme; understanding this approach to property and place is integral to approaching the relationship between environmental regulation and property rights. This dominant American theory of property is challenged in both the theoretical and practical realms, particularly concerning environmental regulation. It can be argued that a “right to place” entails the right to an ecologically sound and healthy environment, not exclusively property ownership. Gary Varner argues that in this age of environmental regulation, the very idea of private property is being redefined and nearing obsoletion. Using the same bundle of sticks metaphor, he discusses how removing sticks from the bundle brings society closer to “eclipsing” land as private property altogether. The more the government regulates private land, the less control the individual has, causing the very notion of private property to lose its whole meaning (1994, 146). However, Varner is not arguing

against the private property’s obsoletion. He understands the necessity of environmental regulation, and disagrees with Epstein’s assertion that all restrictions must result in compensation. Obligatory compensation would make any environmental regulation “prohibitively expensive,” and therefore unfeasible (149). Varner proposes that, to bridge this gap, we should reframe how we view the harms that environmental regulations seek to address; we must focus on public rights instead of individual harms. Joseph Sax’s concept of public rights aims to make visible the harms one landowner can cause other landowners because of how they choose to use their property, especially concerning the environment (157). He argues that ecological processes should fall under this domain of public rights, as they are interconnected far beyond any individual’s land and cross the boundaries of all private properties. It is from this thought that Varner concludes that every stick may then be taken without compensation, leading us to the end of private property. Varner puts forth a compelling analysis of the tensions between environmental regulations and private property, and illustrates how reframing the very notion of private property is necessary to prevent environmental injustices to both property owners and the property itself. His argument, of course, lies on the assumption that land as private property has any legitimacy in the first place, but he is also entering into this conversation from a realist standpoint, working with the dominant conception of property at hand. Varner’s work sheds insight on the debate over urban growth management in Portland, Oregon. Until 2004, Portland had policies in place called the “urban growth boundary” first set in the 1980s, meant to limit the development of suburban sprawl into the countryside (Layzer 2012, 494). Sprawl can be detrimental not only for the environment by encouraging scattered development on relatively undeveloped land, forests, and wetlands, but also as it often segregates communities economically and socially and reduces resources for the urban areas (489). Portland’s growth management policies reflected a growing dissatisfaction

with the suburbanization and development spreading across America, and sought to redress issues of inequality. Despite community involvement and civic engagement in the processes, the policies were not well received by everyone (504). Since the policies heavily regulated what landowners could do with the land they owned outside the urban growth boundary, both current landowners and those who wished to buy and develop land outside the boundary disliked these regulations. After a state-wide referendum, a new law called Measure 37 passed. It allowed property owners to petition to be compensated or excused from the growth management policies if they bought the land before the policies were enacted or if their land’s market value decreased because of the policies (505). Essentially, property owners could file for reprieve if they suffered from “lost productivity,” and since the government did not have enough resources to compensate everyone, they had to excuse many landowners from the growth management policies (507). A large number of Measure 37 claims were filed and most were approved, unraveling much of the work of the original growth management policies. Measure 37 reflects Varner’s claim that compensation for aesthetic or economic losses caused by any environmental regulations would make the regulations prohibitively expensive, preventing the ability to promote environmental sustainability. Property rights, defined in Epstein’s sense of absolute discretion over one’s land, come into clear tension with environmental and socioeconomic regulations. Measure 37 did not last forever. Environmentalists, farmers, and many Democrats banded together to respond with Measure 49, which prevented commercial and industrial development outside the urban growth boundary, but was not as strict about regulating all development as the policy had been prior to Measure 37 (Layzer 2012, 508). This more moderate growth management policy reflects the division of property rights theories within the American context, but also the potential for compromise and community engagement. This debate in Portland reflects the need to incorporate

Varner’s argument, namely, that we must reconceive property management and regulation in terms of public rights rather than individual harms (Varner 1994, 157). Measure 37 reflected a narrow focus on individual harms, as property owners felt personally victimized by the prevention of development and productivity on their land. Rather, the issue could be framed in terms of the publics’ right to live free of segregation, live within close proximity to undeveloped and natural land, and to collectively receive the benefits of environmental health.

“Right to place” is nuanced and complicated in Portland, as it is everywhere, but Portlanders should be applauded for engaging in a conversation regarding property rights and environmental regulation and experimenting with growth management policies. Questions of property rights and “right to place” involve the question of justice. How do we balance the needs of all the stakeholders? How do we incorporate the centuries of indigenous land dispossession and wealth inequality along racial lines into just growth management policies and environmental regulations? It may be unrealistic to imagine doing away with private property, but perhaps the eclipsing of private property as it is currently regarded is nearing. The eclipsing, however, must incorporate the frameworks and needs of indigenous and marginalized communities, as to ensure they are not harmed further by the ongoing evolution of property rights in America.

WORKS CITED

Brave NoiseCat, Julian. 2017. “The western idea of private property is flawed. Indigenous peoples have it right.” The Guardian. https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2017/mar/27/western-idea-private-property flawed-indigenous-peoples-have-it-right.

Epstein, Richard A. 1985. Takings: Private Property and the Power of Eminent Domain. Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press. EBSCOHost.

Layzer, Judith A. 2012. “Making Tradeoffs: Urban Sprawl and the Evolving System of Growth Management in Portland, Oregon.” In The Environmental Case: Translating Values into Policy, 488-514. 3rd ed. Washington DC: CQ Press.

Murray, Calum. 2022. “John Locke’s Theory of Property, and the Dispossession of Indigenous Peoples in the Settler-Colony.” American Indian Law Journal 10, no. 1 (Jan): 1-12. https://digitalcommons.law.seattleu.edu/ ailj/vol10/iss1/4.

Snyder, David C. 1986. “Locke on Natural Law and Property Rights.” Canadian Journal of Philosophy 16, no. 4 (Dec): 723-50. https://www.jstor.org/stable/40231500.

Varner, Gary E. 1994. “Environmental Law and the Eclipse of Land as Private Property.” In Ethics and Environmental Policy: Theory Meets Practice, 142-60. Athens, Georgia: The University of Georgia Press.

On Criseyde’s Reflectivity and Autonomy in Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde

EVA GLASSMAN

Chaucer’s Criseyde knows her legacy as a betrayer by the end of the story: she says, “‘Allas, of me unto the worldes ende / Shal neither been ywriten nor ysonge / No good word, for thise bookes wol me shende’” (V. 105860). Throughout this tale of love and betrayal, Chaucer characterizes Criseyde as a cerebral and thoughtful woman; as Winthrop Wetherbee says, “Criseyde thinks things over [...] she knows what is at stake on a practical level in a way that Troilus never does” (“Narrator” 183-4). However, despite her careful consideration of her options, she cannot stop the forces that physically separate her from Troilus and make her out as a betrayer. Whether Criseyde is truly heartless is a popular scholarly debate, and the most compelling arguments grant Criseyde the benefit of the doubt by foregrounding the oppressive role of the patriarchy around her and her complete lack of integrity to resist it. As a product of the patriarchy, Criseyde can only reflect what the men in her life impose upon her, and therefore can only react accordingly. Criseyde’s lack of agency with Troilus is subtly highlighted in the similarities between Troilus’ and Criseyde’s language and behaviors. This mirrored dynamic—whatever happens to Troilus must also happen to Criseyde—renders her autonomy null in the story, despite her thoughtfulness. While the narrative makes it easy to blame Criseyde for Troilus’ heartbreak, the mirrored language throughout the story highlights Criseyde’s lack of autonomy and the role the patriarchy has in shaping her character and the fate of her romance with Troilus. The mirrored language of the story seems to suggest what secondary scholarship has been doing, as it urges sympathy for Criseyde by revealing the oppressive nature

of the patriarchy so that readers do not see her as a betrayer but simply someone who has no control over her fate.

Chaucer’s choice to mirror Troilus’ and Criseyde’s language and behaviors demonstrates Criseyde’s lack of autonomy because Criseyde must imitate Troilus’ behavior and speech. For example, in Book I, when the Trojans congregate in the temple, Criseyde is described as “under shames drede,” emphasizing her status as a widow and daughter to the traitor Calchas (I. 180). Meanwhile, haughty Troilus, before spotting Criseyde in the crowd and being struck by her beauty, is described as “pride above” (I. 230). While “under shame” and “pride above” are opposite ideas, the linguistic similarity of the phrasing, which places Troilus and Criseyde on opposite ends of the same binary, articulates a mirrored relationship between the two characters. Even though Troilus and Criseyde begin the story described in opposite terms, Chaucer still demonstrates Criseyde’s lack of autonomy because as Troilus falls in love with her, their language and behavior become more similar. After this moment in the temple, Troilus in the throws of love and yearning says, “‘For hoot of cold, for cold of hoot I die’” (I. 420). This cold and warm heart imagery returns in Book II when Criseyde develops romantic feelings toward Troilus and the narrator notes that “[n]ow was hir herte warm, now was it cold” (II. 698). This shift from opposite to similar language emphasizes Criseyde’s lack of control over her narrative because Troilus falling in love with her is what forces her to become a mirror to his speech, emotions, and behaviors. This idea of Criseyde as a mirror that echoes Troilus is also present in how they express themselves as individuals. For example, in Book IV, Criseyde and Troilus share the same thoughts about their souls and how to maintain connection despite their separation and possible death. Troilus wants his soul after death to “‘hieth’” after Criseyde and for her to “‘[r] eceive [it] in gree’” (IV. 319-22). Criseyde separately reflects on the same idea in the same fashion later in the book: “‘Myn herte and eek the woful gost therinne / Biquethe I with

youre spirit to complaine / Eternally, for the shal never twinne’” (IV. 785-7). Both of them believe their souls are an extension of existence after death and wish to essentially haunt the other should one of them die. They also each experience separate moments of rage over their forced separation, Troilus “[s]miting his brest ay with his fistes smerte; / His hed to the wal, his body to the grounde, / Ful ofte he swapped, himselven to confounde” (IV. 242-5). Meanwhile, Criseyde in her anger, “[h]ir ounded heer, that sonnish was of hewe, / She rente, and eek hir fingres longe and smale / She wrong ful ofte, and bad God on hire rewe” (IV. 736-9). Troilus hits himself with his fists and throws his body to the ground to hurt himself; Criseyde reflects this self-destructive behavior in a more feminine way by tearing her hair and wringing her hands together. In Book V, they each feel individual bouts of regret about their inability to prevent their separation. Troilus regrets not taking action to prevent Criseyde from leaving Troy for the Greek camps, while Criseyde regrets not heeding Troilus’ advice to run away together (V. 45-9; V. 736-42). The narrator also describes the two lovers as physically deteriorating after their separation as Troilus becomes “so defet,” “lene,” “pale and wan” that he “walked by potente” (V. 1219-25). Criseyde is described similarly: “Ful pale” and “limes lene” (V. 708-14). It is clear from these instances that if one thing happens to Troilus, it must also happen to Criseyde, showing Criseyde’s reflectivity of Troilus. Secondary scholarship urges readers to consider how the patriarchy affects Troilus and Criseyde’s mirrored relationship dynamic. Gretchen Mieszkowski speaks to this in her article “Chaucer’s Much Loved Criseyde” writing, Criseyde mirrors the men around her. She reflects them and echoes them so directly that their purposes, values, and way of seeing the world seem to be hers as well as theirs. This is the reverse of establishing a self—the denial of selfhood in favor of the other person’s substance. And this is Criseyde’s typical way of relating to men. (Mieszkowski 121, emphasis mine)

Mieszkowski’s point about Criseyde merely reflecting mens’ “purposes, values, and way of seeing the world” is especially evident in the moments described above; it seems that Troilus’ musings “seem to be hers as well” as his, which shows not only Criseyde’s lack of autonomy in her relationship with Troilus, but also her “denial of selfhood” in the story at large. Because of Criseyde’s powerlessness and lack of identity other than a womanly object, she cannot be blamed for her betrayal of Troilus for Diomede; as secondary scholarship has articulated, readers must consider how the patriarchy and gender roles influence the dynamic between Troilus and Criseyde, and how that dynamic subjugates women and prohibits them from acting of their own volition. Much secondary scholarship surrounding Criseyde as a character and her integrity utilizes the image, function, and implication of mirrors to defend her decisions and highlight the relentless subjugation she experiences as a woman during the era of the Trojan War. Scholars picking up on the idea of mirrors to describe Criseyde align thematically with Chaucer’s mirrored structure of Troilus and Criseyde throughout the story. This connection suggests that the narrator wishes the readers to understand that Criseyde has a lack of autonomy in the story and that she should have their sympathies. Priscilla Martin in her book Chaucer’s Women: Nuns, Wives, and Amazons claims that, Chaucer presents Criseyde as both subject and object, examining both her mind and her world, the social and political pressures upon her from outside, the emotional problems within. [...] Criseyde [is] continually at odds with her circumstances. [...] Someone who is always reflected in distorting mirrors is not likely to have much sense of her own integrity. (Martin 164; 188, emphasis mine)

Martin emphasizes that the story of Troilus and Criseyde does not exist in a vacuum; to blame Criseyde

alone for her actions ignores the patriarchal society that shapes her perceptions of love and her freedom of movement (both physically and metaphorically) as a woman in Troy, a widow, and daughter of a traitor. Chaucer “examin[es] both her mind and her world” in Criseyde’s eagle dream in Book II: Under hir brest his longe clawes sette, And out hir herte he rente, and that anon, And dide his herte into hir brest to gon— Of which she nought agroos ne nothing smerte— And forth he fleigh with herte left for herte. (II. 92531, emphasis mine)

While the dream symbolizes Criseyde’s budding romance with Troilus, the language and imagery evokes patriarchal violence that Criseyde knows well. The dream also depicts a transactional exchange, with the eagle that “rente” Criseyde’s heart, put “his herte into hir brest,” and “fleigh with herte left for herte.” The transactional nature of this dream places Criseyde as an object, as Martin articulates above—and, as Mieszkowski claims, denies her personhood. Not long after Criseyde’s dream, Troilus laments his lovesickness for Criseyde: “‘Lo, myn herte, / It spredeth so for joye it wol tosterte.’” The Norton Chaucer’s footnote for “tosterte” is “leap out,” which has a different tone from Criseyde’s heart “rente” out; Troilus’ heart leaps out of his chest with joy while Criseyde’s is ripped from her (II. 97980). If the eagle in Criseyde’s dream represents Troilus, one can imagine him violently shoving his heart into the cavity in her chest created from him ripping her heart out, a violent image that renders Criseyde as an object to be taken and exchanged, an idea which reflects itself at the literal level in her exchange for Antenor from the Greeks. In his article “Criseyde and the Narrator,” Winthrop Wetherbee comments that Criseyde’s eagle dream,

shows her acquiescing only in a carefully qualified act of physical possession. Rather than opening a window onto the spiritual possibilities of love, Criseyde’s dream is conditioned and circumscribed by her experience of love in this world.

(Wetherbee, “Narrator” 188, emphasis mine)

The idea of hearts violently bursting and being forced out of bodies articulated in Criseyde’s dream and Troilus’ woe demonstrates a dynamic that places Troilus as active and Criseyde as merely passive; Mieszkowski describes Criseyde as “acted upon—totally passive but unharmed” (Mieszkowski 116). Wetherbee’s description of the dream as Criseyde “acquiescing” to “physical possession” resonates well with Martin’s claim that Criseyde is both “subject and object” and “continually at odds with her circumstances” (Wetherbee, “Narrator” 188; Martin 164). Both of these sentiments articulate Criseyde’s lack of autonomy and position her as a victim of men’s desires; “it is no exaggeration to say that this love affair happens to Criseyde” (Mieszkowski 115). Since Criseyde has no power over what happens to her, whether it is her love affair with Troilus or her forced exchange for Antenor, one can understand why she remains with her father at the Greek camps and why she takes Diomede’s offer for companionship. She has no core identity beyond the relation to the men in her life: Pandarus’ niece, Troilus’ lover, a widow, companion to Diomede, daughter of Calchas. She finds stability and security through patriarchal structures, and because of their pervasiveness, sees no alternative lifestyle.

Criseyde’s sense of how she will be perceived for her behavior and powerlessness in controlling that image suggests that the reader should have sympathies for her. In a speech at the end of the story, Criseyde says “‘Allas, of me unto the worldes ende / Shal neither been ywriten nore ysonge / No good word, for thise bookes wol me shende’” (V. 1058-60). Criseyde understands how people will perceive her

behavior—her inability to escape her father and the Greek camps, her taking Diomede over Troilus, her empty promises to Troilus that she will return—that she will be forever known as a “shend,” a disgrace. Her particular mention of “bookes” reveals a metatextual self-awareness, as if she knows her story will become part of a future literary canon; Troilus also has a similar reflection earlier in Book V about how “‘[m]en mighte a book make of’” his romance and tragedy (V. 5825). Again, both characters reflecting individually about ideas of legacy demonstrates how Criseyde simply mirrors Troilus’ thoughts and emotions, and thus has no true autonomy. Criseyde’s ruminations over her legacy make the reader aware of their own place as a spectator to this story, and that perhaps Criseyde is watching carefully from beyond the grave, praying readers acknowledge what Wetherbee calls the “social constraints and precarious circumstances” of Criseyde’s society:

[Chaucer] makes plain the social constraints and precarious circumstances that have compelled [Criseyde] to meet the world on its own terms and to rely so largely on her sexual attractiveness to make her way [...] [and] has taken pains to endow Criseyde with attributes that, in a different world, might have offered her a very different life.

(Wetherbee, “Narrator” 194, emphasis mine)

These metatextual moments, particularly Criseyde’s, speak to the idea of future perception and debate about her morality; Chaucer’s inclusion of Criseyde exploring her own legacy encourages the reader to look beyond her actions and consider, as much scholarship has done, the ways in which Criseyde has no power and how her identity as a woman in ancient, patriarchal Troy affects her self-perception. As Mieszkowski says, “Criseyde’s betrayal of Troilus is not the personal failure of an

individual woman. Criseyde must betray Troilus because a mirror reflects what is in front of it” (Mieszkowski 130).

Criseyde is a complex character despite her being a mere reflection of patriarchal expectations of women. The disjunction between her thoughtfulness and her lack of outward integrity or power makes her seem cowardly and like a true traitor to Troilus, but the reality is wider than the microcosm that is their brief and passionate love affair. Chaucer subtly implies that Criseyde merely reflects Troilus’ thoughts, emotions, and behaviors through their mirrored language and parallel construction of select scenes where they are alone. Whenever something happens to Troilus, it must also happen to Criseyde—when Troilus gets angry, Criseyde gets angry; when Troilus physically weakens due to the pain of being separated from her, Criseyde must as well. It is evident from the text alone that Criseyde mirrors Troilus in these various ways, but secondary scholarship has picked up on that theme as well. Mieszkowski, Martin, and Wetherbee all use imagery of mirrors to emphasize the passivity implied in reflectivity and apply that dynamic to Criseyde to foreground the patriarchal “social restraints and precarious circumstances” that subjugate her throughout the story and explain her extreme passivity and lack of self— qualities that make it easy to blame Criseyde for her betrayal (Wetherbee, “Narrator” 194). Because she is a mirror of Troilus and the other men in her life, as demonstrated by the language of the story and noted by secondary scholarship, the external patriarchal societal factors impacting her ability (or lack thereof) to make decisions become elucidated, and her decision to not return to Troilus becomes less of a choice and more of a forced reality.

The effect of the story’s mirrored language for Troilus and Criseyde as individuals urges the reader to see how society impacts Criseyde’s ability to exercise her own autonomy and how that subjugation frames her as the traitor. As Wetherbee states in “Criseyde Alone,” “[i]n a world where her security has depended upon her ability

to effectively mirror male expectations and desires, she has never really seen the possibility of autonomy. [...] Troilus and Pandarus know only that she has betrayed them” (325). The men in her life will never understand her powerlessness because they are a part of the patriarchy which upholds the structures that subjugate her; Criseyde becomes a traitor due to lack of sympathy and understanding, not in actuality.

GLOSSARY

shende - disgrace

drede - dread, fear

heith - hurry

eek - also

smerte - fiercely, vigorously

sonnish - sunnish, sun-like

hewe - hue

rewe - take pity

lene - lean

potente - crutch

limes - limbs

agroos - feared

WORKS CITED

Chaucer, Geoffrey. “Troilus and Criseyde.” The Norton Chaucer, edited by David Lawton et al., W.W. Norton & Company, 2019, pp. 754–944.

Martin, Priscilla. Chaucer’s Women: Nuns, Wives, and Amazons. 1st ed, University of Iowa Press, 1990.

Mieszkowski, Gretchen. “Chaucer’s Much Loved Criseyde.” The Chaucer Review, vol. 26, no. 2, 1991, pp. 109–32.

Wetherbee, Winthrop. “Character and Action: Criseyde and the Narrator.” Chaucer and the Poets: An Essay on Troilus and Criseyde, Cornell University Press, 2016, pp. 179–204.

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