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How the blog works




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Friday, 9 October 2020

Printing, Literacy & Bookselling in Early Renaissance Venice; Zoomed talk by Patricia Erskine-Hill, 25 September 2020

 

While for Shelley it may have been a case of

"Underneath Day’s azure eyes

 Ocean’s nursling, Venice, lies"       

Patricia Erskine-Hill, delivering the latest instalment  of Winchelsea’s Zoom Chronicles, had a different Venice in mind; a fully-weaned maritime power reaping the commercial harvest of a location straddling the main East-West and North-South trade routes and the metropole of an Empire incorporating Corfu, Cyprus, Crete and the Dalmatian coast. By the mid-15th century, Venice was the industrial powerhouse of its day with the Arsenale naval yard producing 300 ships a year by virtue of an advanced assembly line using a novel modular construction method.

In 1462, an obscure German conflict, the Baden-Palatinate War, saw Mainz sacked and Gutenberg’s revolutionary printing presses destroyed casting his crew of trained printers adrift to seek another European haven  to  foster their craft. The Papal and Neapolitan courts were the initial magnets but some individuals drifted back north to wealthy, cosmopolitan Venice and set up shop there. At this time, print was challenging an established manuscript culture. Laboriously crafted, usually by monks, on expensive vellum (calfskin) these were a niche product for the weighty purses of the European elite and although they were widely distributed even the rich would only possess a few scripts. The scribes were artists whose skill delivered beautiful texts enlivened by a constellation of illustrations. Ownership conferred a social cachet and the manuscript market lasted for several decades after the coming of print. 

The tradition of literature presented as a thing of beauty was duly absorbed by the artisans of print and the audience was treated to a series of delightful slides demonstrating the work of the Venetian publishers, each of whom developed a characteristic “house style”. The format of the text varied with subject matter e.g. theology scripts came in a red and black Gothic font and in the early  days the surrounding illustrations were done by hand. Aldo Manuzio gave us italic script which allowed a more efficient use of page space and was used for more personal material. These printer/publishers were highly educated with Manuzio’s family famously conversing in classical Greek at home. His equally cerebral rival, Marcolini, was a confidant of Titian and publisher of Dante. His work was characterised by spare, plain text set in a clean, uncluttered layout. Their output was mainly Latin and Greek classics and  religious and devotional works which even featured exotic hybrids like a Book of Hours in Arabic. Other staples were fortune telling, cartomancy, chivalric romances drenched in lust and gore and subversive works like Boccaccio’s Decameron  - awash with obscenity and anti-clerical sentiment. Such specialised creativity was a target for plagiarists and although Manuzio had copyright  or “privilege” laws passed, the writ of the Venetian Republic did not run in Lyon or Breslau. Manuzio introduced the Octavo (i.e. Folio folded x3) format and targeted Army officers as a potential market for these” pocket books”.      

Although much more productive than its predecessor, print was still the province of the craftsman. The initial capital investment was substantial -a printing press and  movable type made by highly skilled cutters for whom Greek, Arabic and Hebrew script  proved particularly challenging. The fonts were made from an alloy of lead, tin and the highly toxic antimony.  and each press needed two compositors, two pressmen and an apprentice The last graduated to journeyman which often entailed becoming a travelling salesman for the firm. .Paper was made from rags and relatively expensive and the paper mills in Treviso and Parma had to increase their output  to meet the rising demand. An average print run at this stage consisted ,of around 400 copies although Manuzio had gone to 3000 copies for popular works. The minimum viable run was 100 copies. The workforce was drawn from the cittadini originali, the Venetian citizenry, and had to be literate, numerate and have a working knowledge of Latin. 

The readership was drawn from the nobility, the clergy, the merchant class and the upper echelon of artisans. 33% of adult males and 13% of females (nuns and wives and daughters of the elite) could read with half the literate males knowing Latin.  In Venice, the Rialto bridge and the streets of  Le Mercerie were favoured pitches for book sales. Publishing was an international trade and family networks helped distribution across Europe and the Levant. Northern Europe was the main market and large bookfairs were held in Strasbourg and Nuremburg. Lasting legacies of  this period were the refinement of punctuation with the introduction of the colon and semicolon, the use of annotations and the glossary, in a  move towards the standardisation of language.   

Decline of the Venetian book trade set in around 1560 as competition increased in the secular book market. The city’s open, liberal,  commercial  ethos drew it to the attention of Protestant Reformers who saw a potential door into Italy. As all Monty Python fans would have expected ,  this occurred to the Counter-Reformation Inquisition too and they firmly closed the door. Their introduction of pre-publication censorship reduced the industry’s responsiveness and  popular appeal.

For the sensualists among the Lit. Soc. membership  Patricia Erskine -Hill’s talk would have been illuminating and inspiring, encouraging them to continue to savour the appearance and the feel of a book while naturally retaining their ability to eschew judging it by its cover. 

 William Doherty

 

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Wednesday, 26 August 2020

Review by Howard Norton of Jonty Driver's latest poetry: "The Slave-Bell at Doornhoek" and "£he Chinese Poems 1979 _ 2030"

 

I have just finished reading a brilliant anthology entitled, 100 Poems That Make Men Cry.  It should certainly have included The Slave-Bell at Doornhoek.  I loved the poem’s rich and graphic language: phrases like, ‘We drown in all the ambiguities of what we were and what we are’, and ‘bedraggled memories of my tainted past’. The illustration of the slave bell is deeply moving and adds greatly to the impact of the poem. 

 The Chinese Poems are so varied. They display all Jonty’s versatility, talent for conveying mood, and refusal to take the world at face value.  Some of them evoke Hardy for me (a writer who, like Jonty, moved from novels to poetry).  The key to the collection lies in the Preface where Jonty admits, ‘The Far East revived my sense of memory’.  His yearning for the sights and sounds and smells of his boyhood Africa constantly surfaces, sometimes overtly as in, ‘Shall I never again see the Lowverdt’ or ‘the bright-speared aloes’ (both from the poem Somewhere Else) but always lurking.  He is a displaced person whose term in China is a second exile, ‘I am no longer sure I know even where my home is’, and ‘I belong nowhere now’, he laments (both from the poem Quintet).  He feels doubly alienated as a political exile and as a poet, ‘A poet’s home is always somewhere else’.

Some of these poems are difficult.  We have to grapple with them because, ‘they might be a code’ (Letter to BB).  Jonty is always a subversive poet in the best sense challenging us to go beyond easy assumptions and superficial appearances.  How emphatically he rejects the assertion that, ‘Things mean precisely what they mean to show’. (Death and the Painted Lady)

The Water Margins is my favourite poem.  The old man seems, like Jonty, to have been banished.  As he relives his memories the regrets accumulate, ‘If only, if only’, but the poem ends serenely, ‘I feared those voices would be baleful, instead they are kind of peaceful, kind of accepting’.  His companion, perhaps a ‘post-modernist philosopher’ mocks his trust, ‘Do you really think you can hear what the reeds say?’.  But the wise old man rejects rationality. He trusts instead to a more primitive faith in the intuitions of nature and thereby finds peace.

Christmas in Hong Kong is a powerful diatribe against the callous materialism of Christmas.  The crowds, intent on buying luxurious presents, ‘lurch sideways to avoid someone bent and stinking asleep in the stairwell’.  The identification in the last verse of God who ‘fathered’ this Christmas with the disregarded tramp is a powerful juxtaposition.

The whole collection breathes humility.  Jonty loves China but only From Afar.  He does not pretend to understand that wonderfully rich culture - none of us does - and we need to be reminded of that as we follow Trump’s America and risk provoking a new Cold War.

Details of how to obtain these works, and Jonty's two other recent collections, are in the September issuee of the newsletter.

 

Three New and Topical Verses by Andrew Bamji

 

A New Fuel

 Collect them?  But I don’t know how!

The eructations of a cow?

The fermentation in the beasts

Is like the froth of brewer’s yeasts

And from the front (if not the back)

There pours out methane by the sack

Litres of it, warmly forming,

Helping fuel global warming.

So what if we collect it all?

Mask the beasts up in their stall,

Tubes – or something of that ilk

Applied as we collect their milk

And stored in vats of giant size

(though these we’d have to pressurise)

Try it – and I think you’ll see

It’s cheaper, far, than LPG.

Forget the chick, or ewe, or sow,

We’ll power Britain from the cow.

 

A Cultural Tour

 

The Ashcroft-Stones are seething, and at reception loiter

To moan that all the damp and mould is no good for her goitre;

Mr Ackers always chatters though with not a lot to say,

Mrs Badger bores you rigid, for the coach trip lasts a day;

The guide is trying to pacify an angry Mr Burke

Whose suite has got no power, so his CPAP will not work;

Mrs Charlton's chuntering, demands they have a shift

For their room is much too noisy, it's adjacent to the lift;

And the gossip is infectious, but it’s not an urban myth

That Widow Carey’s had it off with Mr Porton-Smith;

While the Curwens keep their counsel, and they seem to be quite shy;

Mrs Drake describes her ailments, though it puzzles me quite why –

Mr Ecks you want to flatten, for he always is so rude

(though it helps to keep one’s temper by imagining him nude);

Mr Forbes has hit the bottle, and is easily amused

Mr Gant though’s incoherent, and aggressive, and confused;

Mr Gordon is a nuisance for he hasn’t yet deduced

That although the driver’s gay he doesn’t wish to be seduced;

Mrs Hanson hogs the guide, and is constantly a-querying,

Which many of the party find particularly wearying;

Mr Ibson lags for photographs, and so delays the tour,

And gets back on the coach and then falls fast asleep to snore;

Mr Johnson’s first for dinner and can pile his plate so high

That those arriving later find the dishes have run dry;

Mr Kingston orders litres of Rioja, chardonnay

And gets so tiddled he forgets, refuses then to pay;

Mr Medlar wants to make “adjustments”, change the whole damn tour

To fit in some ruined castle that he thinks would suit us more;

Mrs Milsom goes off shopping, Mr Nixon posts a letter,

As they vanish with the little gang who think that they know better

As they have a guide book, large-scale map and ideas from the Net

So they reckon their self-guided tour is much the better bet;

Mrs Oliver’s addicted to espresso, maybe two

While Mr Potter’s wonky prostate keeps him ages in the loo;

Mrs Pycroft’s taking downers, so is sleeping like a log

While Mr P collects the fatty scraps to feed the dog;

Quelch dawdles to the meeting point where tempers are soon rising,

But never says he’s sorry, which I find somewhat surprising;

Then there’s tiny Mrs Rogers, who shows off the whole day long

But it’s usually the case that she is absolutely wrong;

And poor old Mrs Sextaby has fallen in the bath,

But she is quite a stoic and decides it’s quite a laugh,

Though the party has to slow down, and so prolong the trip

For Mr Tapley-Fanshawe’s having trouble with his hip;

And Mrs Uglow’s face begins alarmingly to swell –

She’s allergic to the shellfish, and to aubergines as well –

Mr Victor and Miss Waterlow are camera-mad, and natter

Over whose is more expensive and whose telephoto’s fatter

But Miss Xerxes’ pics are better, with a camera that’s on loan,

(Mr Young forgot to bring his, and can’t work his mobile phone);

Mrs Yoxon took a bike ride to the church with Mrs Fitch

And encountered a pantechnicon, and ended in a ditch;

Mr Zen is quite belligerent – he’s had far too much Asti

And wants to know why he cannot attack the antipasti…

But although we are quite certain that we cannot stand the pain,

Why- next year we’ll be queueing up to do it all again!

 

 

 

The Pandemic cometh

(with apologies to Flanders and Swann)

 

 It was on the Monday morning that the government took fright

There was a new pandemic; it kept them up all night

They held a big press briefing to explain the plans they had;

It was going to be a lockdown, which would be pretty bad.

Oh it all makes work for the government to do…

 

 On Tuesday morn the CMO was sensibly wheeled out;

Explaining virus R numbers, and what they were about,

He said intensive care bed numbers needed to inflate

To take the sickest patients we would need to ventilate.

Oh it all makes work for the government to do…

 

On Wednesday Matt Hancock said new hospitals would come,

He’d called the army engineers, and soon the job was done;

The Nightingale facilities were splendid don’t you know,

But ICU’s weren’t overwhelmed, so soon they had to go…

Oh it all makes work for the government to do…

 

On Thursday Rishi Sunak furloughed all the locked-down staff,

Told bosses not to sack them, for the nation would pay half,

Production hit rock bottom, but he was pleased he could announce

That the problem would not last long, the economy would bounce…

Oh it all makes work for the government to do…

 

On Friday Gavin Williamson played down the teachers’ fuss,

(He sounds just like Frank Spencer, but what is that to us);

All schools would shut, and parents anyway were all off work

So they could do the teaching! That drove them quite berserk.

Oh it all makes work for the government to do…

 

On Saturday it seemed quite clear the crisis was to end,

 So people started partying with family and a friend

But then a spike of cases came, In Leicester and near Crewe

The government took fright again, so guess what they might do…

On Sunday ‘twas decided that relaxing was insane,

So come the Monday morning… lockdowns started up again!