Dictionnaire Tolkien, ed. Ferré

Dictionnaire Tolkien. Ed. Vincent Ferré. Paris: CNRS Éditions, 2012.

Reviewed by Anna Smol (anna.smol@msvu.ca)

J.R.R. Tolkien’s fiction is read around the world, having been translated into dozens of languages, from Vietnamese and Korean to Slovak and Catalan to French, German, and Italian.¹  Critics have commented on Tolkien’s work throughout the late twentieth century, but the last fifteen years have seen a surge in the scholarly attention paid to it. Anglophone scholars have organized numerous academic conferences, produced a steady stream of new books and articles by university presses or specialist publishers such as Walking Tree, and established peer-reviewed journals such as Tolkien Studies and, most recently, The Journal of Tolkien Research. The francophone world has also witnessed an increase in activity since the turn of this century, with print and online sources being produced and conferences and conventions organized to discuss Tolkien’s work. The Dictionnaire Tolkien makes a significant contribution to this growing body of scholarship, providing French general readers, students, and academics information about Tolkien’s œuvre as well as summarizing current research and laying a foundation for further investigations.

The editor of the Dictionnaire, Vincent Ferré, is a leading French Tolkien scholar who works in the field of medievalism and twentieth-century literature. He has assembled over sixty contributors from diverse fields such as comparative literature, history, medieval literature, philosophy, English literature, film studies, including independent scholars as well. Although you will find a few from places such as Québec, Germany, and Spain, most are from France; all represent a healthy cadre of scholars engaged in Tolkien studies in French.

Of course, the reception of Tolkien’s work in French has been affected by the pace and availability of translations. The Hobbit, published in English in 1937, was translated into French in 1969. The Lord of the Rings, published in English in 1954-55, was first translated into French in the year of Tolkien’s death (1972-73) but the Appendices, which contain a wealth of background information, were only translated in 1986.²  Various translations of Tolkien’s other works have followed, such as Tolkien’s letters in 2005 and in 2006 the important essays in Les Monstres et les critiques et autres essais (The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays). Most recently, the lag time between first publication and translation has narrowed considerably with Les Enfants de Húrin (The Children of Húrin) in 2008 and La Légende de Sigurd et Gudrún (The Legend of Sigurd and Gudrún) in 2010, both appearing in French only one year after their first English publication. The most recent posthumous publication, La Chute d’Arthur (The Fall of Arthur) appeared in translation only a few months after the English version in 2013.³ Certain texts, however, are still unavailable in French, such as the last seven volumes of The History of Middle-earth, a twelve-volume series published in 1983-96 by Tolkien’s son Christopher, who compiled this record of his father’s early stories, manuscript drafts, and previously unpublished essays. In this context, the Dictionnaire comes at a particularly important time for an expanding French readership who want to know more and for researchers who are looking for useful references, whether in French or English, to guide them in their work.

The Dictionnaire includes concise entries covering elements of Tolkien’s fiction, his work as a professional medievalist, his life and family, the reception and adaptation of his work, and critical approaches to and areas of investigation into his work. I was especially interested in seeing what might be the distinctive emphases and/or strengths in a book representing a French perspective on Tolkien.

An excellent section of the book for students and researchers, whether working in English or French, is the series on various “Lectures” (readings) of Tolkien’s work, presenting an overview of different scholarly approaches with references to major critical texts. The series begins with a survey of approaches to The Lord of the Rings from 1954-1974, touching on major English critics and early allegorical, psychoanalytical, political, and literary readings. Following this introduction to early Tolkien studies, the series continues with Christian, eco-critical, feminist and gender studies, political, and psychoanalytical readings. Each entry offers a concise and balanced overview of major scholarly works exemplifying its particular approach.

In “Lectures chrétiennes de l’œuvre” (Christian readings of the work) you will find French critics considered together with English ones, so that, for example, Grégory Solari and Joseph Pearce are discussed alongside each other in their views on how Tolkien’s faith  renders  The Lord of the Rings a thoroughly moral and religious text for Christian readers, while Michaël Devaux and Verlyn Flieger represent critics with literary concerns who refer to Christian tradition as a way of illuminating some aspects of the text. In various spots throughout the “Lectures” section of the Dictionnaire, we are also introduced to other French critics, and the list only grows as you dip into the book elsewhere or check out the bibliography at the back: you might find, for example, Isabelle Pantin, Vincent Ferré, Didier Rance, Charles Ridoux, Anne Besson, Annie Birks.  In the essay on Celtic legends (“Celtiques, légendes”), I was introduced to the expertise of Aurélie Brémont whose doctoral thesis on the Celts in Middle-earth at the University of Paris - Sorbonne is, I presume, the foundation for this entry which distinguishes between what is likely and not so likely in Celtic legends to have influenced Tolkien’s conception of the Elvish world. Brémont argues that in elements such as Elvish languages, the marriage of a magical being with a mortal (as in Lúthien and Beren), and other mythological and literary traditions all represent a pervasive Celtic influence.

The presence of French critics in the entry on Christian readings is perhaps one indication of a focus on philosophical and theological issues in French Tolkien studies, and further examination suggests a political emphasis as well. As someone who works in English, I inevitably have a similar reference book, the J.R.R. Tolkien Encyclopedia: Scholarship and Critical Assessment⁴ in the back of my mind as a point of comparison, and I find it notable that the Encyclopedia does not have similar essays as the Dictionnaire on, for example, “Grâce” (grace), “Don” (gift), “Échec” (failure/ defeat), “Le Sacré dans Le Seigneur des Anneaux” (the sacred in The Lord of the Rings)  “Économie en Terre du Milieu” (economics/the economy in Middle-earth),“Conservatisme: Tolkien était-il conservateur?” (conservatism: was Tolkien a conservative?), and “Amour” (love). Of course, such topics can enter into discussions of Tolkien’s work in any language, but their appearance as separate essays in the Dictionnaire lends them prominence in the context of French studies of Tolkien.

Other entries that you will find in the Dictionnaire but not in its English counterpart include “Amour courtois, courtoisie” (courtly love, courtesy). Given the origins of the concept of fin’ amors in French literature, it is perhaps to be expected that surveys of Tolkien’s medieval influences would include such an entry, which provides a brief history of the concept and suggests a few ways in which it is applicable to Tolkien’s work.    

Also, it should not be surprising to find among the biographical entries one for Adam Tolkien, Tolkien’s grandson and son of Christopher, who moved his family to France in the 1970s.  Adam is the translator of the two volumes of The Book of Lost Tales (Le Livre des contes perdus) as well as Pictures by J.R.R. Tolkien, translated as Peintures et aquarelles de J.R.R. Tolkien (paintings and watercolours by J.R.R. Tolkien). He works actively with his father Christopher for the Tolkien Estate, encouraging the publication of further translations.  

Sometimes, though, a unique topic may surprise and delight, such as the entry on “Vȇtements” (clothing), which considers the significance of characters both clothed and naked; for example, the decision of the Valar to clothe themselves in human forms, the naked women who run through Túrin’s story, the dwarf hoods in The Hobbit, Tom Bombadil’s distinct look, and many other examples, including the cloak Faramir offers to Éowyn.  In other words, when seen in aggregate, these examples appear far more significant and plentiful than one might have at first assumed. The entry is a reminder of the strength of French independent scholars such as the writer of this entry, Tolkien book collector Yvan Strelzyk, whose website http://elrondslibrary.fr/ is one of several informative French websites and discussion forums dedicated to Tolkien. Just as in the anglophone world, Tolkien study in French, it appears, is not the sole domain of professional scholars.

It is impossible in the confines of a short review to cover every entry or to comment on every contributor in the Dictionnaire, and readers will most likely find their way to articles that have a specific interest for them. For example, in reading “Parodies,” I discovered not only that the English classic Bored of the Rings has been translated into French as Lord of the ringards, but also that other parodies probably unknown to English audiences also exist online. I was also eager to read the entry on “Fans” and was happy to find an account not only of Tolkien’s interactions with fans in his letters but also a brief history of fandom, especially the establishment of societies and fanzines in the United States and then elsewhere. What disappointed me with this entry, however, was the lack of a bibliography – somewhat surprising given that so many other pieces had a list of sources for further reading.  The essay on feminist and gender studies readings did refer to a complementary online bibliography at www.pourtolkien.fr, but that site’s “Bibliographie sur Tolkien and la fantasy” (bibliography on Tolkien and fantasy) was unavailable at the time I was writing this review – which is unfortunate, as I was curious about whether it would include any references to work on masculinity or queer sexuality, a topic that is not dealt with under the gender studies entry, which otherwise did provide a concise outline of important essays on women, feminism, and female characters in Tolkien’s work.  However, a general bibliography of primary and secondary sources is included at the back of the book, so the references are not limited to an online source or to those listed at the end of many entries.

The Dictionnaire Tolkien is handsomely produced by CNRS Éditions. The headings and subheadings make it easy to search, as do the separate indexes of Secondary World names, characters, objects, and things and Primary World names and titles. The list of contributors and list of topics along with a bibliography and a biographical outline further render the content easily accessible to readers. And there are also a few helpful visual guides, such as the family tree of languages in “Elfiques, Langues” (Elvish, languages), or the table in “Les Aventures de Tom Bombadil” (The Adventures of Tom Bombadil) which outlines the complicated history of publications and revisions of the poems in that volume.

The Dictionnaire Tolkien is a crucial publication for francophone readers and scholars, providing reliable information about Tolkien’s works, surveying current scholarship, and suggesting approaches for future research. The study of Tolkien in French appears to be growing rapidly. Perhaps we shall soon see the tide shift, and instead of English works being translated into French, the work of our francophone colleagues will be translated into English so that a broader audience can participate in the worldwide interest in Tolkien studies.

Anna Smol
Mount Saint Vincent University

Endnotes

¹ A chronology of translations of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings can be found on elrondslibrary.fr at http://www.elrondslibrary.fr/Chrono_GB.html.

² Ferré, Vincent. “La réception de J.R.R. Tolkien en France, 1973-2003: quelques repères.”  Tolkien: Trente ans après. Ed. V. Ferré.  Paris: Christian Bourgois, 2004. 17-35. Available from http://vincentferre.org/?q=node/7.

³ A list of these and other translations can be found on the website of Tolkien’s French publisher, Christian Bourgois Éditeur, at http://www.christianbourgois-editeur.com/tolkien.php. The Dictionnaire also includes a bibliography of Tolkien’s works.

⁴ Michael D.C. Drout’s edition of the J.R.R. Tolkien Encyclopedia: Scholarship and Critical Assessment, published by Routledge in 2007, is probably the closest publication in English to the Dictionnaire Tolkien, providing brief entries arranged alphabetically on many topics relating to Tolkien’s life and work. Wayne Hammond and Christina Scull’s two-volume reference work, The J.R.R. Tolkien Companion and Guide, published by Houghton Mifflin in 2006, is a valuable encyclopedic work, but its entries consist of much longer essays, with an emphasis on biographical and bibliographical matters. 

Holsinger, A Burnable Book

Bruce Holsinger. A Burnable Book. New York: William Morrow, 2014.

Reviewed by Christopher Roman (croman2@kent.edu)

In what ways can academics engage with a broader public? There is plenty of debate and discussion on what exactly members of the university community can do to reach beyond our sometimes narrowly defined disciplines and engage with our local and global communities. At times this debate can focus on outcomes, as in, if the professoriate engages with the public in the form of Twitter or blogs, does it count toward tenure or promotion? Do blogs count as scholarship? (my easy answer to both of these questions is yes). But, sidestepping questions of “does it count?,” it may be more important to reflect on how we can connect to our non-academic or cross-discipline communities. There is the simple act of a lecture in a non-academic setting like a coffee shop. There is engaging with history, Chaucer, and spoken word poetry, as in the recent work of Patience Agbabi. There is reimagining communities transhistorically, as well as across the hard and fast lines of professional/amateurs as Carolyn Dinshaw has recently explored in her book How Soon Is Now? This is all to say, as well, why don’t we write more novels?

Bruce Holsinger’s A Burnable Book engages with the ways in which history, literature, and power intersect. Holsinger creates a medieval world through deep characterization, rich detail, and glimpses of shadowy mystery that engage with the time period immediately after the Uprising of 1381 during the reign of Richard II. There are a number of intertwining plotlines having to do with the possible assassination of Richard II foretold by a secret prophetic book, the friction between the lumpenproletariat and the nobility, the information trading that comes from rings of prostitution, religious, and middle class peoples, fraught relations with Italian politics, the knowledge-hoarding machinations of John Gower, and access to language. Holsinger’s novel is a fast-paced mystery filled with murder, bawdy language, and medievalist in-jokes that keep the reader engaged with the dizzying layers of medieval society always fermenting beneath the feet of those who are not paying attention.

A Burnable Book is in the tradition of Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose amongst others. We have the problem of access to books and the problem of bodies. Perhaps these bodies are linked to the books (and considering Holsinger’s academic work in medieval animals studies revolving around the matrices of book production and animals, it is hard not to read one informing the other), but it is up to John Gower, unlikely detective, to solve the mystery. Perhaps it is unfair to compare this book to Umberto Eco’s magisterial novel, but it is worth thinking about how both books borrow from the detective genre in order to piece together a medieval world that is distant (and familiar to us). We are doing our own detective work when we enter into the archives or teach students of a medieval world in institutions papered over with medieval(ist) regalia. Where Holsinger’s novel veers from Eco’s is perhaps in scale (a king’s life is on the line) and Gower’s fallibility (William of Baskerville is probably fallible in his grief over a loss of books, but who can blame him?). And, Gower’s fallibility is what makes this novel so much fun and (re)creates him as an empathetic historical figure.

As this novel is set during the height of what we now call Ricardian poetry, reference to the work of Geoffrey Chaucer, John Gower, William Langland, the Pearl-poet fly thick. Perhaps that is one of the greatest appeals of this book; as a medievalist, I get to enjoy the jokes. But, I also think this would be the appeal to a wider audience; readers gain access to a medieval world not in a lecture or with a test at the end, but threaded through a narrative. This is to say, as well, that I learned things. I had not read Sir John Clanvowe in the past, so, inspired by an exchange between Clanvowe and Gower, I read Clanvowe’s The Booke of Cupide and The Two Ways, and his character’s depth increased. As well, a joke exchanged between Gower and Clanvowe referencing Chaucer’s writing as “tripe” made that dialogue even more amusing. Multi-textual readings thicken the text so one wants to reach for their Chaucer or Gower or Clanvowe.

And, most interestingly, Chaucer comes off as a bit of a jerk. Holsinger muddies the waters for medievalists by suggesting the medievalist’s favorite son has a bit of an anger problem, a wife problem, political problems, vanity issues, and some serious writing insecurities. Gower is always the lowly poet compared to Chaucer, but maybe that’s all right considering how Gower, despite his ability to know everyone’s secrets, comes off as a little more sympathetic than his buddy Chaucer. In a shouting argument only the best of friends can have, Gower shouts down Chaucer, “Go to hell, Chaucer,” and a reader can’t help but laugh.

Language and books. It is the obsession of medievalists and a bridge from modern to medieval. A Burnable Book is of our pop culture moment (not only because of our interest in the Wolf Hall’s of the world) in that television shows like Grimm or Sleepy Hollow (also falling within the boundaries of the detective/mystery genre) use the archive as a prime resource. In both of these television shows the true key to the mystery is usually not in the clues at the crime scene. Though the investigation might start there, clues at the scene obfuscate rather than illuminate. The referencing of older works that reveal forgotten and hidden knowledge are the true keys to the mystery. This is to say, if you would have already read about the marks left by a dragon-man (or, in Grimm-speak, a Dämonfeuer) or used a historical concoction that reveals zombie George Washington’s invisible message that he left in his Bible four days after he was said to have died, you would have solved things by now. The underlying message here is read, and not only read, but learn to read the past. Ignoring the problems of keeping centuries old manuscripts preserved in Portland’s humidity, Grimm almost always circulates around the problem of language itself. Some characters have wider language knowledge than our main character, and it is their ability to grasp Spanish or German that leads to a breakthrough for the hero.

And the matrix of problems surrounding origination and language is one of the problems that Gower attempts to solve in A Burnable Book. In Gower’s speculating about connections between the missing book, its dating, the problem of Lollardry, and who wrote it, Gower seeks out a forgotten library in Oxford. In my favorite opening to a scene in this novel, Gower walks into this library:

           

the first thing I noticed about the dark space was the smell: rich, deep, gorgeous. Cardamom, I thought, and cloves and cinnamon—and old parchment, and leather, and boards, and dust. (213)

First, how is this not already a Yankee Candle? Second, notice Holsinger’s attention to detail, this book is full of moments like this, and one notices the ways the work of the academic influences the rich textures of the description. Third, this is yet one more of these moments where consulting the archive opens up a path to meaning (though not in the way Gower at first intends). The forgotten, the ancient mechanisms of meaning, turn, revealing themselves in ways we (or Gower) may not realize initially.

Which brings me back around to language. The opening mystery is witnessed by a character who does not understand that the language being spoken is Italian. This is significant because some of the political intrigue working in the background of the book is misunderstanding and underestimating the Italian influence on English politics. Is this a way to jibe Chaucer for not owning up to borrowing from Boccaccio? Probably. But more significantly Holsinger is suggesting both the power of language and how it circulates among social class and the ways in which borders (both national and language-wise) are porous. It all bleeds through.

Cosmopolitanism revolves around the exchange of language. In this book medieval London and Southwark illustrate the swirling linguistic and social conflicts that characterize political, class, and gender struggle. Interpretation and meaning making are marks of the creation of a world. Holsinger sets forth a world in which who gets to make meaning and who gets to evaluate communication proves the fine line between life and death.

And Moral Gower has to tread that line.

Christopher Roman

Kent State University Tuscarawas

Ladan Niayesh, ed.: A Knight's Legacy

Ladan Niayesh, ed. A Knight’s Legacy: Mandeville and Mandevillian Lore in Early Modern England (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 2011).

Reviewed by Andrew Bozio (andrew.bozio@lmc.gatech.edu)

Since David Aers’s seminal essay, “A Whisper in the Ear of Early Modernists; or, Reflections on Literary Critics Writing the ‘History of the Subject,’” scholars of Renaissance literature have been encouraged to reconsider the influence of medieval literature and culture upon the early modern period.[1] One of the strengths of Ladan Niayesh’s edited collection, A Knight’s Legacy: Mandeville and Mandevillian Lore in Early Modern England, is that it enables this reconsideration of periodization with exceptional precision. Certainly, the volume’s most specific contribution comes in its ability to advance the field of Mandeville studies; prior to its publication, it was possible to say, as Mary Baine Campbell notes in her introduction, that “no collection of scholarly essays related to Mandeville’s Travels yet exists in English or French” (1). But the methodological strength of this volume lies in its use of Mandeville’s Travels as an instrument for exploring the refashioning of medieval thought within the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. In three sections, the volume moves chronologically to trace the ways in which Mandeville’s Travels was disseminated, adapted, and reimagined in the years following its initial composition. The result is not only a more nuanced understanding of Mandeville’s place within premodern culture, but also keen insight into the way that Mandeville, and medieval culture more broadly, was reinvented over the course of the early modern period.

In the first section, Michael C. Seymour, Charles W. R. D. Moseley, and Kenneth Parker study the reception of various editions of Mandeville’s Travels across the late medieval and early modern periods. Collectively, these essays undermine a familiar narrative of epistemic rupture, where the Renaissance ushers in a period of skepticism and scientific inquiry that reveals the beliefs of the medieval period to be, at best, naïve. Namely, as Moseley argues, it is “simplistic” to assume that “as a result of ‘new discoveries’ the factual credibility of Mandeville’s description of the world evaporated towards the end of the sixteenth century – between, say, the two editions of Hakluyt’s Principall Navigations (1589, 1598-99)” (28). Suggesting, instead, a profound complexity within the reception of Mandeville’s Travels, these essays contain a wealth of information, and they represent a valuable resource for anyone interested in understanding the manner of Mandeville’s dissemination or in theorizing the political and ideological significance of his reception. 

Building upon this work, the essays of the second section foreground what Niayesh terms “Mandevillian ideologies,” or the styles of thought that Mandeville develops and, in turn, disseminates with the circulation of the Travels. Drawing upon Rosemary Tzanaki’s concept of religious geography, Leo Carruthers foregrounds the relationship between spiritual and physical spaces, using this intimacy to illuminate the peculiar topography of the Travels. In turn, Matthew Dimmock builds upon the relationship between religious belief and geographic space in his excellent essay on Mandeville’s treatment of Islam. Rather than appraise Mandeville’s putative tolerance of Islam, Dimmock notes that the Travels represented, in the words of Frank Grady, “the most popular secular book in circulation,” and thus, according to Dimmock, it became “undoubtedly a primary source for medieval Christian notions of Islam, the Qur’an and the Prophet Muhammad” (93). The essay is rich in nuance, showing the complexity of Mandeville’s consideration of Islam and of Muhammad. Scholars of medieval England may be particularly interested by Dimmock’s claim that the Travels argues for the conversion of the Muslims against their destruction in the Crusades and, in so doing, articulates an idea that would reemerge in certain strands of Lollard thought, Langland’s Piers Plowman, and The Book of Margery Kempe. With still greater focus, Line Cottegnies considers the status of Mandeville’s Travels in early modern England by contrasting the work with Sir Walter Ralegh’s The Discoverie of Guiana (1596). Although both texts are presented as travel narratives, as Cottegnies argues, they differ sharply in “their epistemologies of travel” (110). Namely, Mandeville relies upon the auctoritas of earlier explorers to ground his work, whereas Ralegh “uses a type of experimental observation” in his encounter with other cultures, anticipating Francis Bacon’s work in The Advancement of Learning (1605) (109). Thus, although several essays in the collection disrupt our sense of an epistemological break between the medieval and the early modern periods, Cottegnies’ essay reinforces the idea of a profound discontinuity, embodied most palpably in the styles of reasoning that Mandeville and Ralegh deploy. Arguably, this tension is one of the real strengths of the collection. Taken as a whole, the essays of this collection show how one might rethink the nature of periodization with intellectual rigor and new insight.

In tracing the contours of Mandevillian ideology, the essays of the second section lay a strong foundation for the concluding section of the book, which concerns the representation of Mandeville and Mandevillian lore upon the early modern stage. This section, entitled “Mandevillian stages,” is the culmination of the collection, in part because the essays suggest how reception and ideology fuse together within the dissemination and adaptation of Mandeville’s Travels. Richard Hillman reveals that Christopher Marlowe’s Tamburlaine the Great, Parts 1 and 2 (1587-88) were strongly influenced by the story of Judith and Holofernes. Also drawing upon the work of Rosemary Tzanaki, Ladan Niayesh argues in her fine essay that there were “five dominant types of receptions” of Mandeville’s Travels in the medieval period, when the work was treated “as a pilgrimage itinerary, a geographical treatise, a romance, a history or a work of theology” (161). Niayesh then localizes this plurality within the figure of Prester John, showing how the transformation of his character over the course of the late medieval and early modern periods reflects “not just the changing fortunes of Mandeville’s legacy but the errancies in the West’s complex relationship to ‘the East’ (taken in its broadest sense)” (166-167).

In another stellar contribution to the volume, Gordon McMullan traces the ways in which early modern drama appropriated Mandeville’s Travels in works such as Jonson’s New Inn (1629) and Shakespeare’s The Tempest (c. 1611) before offering a focused reading of John Fletcher’s The Island Princess (1621), a play that McMullan persuasively argues invokes and refashions Mandevillian imagery. By extending his discussion to include recent performances of The Island Princess, some painfully relevant in light of the 2002 Bali bombing, McMullan also offers a solemn reminder of the politics of history and temporality, a central concern of this collection. Finally, in her essay on Richard Brome’s The Antipodes (1636-38), Claire Jowitt considers the ambiguous place of Mandeville’s Travels within a play about fantastical travel. Using Brome’s play to consider both the status of Mandeville’s Travels within the seventeenth century and the “larger political and generic questions concerning the ways in which dramatic texts use travel writing in this period,” Jowitt reveals that Brome, like Mandeville, transforms new worlds into templates for understanding the old (197).

In short, the strength of this collection lies in its efforts to define Mandeville’s place within the politics of place and periodization in late medieval and early modern England. In “Of Other Spaces,” Michel Foucault argues that the Renaissance differed fundamentally from the medieval period in its conception of the nature of location. If the medieval episteme was defined by “a hierarchic ensemble of places: sacred places and profane places; protected places and open, exposed places; urban and rural places,” the early modern period witnessed the invention of space as an a priori and immaterial dimension; “extension was substituted for localization,” in Foucault’s words, as part of a conceptual shift that Max Jammer, Edward Grant, and Edward Casey have described at considerable length.[2] A Knight’s Legacy adds nuance to this schematic history. By tracing the reception and reinvention of Mandeville’s Travels across the late medieval and early modern periods, this collection reveals the difficulty of speaking in broad terms about Mandeville as a singular figure, one whose work was uncritically absorbed in a particular era only to be soundly rejected in the next. Indeed, the essays invoke a dominant narrative of epistemological rupture only to undermine it, and, in doing so, they reveal new continuities and discontinuities between the medieval and early modern period. For these reasons, A Knight’s Legacy represents an exciting collection that would appeal to anyone seeking to understand the continual reinvention of Mandeville’s Travels and, more broadly, the appropriation and adaptation of medieval thought.

Andrew Bozio

Georgia Institute of Technology

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[1] David Aers, “A Whisper in the Ear of Early Modernists; or, Reflections on Literary Critics Writing the ‘History of the Subject’,” in Culture and History, 1350-1600: Essays on English Communities, Identities and Writing, ed. David Aers (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1992), 177-202.

[2] Michel Foucault, “Of Other Spaces,” translated by Jay Miskowiec and published in Diacritics 16, no. 1 (Spring 1986): 22-27, esp. 22-23. See also Max Jammer, Concepts of Space: The History of Theories of Space in Physics, third edition (New York: Dover Publications, 1993); Edward Grant, Much Ado About Nothing: Theories of Space and Vacuum from the Middle Ages to the Scientific Revolution (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981); and Edward S. Casey, The Fate of Place: A Philosophical History (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997).