The subject of this well-illustrated book is (according to its preface) “twelfth-century glossed manuscripts and full-fledged commentaries in which illustrations complement the texts in providing a commentary of their own” (viii) and, more particularly, “glossed Bibles and biblical commentaries that feature pictorial frontispieces” (ix). The intention is “to explore the ways in which various types of imagery work in combination to shape and structure the perception of texts and of those to whom their authorship was attributed” (x).
Chapter 1 surveys the rise of the practice of prefacing texts with images of their author. The discussion embraces eleventh- and twelfth-century depictions of the Fathers of the Church, of Benedict of Nursia, of Carolingian writers such as Paschasius Radbertus and Amalarius of Metz, as also of Hugh (d. 1141) and Godfrey (d. c. 1194) of Saint-Victor, who were more nearly contemporary with the images in question. Indeed, Godfrey was involved in the production of the early manuscripts that contained images of him. The twelfth century is identified as a time of “transition from the image of the author as vehicle or vessel of a higher authority to an authoritative voice in his own right” (27).
Chapter 2 is devoted to Horace and, in particular, to a remarkable manuscript of the Ars poetica, the Odes,and the Epodes that was made in southern France or northern Spain during the first half of the twelfth century and is now in Barcelona. Amidst its many decorated initials are twenty-three historiated ones, whose relationships to the text they accompany are duly explored. They are seen to “invert the logic of ut pictura poesis enjoined on the reader at the outset of the Ars poetica, which encourages its audience first to imagine a monstrous image, but then to abjure its literary equivalent. In the manuscript as decorated, however, there is no avoiding the monstrous...” (94).
Chapter 3 examines the ways in which prefatory images responded to the perceived threat of heresy--for instance, by depicting orthodox authors disputing with heterodox opponents, whose smaller scale, lack of book and/or halo, and association with devilish “familiars” advertise their errancy. In more extreme cases, they may even be being trampled underfoot or stabbed by the doctor of the church whose work they preface. Particular attention (110-132) is paid to a multi-layered image of the triumph and travails of the Church which appears both in a collection of commentaries on the biblical wisdom books that is now at Erlangen and in a “theological miscellany” of texts “dealing with issues of faith and heresy” now at Bamberg; which version came first is debated but left as an open question.
Chapter 4 focuses on a copy of the gloss on Lamentations by Gilbert the Universal (d. 1134) that was made in the late twelfth century somewhere within the region of modern-day Austria and is now in the Walters Art Museum, Baltimore. This manuscript, we learn from the Preface (viii), was the starting point for Hamburger’s investigations as a whole. It is one of only two known copies of Gilbert’s work to include illustrations, these showing the events surrounding the fall of Jerusalem and the destruction of the Temple--the subject of Lamentations. In addition, the prologue to the work is presented under architectural columns, while Book 5 is prefaced with an image of Jeremiah praying in the Temple. Comparing and contrasting this suite of artwork with what appears in a range of broadly contemporary glossed books and bibles, Hamburger observes that “no less than in these [other] manuscripts, the pictorial programme in Gilbert’s commentary on Jeremiah seeks to validate and authorize the voice of its author--in this case, not only the prophet but also his interpreter” (177).
Chapter 5 explores the three pages of prefatory images in a copy of the commentary on the Song of Songs by Rupert of Deutz (d. 1129) that is now in Göttweg. Detailed analysis of the iconography in relation to the text and to such broadly contemporary visual comparanda as is available “underscores the originality of the composition from Göttweg, which matches Rupert’s own” (202); “the third and final prefatory image rewrites scriptural narrative so as to compare Rupert’s breakthrough as a writer--and still further, the act of reading itself--with the fording of the river Jaboc” (212).
The Conclusion notes that “In terms of the visual representation of authorship, the efflorescence of pictorial prefaces in exegetical works of the twelfth century represents the first significant enlargement of a corpus of apostolic and patristic types”; that “medieval programmes of illustration such as those studied in this volume...represent a conflicting set of impulses: on the one hand, to unsettle and reinterpret received ideas; on the other, to lend novel interpretations an authority and stability of their own”; and that “in addition to contributing to the formation and consolidation of new ideas about authorship, they also, by virtue of their prominence, lent newfound credence to a still more radical idea: that images no less than words on the page, could themselves serve as vessels of truth and vehicles of complex, self-conscious argumentation” (215). The title of the book (we learn at last) “stands as a deliberate riposte to Roland Barthes’s landmark essay, La mort de l’auteur” (214).
There is a wealth of under-studied material here, and Hamburger is to be congratulated for pursuing his subject across a broad range of French and German manuscripts, some well-known, other less so, teasing out the significance of the various exceptional examples that are his primary focus. No less important, as most of the relevant manuscript pages are illustrated in colour and at a reasonable size, the reader has the raw materials of the topic in front of his or her eyes and can follow the detail of the arguments closely and check them against the primary sources themselves. The plausibility of many of Hamburger’s interpretations rests on the extent to which they are grounded not only in broad knowledge of the visual traditions, but also in close reading of the texts to which the images are joined. There is both an index of manuscripts and a general index, the former comprehensive, the latter selective (thus a few of the places/institutions at which the various manuscripts were owned, made, and used are included but most are not: Admont and Heilsbronn, for example, appear but Anchin, Fécamp, Heiligenkreutz, Marchiennes, Mont Saint-Michel, and Saint-Victor’s Paris are absent).
There is thus much to praise and admire here. The principal demerit is the treatment of the various inscriptions that are associated with a significant number of the images. While many of these are transcribed, some are not (references to other publications where they are printed is not a satisfactory alternative for the numerous readers who will not have easy access to these); and while most of those that are transcribed are translated or paraphrased, a few are not. Yet given that these are the words most intimately associated with the imagery, knowing exactly what they say is crucial. Furthermore, while the majority of the translations and paraphrases that are offered are perfectly serviceable, this is not the case, I am sorry to have to say, for all of them.
One of the first instances of a manuscript whose author imagery and associated inscriptions are examined in detail (19-21; a copy of Walafrid Strabo’s digest of Augustine’s Enarrationes in Psalmos, ascribed to the second quarter of the eleventh century) advertises the sort of problems that can arise. Fortunately, figs. 5-6 reproduce two of the key pages and, although greatly reduced, they permit one to read most of the inscriptions for oneself and so to compare what is actually in the manuscript with what is made of it.
The “Orate pro annone hoc supplico”written in Rustic Capitals below the figure of David that prefaces the main text (11v) is reasonably paraphrased as “it asks the reader to pray for Anno.” The next inscription (fitted into the columns and arch that frame David) is given (in capitals) as “Landvlfvs ovans hvnc libellvm fieri ivssit pro quo fvnde preces carmina. qui leges et dic ipsius post obitum tvm miserere christe.” In the manuscript, it should be noted, there are medial points after iussit, dic, and obitum that are omitted in the transcription; conversely, the full-stop inserted after carmina in the transcription is not in manuscript; the “u” of ipsius is of “v” form (only the “u” of obitum is thus); furthermore, the tum of the transcription is clearly tu in the manuscript (without a tilde or any other abbreviation mark). This text is paraphrased as “supplicatory in nature...[it] reminds the reader that whoever reads the book after the death of one Landulf will receive Christ’s mercy,” which hardly articulates, or even concords with, the full sense of “Rejoicing, Landulf ordered this little book to be made; for whom pour forth prayers [and] hymns you who read [it] and, after the death of this same man, say: you, O Christ, have mercy.” Moreover, while it is not wholly impossible that the last phrase means that mercy is implored for the reader as well as for Landulf, it seems altogether more likely, considered in context, to mean that it is implored for Landulf alone.
Another substantial inscription in Rustic Capitals appears later in the same manuscript (fol. 183v: reproduced as fig. 6); it flanks the head and shoulders of a depiction of the enthroned Deity who has a cross-nimbed halo and whose arms are outstretched. This is given as: “Venite benedicti patris mei. Possidete regnum quod vobis paratum est ab origine mundi meum est enim in quid dare vobis sicut promisi sedere ad dextris meis.” Yet what is here represented as the two words in quid is clearly written in the manuscript as one word, inquid (for inquit), while the final preposition is ‘a’ not ‘ad’. Compounding this with misconstruing benedicti results in: “Come and bless, my father. Possess the kingdom that has been prepared for you from the beginning of the world. For mine is in that to give you as promised that you shall sit at my right hand.” The actual meaning, however, is: “Come, you who are blessed by my father. Possess the kingdom that has been prepared for you from the beginning of the world. For he [i.e., the Father] says it is mine to grant to you to sit at my right hand as I promised,” the end including a citation from Psalm 109. The lines below the Deity (“Rex, requiem Landulfo, da pater atque pius rex, | ipsius esto memor rex pius, atque mei qui exaraui | Amen [-chrismon-] Amen”) are not transcribed, just glossed as “The second, beneath Christ’s feet, asks mercy for Landulf.” This hardly embraces the full sense and interest of “O King, Father and Pious King, grant rest to Landulf; be mindful of that same man, pious king, and of me who wrote [this book] Amen + Amen”--with its repeated invocations of the Deity as king and its inclusion of the scribe as co-beneficiary alongside Landulf.
In the inscription “Rex Salomon iuvenes uti ratione volentes | Instruit informat preceptis moribus ornat,” which surrounds an image of Solomon teaching in the glossed Wisdom Books at Erlangen that is the focus of Chapter 3, it is the participle volentes that seems to have caused the trouble. It is taken to agree withSalomon instead of with iuvenes, resulting in “King Solomon, wishing that the youth employ reason, instructs, informs and adorns [them] with moral precepts” (113), whereas what the phrase actually says is: “King Solomon instructs, informs, adorns with moral precepts the youths who are willing to use reason”--a significant difference. In relation to the first line of the couplet immediately above this same image, the problem arises from mistranscription: the prim whose abbreviation mark unequivocally shows it to represent primus is wrongly expanded to primo and so “Alloquitur primus prolis sub nomine cunctos...” (which means “The first of the offspring addresses all by name...”) is turned into “He addresses all his offspring by their first name...”.
The representation of Christ and the Church that appears both in this same Erlangen manuscript and in one at Bamberg is particularly rich in inscriptions. That around Christ’s mandorla (129 and 131) reads: “Per mortem mortem vici vobis quoque mortem | vincere concessi quia vos homines homo gessi,” which is rendered “Through death I conquered death, and also for you | I grant victory because I have borne being a man for you men,” rather than “Through death I have conquered death, and to you also I have granted to conquer death, because I, a man, have supported you men.” The other inscription from this image that is transcribed (131-2) is given thus: “Ecclesiae sanctae Satanae molimine quassae compatitur dominus, caput hic est. Illaque corpus + Ecclesiae fili pugnae precingere tali Fraude manu lingua. Vexaberis intus et extra,” and is translated: “This is the head of the Holy Church, for which the Lord feels pity as her body suffers the bruises of Satan. The lying hand of fraud surrounds the sons of the church with battles. You will be harassed inside and out.” Yet the words are, in fact, set out in two entirely distinct sections that run away from each other in opposite directions, one around the upper zone of the imagery, the other around the lower zone: “+Ecclesiae sanctae Satanae molimine quassae;||Compatitur dominus; caput hic est, illaque corpus+” surrounds the top half of the drawing which features Christ flanked by Peter and Paul; while “+Ecclesiae fili pugnae precingere tali. || Fraude manu lingua, vexaberis intus et extra+” winds around the lower register, in the centre of which appears Ecclesia assaulted by two figures with weapons, and a further two brandishing scrolls inscribed with jibes and heretical tags. The true meaning of the phrases (“The Lord suffers for Holy Church, shaken by the effort of Satan. He is the head and she the body” and “O son of the church, gird for such a fight. You will have been assailed by deceit of hand and tongue within and without”) is directly linked to the imagery that each set of words accompanies.
Quid multa dicam? It suffices to add that the misrepresentation in the penultimate transcription and translation in the book (218), although principally relating to the mood of two of the verbs, still has an appreciable impact not only on the meaning, but also on the artistry of the phrase. Thus, the triplet “Merces scriptoris perpes sit vita decoris. | Dextera pictoris vigeat pro iure laboris. |Et caput auctoris obnubat laurus honoris” is translated: “May the reward of the scribe be perpetual life. | The right hand of the painter is honoured by the duty of work. | And the head of the author is veiled/covered by the laurel of honour” (218). Yet in all three cases the verb is the optative subjunctive, and the verses are a sequence of complementary wishes for those involved in the creation of the manuscript: “May the enduring reward of the scribe be a life of honour. | May the right hand of the painter flourish for the justness of his work. | And may the laurel of honour veil the head of the author.”
I deeply regret having been obliged to draw attention to these problems; however, I would have been failing in my duty as a reviewer had I not done so, particularly given that certainly some, possibly many, readers of this interesting and attractive book may lack the Latin reading skills to evaluate the transcriptions, texts, and translations for themselves. In sum, The Birth of the Author is a well-informed, thought-provoking analysis of an interesting field, that balances close reading of particular images and texts with a nuanced assessment of the broader cultural changes to which they bear witness. More care and attention should, however, have been devoted to the inscriptions that accompany some of the images: si modo auctor ille inscriptiones diligentius legisset, caput eius laurus honoris juste obnupsisset.