A great deal of fuss has been made this week about a supposed ‘newly discovered portrait of Shakespeare’ found on the title page engraving of sixteenth century botany book. The editor of UK lifestyle magazine Country Life, in which the discovery was announced, declared it “The Literary Discovery of the Century”. The story was dutifully picked up by BBC News Online and such is the clout of the BBC that by yesterday all major news outlets were excitedly repeating the story, leading it to trend across social media. The botanist who made the discovery quickly morphed into a ‘historian’ and NBC news even multiplied him into ‘historians’ to add a little weight to the theory.
But the portrait is not a portrait of Shakespeare. There were one or two knowledgeable people explaining in the comments sections of various news items yesterday who it was and why, but since their explanations seem to have been drowned out by a slew of ‘hipster facial hair’ comments and breathless speculation, I thought I’d set them down here, in the hope that the madness might be stopped.
The engraving, on the frontispiece of John Gerard’s The Herbal or General History of Plants is a representation of Dioscorides, a Greek doctor from the time of the Roman emperor Nero. His book on herbal medicine had been the standard text on the subject for 1,500 years. In other words, he was considered something of an authority on the subject of the book, and was depicted there to give it his seal of approval. For being the top writer in his subject, he gets a laurel wreath on his head. The Roman army toga is a bit of a clue, for Dioscorides was a physician in the Roman army. Why Shakespeare would be depicted in a toga is anyone’s guess. Yes of course, this is how an Elizabethan actor might have been dressed in a Roman play. But we have no evidence that Shakespeare was ever seen on stage in a toga, and since many other actors were seen in togas, this would hardly identify him as Shakespeare. If you want to do that, at least put a quill in his hand.
We can be sure that the picture is meant to be Dioscorides because when the book was updated and reprinted in 1633, he was helpfully labelled. You can compare the two images for yourself. Here he is (lower right hand figure) in the first edition of 1597. And here is the same guy — same facial hair, same toga, same footwear — as the lower right hand figure in the second edition of 1633, on a plinth that says ‘Dioscorides’. Just in case someone thought he was Shakespeare, or Francis Drake, or someone else with a fancy moustache.
Country Life’s gardening expert, Mark Griffiths, makes a great deal of the fact that in the first edition the figure is holding a snake’s head fritillary. In Ovid’s version of the story which Shakespeare used for his long poem Venus and Adonis, Adonis was transformed into an anemone. Shakespeare referred to the flower only as ‘the purple flower… chequr’d with white’, which one scholar has suggested might be either a fritillary or a variegated tulip. But just because Shakespeare (possibly) referred to a fritillary, and even if he was the only poet of the period to do so, that doesn’t make any chap holding a fritillary into Shakespeare. And here’s something else. It was only in 2014 that anyone suggested that Shakespeare’s ‘purple flower… chequr’d with white’ was a fritillary.(1) We have no evidence that a single Elizabethan, or anyone before Mirian Jacboson, ever made that connection. We have no evidence that Gerard ever read Venus and Adonis. Nor has any plausible explanation been offered as to why Gerard would depict Shakespeare on the cover of his Herbal. Shakespeare wasn’t even particularly famous in 1597. Two long poems had been published with his name upon them, but the only Shakespeare plays that had been published (including Titus Andronicus) had been published anonymously. Plays at this time, like films now, were strongly associated with their playing companies: the actors who acted in them. Until his name began appearing on plays the following year, only business insiders and other writers would be likely to know who had written the plays we now know as Shakespeare’s.
Griffiths claims that the maize (corn on the cob) in the figure’s other hand is a reference to Titus Andronicus. But the ‘corn’ mentioned in Titus Andronicus is very clearly wheat, not the newly imported American plant maize. We know it is wheat because it is thrashed (“first thrash the corn, then burn the straw” – 2.3.123) and gathered into sheaths (“This scattered corn into one mutual sheaf” – 5.3.70). You do not do this with corn on the cob. ‘Corn’ in Elizabethan England denoted any kind of grain, and according to the Oxford English Dictionary, maize was not referred to as ‘corn’ without the modifier ‘Indian’ before 1809. For those who are struggling with the difference, here is wheat, the ‘corn’ in Titus Andronicus, the type that can be thrashed and gathered into sheafs.
Here is maize, known to Elizabethans ‘Indian corn’ and in this book, Gerard’s Herbal, as ‘Turkey corn': one large head of which the figure on the lower right (‘Shakespeare’/Dioscorides) is holding in his hand.
The ‘corn’ in Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus is the first kind, not the second kind. Shakespeare did not write about the second kind (maize) in his works. This removes any argument that it might be Shakespeare who is holding the maize.
The frontispiece show Dioscorides holding these new plants to make that point that Gerard’s book is bang up to date. The picture represents the ancient authority (Dioscorides) being updated with Gerard’s new knowledge. It is an attempt to establish Gerard as the new authority in the subject.
Now to the key part of the new claim; the peculiar ‘cipher’ written on the plinth underneath the figure, which Griffiths ‘decoded’ to arrive at Shakespeare. He sees the first part as a 4 (and also as an arrowhead) (with an ‘E’ stuck to it ). Quoting the Guardian article:
“In Elizabethan times, people would have used the Latin word “quater” as a slang term for a four in dice and cards. Put an e on the end and it becomes quatere, which is the infinitive of the Latin verb quatior, meaning shake. Look closely and the four can be seen as a spear.”
Look closely and you can see almost anything you want to see. In the fascinating world of the Shakespeare authorship question, I witness this kind of thing all the time. Griffiths says the ‘Or’ is because the Shakespeare family had recently been granted a coat of arms with a gold background and the heraldic term for gold is ‘Or’. Below that, he sees a ‘W’ for ‘William’. Case closed!
But this ‘cipher’ was in fact a ‘printer’s mark’ signifying ‘Nortons’. It was noted as the mark of William and John Norton in the 1749 book, Typographical Antiquities. Printer’s marks like this were a standard device of the period, as you can see from this frontispiece on the British Museum Website. And although William Norton was dead by 1597, John Norton (William’s nephew and apprentice) was the printer of the book and as as Griffiths points out ‘the venture was primarily John’s… the [financial] risk was chiefly his’.(1) The Nortons has used a number of different printers marks. Mark Griffiths, defending his ‘decode’ of this mark, lists some known one here. But none of these elaborate ones would have fitted into the small space available on the plinth. Thus they have opted for an ‘rebus’, a common Elizabethan device that works on the principle of our modern gameshow Catchphrase: ‘say what you see’. An ‘N’ is clearly visible at the top of the device, an ‘OR’ in the middle, and below this, three interlocking ‘X’s: Roman tens; very appropriate given that the figure standing on this plinth is in Roman toga. So say what you see, and the answer to this rebus is ‘NOR’-tens, the normal pronunciation of ‘Nortons’.
Griffiths believes the ‘OR’ of ‘Norton indicates the heraldic gold on Shakespeare’s coat of arms. But many people had gold in their coat of arms. One can only use this to support an answer one has already determined: it is not a necessary part of the puzzle if it is not needed to derive the answer. Similarly, he sees ‘W’ in the lower row, but has no explanation for the multiple crosses. More than that, he does not explain why, if this device is a ‘cipher’ for ‘W Shakespeare’, it needs to be in cipher at all. Why the secret code? Why not ‘Wm. Sh.’? No wonder certain Oxfordians are jumping upon this with glee. And they, of course, are ‘decoding’ the cipher entirely differently, as (not suprisingly) Edward de Vere. For them, the turkey corn (they at least realise there is no maize in Titus Andronicus) is because Vere has ‘turned Turk’ and that the ‘cipher’ contains the words ‘ADON’ and ‘Oxenford’ and ‘EARL’ and the three Ws of ‘Vere Vero nil Verius’ (Vere’s motto) and a ‘shaken speare’ (for the pen name’. Clearly, if you have a definite candidate in mind, you can see what you want to see. But if you say what you see, in the tradition of an Elizabethan rebus, you will say ‘NOR-tens’.
There are still some unexplained elements. What Griffiths reads as an ‘E’ in the top row is the right hand stroke of the N and looks more like an ‘L’ with its long lower protrusion, but is certainly struck through the middle with an extension of something that looks like an arrowhead. I expect a plausible explanation for these elements will surface in due course but I don’t expect it to be anything to do with Shakespeare. There is no documented connection between Shakespeare and Gerard. There is no plausible reason why Gerard would feature Shakespeare (at that time, author of two narrative poems, but not a famous playwright) on the front of his botany book. No explanation as to why he would need to turn the poet’s name into a cipher. And no reason on earth why he would dress him in a toga and depict him carrying a piece of corn on the cob. And even if it were Shakespeare, which it isn’t, where is the evidence for the claim that this depiction is ‘drawn from life’? Nothing about this cartoonish sketch suggests such a thing.
In short, then, as with so many Shakespeare news items that cause near-hysteria in the mainstream media, this is much ado about nothing. It is possible that the story already has enough momentum to become a new ‘truth’, and that future Shakespeare news items will appear under a picture of the Greek physician Dioscorides just as many, thanks to the last of these ‘newly discovered picture of Shakespeare’ stories, now appear under a picture of Sir Thomas Overbury. But I sincerely hope not.
Credit is due to many sources for the information in this article, chiefly Guardian commenter James Wallace (‘MisterJim’), John Overholt, Miriam Jacobson, Tom Reedy, and Barry Clark.
* 21 May 2015 – Original article
* 23 May 2015 – updated and expanded after feedback from Julie Sandys Bianchi and correspondence from Barry Clark regarding the rebus solution for the printer’s mark.
(1) In Miriam Jacobson’s Barbarous Antiquity: Reorienting the Past in the Poetry of Early Modern England
(2) http://www.countrylife.co.uk/features/the-true-face-of-shakespeare-further-evidence-of-its-authenticity-72418 accessed May 21 2015.
On Saturday I met a woman called Lindsey. Until very recently she was living in Hurstpierpoint, a genteel Sussex village. She has a job, but she currently can’t work for reasons that will become obvious. Her GP, she told me, was kind enough to sign her off with ‘stress’. Why? Because her husband assaulted her so badly that he knocked out her two front teeth. She went to a women’s refuge where she lived for 2 weeks but then had to leave – they have a lot of assaulted women, limited funding, limited rooms in their hostel. She went to the council but according to their criteria she has made herself “intentionally homeless” because there is a perfectly good house she could live in, her marital home, so they can do nothing at all for her for a fortnight. That’s the rule, apparently. Her husband was incarcerated immediately after the assault but is now out on bail. She is, understandably, too afraid to live in this home from which she has made herself “intentionally homeless”.
I wonder how many books have never seen the light of day, because the potential author of that book kept thinking “What’s the point?” Whether you secretly think it (perhaps so secretly that you keep it from yourself) or whether you find yourself sighing out loud when you sit down to write, “What’s the point?” is a serious book-stopper.
Lots of writers — both aspiring and published — suffer from ‘What’s the point?” Anyone who has ever seriously thought about writing a book has considered the huge number of books out there. Books in bookshops. Books in charity shops. Manuscripts of books piled high on the desks of agents and editors. All the the books that aren’t published. All the books that are published. All the books that don’t get reviewed or win prizes. All the books that sink without trace.
He wrote with all the inventive precision of a young Vladimir Nabokov. Every piece he submitted was thrilling to read. As his tutors, we discussed our most promising student over after-work drinks; wondered if we might be named in his acknowledgements, looked forward to being invited to his book launch.
Shift to the present tense. Six years after he completed the University’s Creative Writing programme as one of our ‘tipped for the top’ authors, I bump into Martin.
On April 14th I’m talking about writing style at Senate House in London, as part of the Open University’s Contemporary Cultures of Writing series. I’m hoping to attend at least one of the other events in the series, too. I’ll be talking about the difference between academic and creative writing styles.
I switch between the two all the time; I’ve just finished writing a 10,000 word article on Shakespeare and Warwickshire dialect, for example, in the same week that I was proofing my forthcoming novel, Devotion. Writing style is an interesting beast. I’m curious to know how similar (and how different) people will find the prose of Devotion from the poetry of The Marlowe Papers, for example. I know that years of poetic compression have affected my prose, and my love of imagery is impossible to bury. Creative style isn’t (for me, at least) conscious. It is just how I have come to write, after thousands of hours of practice and thousands more hours of reading. It’s what pleases my inner ear. My academic style was learned far more recently; (what I consider to be) good academic writing styles have a lot more in common with each other than creative writing styles. Academic style is a uniform I put on: practical, sober, persuasive. My creative style I’m not even sure I could categorise, but it involves changes of clothes (within a recognisable palette of cut and colour) and occasional flashes of nudity.
How does creative writing style develop? What does one’s writing style say about you as a person? How much is it about being the best (edited, revised, perfected) version of yourself? These are things worth pondering.
Come and spend a week with me in the Dordogne this summer on a fully-catered writing retreat. Each morning there will be workshops focusing on some of the key elements of good fiction. Then we break for lunch, usually by the pool if the weather is good. The afternoons are all yours: see me for an in-depth discussion of your works, take the chance to do some writing, swim in the private pool, go for a walk in the extensive grounds (with woodland and lakes), explore local villages, or a combination of all of the above. No need to do any cooking; just kick back, relax, and get inspired. A real chance to focus on you and your writing for the week.
Every participant will get two one-to-one tutorials, with in-depth feedback on a short story, or a chapter of your novel-in-progress, or any other piece of writing you’d like to share. Plus of course there’s a chance to chat over lunch and dinner, about writing, getting published, or anything else you’d like to talk to me about!
Like many writers, I have used my family as material more often than they probably would have liked. For me, poetry began as a way to find out who I was, and why I was who I was, and to process difficult experiences. Through our families we discover and construct who we are, both in opposition and through osmosis. Thus, in learning who I was, I wrote repeatedly about my family.
During that process – which now feels complete – I avoided, on the whole, subjecting my children to the writer’s lens. My family of origin felt like fair game, although I recognise that on a logical level this is nonsense. But my offspring? Quite frankly it is suffering enough to be born to a writer without becoming the focus of your parent’s pen. All the time you are growing up, a writing parent is obsessively interested in something other than you. They have these other text-based offspring growing in their heads and hearts, taking up spaces that are rightfully yours. A writing parent has no right to embarrass their child publicly, beyond the standard parental actions of singing loudly, dancing badly and the like.
The last few night I’ve slept badly; blessed with a nuisance daughter, a nuisance cat, and a time-pressured commission that keeps me gnawing at it in my head when I should be sleeping. At 3am I found myself on Twitter – and there was the kicker. The news that Robin Williams has killed himself. For the second time in a week I find myself crying because a brilliant, funny, and much-loved man who brought light and joy into the world has killed himself after losing a battle with depression.
The first, a few days ago, was the much less well known Ian Smith. He was one of the founders – and undoubtedly the face – of Brighton’s original Zap Club (when it was a quirky all-comers cabaret venue, not yet another dull thumping seafront nightclub). We were on the same bill for a couple of weeks in the mid-1980s, when I was singing/strumming in the two piece Honey Guide with Pete Sinden, and he was banging six-inch nails up his nose. I didn’t really know him, but he affected me. He was brilliantly being himself and inspiring others to be so. He was funny, and startling, and weird, when I was afraid to be. He moved to Glasgow and carried on doing the kind of performance art that makes you wonder, and laugh, and think. He made a lot of friends. He had a wife who loved him and two kids he adored. But he also had depression. And last week, aged 55, he killed himself.
Last week, I taught for the Arvon Foundation at Totleigh Barton in Devon. It was a massive thrill for me to be back there as a tutor. The last time I was there was as one of the students, the very youngest on the course at just 15. Teaching a residential week for Arvon is just one of a long list of dreams-come-true that have materialised in my life over the last three years, and follows hard on the heels of getting a permanent job in the English Department at Goldsmiths and selling my second novel, Devotion, to Oneworld.
None of these things would be possible if I hadn’t written The Marlowe Papers. And believe me, there were quite a few moments between 2006 and 2011 when I thought it was never going to get written. Or that it would be terrible rubbish, and no-one would want to read it, let alone publish it. Now, wherever I go – and last week’s Arvon was no exception – people ask me “How on earth did you write it?”
I have several answers to this question, and I usually offer a few of them, one after the other, and yet I find my questioner often continues to be unsatisfied. And it’s true, that even when all of my stock answers are added together, something absolutely critical is missing. The part I tend to miss out is the most important part of all. It is the daily practice that moved me out of frozen terror (when I realised the enormity of the task) to steady progress and eventually into – dare I say it? – genuine ease. It’s the technique that allowed someone who was timid, fearful, and uncertain of her own talents to become courageous, audacious and bold. Here it is: I obliterated all of the psychological blocks in the way of writing it by using EFT.