Hebert: Morgan le Fay, Shapeshifter

Jill M. Hebert. Morgan le Fay, Shapeshifter. Arthurian and Courtly Cultures. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013.

Reviewed by Misty Schieberle (mschiebe@ku.edu)

Morgan le Fay, Shapeshifter celebrates the ambiguity, inconsistency, and resistance to patriarchal control in literary representations of Morgan and Morgan-like figures. As Hebert explains in her introduction, for her, “the term ‘shapeshifter’ is both a denotative and a connotative term signaling Morgan’s ability to change ‘shape,’ to evade being shaped by others, and to manipulate the shape of others such as the knights with whom she interacts” (5). Thus, the book’s focus also shifts, depending on the texts under consideration. The book ambitiously surveys Morgan le Fay’s appearances from early Latin chronicles and medieval literature through the Early Modern, Romantic, and Victorian eras to finally explore Mark Twain’s Connecticut Yankee, Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Mists of Avalon, and selected contemporary fiction. It will be a useful reference for students and Morgan enthusiasts for its sheer ability to synthesize so much prior scholarship and provide intertextual readings of a wide range of Arthurian literature.

The project is necessarily broad in scope to trace general similarities and common issues, with an eye to reconsidering the binaries of “good” and “evil,” with regard to Morgan’s character. Readers who are searching for evidence of Morgan as a potentially positive character who challenges patriarchy or instructs Arthur will find much material to enliven their perspective; skeptics, however, may require more convincing because often coverage takes precedent over textual detail and context. Nevertheless, readers should find Hebert’s account a useful narrative of how authors and readers of various centuries viewed Morgan’s relationship to Arthur, her access to power and challenges to stereotypes of women (and the discomfort she caused many male writers), and her character itself, including the perhaps surprising self-doubt that plagues her in more recent works.

The first chapter examines selections from four Latin sources – Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Vita Merlini, Etienne de Rouen’s Draco Normannicus, and, very briefly, both De Instructione Principis and Speculum Ecclesiae by Gerald of Wales. Hebert challenges the scholarly consensus that Morgan is represented as a caring, wholesome figure in these works, before the later romances constructed her as a malicious force. She also addresses Celtic goddess figures, primarily the Morrigan, whose ambiguity and complex character she identifies as an influence on early Latin sources. Then she asserts that in each Latin text, the positive descriptions of Morgan as healer or loving sister are undermined by various possible interpretations of certain surrounding textual elements. These assertions often turn on interpretations of single words or phrases, for example, when the Vita uses a Latin word (medicamen) that might mean both antidote and poison to describe Morgan’s “healing” (29), or when the Draco’s reference to Arthur’s fatalia iura is taken as a link to Morgan as fay (32). Still, such readings encourage the reader to reinvestigate the text and reconsider the possibilities for Morgan’s character.

Chapter two treats episodes that feature Morgan in the Vulgate and Post-Vulgate cycle and Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, but it also connects Morgan to loathly lady and fairy mistress narratives including Thomas of Chestre’s Launfal, The Wedding of Sir Gawain and Dame Ragnelle, The Wife of Bath’s Tale, and Parzival. Given that many of these narratives occur at least partially in the forest rather than in a courtly setting, this exploration leads to one of Hebert’s most persuasive arguments: knights’ experiences in the forest require them to reevaluate courtly social norms and expand their realm of knowledge. Women and the notion of knightly submission to women’s knowledge are central to this educational experience, and Hebert finds parallels to Morgan in all the women who advance a knight’s education.

The third chapter examines Malory’s Arthur through the lens of Geoffrey de Charny’s early fourteenth-century chivalric manuals and argues that Morgan’s character calls attention to the imperfections that make Arthur an unworthy king (70). Ambitiously, Hebert reads Morgan as “Arthur’s backbone” and as a political counselor who tries to force her brother to deal with private issues such as Lancelot and Guinevere’s affair and knights’ disloyalty (72). To do so, Hebert must gloss the Accolon and 'poisoned mantle' episodes as instructive for Arthur and not meant to do genuine harm, which is a difficult task, since characters’ intents are elusive in Malory. Hebert attributes Morgan’s failure as such a counselor to Arthur’s willful ignorance and repression of her lessons, not to the fact that her attempts are manifested through oblique tests that men can dismiss all too easily as trivial or malicious, rather than through direct speech or counsel. Yet the notion that Malory means to critique the court or chivalric values through Morgan is ultimately persuasive, as is the reading of Excalibur’s scabbard (Latin: vagina) as representing the court’s underestimation of women’s potential to help or harm the court.

Chapter four explores the widest range of material yet, some of which only feature echoes of Morgan, constituting what Hebert calls “presence-in-absence”: Spenser’s Faerie Queene (1590s); Keats’ “La Belle Dame Sans Merci” (1884); Pre-Raphaelite art; literary works by minor authors Benedict Naubert (1826), Mrs. T. K. Hervey (1863), Diana Craik (1853), and Madison J. Cawein (1889); the folk ballad “Thomas the Rhymer” (1802); and Tennyson’s Idylls of the King (1859-1885). Although Morgan does not appear in the Faerie Queene, Hebert argues that Spenser, indebted to Malory, distributes Morgan’s abilities across the negative characters Argante, Acrasia, Duessa, and Malecasta. Hebert then shifts to the Romantic and Victorian eras, considering social views of the fallen woman and the Angel of the House archetype. In this light, a Morgan character proves problematic for the various writers who attempt to reduce her complexity and impose restrictions on her. Hebert’s reading of Tennyson’s Vivien as an ignored advisor recalls her reading of Malory’s Morgan and suggests that Vivien fails because she is a woman and not trusted by men. This is at least partially true, but, of course, Tennyson also shows Vivien openly lying and manipulating the truth (as in her two different versions of her parents’ deaths), indicating that her gender may not be the only problem with her character. The chapter is especially noteworthy for its treatment of the less canonical writers, such as Hervey, whose Guenevere impressively defends Morgan against men’s misrepresentations in a show of women’s solidarity, and Craik, who offers a more conservative defense, while more familiar or traditional depictions provide a broader literary context.

The final chapter addresses Mark Twain’s Connecticut Yankee (1889), Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Mists of Avalon (1982), J. Robert King’s Le Morte d’Avalon (2003), and Nancy Springer’s young adult novel I Am Morgan le Fay (2001), with a general focus on feminine power. For Hebert, Twain’s Hank Morgan and Morgan le Fay share similar values, but she is also someone he must displace as he gains power. Analysis of Bradley’s Mists complicates the notion of power due to the “overlapping power structures of masculine, Christian, and Celtic priestess society” (12), and Hebert convincingly challenges the notion of Mists as a feminist revision. Rather, she demonstrates how that view is undermined by the many moments of doubt and insecurity Morgan experiences that lead to destruction instead of success. The two more recent novels, though for different audiences, equally show a Morgan filled with self-doubt whose rebellion causes only destruction, which prompts Hebert to rightfully express concern that the still-dominant message delivered is that a talented woman’s challenges to patriarchy can result only in personal and social tragedy.

As this book illustrates, Morgan’s character is complex, elusive, and ever-shifting, and Hebert achieves a monumental task in bringing together such a variety of sources. One of the book’s impressive features is Hebert’s widespread reading in both Arthurian literature, including Welsh, French, and German texts that she references in addition to her main texts, and scholarship. She cites a wide array of sources, including folklore studies, feminist readings, historical analyses, art history, and academic and trade books from early 1900s to present publications, even unpublished dissertations and B.A. theses. Hebert clearly challenges some consensus views, but the impulse to cover so many texts frequently leaves little room for extensive analysis. As a result, Hebert’s survey is often insightful but sometimes uneven. For instance, she elides the many variations among the English 'loathly lady' tales, without considering whether the lady has control over her own shapeshifting (as in Chaucer) or not (as occurs more typically), which would complicate the questions regarding both female power and whether the fay analogue in the story is the loathly lady or the stepmother who enchanted her. Hebert thus opens suggestive avenues for interpretation, but the number and variety of texts covered prevents her from fully engaging more developed intertextual readings.

Even though at times I found myself desiring more details, Morgan le Fay, Shapeshifter regularly inspired me to want to turn to the texts or delve into the issues and questions Hebert raises. I have no doubt that the book will spark further investigations into the character of Morgan and her changing status during various eras of Arthurian literature.

Misty Schieberle

University of Kansas

Griffith: Hild

Nicola Griffith. Hild. New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2013.

Review by: Hilary Fox (hilary.fox@wayne.edu)

Most Anglo-Saxonists know St. Hild of Whitby, who presides over her pages of Bede’s Ecclesiastical History, as a teacher, administrator, and midwife of early English Christianity. The Hild of Nicola Griffith’s novel of the same name is not the energetic, saintly mother to monks and nuns described by her venerable biographer; instead, she is the Hild of the thirty-three years before the habit, who is most decidedly not a saint but still embodies the energy and determination that Bede, in his few paragraphs on her, can only hint at.

As Griffith points out in her notes, and as Anglo-Saxonists also know, little is known about Hild’s life prior to her foundation of Whitby. According to Bede, she is the daughter of Hereric, nephew to Edwin of Northumbria, and his wife Breguswith. When Hild and her sister Hereswith were still girls, Hereric died by poison; his death sent his widow and two daughters to Edwin’s court, where eventually thirteen-year-old Hild was baptized along with the rest of Edwin’s house by Paulinus of York. Hild’s childhood and adolescence are the focus of Griffith’s novel, which sets out not to reaffirm Bede’s hagiography, but to question it, in order to find out the source of Hild’s reputation as counselor to kings and prelates. Griffith finds it not in Breguswith’s vision of her daughter as the light of the world, but in Hild’s ability to read patterns and the necessity of exploiting every resource at hand—mental, physical, spiritual—in the service of survival.

Breguswith’s vision of a visionary daughter is the centerpiece of Bede’s portrayal of Hild’s exemplary piety and influence. One night, in the course of a dream that seems to portend Hereric’s death, Breguswith discovers a bright necklace beneath her robe, shining so brightly its light spreads throughout Britain. In Hild, however, her daughter’s light is not the light of steadfast faith that guides lesser mortals on the path to Heaven: it is a light carefully crafted to turn keen insight into prophecy, prophecy into counsel, and counsel into survival for two women, Breguswith and her handmaiden, Onnen, as well as their children: Hild, Hereswith, and the sisters’ half-brother by Hereric, Cian. Indeed, despite its frequent invocations of prophecy and second sight, and the elves and sidhe that lurk on the margins of superstition, Hild is devoted not to fantasy or the supernatural as such, but to how women make practical use of the uncanny to secure their place in a world hedged about by men and violence.

While Bede’s Hild is destined to become a saint, Griffith’s Hild has wyrd, the “fully-fixed” fate of The Wanderer and Beowulf, fate which “goes as ever it must.” Her wyrd is to function as the agent of her people’s survival, and so she takes on multiple roles in the dangerous court of her uncle: first she is seer, then warrior, then judge, then, in her own word, butcher-bird, leading the slaughter of bandits coming out from the lands of Edwin’s rivals. Like a chameleon, she adapts herself to each role demanded of her; the people of the court and the lands through which she passes see her not as a girl, but as a being occupying some strange, hybrid space between elf, giant, and hag. Paulinus of York, on his mission to convert Edwin, thinks she’ll go up in smoke when she receives the chrism. Almost unnaturally tall and large-built, with red-gold hair and uncanny eyes, Hild’s appearance encourages such speculation, speculation she puts to good use in moments when Edwin’s ferocity, pride, and ill-judgment threatens both his rule and the safety of Hild’s family. Hild’s adaptability is born of necessity; the brightness of her counsel, like the brightness of the seax she carries, is not supernatural, but carefully crafted, the product of conscious deliberation and the knowledge of what will happen if she fails, or proves useless to Edwin’s plans. On occasion, such as when Hild gambles everything to tell Edwin Æthelburh will give birth to a healthy son and heir as a crucial juncture in Northumbrian politics, or when her brother-friend Cian foolishly marries the daughter of one of Edwin’s many rivals, we are reminded that, for all her uncanniness, Hild is only human, and her sight has definite limits. When Hild repeatedly tells herself she is “the light of the world,” the phrase is not so much an invocation of otherworldly power as a reminder of the role her two mothers—Breguswith and necessity—have thrust upon her.

The politics and familial relationships of the novel are a bog to get trapped in, and it’s understandable why one would need a seer to make sense of them. Because of this, one of the strengths of Hild is its insistence on treating its characters—Anglo-Saxon, British, Irish—as men and women intimately versed in the exigencies of political and practical survival. Negotiations for marriage and alliance are as detailed as descriptions of sheep-shearing, dairying, and hunting. The Christians—prominent among them are the future saint Fursey, Paulinus, and James the Deacon—are not the iconic Scripture-bearing figures pointing the way to a bright Christian future, but representatives of a foreign king whose claims to divine aid must be weighed against those of the old faith. The conversion of Edwin’s court is not spiritual, but immensely practical, and is acknowledged as such by almost everyone in attendance. Begu, Hild’s companion, frequently punctures moments of solemnity with hilarious conjectures on the nature of God and the Holy Spirit—and falls asleep on Hild’s shoulder while listening to the conversion sermon.

For those who know their Anglo-Saxon church history, there’s much to delight in the backstories of the men of the Ecclesiastical History. Fursey, Hild’s tutor, is as involved in court intrigues as she is, and has a taste for fine food and drink. James the Deacon, an Italian trapped in the cold north, enjoys wine and leading the choir—a cheerful counterpart to “the Crow,” Hild’s name for the dark, brooding Paulinus. We even have a glimpse of a young Cædmon, still herding cows in the hills above Hild’s home in Mulstanton.

The world in which Hild and her kinswomen move is a world unlike the isolated, insular world most commonly imagined upon hearing the phrase “early Middle Ages” (or worse, “the Dark Ages”). While the focus remains steadfastly on the complicated politics surrounding Edwin’s court, the threads of politics and trade inevitably lead elsewhere: to Ireland, Scotland, across the channel to Francia and even further, to Rome—and, beyond that, hints of the Silk Road and the Spice Islands. Pepper, silk, olive oil, incense, and Rhenish wine have their places alongside the cows, hunting dogs, and sheep, as well as the plants the women gather for cooking and healing. When the women sit weaving, their weaving makes clothes for the court, cloth for trade, and the fabric for marriage, alliance, and diplomacy. Griffith’s research on the archaeology and every day life of the period is extensive, and pays off, as scenes of everyday life become backdrops for Hild’s consideration and meditation on how to guide Edwin down safer paths.

Hild’s powers of observation are also the powers of Griffith’s prose. Most 500+ page novels would drag under the weight of description, but Hild’s ability to “see” the future is her ability to read the present, to identify patterns, to extrapolate, and her insight into her world is our insight into her political maneuvering. But Hild is also a girl of thwarted, desperate passion; her anger, determination, and loneliness are described as acutely as a rare ramble in the woods with her friends. In the moments she’s allowed release—in bed with Gwladus, her slave, or in her sparring sessions with Cian—we are allowed to see the extent to which Hild’s career has forced her into self-discipline, but cannot entirely tame her. In a world where she can allow herself few close friendships, her relationships with Begu and Cian are her touchstones, and are all the more real and affecting for Hild’s otherwise isolated life.

Hild is concerned with what goes on behind the making of hagiography, what gets left out and what is carefully modified in order to paint the icons it does. Griffith’s Hild, like her name, is a girl of battles, not the woman who oversees an influential abbey and serves as mother to her monks and nuns. At the end of the novel, she is still very much a part of the secular world, embarking on her next mission to keep herself, her friends, and her people safe, but we also see the qualities that must lie behind the vigorous abbess of Bede’s few paragraphs, brought brilliantly to life.

Hilary Fox
Wayne State University

Trigg: Shame and Honor

Stephanie Trigg. Shame and Honor: A Vulgar History of the Order of the Garter. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2012.

Reviewed by: Emily Griffiths Jones (egjones@mit.edu)

Although recent job lists have occasionally made me rue the day I chose as a graduate student to pursue Early Modern rather than medieval studies, Stephanie Trigg’s Shame and Honor made me delighted to be what I am: a scholar of another period who remains fascinated by the medieval, both in terms of its resonances throughout later eras and its enduring influence on contemporary popular culture. Trigg is a medievalist who aims in this book to build “a bridge between two disciplines that have sometimes seemed antithetical”—medieval studies and medievalism studies—and who successfully presents a vibrant example of how diverse fields of literary, historical, and cultural studies might speak to one another (11). Shame and Honor is an unconventional and ambitious history of the Order of the Garter from its foundation in the 1340s through the present day, one that flouts usual strictures on periodization and responds to the growing demand for scholarship that rethinks such boundaries.

Trigg seems to have chosen the Order of the Garter for her subject both out of personal enthusiasm for its strangeness and for its exemplary illustration of how the historical phenomena of the Middle Ages adapt, or are adapted, to later fetishizations of the medieval. Pointing to the Order’s “more or less continuous history of activity” since its founding, she proposes that it “resonates both backward and forward in time” as a medieval institution “and as an ongoing project of medievalism” (3, 5). Her book takes as its “repeated theme […] the necessary tensions between the Order’s periodic appeals to its medieval foundations, on the one hand, and its insistence, on the other, that it can update itself and remain responsive to the ever-changing imperatives of modernity” (6). Trigg is quick to note that Shame and Honor does not seek to offer “a straightforward or comprehensive narrative of the Order’s history” and in fact that it “works against conventional chronologies.” (14, 13). She characterizes it instead as “a symptomatic long history,” one which critically examines certain key moments when the Order considers its own odd origins and interrogates or reinvents its practices to suit its present needs (14). In addition to resisting the limits imposed by strict diachronic narrative, Trigg proposes that in order to fully grasp how the Order has transformed, we must explore it simultaneously “in historical, cultural, and imaginative terms”: accordingly, her analysis throughout the book rests on striking examples not just from history, but also from literature and popular culture (11). Shame and Honor is a “vulgar history” of the Order of the Garter because it depends both upon the sexuality inherent in the Order’s foundational myth—in which King Edward III glorifies an undergarment that has fallen from a lady’s leg—and upon unofficial popular impressions and interpretations of the Order.

The book is divided into three parts. The first, “Ritual Histories,” presents a roughly chronological account of the Order’s origins and its first few centuries. In chapter one, Trigg establishes the three concepts that will be crucial to the rest of her analysis: “ritual criticism,” the ongoing and often fraught conversation about the Order’s origins and practices; “mythic capital,” whereby the medieval period’s aura of mystery and romance continually regenerates the Order’s cultural status; and “medievalism,” the reimagining of the Middle Ages. Here, Trigg introduces the myth of the Order’s foundation, the enigmatic motto Honi soit qui mal y pense (“Shamed be he who thinks evil of it”), and the way both the myth and the motto entwine the concepts of honor and shame. The continuous history of the Order, Trigg suggests, is deceptive, since cultural senses of the honorable and the shameful are always in flux; however, the contentious discourse about the Order’s origins and ritual practices enhances its mythic capital, and so ensures the ongoing vitality of both the Order and debates surrounding it.

The second chapter rehearses what we know (and what we do not) about the Order’s medieval foundation and its central mythology; Trigg argues that the ambiguity of the motto, which “celebrates its own ambivalence,” and of the founding story contributes to the Order’s mythic capital by “seem[ing] to confer a kind of authority […] on those cunning or bold enough to decode” the occluded medieval “knowledge” (71, 68). Her case is bolstered by short readings of several early texts that reference the Order and explore the intertwining of shame and honor, femininity and masculinity, and sexuality and chivalry: Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, the 1460 romance Tirant Lo Blanc, and Polydor Vergil’s early sixteenth-century Anglica Historia. Trigg demonstrates how the “persistent fascination with” and “equal distrust of” the Order’s sexy origin stories “[generate] rather than [close] down interpretations” (65, 71).

In chapter three, Trigg considers the first few hundred years of historical commentaries on the Garter and how they critique and renegotiate the medieval past, balancing the Order’s mythic capital with the embarrassment engendered by its foundational eroticism (whether romantic and heterosexual or chivalric and homosocial) and by the temporary humiliation of the monarch. She suggests that “the very medievalness” that these histories must confront “plays an important role in the freedom of invention,” proposing that the Renaissance witnessed the “gradual development of a self-consciously modern scholarly method, one that takes active pleasure in sifting and sorting various medieval accounts” (106, 116). Early scholars of the Order and its rituals were both attracted to and made anxious by its medieval heritage, and by “the potential of medieval tradition to confer shame and honor” (123).

Part two, “Ritual Practices,” is less chronological and more thematic in its explorations of the Order’s medieval legacy. Chapter four looks closely at the concept of shame—the flip side of the Order’s capacity to distribute honor—through the ritual expulsion of its members. Such ritual, Trigg argues, reflects “the uneven survival of medieval chivalry in postmedieval culture” (128). The chapter incorporates both historical examples of the dismissal of disgraced knights, in which period-specific politics merge with medieval ritual practice through “stripping the knight of his chivalric accouterments,” and brief literary examples drawn from Sir Gawain, Malory’s Morte D’Arthur, and (with some reductiveness) Shakespeare’s I Henry IV (136). It also explores the potential shamefulness of too much ritual pomp, in which the honor of the Garter risks becoming ludicrous, and again addresses the relationship between shame and sex through unruly popular songs that mock “attempts to regulate the distribution of shame and honor” (165).

The fifth chapter considers historical moments of ritual reform and change when the Order challenges, debates, or reflects upon medievalist tradition. Here, Trigg presents a compelling narrative in resistance to “proud” histories of the Order that stress tradition, evolution, and continuity; instead, she emphasizes instances of rupture and forgetting (171). These include moments of reform, such as Edward VI’s anxious de-Catholicizing of medieval tradition, and (most interestingly) the highly irregular history of women in the Order before their formal admission under Elizabeth II. Trigg reminds us that the Order is highly capable of adaptation and social change without necessarily conforming an orderly or progressive social teleology.

Chapter six, which explores medievalism through gender and the embodied performance of wearing the Garter, is perhaps the book’s strongest and most exciting section, in which Trigg’s capacity for nuanced criticism and her commitment to a multidisciplinary approach are most richly evident. Here, she performs engrossing readings of visual art, examining how the monarch performs the bestowal of the Garter; a reading of film alongside historical example, conceptualizing a “queer Garter” as “a sign that inaugurates shifting sexualities and multiple temporalities” (212); readings of portraiture and funeral effigy, showing how both female and male bodies problematize and transform Garter traditions; and finally a reading of a novella, Max Beerbohm’s Zuleika Dobson, revisiting problems of shame and honor through wardrobe choices in early twentieth-century “dandy fiction.”

The third and final part of Shame and Honor, “Ritual Modernities,” integrates the first two parts’ chronological and thematic approaches. Chapter seven recounts the history of the Order in twentieth and twenty-first centuries, exploring the intersections of the medieval with the modern and postmodern. Trigg proposes, quite convincingly by now, that we might read the English monarchy’s “long history of overcoming shame, scandal, and political challenges”—sexual and otherwise—“as a long, continuous gloss on the Garter motto” with its “defiant magic” (251). She poses the question of “how medieval, now, is the Order of the Garter?”, considering contemporary issues of ritual performance, costume, and photographic portraiture, and answers “that the increasingly vague and shifting notion of ‘tradition’ [has] displace[d] the historical specificity of the Order’s medieval origins” (252, 263). Today, medievalism has sometimes become a form of play or pastiche, both for the monarchy and within the popular or public sphere. Ultimately, Trigg concludes, the Order’s role at any point in time, including today, is bound up with its beginnings: it can never fully “resolve the question of its origin, and will never be able to acknowledge the medievalism of the medieval thing at its heart” (275).

As someone who works in seventeenth century studies, I might occasionally have been grateful for a more straightforwardly chronological approach that granted more equitable attention to successive periods or regimes. For instance, while Trigg offers an interesting extended discussion of Edward VI’s sixteenth-century concern about the Order’s Catholic associations with Saint George, her treatment of Charles II’s seventeenth-century relationship to the Order is mostly limited to a brief comment on his reaffirmation of monarchy, and references to the Interregnum—and to what the “shame and honor” of the Order might have meant then—occur only in passing. Readers may find their own special areas of interest similarly underrepresented here. However, Trigg is forthright about the fact that her book is a collection of illuminating case studies rather than a comprehensive historical narrative, and it is a fascinating one. Her work successfully invites further scholarship by encouraging readers to ask their own questions about how the Order’s role in one circumstance might transform in another. While Shame and Honor’s ambitious project of considering six and a half centuries of Garter history may uncover more material through some eras, genres, and themes than through others, it introduces richly provocative ideas to scholars of any period with an interest in medievalism.

Emily Griffiths Jones
Massachusetts Institute of Technology