Tune Rift Lute

T H E R I F T IN T H E L U T E
The Rift in the Lute

Attuning Poetry and Philosophy
MAXIMILIAN DE GAYNESFORD
1
3
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Maximilian de Gaynesford 2017
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Preface
This book is about poetry and philosophy, whose quarrel is ancient and modern.
The antipathy takes many forms, from courteous indifference to brute animosity.
Those who love both are used to the options. Either keep your interests in poetry
and philosophy separate, insulated from each other, or restrict your attention to the
privileged few places where philosophical forms of poetry lie down with poetic
forms of philosophy. But these are dodges, however prudent, and never satisfying.
There is a more adventurous strategy. Steer straight for the eye of the storm, where
animosity is at its most tempestuous, and nd there the resources to bring poetry
and philosophy together.
Work on this approach has indeed been somewhat stormy, so I thank my family
and friends for their encouragement. It has also taken a long timeI am teaching
undergraduates who were not born when I beganso I am grateful to the Press for
its patience and to two anonymous readers for their guidance.
I began the nal version soon after the death of my friend Sam Hood. For twenty
years, Sam was the rst with whom I tried out ideas and the last to relinquish
discussion of them. He made the most vigorous philosophizing exercise of the most
affectionate friendship. I dedicate this book to Sams memory.
Oxford
3 June 2016
OUP CORRECTED PROOF FINAL, 25/3/2017, SPi
Acknowledgements
For permission to reprint copyright material, the author and publisher are grateful
to the following: to J. H. Prynne for permission to quote from his Thoughts on the
Esterhzy Uniform; to Jeremy Hill and the literary estate of Sir Geoffrey Hill for
permission to quote from Geoffrey Hill The Mystery of the Charity of Charles Pguy,
The Triumph of Love, and King Log (September Song; Ovid in the Third Reich);
to Brian Keeble for permission to quote from Kathleen Raine Short Poems 1994;
to Faber and Faber Ltd for permission to quote from T. S. Eliot The Love Song of
J. Alfred Prufrock, from Douglas Dunn Elegies, from Thom Gunn Considering
the Snail, and from The Testament of Cresseid by Robert Henryson, translated by
Seamus Heaney; to Carcanet Press for permission to quote from Austin Clarke
Eighteenth Century Harp Songs and A Curse; to Bloodaxe for permission to
quote from Roy Fisher It is Writing, and from Basil Bunting Against the Tricks of
Time.
Some of the arguments and interpretations developed here were rst essayed in
Incense and Insensibility: Austin on the non-seriousness of Poetry (Ratio, 22,
2009), The Seriousness of Poetry (Essays in Criticism, 59, 2009), Speech acts and
Poetry (Analysis, 70, 2010), How Not To Do Things With Words (The British
Journal of Aesthetics, 51, 2011), Speech acts, responsibility and commitment in
poetry (The Oxford Handbook of Contemporary British and Irish Poetry ed. Peter
Robinson, Oxford University Press, 2012) and Poetic utterances: Attuning poetry
and philosophy (Literary Studies and Philosophy of Literature ed. Andrea Selleri and
Philip Gaydon, Palgrave Macmillan, 2016). The author is grateful to the editors
and publishers.
Every effort has been made to trace and contact copyright holders prior to
publication. If notied, the publisher will be pleased to rectify any errors or
omissions at the earliest opportunity.
Contents
List of Abbreviations ix
Introduction: What is Attunement? 1
I. SENSE A ND SENSITIV ITY

1. Austins Remarks 37
2. Poets and Critics 49
3. Philosophers 59
4. What Matters 71
5. Truth 83
6. Action 97
7. Responsibility 107
II. DOING THINGS WITH A TTUNEMENT

8. Chaucer-Type 119
9. Elaborating the Type 135
10. Four Features 145
11. Four Poets 159
12. Shakespeares Sonnets 173
13. Phrasing 185
14. Naming 193
15. Securing 203
16. Doing 221
17. Doing Time 235
Conclusion: Weaving New Webs 249
Bibliography 281
Index 293
List of Abbreviations
Bibliographic information is kept to a minimum in the footnotes; full details are to be found
in the Bibliography. The following works, to which reference is often made, appear as
follows:
Austin J. L. Austin How To Do Things With Words ed. J. O. Urmson and Marina
Sbis 2nd edition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1975)
Shakespeare The Oxford Shakespeare: Complete Sonnets and Poems ed. Colin Burrow
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002)
Southwell The Poems of Robert Southwell S.J. ed. James H. McDonald and Nancy
Pollard Brown (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1967)
Tacitus Annalium Ab Excessu Divi Augusti Libri III.4951. Oxford Classical Texts
ed. C. D. Fisher (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1906)
Mount your attackers horse and ride it yourself. The only possibility.
Kafka Diaries 1922
Introduction: What is Attunement?
I
One of Tacitus more disturbing talesor do we owe it to Borges?concerns
a poet.1
During the reign of the emperor Tiberius, a knight by the name of Clutorius
Priscus wins a certain fame in Rome as a writer of verse. Tiberius himself awards
him money for a poem, a celebre carmen mourning the death of the emperors
nephew Germanicus in AD 19.2 Two years later, Priscus composes another lament.
Since it takes Tiberius own son Drusus as its subject, the poem calls still more
deeply on the imperial gratitude. Or encroaches still more closely on the imperial
dignity, as the prudent would appreciate in precarious times.
Certainly some risk is involved on this second occasion. The subject is not, quite,
dead. Interest in the poem grows, the poet is much discussed. All very awkward
when Drusus revives, then rallies, is for a time very much alive. Poor Priscus.
Denied the death he had anticipated, and thus deprived of the audience-
multiplying obsequies, he now stands forth as a dreamer of dangerous dreams,
conspicuous for what he seems to have longed for. Rumours about the poem begin
to circulate. Already composed? Yes, if you can believe it. And a reading already
taken place? So they say, and at the home of Publius Petronius no less. Informers
fall over themselves to conrm the rumours. Witnesses are induced to come
forward. All of a sudden, the poet is arraigned before the senate, on trial for his life.
For the prosecution, Haterius Agrippa, the consul-designate. Tacitus describes
him as enervated by sleep and nocturnal debauchery, too indolent to arouse the
emperors fears, but an inveterate plotter of the destruction of illustrious men.3 He
seeks the death penalty. For the defence, Marcus Aemilius Lepidus. Augustus had
once famously discerned in him the capacity for empire without the ambition
for it.4 Lepidus urges moderation. Priscus should suffer loss of property, banishment,
1 Tacitus III.4951. The case obviously interested Tacitus; it is one of the marked few in his Annals
for which he includes extended direct reporting of the defence speech.

2 Tacitus III.49.
3 Tacitus VI.4. If Tacitus means to include Priscus amongst the inlustribus viris Haterius Agrippa
destroyed, that would t the historians sardonic commentary on what then passed for such, for Priscus
seems neither heroic nor virtuous but just rather desperately bungling.
4 Tacitus I.13; capacem sed aspernantem. Ronald Syme identies him with the consul of AD 6 whom
Tacitus singles out for particular praise at Tacitus IV.20; Syme (1986, p. 129). But he is certainly not
M (i.e. Manius) Aemilius Lepidus, as the Oxford Classical Texts erroneously has it; Tacitus, p. 117.
2 Introduction: What is Attunement?
no more. For although the poet is undoubtedly responsible for his words, and
although it is odious of a member of the equestrian order to compose such a poem,
one that may pollute his own mind and the ears of those who hear it, still terms
must be set and bounds must be drawn. And the proper distinctions in this case are
clear, so Lepidus afrms: Vana a scelestis, dicta a maleciis differunt. What is non-
serious or silly (vana) differs from what is wicked or criminal (scelestis). Things that
people say (dicta) differ from evils that people do (maleciis).
Unfortunately for the defendant, Lepidus speech gains him almost no support.
A single senator, one Rubellius Blandus, is susceptible to the idea that the poem is
no wicked deed. The mood turns ugly, suddenly brutal. Despite the rhetorical
invitation, the conscript fathers treat Priscus poetic dicta as criminal rather than
silly. And they reject Lepidus second claim outright. Dicta can be things that
people do. Where they are wicked, they do not differ from evils that people do.
Crucially, they incur the same penalties.
The house passes sentence. The poet is dragged off to prison. Once there, he is
immediately put to death.
II
The issues before the senate will remain with us for the rest of the book. Issues
about seriousness: what it is for poetry to be serious and what it is to treat poetry
seriously. Issues about action: what it is to treat those responsible for poetic
utterances as doing things in saying what they say, in performing actions, in
bringing about effects.5 Issues about poetry: what work it sets itself, and how this
determines the way it is to be judged. Issues about responsibility: what poets
commit themselves to and what they may be (held) responsible for. Issues about
authority: what role a poet, their audience, and their context plays in determining
the meaning of a poem, its signicance, what work it is able to achieve. And
underlying all these, issues about receptivity: what it is to be open to poetry,
exposed to its force, attuned to what it says and alive to what it does.
The trial of the poet Clutorius Priscus is a dial: we can use it to point in each of
these directions in turn. It is Tacitus way with the story that makes this possible.
There is stimulation, for example, in the way it tweaks and discomforts, leaves room
for complex responses. Priscus the poet is almost comically inept, for example, and
yet we can feel this while registering the full horror of his fate.6 Again, Lepidus
5 In ordinary usage, actionlike actis used to refer to a variety of different things, for example
a particular doing, the general class of doings, the thing done, and the general class of things done. It is
not possible to adopt a more organized usage without stipulation or ugliness (usually both), and it is
not necessary either, so long as one is carefulas I try to be throughoutto make context clarify
meaning. In conformity with standard phrasing, I talk equally of utterances as doing things and of
people as doing things in uttering.
6 Not that experiencing these two feelings together is comfortable or indeed comfortably
expressible. One is apt to sound stuffy if one tries. For example, Now the desire for comic relief
on the part of an audience is, I believe, a permanent craving of human nature; but that does not mean
that it is a craving that ought to be gratied. T. S. Eliot (1933, p. 41).
claims about poetry trouble us, and his attitude towards poets seems disdainful, but
we can acknowledge this while recognizing the bold independence of mind that
enables him to speak as he does. The senates action is repulsive, and yet we can
recognize this while acknowledging that at least its sentence seems to take poets
and poetry seriously. Deeper down, the story uncovers an underlying thought, one
that is by turns disquietingly evasive and calmingly sensible. Poetry, some poetry,
should be taken seriously, no doubt; but it is rarely, if ever, to be taken quite that
seriously.
Consider the senate rst. Their behaviour is not, perhaps, so difcult to explain.
If the senators appeared to take poetry and the poet very seriously indeed, this
was not because they held either in great esteem. Nor does their action imply a
consistent view. On other occasions in these same years, the senate was willing to
give poets considerable licence.7 And there is here the rst nag of a question that
will recur: whether such licence is compatible with treating poetry seriously. The
senate was acting out of fear, it seems, or at least a cowed desire to please the
emperor. It returned the verdict that he could be expected to wish for, or at least
endorse, given the circumstances.
Tiberius certainly had particular reason to be pleased. The original poem, for
which Priscus was celebrated (and rewarded), was not performed during its sub-
jects funeral rites. Indeed, no poetry was performed for Germanicus, no efgy,
encomia, tears or grief . The lack of a state funeral excited gossip. It was expected
that the virtue of a noble or illustrious man would be commemorated.8 The gossip
evidently worried Tiberius a good deal.9 Tacitus lays bare the emperors unease in a
beautifully subtle way, avoiding commentary and simply listing the over-abundant
and conicting reasons given out to justify and excuse the absence of a state funeral:
moderation, differences between ordinary and imperial ways of dealing with things,
the need to steel oneself to the loss, the opportunity to give priority to what
continues (i.e. the state), the concern not to spoil the populaces enjoyment of
the Megalesian Games.10 So it may have been to put a stop to the talk, the vulgi
sermones, that Tiberius made so much of Priscus subsequent efforts, his celebrated
poem in praise of the dead man.11 Clearly Priscus was fortunate that Tiberius
found his poetry politically useful in this way. The emperor might as easily have
taken offence that the poet had provided what he had not commissioned, and
indeed had so publicly justied himself for not commissioning. And if the senate
suspected Tiberius of harbouring thereafter a private resentment of the poet, it
certainly helps explain its subsequent actions.
If there is something more deeply strange here, it is surely Lepidus insouciance.
Tacitus gives the impression that he merely announced the principles on which his
case depended. What is non-serious or silly differs from what is wicked or criminal;
things that people say differ from evils that people do. This does give pause. Given
the seriousness of the case, the peril of the defendant, why did Lepidus not urge
his argument on the senate more forcefully? Why did he not draw on reason,
7 See, for example, the case of Gaius Cominius, occurring three years later (AD 24); Tacitus IV.31.
8 Tacitus III.5. 9 Tacitus III.6. 10 Tacitus III.6. 11 Tacitus III.6.
precedent, or example to support these principles? For it was not as if Lepidus was a
fool or untried innocent. As a senator, he was experienced and clearly much-
admired. And nor did he lack inuence, as a modest lapse in moral tone gives
evidence: Agrippina the Younger found it worth her while to have an affair with
him when satisfying her lust for power and before achieving its heights, becoming
the wife of one emperor (Claudius) and the mother of another (Nero).12 Nor was
Lepidus a Yes Man or devious manipulator, the type who might curry favour by
apparently taking over the defence of the emperors enemy while working covertly
to ensure that his own efforts fail. Tacitus is thoroughly persuaded of the integrity
of Lepidus. He remarks exceptionally on his ability to steer the senate away from
brutal sycophancy and savage adulation while remaining consistently inuential
with Tiberius and even favoured by him.13 Contemporaries talked enviously of
what Lepidus said and did, what he was able to get away with.14 He was evidently
quite prepared to display independence of mind and willing to speak against the
emperors interests, at considerable risk to himself. So why did he not expend
greater efforts in presenting the case for the defence?
The most plausible explanation is that Lepidus felt there was simply no need for
effort and argument. In claiming that dicta are not things that people do and that
poetic dicta are vana, non-serious, he was appealing to principles that everybody
held and knew to be held. He may even have thought that there was a need not to
appear overly industrious, that a show of effort might undermine the basis of his
argument: condence in the universal agreement that mention of its fundamental
principles must excite.
He would certainly have had good grounds for such condence. The idea that
dicta differ from things that people doand a fortiori cannot count as evils that
people dowas a principle commonly accepted from the earliest times in which
cases came to trial, according to Tacitus: actions were prosecuted; words were not
punishable.15 And the principle that poetic dicta are vana, non-seriousand a
fortiori not to be accounted crimeshad the backing of leading philosophers, Plato
among them, whom Tacitus calls the foremost of the men of wisdom.16 Plato was
explicit about this: poetic utterances are neither serious nor to be taken seriously.17
And Tacitus tells another story which gives us good reason to think that Lepidus
had rm grounds for his condence. The historian Cremutius Cordus depended on
the universal acceptance of these two principles when he defended his Annals before
the senate four years after the Priscus case (AD 25). In relation to the idea that poetic
dicta are not serious, not to be treated as crimes, Cremutius cited the licence given
12Tacitus XIV.2. Tacitus reports the story as if it were undoubtedly true. 13 Tacitus IV.20.
14For evidence of his intelligence, independence, and ability, see Tacitus III.11; 27; 32; 35; 72;
VI.5; 27.
15 Tacitus I.72; facta arguabantur, dicta inpune errant. Tacitus states the rule and its longevity to
condemn Augustus for breaking it (in using the treason law as specious cover to initiate judicial
proceedings against the defamatory writings of Cassius Severus). Tacitus condemnation is precise: he
does not doubt that Cassius Severus compositions did indeed contain immoderate slander and scandal
of distinguished men and women.
16 Tacitus VI.6. 17 Republic, Book X, 602b78; paidian tina kai ou spoudn.
to poets by Julius Caesar and Augustus. In relation to the idea that dicta differ from
things people do, he insisted: It is my words that are on trial here, so innocent are
my actions.18 Indeed, Cremutius appealed to the ancient practices of the Greeks
for the proper response to words that offend: It is with words that one seeks redress
for words.19 Better still, he thought, one should just put up with the offence: for
what is ignored just fades away, whereas anger looks like recognition of the truth.20
What is particularly striking, of course, is that Cremutius could happily appeal to
these principles before the senate, despite the precedent set by their treatment of
Priscus. This is strong testament to the underlying resilience of these principles, the
fact that they were generally held and known to be generally held. The Clutorius
Priscus case was evidently taken as an aberration. When Cremutius came to trial,
the senate sat on the fence. It did not condemn or execute Cremutius, but voted
that his books should be burned, once he had taken his own life. Moreover, having
given this order, the senate did not ensure that it was carried out. The books
survived, were preserved, and eventually re-published.21
Lepidus had reason to take his principles for granted. He presented them. There
was no more to be done, he could justly have said. The epilogue to the tale certainly
suggests that this was the way of it. Informed of the senates decision concerning
Priscus and his speedy execution, Tiberius claimed to be horried, made an ofcial
complaint, commended Lepidus for his defence of the poet, professed profound
disapproval that mere words had been punished in so precipitate and ultimate a
way.22 If Lepidus did fail to anticipate eventsand there is no evidence that he was
entirely surprised by the senates spinelessnesshe stuck to what everyone other-
wise took to be true. No doubt Tiberius intervention was part of a deliberate
strategy, always fascinating to Tacitus, to wrong-foot the senate, humiliating and
terrifying its members by turns.23 But it is the emperors tactics that are revealing,
regardless of what he himself believed. Tiberius knew he could count on general
support for the principles Lepidus had appealed to, their common acceptance, their
sheer apparent obviousness.
To the teller of the tale, Lepidus principles certainly seemed obvious. Tacitus
uses them as a benchmark against which to narrate Tiberius mental and moral
decline, interspersing his account with successive trials of poets so that the emperors
growing insanity keeps pace with his growing willingness to question and ultim-
ately reject the principles. (The theme achieves its full development in Tacitus
description of Nero, where this same willingness turns in upon itself, acquiring a
suicidal edge: since this emperor is also a practising poet, the subject of insanity
here is also its object.) On the rst occasion (Clutorius Priscus, AD 21), Tiberius
publicly denounces those who would treat poetic utterances as serious misdeeds or
crimes. On the second, when another knight is found guilty of writing poetry that
18 Tacitus IV.34; verba mea arguuntur: adeo factorum innocens sum.

19 Tacitus IV.35; dictis dicta ultus est. 20 Tacitus IV.34.
21 Tacitus IV.35. 22 Tacitus III.51; deprecaretur tam praecipitis verborum poenas.
23 A delicate theme, dependent on detailed and intricate reporting in the rst triad of the Annals
(Books IIII), before the subtleties of this relationship are rst compromised, under Sejanus, and then
disposed of, after Sejanus, in the second triad (Books IVVI).
insults the imperial dignity (Gaius Cominius, AD 24), senate and emperor are as one
that he should be spared.24 On the third occasion (Mamercus Scaurus, AD 34), the
emperor considers the poetic utterances in question as evidence of criminality, but
refuses to give this evidence weight beside other allegations.25 Clearly we are to
appreciate that Tiberius mental and moral powers are waning. On the fourth
occasion (Sextius Paconianus, AD 35), Tiberius treats the defendants poetic utter-
ances as serious misdeeds and has him executed for this offence alone. The
emperors powers have quite deserted him.26
III
Wise twentieth-century commentators regard Lepidus speech as a powerful and
temperate discourse.27 This is no surprise. We are steeped in a philosophical
tradition that encourages us to take such a view. J. L. Austin could count on this
tradition when he said as much:
And I might mention that, quite differently again, we could be issuing any of these
utterances, as we can issue an utterance of any kind whatsoever, in the course, for
example, of acting a play or making a joke or writing a poemin which case of course
it would not be seriously meant and we shall not be able to say that we seriously
performed the act concerned.28
Austin repeated these claims on several occasions.29 Poetic utterances are non-
serious. They cannot be regarded as acts that are performed, things that people do.
If one were tempted to dismiss such remarks as the ravings of a lost philistine,
Tacitus tale would be a corrective.
Lepidus among the senators is very like Austin among analytic philosophers.30
Neither Lepidus nor Austin provide an argument for the claims that poetic dicta are
vana, that they are not things that people do. Both trust instead to the common
acceptability of these views, their sheer obviousness to their respective audiences.
Both believe they are arguing in the interests of poets (though they may
24 Tacitus IV.31. Tacitus calls this the better course of action; one wonders how Lepidus would
have received news of the decision.

25 Tacitus VI.29. 26 Tacitus VI.39.
27 Ronald Syme, The Augustan Aristocracy (1986, p. 131).
28 Performative utterances in his (1979, pp. 23352; pp. 2401).
29 See (i) Austin pp. 910; 212; 92 fn. 2; 104; 122; (ii) Performative utterances (Austin 1979,
pp. 23352; pp. 2401); (iii) Performative-constative (Searle 1971, pp. 1322; p. 15).
30 Adrian Moore is no doubt right that the label analytic philosophy is absurd, no less than its
counterpart continental philosophy (The Evolution of Modern Metaphysics 2012, Preface). But we are
stuck with them, as Moore recognizes. Usage has changed over seventy years, masking sensitive issues
that it would be distracting to scratch away at here. Those who would now self-identify as analytic
philosophers form a much larger and more disparate group than those to whom the name was rst
applied. There is little alternative but to use analytic philosophy equally broadly, to include the kinds
of philosophizing practised by those within this larger group. In this sense, for example, Austin and his
philosophizing count as analytic, even though he was deeply and explicitly critical of practices and
assumptions characteristic of others who also count as such.
simultaneously treat them with a certain disdain). Both assume that poets them-
selves would agree, if brought to the point. Both can subscribe to the reasons we
may nd in Austin for this.31 For poets may, or even must, be allowed to exercise
certain freedoms in producing poetry. It is they themselves who insist on this. In
particular, we are not to regard them as committing themselves in producing poetic
utterances. So we should not regard those who produce such utterances as per-
forming any act, besides uttering itself. And we should not regard them as speaking
seriously, at least in the usual sense, that those who speak seriously thereby commit
themselves.32
There are differences, of course. Lepidus senatorial audience took fright and
seemed to reject the views he aired, whereas Austins analytic philosopher audience
has tended to share these views.33 But this difference is minor. The senators did
subscribe privately to Lepidus position, as we have seen. That is why Lepidus
himself felt no need to argue for it. The senators, out of timidity or cupidity, simply
acted contrary to their own beliefs on this occasion.
A second difference runs much deeper. Lepidus took the view that dicta in
general cannot be things that people do. His claim about the sub-class, poetic dicta,
just follows from this. Austin, on the other hand, claims that dicta in general are
things that people do. That is the corner-stone of the speech act approach that he
strenuously promoted. Indeed, it is precisely by treating utterances in general as
things that people do that this approach sheds light on them.34 His claim about the
sub-class, poetic dicta, follows from his treatment of them as non-serious. Because
they are non-serious, they form a special case, an exception to the general rule. These
dicta are peculiar, not to be treated as things that people do.
So underlying the many similarities between Lepidus and Austin is this deeper
difference, prompting us to ask two questions. Why did Austin treat utterances in
poetry as non-serious? And why, in claiming this, could he count on the support of
his analytic philosopher audience?
Answering these questions is my task in the rst half of this book. I shall argue
that Austins claim about poetry follows from considerations that place limitations
upon his own speech act proposals. Utterances are to be treated as doing things, but
31 Austin himself is not explicit about these reasons and what I offer here is an unusual
interpretation of his remarks on poetry. It is nevertheless the most reasonable reading, on the
evidence. Part I sets out to justify this, before exploring its many and positive implications.
32 Austin could appeal to a tradition here: it is in this sense, for example, that Samuel Johnson
introduces serious into his biography of the poet Abraham Cowley (2009, pp. 553; pp. 78). For
discussion of the passage, see Chapter 7.
33 Some analytic philosophers present their own reasons, less facetiously than Austin: for example,
P. F. Strawson in Intention and convention in speech acts (1971a, pp. 14969; p. 149) and John
Searle, Speech Acts: An Essay in the Philosophy of Language (1969, p. 57 and fn. 1). But most analytic
philosophers have been more complete in their accord with Austin, choosing simply to exclude poetic
utterance from their consideration without explaining why. The trend seems to have become
particularly marked from the 1970s onwards, an observation for which Anna Christina Ribeiro
has provided some interesting statistical support (see her Toward a philosophy of poetry, 2009,
pp. 6177). Silent exclusion is more difcult to challenge, and hence more likely to go unchallenged,
than Austins explicit remarks. Doubly effective as a strategy, it is doubly questionable as a practice.
34 Austin, pp. 111 and passim.
only if they are of a sort that make commitments, or at least occur in a context in
which commitment-apt utterances can be taken as making commitments. Poetic
utterances are not of that sort and do not occur in that context. Hence they are a
special case, not to be included in the general category of utterances to be elucidated
according to a speech act approach, analysed as things that people do. And it is only
in this specic sense that poetic utterances are non-serious.
So I shall claim that Austin takes one great step back from Lepidus. The gap that
then opens between them reveals the existence of further possible positions. Some
follow Lepidus and endorse both of his claims: (a) dicta are not things that people do;
(b) poetic dicta are vana, non-serious. But the real tussle is between those who accept
just one of his claims, where each thinks that their opponent has unhitched himself
from the wrong part of Lepidus position. This is what sets Austin against many of
his opponents among poets and literary critics. He denies (a) but asserts (b). They
deny (b) but assert (a). Still, Austin among analytic philosophers has a great deal in
common with many of his opponents among poets and literary critics. They each
agree with at least one of Lepidus claims. They each acknowledge that what
underlies Lepidus position is correct, indeed obviously so: that poetic utterances
are not to be taken as making commitments. Most importantly, they each deny that
poetic utterances can be things that people do. Austin and his opponents simply
disagree about this: whether poetry is serious or not.
There is a fourth possibility, of course, though animosity and misunderstanding
keep it from being clearly visible: to unhitch ourselves from both parts of Lepidus
position. That is my recommendation in the rst half of this book. I shall argue that
the very considerations which lead anyone, like Austin, to reject (a) dicta are not
things that people do should lead one to reject (b) poetic dicta are vana, non-serious,
and that the very arguments which lead anyone (like Austins opponents) to reject
(b) should lead one to reject (a). In other words, we should accept Austins major
claim: in many cases, dicta are things that people do. But we should deny his
particular claim: in many cases, poetic dicta are serious. And this means that we can
lift his restriction: poetic dicta are equally to be regarded as things that people do,
and hence things that a philosophy of speech acts should attempt to grasp.
Lifting the restriction opens up the possibility of a philosophically attuned
critical approach to poetry, one that turns on action and is particularly alive to
the fact that uttering things in poetry can count as doing things. Exploring this
possibility is my task in the second half of this book. I shall focus on a particular
type of utterance, one that employs the rst-person pronoun with a verb in
the present indicative active, where the verb names the act performed in uttering
it (the nal sentence of the Preface is an example), calling it Chaucer-type after one
of the rst poets to make effective use of it in English poetry. I shall show how
speech act analyses of Chaucer-type utterances can deepen our awareness of their
presence and workings in poetry, and, conversely, how the study of particular
poems can give more adequate and discriminating form to our analysis of such
utterances.
In short, my claim in the second half of this book is that work on a theory of
speech acts prompted by Austin may be used to transform debate in philosophy
about the nature and value of poetry. A speech act approach enhances our
appreciation of poetry and appreciation of poetry enhances a speech act approach.
This will seem a surprising claim. It is natural to assume that Austin and those
philosophers he has inuenced are averse to poetry, or at least unreceptive to it, and
hence that their work on speech acts must be incapable of contributing usefully to
philosophical debate on poetry.35 But this would be a mistake and my plan is to
show how and why we should avoid making it. We can, as Robert Southwell put it,
weave a new web in their own loom.36
IV
This book aims at attuning poetry and philosophy. We should gain a clearer sense
of this goal before setting out to achieve it. What does attunement mean? We
should also gain a clearer sense of the impediments in our way. For we are about to
enter contested territories where fellow travellers will be few and stretches of their
fellowship short. What difculties do we face, and what strategies shall we adopt to
overcome them?
By attunement, I mean a mutually shaping approach in which we really do
philosophy in really appreciating poetry, doing the literary criticism necessary for
this. By doing philosophy, I mean analysing material in genuinely philosophical
ways, with the prospect of changing the way we think about things in general. By
really appreciating poetry, I mean adopting a genuinely critical approach, with the
prospect of changing the way we respond to poems. And I mean mutually shaping
in a strong sense: attunement is a single, unied activity.37
We can take up different perspectives on attunementand it may initially be
helpful to see how differently it then appearsbut the activity itself remains one
35 Some may be hesitant for another reason: that it would be false or misleading to identify Austin
with speech act theory. Thus Nancy Bauer nds the all-but-ubiquitous inheritance in analytic
philosophy of Austin as a mere speech-act theorist puzzling and depressing in How To Do Things
With Pornography (2015, Preface). Much of what motivates Bauer guides this project also: the need to
be receptive to the ethical character of Austins work, how it informs his philosophy of languageI
attempt to draw out of his remarks on poetry his underlying attentiveness to issues of responsibility and
commitmentand I agree that analytic philosophy tends to ignore this. But falling in with the
fashionable slighting of speech act theoryevident throughout Bauers interpretation and marked
here by the use of mere and her distancing quotation markswould distort the picture while
attempting to set it straight. To deny that Austin was interested in promoting a theory of speech
acts, in the face of his own practices and commentary, one would have to take an unwarrantedly narrow
and doctrinaire view of what a theory of such acts must amount to, one that no actual speech act
theorist need either adopt or endorse.
36 The author to his loving cosen; preface to the sequence of poems from the Waldegrave
Manuscript (Stonyhurst MS A.v.27) and printed as the preface to Saint Peters Complaint, With other
Poemes; in Southwell (pp. 12; p. 1). See also Southwell (2007, pp. 12; p. 1).
37 Thus I do not use attunement or the attuning of poetry and philosophy to mean some end-
state, a xed condition or state of affairs that we work to bring about. These phrases still name a goal,
but that goal is an activity. More precisely: to say we aim at attunement or the attuning of poetry and
philosophy is to say we seek to nd, and then to practise, an approach that is mutually shaping in the
ways the text describes.
and the same. Looked at from one direction, for example, the aim is to sharpen our
critical engagement with poems. Looked at from another direction, the aim is to
sharpen our sense of the philosophical issues which poetry raises. But attunement
assembles these perspectives and unies these aims, nding ways of doing each in
doing the otherexercising our critical engagement with poems in engaging with
philosophy, and exercising our critical engagement with philosophy in engaging
with poems.
If this makes it seem that the normal disciplinary and classicatory boundaries
between philosophy and literary criticism reect deeper differences between them,
then that is accurate enough. Very often, and not simply in seminar rooms, we are
struck by three things: the different kinds of question that philosophy and literary
criticism tend to ask, the different objects on which they tend to focus their
attention, and the different modes of attentiveness they tend to focus on those
objects. For example, a paradigmatic philosophical question in this area is What is
literature?, one that literary critics are content to say is not a literary question.38
Given such a question, the focus tends to be on the essence of literature, and the
mode of attentiveness frames itself around the need to identify a few very general
differences between what does and what does not count as such. Paradigmatic
literary critical questions, on the other hand, are those that enable us to get to grips
with the literary content of particular works. Given such questions, the focus tends
to be on collecting and then relating very many specic features of that work to each
other, and the mode of attentiveness frames itself around the need to persuade us of
the existence and relevance of those features to some reading or set of possible
readings. These divergences go some way to explaining why it is that philosophy
often changes the way we think about things in general but rarely affects the way we
respond to particular literary works, and why it is that the reverse is true of literary
criticism.
If there are such differences between philosophy and literary criticism, it may
seem problematic that attunement presents itself as a single, unied activity. But
attunement is like walking in this respect, also a single unied activity. Someone
able to walk would normally be able to move each of their two legs independently
of each other. But they would have to unify these movements to engage in what
would count, at least standardly, as walking. The movements of both legs contrib-
ute equally to this one exercise. In the same way, someone able to attune philoso-
phy and poetry would be able to appreciate poetry and to do philosophy
independently of each other. But they would have to unify these activities to engage
in what would count, here at least, as attunement. Appreciating poetry and doing
philosophy contribute equally to this one exercise. And the contribution is mutu-
ally shaping, just as are the movements of each leg in a normal walking motion,
38 Derek Attridge, Derrida and the questioning of literature, Acts of Literature, ed. Derek Attridge
(London: Routledge, 1992) pp. 129; p. 1. Some philosophers would also deny that it is simply a
philosophical question; see Derrida, Is there a philosophical language? in Points . . . Interviews
19741994, ed. Elizabeth Weber (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1995) pp. 21627; p. 217.
I agree, for reasons that are our business here: it is a question that calls for the attunement of literary
criticism and philosophy.
with one constantly affecting and responding to the position and force of the other.
The way one appreciates poetry affects and responds to the way one philosophizes,
and vice versa. So attunement stands out by contrast with approaches which take a
pre-existing philosophical outlook and impose it on poetry, or which take a pre-
existing critical outlook and impose it on philosophy.39 Attunement is to these
affairs what walking is to hopping.
An attuned approach, in which each takes the other as an opportunity to
exercise itself, ought not to seem so alien to either poetry or philosophy. As a
starting point, and only that, it is clear enough that appreciating poetry as such
has intimately to do with what language is, what it does, and what it is for, just as
philosophy as such has intimately to do with these same questions. On the one
hand, these questions invoke a good deal of philosophy. On the other hand,
abstract ingenuity and formal resourcefulness alone are rarely enough to answer
them. Sensibility and receptivity to the varied uses of language are also called for,
capacities that are sustained and developed by appreciating poetry. Building on
this commonality, it ought to be possible to nd mutually enhancing ways of
appreciating poetry and doing philosophy, rather than simply using one to
illustrate the other, or to ornament the other, or, worst of all, to pay the other
elaborate and ultimately vacuous compliments.
For exampleand this is just one option, though an important one
philosophy can recognize the ways in which poetry acts as a reective study of
uses of language, singularly and uniquely equipped to provide its suitably directed
appreciators with philosophical insights into those uses. The opportunity to appre-
ciate philosophical distinctions and discriminations in poetry can improve our
ability to discriminate features of philosophical signicance. And this opportunity
to grapple anew with philosophy in turn heightens our capacity to appreciate what
is rich and subtle in poetry, which returns us more richly provided to pursue
philosophy, from where we can go back more generously supplied to appreciate
poetry, and so on, back and forth. This vigorous spirallingcircling, but with
progressis what I mean by attuning poetry and philosophy. It is a process that is
at once systematic and cumulative.
So we stand to gain much if we succeed. But we also stand to lose much if we fail.
It is not just that it would be rather nice if philosophy and poetry were to join
hands, nothing lost if they do not. Much poetry needs philosophy, principally
because philosophy sharpens an attentiveness that appreciation of poetry cannot
otherwise provide. Equally, philosophy needs this attentiveness to poetry, princi-
pally because poetry supplies evidential riches that philosophy cannot otherwise
secure, with its straightforward prose and unstructured, contextless examples.
These are brief, stratospheric, and necessarily inadequate ways to make these points,
lacking nuance and carefulness. Greater subtlety and precision should come as we
39 Toril Moi is rightly concerned about the rst model, which is common in attempts to bring
philosophy and literature together: The adventure of reading: literature and philosophy, Cavell and
Beauvoir (2011, pp. 12540).
proceed, and in the only way possible: by practising attunement in relation to

specic poems.
That we stand to lose much if we fail gives the search for attunement greater
urgency. The books title reects this, recalling the lines from Tennyson:40
It is the little rift within the lute,
That by and by will make the music mute,
And ever widening slowly silence all.
The effect is as subtle as the falling-off it captures: the quiet of it, the discretion; the
w-beginning words spaced out one per line, their accompanying vowel-sounds
gradually elongating (within-will-widening) like a crocodile opening its jaws.41
Not that all kinds of philosophy are equally at fault. But merely to turn our backs
on those that are hostile to poetry is no resolution. And it mends nothing to attend
only to those kinds that already make a home for poetry. We need to resolve the
antipathy where philosophy treats poetry with contempt or tries in other ways to
exclude it. So the book will concentrate on the mode of philosophy most notorious
for its disdainful treatment of poetry: analytic philosophy, and particularly the
speech act approach within analytic philosophy of language, which notoriously
regards poetryall poetryas non-serious.
That is a quick way of making the point; too quick perhaps. Teased out, there are
at least three different reasons to concentrate on analytic philosophy (rather than
other kinds of philosophy) and on its relations with poetry (rather than other kinds
of literature).42
One is about what is fully satisfying. It is here that relations between literature
and philosophy are at their worst, now and for some considerable time in the past.
If we focus on other ways of philosophizing more conducive to poetry, or on other
kinds of literature more conducive to analytic philosophy, the likelihood is that we
will succeed only in offering supercial forms of exchange and bland gestures of
mutual respect. Meetings between the two will remain carefully controlled fringe
events of the sub-genres.43
A second reason is connected but distinct. It is not about opportunities lost but
about risks redoubled. Sound therapeutic practice requires that we confront
40 Tennyson, Idylls of the King: Merlin and Vivien, lines 38890 (2007, p. 818).
41 Austin has a more comic-grotesque way with the elongations to which philosophy is prone: But
now how, as philosophers, are we to proceed? One thing we might go on to do, of course, is to take it all
back: another would be to bog, by logical stages, down; Austin p. 13. He did not always eschew such
elongations himself (which perhaps shows wisdom), but he tried to guide philosophers around the
bogs. There is, for example, his well-known admonition, We must learn to run before we can walk
(Austin p. 12), of some comfort to philosophers making attempts at literary criticism.
42 Besides the non-universal consideration that one starts from wherever one is, and I am an analytic
philosopher.
43 Not the least of the reasons why the predominantly Anglo-French conference at Royaumont in
March 1958 has achieved such lasting fame is that the participants felt able to speak fairly freely about
the antagonism underlying their conversations. R. P. van Brenda observed, for example, Quand nous
nous voyons, nous sommes parfois trop polis, et trs peu honntes (Cahiers de Royaumont, 1962,
p. 344).
bitterness and antipathy at the depths. If we do not, the underlying hurt will
remain, ready to burst up again in uglier, more violent forms.
The third reason to concentrate on relations between poetry and analytic
philosophy is quite unlike the other two. It has to do with condence, and perhaps
audacity. The very same energies which account for the deepest animosities
between poetry and philosophy can be harnessed to make them mutually enriching.
So we should not turn aside from antipathy but use it to our advantage. To change
the metaphor, if we dig down to the roots of the animosities between poetry and
philosophy, we can train and nurture those same roots to bring forth mutual
ourishing instead. The downward digging takes up the rst half of the book,
using reactions to Austins notorious remarks on poetry to uncover the roots of
antipathy. The upward ourishing is the subject of the second half, using Austinian
speech act analysis to show how poetry and philosophy require and benet
each other.
All very well, one might think, but how is this supposed to work? Answering that
question is the main purpose of the book, but a basic sketch at the outset may
prove useful.
When analytic philosophers deny that poetry is or could be serious, they
overlook what is genuinely troubling about this attitude. And equally, when
poets and literary critics respond to this attitude, they exaggerate what is disturbing
about it, treating as professional aversion what is no worse than odious group levity,
and so reinforce a parallel disinclination to treat philosophy seriously. The stand-off
excuses and sustains a defective communicative environment in which much that is
philosophically signicant in poetic utterance is ignored, and much in philosophy
that is relevant to the appreciation of poetry goes unrecognized. This, by turns,
deprives poetry of its full expressive capacity and philosophy of its full critical
potential.
The situation is the result of deeper misunderstandings, on both sides. What
philosophers intend in their remarks on poetry is generally better than is usually
assumed; what they offer, however, is usually much worse. What poets protect
about their vocation is relatively supercial; what they are prepared to concede,
however, is ruinous. Both effect this reverse, however unwittingly, when they agree
that poetry is incapable of performing certain sorts of action, and in particular of
making commitments. This is the error which forces acceptance of the defective
communicative environment, with all the subsequent misunderstanding that affords.
Critical analysis of poetry shows that poetry is indeed capable of these sorts of action,
and in particular of making commitments.
This is something poets realize in their work, whatever their reections imply. It
is also something philosophy can readily endorse. Correcting the error and subse-
quent misunderstanding is liberating. Negatively, it releases poets and philosophers
from frustrations and constraints that are partly self-imposed. Positively, it enables
each to recognize the others capacity for integrity, on which (among much else)
their several claims to seriousness depend. For the truth is that analytic philosophy
can do better. It need not ignore poetry or reduce it to a samples-collection that it
can plunder for its own illustration. Equally, poetry can do better. It need not
ignore analytic philosophy or reduce it to a crude assemblage of intellectual

materials that must be worked up into signicant form. Poetry and analytic
philosophy can, and should, take each other seriously.
Even if we succeed in attuning poetry and philosophy, we cannot expect easy
relations. It will be a constant struggle to keep philosophy as philosophy while
enabling it to be receptive to poetry, to keep poetry as poetry while enabling it to be
receptive to philosophy. Institutional pressures do not help.44
But perhaps we should not even hope that relations would be easy. T. S. Eliot
once called philosophy an unloved guest in the company of real art or real
science.45 No doubt he was aware that poetry is no better appreciated in the
company of philosophy (though it is cold comfort to nd this attitude mutually
held). Eliot might be accused of hyperbole and interest, being on the point of
renouncing his own career as a philosopher. But there is a more interesting way to
respond. Eliot may have meant to disparage philosophy, but what he actually struck
on is a dening virtue. An unloved guest is suffered, after all, but still invited;
uncherished, but called on. And it is precisely by remaining an unloved guest that
philosophy stays honest. Poetry and its criticism too, perhaps. So the fact that it is a
constant struggle to bring philosophy and poetry together may be a good thing.
Many analytic philosophers will fear that association with poetry will only weaken
it. Many poets and critics will feel the same about association with philosophy. But
this perennial struggling is precisely what might allay such fearsif it acts as a
constant spur to maintain vivacity and sharpness, to prevent attunement from
degenerating into mere cosiness.
F. R. Leavis drew attention to these and associated dangers, putting the point in
his usual blunt way: to try to attune philosophy and poetry would be to queer . . .
one discipline with the habits of another.46 Queering for him was not a good
thing. It signied a blunting of edge, blurring of focus and muddled indiscretion of
attention. It is easy to imagine how Leavis might have railed against the present
generation. On one side, philosophers whose uid generalizations and triply
secured platitudes treat the nature of poetry at so stratospheric a level as to be of
no earthly use in confronting a single averagely difcult poem. On the other side,
44 Particularly in Britain, where research is still assessed by panels established for the traditional
disciplines. Attempts to combine philosophy and literary criticism, like the present, for example, have
to choose whether to be judged as philosophy or literary criticism. And it is not difcult to see how a
competition run on these lines puts the combiner at a considerable disadvantage. They are not unlike a
hurdler, told, The judges will assess you either on running or on high-jumping but not their artful
combination; so by all means set up your funny-looking obstacles along the track, but you must choose
who you want to compete against: sprinters who have no such hurdles, or high-jumpers who have only
one such leap to make. Until research assessment methods keep pace with the calls for interdisciplinary
research, academics will continue to be cautioned off such work.
45 Letter to Norbert Wiener, 6 January 1915 (Eliot 2009a, pp. 869; p. 88). The passage is dense
with humour and distancing, so one must be careful. The description of philosophy as an unloved
guest presents what seems to be Eliots own view, but the idea that one must avoid it to devote oneself
to either real art or real science he identies as the lesson of relativism, with which he may just be
playing along for the benet of the letters recipient. Wiener, after all, had just sent Eliot his own
recently published paper on relativism (Eliot 2009a, p. 86 note 3).
46 Criticism and philosophy in Leavis (1952, pp. 21122; p. 213).
literary critics whose sauntering allusions to this or that modish philosophy imagine
this confers on them a privileged status that absolves them of the hard work
necessary to determine exactly what is being said, with what reason, and whether
it is true. The rst scarcely rates as even mediocre philosophy, and the second
scarcely rates as even mediocre criticism. That is the most dispiriting aspect of all,
for any who experience moments of Leavis-like jaundice. So these are the dangers to
be avoided, and I mention them to be explicit about what we should aim for. If the
present attempt to attune philosophy and poetry results in no more than an
indiscretion of attention, this book will simply be a failure and my apologies for
wasting your time.
It is worth warning, though, that the burdens here are shared. Readers are not
well served by cultural commentators who issue the comforting reassurance, never
at any cost to themselves, that if poetry or philosophy are any good, they must be
straightforward, easy to grasp, and hence that the burden of effort must be solely on
the writer.47 What warms one to this reassurance is the inclination to value poetry
or philosophy for the experiences they offer, the feelings they awaken, the sensa-
tions they arouse, the exaltation, the melancholy, the profundity.48 But these
feelings and sensations can be had without poetry or philosophy, and to be
interested in experiencing them is notyetto be interested in poetry or philoso-
phy.49 Attunement is at the service of readers who are interested in both poetry and
philosophy and who want more than the customary antipathies allow them. They
will work to receive more, sharing the burden of effort with the writer. For the rest,
we may invoke Hookers licence:
They unto whom we shall seem tedious are in no wise injuried by us, because it is in
their own hands to spare that labour which they are not willing to endure.50
V
Attunement interprets attitudes of mutual antipathy to show what they really come
to, and thus helps change them. Or that is the hope. Demonstrating faith in this
strategy is, of course, the philosophers vocation. But it may also be the philo-
sophers delusion. We assume people can be won over by rational argument. But
what if no argument holds sway here, only comfortable prejudice?
47 I am not speaking of a poet or philosopher who is obscure in what John Wain atly calls the bad
sense: someone who does not want to be understood. His gently skewering comment would then be
apt: in which case no one will nd it worth the effort to protest; Three contemporary poets in Wain
(1957, p. 174).
48 A. C. Bradley was at one time willing to say that An actual poem is the succession of
experiencessounds, images, thoughts, emotionsthrough which we pass when we are reading as

poetically as we can; Oxford Lectures on Poetry (1909, p. 4). This sentence may appear to give a
denition; it was generally supposed to have done so, as Bradley acknowledges in a later note, where he
undertakes correction (1909, p. 28).
49 On this, see a memorable passage by Cleanth Brooks in The Well Wrought Urn (1949,
pp. 6871).
50 Richard Hooker, Of The Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity, Book One, Chapter 1.2 (1989, pp. 523).
It is reasonable to fear this. I could cite many kinds of example, but one will
sufce to give the avour. It relates to a well-known philosopher, who described his
conversion to analytic philosophy in the following way:
I stopped writing in the fashion of a poet who puts down what sounds good to him and
who neednt defend his lines (either they resonate with a reader or they dont). Instead,
I tried to ask myself, when writing: precisely what does this sentence contribute to the
developing exposition or argument, and is it true? You become analytical when you
practise that sort of (frequently painful) self-criticism.51
The passage provokes quite different responses when I quote it. From analytic
philosophers, there are usually quiet murmurs of recognition and approbation. The
author captures what drew many of us towards this way of philosophizing, what
keeps us at it. From others, the passage invariably elicits animated dismay and
frustration. The author captures what keeps us away from analytic philosophy, with
its perceived smugness and condescension, its casual contempt for others, especially
but not exclusively poets. One side thinks that the point is well put, and if anything
a little obvious. The other side thinks that the point is typical of an analytic
philosopher and essentially outrageous.
There is much to be said on either side. But what is most remarkable is the gulf
of incomprehension lying between, the chasm that separates Did the author really
need to say that? and Did the author really say that? It discourages us from
supposing that either side is capable of accommodating the other, of getting their
perspective into view, of appreciating why they might respond as they do. But that
is what we must do if we are to make progress here. So even though my own
sympathies are with the second response, I shall try hard (in Part I) to appreciate
how it is that someone might arrive at the rst.
Such exercise is fruitful, not just charitable. Suppose we enter into the rst
response, for example, to the depths of whatever might be inclining one towards it.
It is still possible to appreciate that the passage is unnecessarily slighting. Why pick
on poets when one needs an example of people who merely put down what sounds
good, who need not defend what they write? Indeed, it is precisely by delving to
these depths that we are able to appreciate exactly what is wrong with the passage,
what is wilfully unseeing about it. Examine any halfway decent poem, precisely in
the manner of an analytic philosopher examining an argument, and it is almost
impossible to imagine that the poet has not practised precisely that form of
frequently painful self-criticism celebrated here as analytical. This is what Ezra
Pound was getting at when he wrote that the poets job is to dene and yet again
dene, till the detail of surface is in accord with the root in justice.52 Not that every
51 G. A. Cohen, Karl Marxs Theory of History, Introduction to the 2000 edition (2000, p. xxii).
The slight may be partly tongue in cheek, of course, which would make it like many of Austins
remarks and thus prompt a like defence: You are so sensitive! or Lighten up; do not take this so
seriously! But levity of this sort is still silencing, and unwarrantedly so, even if its means are subtle (see
Chapter 3).
52 Ezra Pound: Letter to Basil Bunting, December 1935 (Pound 1951, p. 366). In Ezra Pound: Poet
Volume II The Epic Years 192139, A. David Moody comments aptly on this: Behind that lies the
poem aims at this; but many do. Not that every poem succeeds at this; but to
criticize failure here is at least to acknowledge that this was an aim. And when we
begin to work seriously with this recognitionwhich comes about because, not in
spite of, the fact that we allow ourselves to be thoroughly imbued with the spirit
that animates analytic philosophywe will have started to bring poetry and
analytic philosophy into view for each other. Out of the depths, then, there is hope.
But to summon and seize that hope, we must appreciate that analytic philo-
sophers are not solely to blame. Poets and critics play their part in maintaining the
gulf of incomprehension. And here too attitudes seem wilfully unseeing. Some have
been lordly about consigning philosophers to their ignorant seclusion. A playfully
quizzical William Empson wrote home about Indiana University Bloomington,
where he was a Fellow in 1954:
The students are quite lively and friendly but their minds are much wrapped up in
philosophythey struggle for a theory of literary criticism which philosophers could
accept, which seems to me rather an odd ambition.53
Others have been more delightedly acidic. Leavis would regularly administer the
necessary slap-down when philosophers had the temerity to step up:
That an eminent mathematician, logician and speculative philosopher should be so
interested in poetry as Professor Whitehead shows himself to be is pleasing; but I have
always thought the quality of his dealings with poetry to be exactly what one would
expect of an authority so qualied.54
Others again are more urbane in the way they beat the bounds. A critics path is
considerably smoothed, of course, iflike Frank Kermodethey can nd a
philosophers own words to approve with a managing gloss:
The seeds of knowledge, as Descartes observed, are within us like re in int;
philosophers educe them by reason, but the poets strike them forth by imagination,
and they shine the more clearly. We leave behind the philosophical statements, with
their pursuit of logical consequences and distinctions, for a free, self-delighting
inventiveness, a new imagining of the problems.55
principle of le mot juste; but for the poet there is more to it than the accurate word; there must be justice
also in the arrangement of the words and in their tones and rhythms. That sort of justice, the natural
justice of language, does not come naturally (2014, p. 159). Yet even so, Moody fails to catch quite the
whole point. The justice Pound has in mind has to do no less essentially with the way words relate to
the world, to the way things are, than with the way words relate to each otheras the continuation of
the letter makes clear: But poetry does not consist of the cowardice which refuses to analyse the
transient, which refuses to see it.
53 Letter to Hetty Empson, 10 July 1954 (quoted in Haffenden 2006, p. 362). The comment is
itself rather odd, given that Empsons own poetry manifestly calls for such attunement, as many have
recognized; for example, Christopher Ricks in William Empson: the images and the story (1984,
pp. 179243; see in particular p. 181).
54 Literary criticism and philosophy in Leavis (1952, p. 220).
55 Kermode, The Sense of an Ending (1966, p. 80). For a more accurate translation of the Descartes
passage, see Descartes (1985, p. 4). The passage itself, transcribed by Leibniz from a notebook which
no longer exists, was composed by Descartes during his travels in 161922 and rst published in 1859,
under the title Private thoughts (Cogitationes Privatae).
Offered the vista of such freedoms, who would be churlish enough to remark on the
disdain for the philosophers pursuit, so effortlessly left behind?56 This is policing
with politesse and all the more effective for making it seem so impolite, so obtuse,
so lacking in self-delight, to take issue with it.
The subtle forms of denigration operative in literary circles are often apparent
when the topic is T. S. Eliot, the once and future philosopher. Peter Ackroyd says of
Eliots arrival in England, in August 1914,
it would be easy to say that, even after his relatively brief exposure to Poundian
London, philosophy began to bore him; but this is unlikely. It remained a bolt-hole
for him, a discipline into which he could escape and which might provide a career if he
wished for one.57
The easy . . . but is subtly coercive, like the childs game of pushing someone from
behind and then looking innocent when they turn around. There is no sense here
that philosophy might ever have captured Eliots intellect or interest. It is a bolt-
hole merely, something to escape into. Again, there is no sense that there is more
to philosophy than a career or profession, that it might also have offered Eliot what
his letters show it regularly gave him: the exercise and consolation of a compelling
intellectual investigation.
The vilication continues when Ackroyd comes to describe Eliots thesis on the
philosophy of F. H. Bradley. He admits that, to a layman, Eliots writing is in
some places quite unintelligible but continues undaunted:
What the thesis does display, however, is Eliots extraordinary ability to create a
synthetic discourse; he is able to employ over an extended space a certain form of
language while simultaneously remaining quite detached from it: even as he was
completing this elaborate and learned study, we know that he had become bored
with, or had decided to abandon, academic philosophy.58
Yet it takes considerable knowledge of philosophical technique and the history of
philosophy, combined with acute sensitivity to nuance, to recognize where detach-
ment in the elucidation of one philosopher by another is a sign or expression of the
writers boredomrather than, say, of their appreciation of how to write clear,
rigorous philosophy. We knowAckroyd is emphatic, one step beyond the
easy . . . butexcept that, when the harm has been done, the claim is then subtly
modied into a more defensible disjunction: bored with, or had decided to
abandon. And abandon, notice, not just give up, where in the circumstances
obliged to renounce might have been at least equally appropriate. How it is that
we are supposed to know all this remains wholly unsupported. Such artistries
thrive, but only in a milieu predisposed to disdain philosophy.
56 If one were churlish, one might also note that Descartes is precisely not recommending that we
leave the philosophers pursuits behind, that his comments are preceded by the cautionary
acknowledgement It may seem surprising, and that these are very early thoughts of his, not
subsequently deployed by him in his mature work.
57 Ackroyd, T. S. Eliot (1984, p. 58). 58 Ackroyd, T. S. Eliot (1984, p. 69).
Of course, antipathy between poetry and philosophy is something of a luxury

when most people will stand for neither. But it is common practice for warring
factions to settle their differences, given the chance to make common cause against
those who keep the peace. We might assume that the parties to the quarrel between
poetry and philosophy would welcome the opportunity to lay down their weapons.
But attempts at peace-making tend to raise tempers very sharply, very quickly.
Anyone who gives papers on these subjects or approaches funding bodies for
support will have experience of this.
Responses from the literary side tend to interpret peace-making as proofif
proof be needed!of the imperialistic designs of analytic philosophy. Responses
from the philosophical side tend to take peace-making as evidence that one has
simply given up doing analytic philosophy. The most common sort of response,
from both sides, is essentially, But analytic philosophy has always tended to ignore
poetry! (so much the better; so much the worse). Never mind that this might well
be, as here, ones own premise. Perhaps we might have predicted the indignation,
given the continuing antagonism between analytic and non-analytic ways of doing
philosophy, often denied, never convincingly.59
For my part, I welcome those who are wary, distrustful, suspicious. It is these
readers I most want to reach. I simply hope they will look with an open and
scrutinizing mind at the arguments and analyses on offer. My aim is as far from a
philosophers imperialism as I can make it: to encourage analytic philosophy to be
open to poetry, so that, where appropriate, our approaches can be improved and
our claims corrected. And far from renouncing analytic philosophy, my goal is to
show how we can strengthen and enrich it. For in making it open and vulnerable to
poetry, we give it greater exibility, extending its reach and durability. I may well
fail to persuade the more sceptical readers of this, of course. But I shall not retreat to
the pretence that persuading them was not my aim. Some poetry calls explicitly for
philosophical commentary, just as some philosophy calls for poetic appreciation.
But there is no achievement in bringing these together; they already live on and off
each other. So the rst part of this book is for the philosophically inclined who
think poetry has nothing to offer them, and for the poetically inclined who think
philosophy has nothing to offer them. Those who are already convinced that poetry
and philosophy have much to offer each other will, I hope, nd in the second part
new ways of realizing these possibilities.
Contrast best illuminates what I mean by looking at things with an open and
scrutinizing mind, and two occasions serve well as illustration. At the degree
59 Adrian Moore writes of the absurd divisions that still exist between . . . analytic philosophy and
continental philosophy (The Evolution of Modern Metaphysics, 2012, Preface). When he goes on to
speak feelingly of colleagues who disdain all other traditions, most philosophers will know very well
what he means. Some may sympathize when Moore then says, I despair of the arrogance that casts
[continental philosophers like Derrida and Deleuze] in the role of charlatans. But despair tends to
turn away. Another response is to enter more deeply into this arrogance, to grapple with it. This is the
option to prefer, I think, and for the three reasons given above: because it is more satisfying, more
therapeutic, and more efcient. It enables us to convert the resources found there towards better ways
of philosophizing.
ceremony of June 1938, during the summer of appeasement, the Orator of

Cambridge University made his own efforts to placate and soothe. Presenting an
honorand for the DLitt honoris causa, he announced a new order in which the
antagonism between poetry and philosophy has disappeared.60 Since the recipient
of the degree was T. S. Eliot, a poet with a philosophers past, the Orator could cite
as symbolic of the new dispensation the very performance in which both were then
engaged. But it is hard to imagine that audience and honorand were taken in.
Granted, this was an era with a peculiar hankering for new orders and symbols. Yet
the municent gesture, its lordly erasure of difculty, is too insouciant to con-
vince.61 Contrast this declaration with another. A disappointed friend of John
Stuart Mill once tried to pinpoint the cause of his intellectual decline: He was most
emphatically a philosopher, but then he read Wordsworth, and that muddled him,
and he has been in a strange confusion ever since, endeavouring to unite poetry
and philosophy.62 The alarm is common enough: that a passion for poetry must
tend to drive out philosophy. But had Mills friend himself read Wordsworths
reectionsPoetry is the most philosophic of all writinghe might have been
given a moments pause.63 Attunement is for those willing to create space for such a
pause, who feel as uncomfortable with the blithe optimism of the Cambridge
Orator as with the no-less-easy pessimism of Mills friend. Such readers will be
willing to look at things with an open and scrutinizing mind.
As likely as not, this willingness will be grounded in frustration with the
alternatives. One of Saul Bellows characters interprets the barking of a dog as a
protest against the limits of dog experience (for Gods sake, open the universe a
little more!).64 We may feel similarly thwarted by the limitations of current
analytic philosophy, of poetry and its criticism. For goodness sake, open them
up to each other! A rift, after all, is also a rude interruption, a breaking of wind.
Attunement gives that barking voice.
VI
So much for the benets attunement brings, the difculties it confronts, the
energies it requires. It remains to clarify what makes attunement different, distinct,
60 The Times, 10 June 1938, p. 8. Quoted by Ronald Schuchard in his Editors introduction,
T. S. Eliot, The Varieties of Metaphysical Poetry (1993, pp. 301).

61 One might appeal to Eliots initiative: To talk vaguely of poets as philosophers does not get us
very far, but it is the simplest reply to the question: what is the content of poetry? , The Use of Poetry
and the Use of Criticism (1933, p. 50). But talk of the simplest from one so evidently not makes siding
with this proposal an uncertain business. Account should certainly be taken of the caution that Eliot
issues later in the book, generalizing from the case of Coleridge: A poet may borrow a philosophy or he
may do without one. It is when he philosophises upon his own poetic insight that he is apt to go wrong
(1933, p. 99).
62 John Bowring to Caroline Fox, who recollected the remark (Fox 1883).
63 The moment is nely judged: the idea is raised with two measures of distance (Aristotle, I have
been told, hath said, that . . . ) but then espoused and afrmed with dispatch: it is so. Preface to
Lyrical Ballads (Wordsworth 2000, pp. 595615; p. 605).
64 Saul Bellow, The Deans December (1982, p. 16).
quite unlike other approaches. That means distinguishing it in its relations with
(i) literary criticism, (ii) analytic philosophy, and (iii) a speech act approach. In
doing this, I shall also take the opportunity to defend, by way of justication or
excuse, key elements of the present book.
First then, consider attunement in its relations with literary criticism. The danger
here is that what is peculiar and unusual about attunement will be confused with
what is familiar. Sections of the literary critical audience may have set assumptions
about a book that attempts to bring poetry and philosophy together under the sign
of J. L. Austin. They will expect a continuation of what is commonly calledif not
by all its leading proponentsan ordinary language mode of literary criticism.65
This mode is fundamentally associated with Stanley Cavells inuential readings of
Austin, and it is sustained in the present by literary critics like Kenneth Dauber and
Walter Jost.66 It is not that I am ignorant of this approach, nor that I think it is not
deeply worthwhile.67 Indeed, it was responding to Cavells approach which rst
stimulated me to think seriously about relations between poetry and philosophy.68
But still, attunement tries to do something quite different, and it is as well to be
clear about this from the start.
What attunement takes from Austin has little if anything to do with an ordinary
language approach, but rather with his main business in How To Do Things With
Words: close analyses of parts of speech. The aim is to show how analytic philoso-
phy, particularly analytic philosophy of language, can both learn from and con-
tribute to something quite narrow: the close study of poems. By contrast, ordinary
language approaches set out to provide an alternative to analytic philosophy and
tend to be informed by a wide notion of the literary. These approaches are now
quite comfortably in motion. They are well known, have well-established patterns,
full signicant roles in literary critical studies. They are also seemingly resigned to
being more or less ignored by analytic philosophers, whereas attunement tries to
discomfort and reposition analytic philosophers and literary critics, doing what it
can to persuade each that they are missing something vital by failing to attend
65 It is now very common to nd speech act theory and ordinary language philosophy run
together by literary critics, as if they were one and the same thing. For a recent example, see Lorna
Hutson, Circumstantial Shakespeare (2015, p. 123).
66 See, for example, Kenneth Dauber and Walter Jost, (eds), Ordinary Language Criticism: Literary
Thinking after Cavell after Wittgenstein (2003). Cavell himself may have good reason to avoid this
labelling: see Toril Moi, The adventure of reading: literature and philosophy, Cavell and Beauvoir
(2011, pp. 12540; p. 135).
67 For recent development of the approach within philosophy itself, see Avner Baz, When Words are
Called For: A Defense of Ordinary Language Philosophy (2012).

68 I am grateful to Stephen Mulhall for the occasion: he presented a paper on Cavells approach at
Oxford in 1999, to which I was invited to give the reply. I have worked continuously on these issues
since then, and I am grateful for the opportunity to draw on interim material published in various
articles: Incense and insensibility: Austin on the non-seriousness of poetry in Ratio, 22, 2009,
46485; The seriousness of poetry, Essays in Criticism, 59, 2009, 121; Speech acts and poetry,
Analysis, 70, 2010, 13; How not to do things with words, The British Journal of Aesthetics, 51, 2011,
3149; Speech acts, responsibility and commitment in poetry in Peter Robinson (ed), The Oxford
Handbook of Contemporary British and Irish Poetry (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012); Poetic
utterances: attuning poetry and philosophy in A. Selleri and P. Gaydon. (eds), Literary Studies and
Philosophy of Literature (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2016).
carefully to the other, failing to take the other seriously.69 So although I have
learned much from literary theorists (particularly Hillis Miller, Judith Butler,
Shoshana Felman, Mary Louise Pratt, Toril Moi), critics engaged with literary
theory (particularly Joel Fineman, Simon Jarvis, Michael Wood, Peter Robinson,
Stephen Booth, John Kerrigan, Louis Menand, Stephen Greenblatt, Helen Vendler,
Peter Larkin), and philosophers engaged with literary theory (particularly Stanley
Cavell, Raymond Geuss, Andrew Ford, Marjorie Perloff, Martha Nussbaum, Alex-
ander Nehamas), the reader who knows the work of these authors will quickly
appreciate that attunement represents something very different.
This divergence from so signicant a section of the philosophical and literary
critical community accounts for a number of peculiarities of the present book.
Above all, it explains why the discussion in Part I has to be so lengthy and full.
Those more or less resigned to the status quoanalytic philosophers and literary
critics content to be ignored by each othercan afford simply to present their own
interpretation of Austin and move straight on. But I cannot hope to persuade
philosophers and critics to change their attitudes and habits unless I get to the
bottom of the antipathy between them. Part I does so by looking carefully at each of
Austins relevant remarks, and then by examining the responses of poets and critics
equally closely, and nally by looking as carefully at the responses of analytic
philosophers. All this requires extensive discussion and careful interpretation.70
Attunement draws on Austins close analysis of parts of speech, now embedded
in analytic philosophy of language, rather than on the parts of Austin to which
ordinary language approaches relate. That is why it is perfectly appropriate to say
what may initially seem surprising to some sections of the literary critical audience:
that attunement could use Austin to help attune analytic philosophy with poetry.
Again, there is no difculty in describing what attunement offers as a genuine
action-orientated approach, one that might interest both literary critics and
philosophers, since what is meant by this is precisely what Austins close analyses
offer: an approach to language and speech that turns ultimately on action rather
than truth, where the interest lies in the paradigm-shift for literary criticism and
philosophy. I do not mean by it what some sections of the literary audience might
expect: an approach whose interest lies in offering ethical visions of the world, of
phenomenological thinking.71
69 It is helpful to ask, with Marjorie Perloff, why it is that Wittgenstein gures so prominently in
poetry and philosophy but theory has largely ignored [his] existence; Introduction to Wittgensteins
Ladder (1996, pp. 123; p. 11). Perloff herself points to a lack in Wittgenstein himself: he did not offer
a systematic poetics. I suspect the explanation has at least as much to do with the way what she calls
theory has managed to retain a deep antipathy towards analytic philosophy, despite continually and
radically reconceiving itself in almost every other respect.
70 I thank an anonymous reader for prompting me to explain myself here. The reader described
these sections as analytic philosophy at its worst, testing every possible perspective on what is obvious
from the start. I would not detain anyone primarily interested in literary criticism, except to urge that
there is very little here which is obvious, and that the temptation to think otherwise is not the least
among the causes of antipathy between poetry and philosophy.
71 For a sense of what has been done recently with philosophical reection on such themespoetry
as the enchantment of the world, as one of the enlargements of lifesee Simon Critchley, Things
Merely Are (2006), and in particular his remarks on the twofold task of poetry (pp. 5760). It is
Again, this has implications for the present book. My analyses of poetry may
seem slow-moving to those used to other modes of appreciation. I only ask that
readers remember what attunement aims at, and why. It is not what philosophically
inclined literary critics have often tried for. If ones main interest is in demonstrat-
ing the existence of broad, general features of the literary, it will sufce to draw
general conclusions from a small handful of poems. But attunement aims at doing
something that an analytic philosopher will recognize as philosophy and a literary
critic will recognize as literary criticism. This means broadening the inquiry beyond
what is usual, but also deepening it beyond what is familiar. For example, this book
focuses on a specic developing phrase-type: the Chaucer-type. To practise attune-
ment, it has to engage rst in a very wide-angled appreciation of the whole range of
poems in which this phrase-type occurs. This is to investigate as many of its varied
forms and uses as possible, identifying repetitive elements and distinguishing
features. Then it has to engage in an increasingly narrowly focused analysis of a
small selection of poems. This is to reect as intensively as is required on what
precisely can be done with this phrase-type, on the particular purposes it serves, on
the speech acts it performs.
Here, attunement can draw on William Empson, who found ways to combine
literary criticism with the variety of tasks just described, from classifying literary
devices across a broad range to elaborating on particular themes and analysing
sequences of poems.72 Indeed, it is as much under the sign of William Empson as of
J. L. Austin that this book attempts to attune poetry and philosophy. The inuence
is both direct and through the intercession of those whom Empson has much
inuenced, particularly Christopher Ricks and Geoffrey Hill.
Such close reading is sometimes disparaged as unnecessary. Louis Menand puts
the criticism forcefully:
I think that literature is a report on experience, but I do not think that it is a privileged
report on experience, and I do not think that it requires close reading, or closer
reading than anything else requires, to be understood and appreciated.73
There is a case to answer, and it will take the whole book to accomplish this. But
here in a nutshell is the response that attunement offers: that but is misplaced. The
temptation to dismiss close reading arises precisely because of the tendency to treat
poetry as a report on experience, not in spite of it. And this tendency is out of step
with poetry, which does not simply report on experience but praises, curses,
striking how often, as here, such boldness of theme leads to overwhelming pessimism, a sense of
modern (post-Romantic) poetry as inevitably sunk in the experience of hubris and failure (p. 87).
More modest ways of attuning poetry and philosophy may not attain the hazy heights but they also
avoid the doomy depressions.
72 For ways to classify and categorize over the broad range, I have been guided by Seven Types of
Ambiguity (1930). For ways to elaborate in detailed fashion on a handful of running themes, I have
been guided by Some Versions of Pastoral (1935). And for ways to analyse particular poems in a
philosophically enriched context, I have been guided by The Structure of Complex Words (1951).
73 Louis Menand, Discovering Modernism: T. S. Eliot and his Context, Afterword 2007 (2007,
p. 165).
questions, explains, commands, apologizes, and so on, performing these and any
number of other actions that are quite different from any sort of reporting, let alone
reporting on experience.74 Once we take seriously the sheer variety of things that
poetic utterances do, and adopt an approach that gives open consideration to the
acts they perform, the call for close reading becomes clear and compelling. Or so
I shall argue and try to demonstrate over the course of the book.
VII
Consider attunement now in its relations with analytic philosophy. The danger
here is quite different: that what is peculiar about attunement will be confused with
wholesale rejection. Analytic philosophy is regularly vilied by literary critics. One
aim of attunement is to answer detractors by showing how useful and valuable it is
to apply such philosophizing to the analysis of poetry. It is true, as I have said, that
analytic philosophy tends either to ignore poetry altogether or to plunder it for its
own illustration. And attunement must face this. But it is with a practical purpose
in mind: to nd a good route out of a bad place. And it is vital not to exaggerate the
badness of that place. Analytic philosophy contains within itself the possibility of
healthy, attuned relations with poetry. Locating these resources and then making
use of them is the key to attunement.
In some quarters, the analytic philosopher is portrayed as professionally arro-
gant, cranky, and hopelessly unreceptive to poetry, a sort of intellectual Growltiger
(One ear was somewhat missing . . . ). But this is no more accurateand equally
revealing of the prejudices that need remedyas the opposing tendency, which
portrays the poet as someone who merely puts down what sounds good to them
and who need not defend their lines.75 It is not inconsistent with analytic philoso-
phy to have a deep love and appreciation of poetry, and I hope for the attention of
those who profess both.76 My one caution is that, so long as analytic philosophers
continue to attend to poetry in their own time, keeping their appreciation apart
from their philosophizing, the situation as a whole will remain the same. Attune-
ment changes things for the better. It enables analytic philosophy to make a non-
negligible contribution to understanding poetry, showing how to treat poems as
poems rather than as a samples-collection from which it can draw for its own
illustration. And by deploying its own resources, analytic philosophy makes a
distinctive contribution, quite different from that which other forms of literary
criticism offer. To enable analytic philosophy to deploy its own resources while
74 In the concluding chapters of Part I, I describe in detail the contrast between the action-oriented
approach I advocate and previous assumptions that have tended to govern appreciation of poetry.
75 Simon Blackburn offers an amusing and acute rebuttal of some versions of the analytic
philosopher stereotype in Can an analytic philosopher read poetry? (Gibson 2015, pp. 11126).
76 C. S. Lewis acutely distinguished the class to which such philosophers belong when they bring
poetry into their philosophizing: these are people who tend to use poetry rather than receive it, but
who nevertheless belong to the literary, and differ from the unliterary, because they know very well
what they are doing and are prepared to defend it. An Experiment in Criticism (1961, p. 100).
treating poems as poems, attunement develops a particular critical apparatus for the
study of poems. It draws on the speech act approach in the philosophy of language
and develops its apparatus in specic areas which this approach makes tractable. In
these and other ways, attunement develops the kind of appreciation that will aid,
and be aided by, the resources of analytic philosophy.
It must be accepted that, in some respects, analytic philosophers have made
themselves an easy target for the denigration of literary critics. Taking a lead from
Gottlob Frege and others of the founding generations, they have tended to operate
under the self-denying ordinance that we should ignore uses of language in poetry.
Their claim is that we can and should rst attain workable theories from analysis of
ordinary uses of language and thenat some happily deferred future timeapply
those theories, with whatever special additions are necessary, to explaining the use
of language in poetry. Many self-denying ordinances are quite justied, but I doubt
this one is. Indeed, it may actually be self-undermining. For poetry, good poetry, is
in part a reective study of uses of language. Analysis of ordinary uses of language
proceeds all the better if philosophy of language includes poetic uses of language in
its study. To understand this proposal, to challenge it where necessary, to improve
it where possible, and to make good on it; this also is a major aim of attunement.
This double purposeshowing how valuable analytic philosophy can be to
the study of poetry, and how valuable the study of poetry can be to analytic
philosophycan only be realized if we focus in and go deep. That is why
attunement will tend to concentrate the attention. This book, for example, will
focus on one particular linguistic device, the Chaucer-type, and narrow down
progressively to focus on just one sequence of poems, Shakespeares Sonnets.
Analytic philosophy of language has often made this linguistic device its particular
study, stimulated by the work of J. L. Austin and others on speech act analysis. So
we can draw on and add to the accumulated stores by analysing the use that
Shakespeare makes of this device: distinctions of meaning and force, use and
application, intention and implicature, sets of questions and problems, attempted
answers and solutions, considerations and discriminations, all sharpened under the
pressures of controversy and argument.
Not that attunement is alone in trying to redirect the attentions of analytic
philosophy towards poetry. While research on this book was being completed,
three collections of papers appeared which give evidence of growing analytic
philosophical interest in poetry.77 Indeed, the introduction to the most recent
describes poetry as the last great unexplored frontier in contemporary analytic
aesthetics and identies 2009 (when two of these collections independently
appeared) as a watershed moment.78 We live in hope. Certainly I have learned
much from analytic philosophers who think deeply about the philosophy of
literature more generally, like Peter Lamarque, Kendall Walton, and Peter Kivy,
77 Philosophy of Literature, Ratio Special Issue (Schroeder 2010); Philosophy and Poetry (French et al.
2009); The Philosophy of Poetry (Gibson 2015). I contributed to the rst of these.
78 John Gibson, Introduction (Gibson 2015, p. 1).
and I have benetted from contributors to these recent collections on poetry more
specically, like Ernie Lepore, Roger Scruton, Elisabeth Camp, Patrick Suppes,
Troy Jollimore, John Koethe, John Gibson, and Eileen John. But boundary
marking and a deep impression of distinct enterprises characterize even recent
poetry/philosophy collections, where the hope must have been otherwise. Pressing
papers and poems together between the same boards only sharpens the sense that
we have yet to nd ways of genuinely integrating the work of philosophers, poets,
and literary critics. Attunement is quite unlike the kinds of activity engaged in by
these philosophers, and it is as well to be clear about this.
These authors tend to treat the animosity between poetry and philosophy as past,
regrettable, and to be politely overlooked. Attunement instead treats it as present,
illuminating, and to be confronted, for the three reasons described above: to satisfy,
to heal, and to ourish.79 They tend to make poetrys relation with truth their
focus. Even when Scruton,80 Lamarque,81 and Koethe82 express dissatisfaction
with earlier truth-orientated models, they do so in ways that entrench rather than
renounce the underlying approach. Attunement instead follows Austin in making
action the focus. They tend to stop short at making poetry and philosophy
compatible with each other. Attunement instead tries to enable each to shape the
other. Their mode of analysis tends to keep philosophy of poetry and literary
criticism of poetry apart. Attunement instead tries to unify these approaches,
making one mode equally recognizable as both philosophical and literary critical.
Their aim tends to be modest and their achievement of it judicious. Attunements
aim is immodest and quite possibly imprudent: to design a general programme for
re-orientating analytic philosophy towards poetry, and then to test it in relation to
the most studied sequence of poems ever composed. So I hope readers are of
T. S. Eliots opinion: it is often true that only by going too far can we nd out how
far we can go.83
79 It is too sanguine to expect, with Anna Christina Ribeiro, that analytic philosophers will turn
their attention to poetry when told that poetry deserves their attention (Toward a philosophy of
poetry, 2009, pp. 6177; p. 77). My aim is more modest: to show that analytic philosophy benets
from attending to poetry.
80 Roger Scruton encourages us to give up the idea that it is by stating facts about an external world
that poetry can claim to be truthful. Instead, we are to conceive of poetrys relation to truth in terms of
revelation, a process whereby hidden aspects of existence become visible; Poetry and truth (Gibson
2015, pp. 14961). But this recognizably Heideggerean idea leaves us with a truth-orientated
conception of poetry; what it offers is essentially another model for that approach.
81 Peter Lamarque argues against thinking of poetry as a vehicle of philosophical truth; it is much
more appropriately read as imaginative reections on philosophical themes, grounded in subject

particularities; Poetry and abstract thought (2009b, pp. 3752; p. 51). But this is a modication,
not a renunciation, and very much at the service of an underlying truth-orientated approach. We are to
reconceive poetrys relation with truth as a thinking that is inherently perspectival, Lamarque advises,
but this is precisely so as to continue approaching poetry primarily in terms of its relation to truth.
82 John Koethe argues that poems do not aim at truth in the way that works of philosophy, science,
history do; Poetry and truth (2009, pp. 5360; pp. 545). But this leaves untouched the idea that
poetry does aim at truth, and that it is primarily in terms of its relation with truth that we are to
conceive of it.
83 The music of poetry in On Poetry and Poets (1957, p. 36). This is a later emendation of the
better-known and much stronger version of the original thought, contained in Eliots preface to Transit
of Venus by Harry Crosby and used to effect by Bernard Williams: only those who will risk going too
VIII
Finally, consider attunement in its relations with a speech act approach. The danger
here is different again: that what is peculiar about attunement will be confused with
what is parochial. It is generally assumed that a speech act approach must be highly
restricted. But this is because we tend not to recognize, or actively to mistake, the
resources such an approach makes available. Attunement, on the other hand, tries
to gain an accurate sense of these resources and makes as much of them as it can.
Speech act philosophy may be particularly apt for ne-grained analysis and close
reading. But there is no limit to the number of areas in which it might operate on
the small-scale. And a clutch of such studies will provide a surer basis for making
broader points.
The idea that work on a philosophy of speech acts might contribute to our
understanding of poetry is not novel, but it is certainly under-explored. The most
signicant contacts with poetry in philosophy tend to focus on the contribution to
our understanding of moral philosophy rather than on the contribution that a speech
act approach might make, say, to philosophy of language or to philosophy of action.
Martha Nussbaums inquiries have been particularly inuential here, pointed as they
are at moral philosophy and balanced between theoretical reection and practical
criticism.84 Tzachi Zamir has developed the approach in subtle ways.85 Conversely,
the most signicant literary contacts with a speech act approach deal almost exclu-
sively with prose rather than poetry. Mary Louise Pratts application of speech act
approach to literary discourse is representative: she starts promisingly with a study of
the poetic language fallacy, but discusses no poetry and largely overlooks philoso-
phy. Her aim is to bring literary criticism closer to linguistics.86 J. Hillis Miller is
similarly orientated towards prose and similarly sets philosophy of language aside.87
He operates with so broad a notion of speech act theory as to embrace Austin and
Derrida and de Man as its paradigm operators. But the threshold for accepting
conuence here is not high.88 Millers interpretation of Austin is highly idiosyncratic,
but his description of Austin as a man who has exorcised a ghost only to nd that it
keeps coming back seems poignantly and informatively right.89
far can possibly nd out how far one can go (Shame and Necessity, 1993, p. x). I hope for compromise
here: if I eschew the stronger version, may readers overlook the way Eliot continues: though one has to
be a very great poet to justify such perilous adventures.
84 Nussbaum, Loves Knowledge: Essays on Philosophy and Literature (1990).
85 Zamir, Double Vision: Moral Philosophy and Shakespearean Drama (2007). He argues persuasively
that there is a rational basis enabling literature to be a viable component of moral thought, and that it
is philosophys task to investigate this basis.
86 Pratt, Toward a Speech Act Theory of Literary Discourse (1977, pp. viiix).
87 Miller, Speech Acts in Literature (2001).
88 Millers excitement at the strange and quite extraordinary coincidence that both Derrida and de
Man were present at Harvard at about the same time Austin was giving his lectures there (2001, p. 61)
is undimmed by the fact that, as he admits, neither attended Austins lectures or had anything to do
with him.
89 Miller, Speech Acts in Literature (2001). For the interpretation of Austin, see pp. 662. The ghost
description occurs on p. 18.

The main cause of under-exploration here is the antipathy between philosophy

and literary criticism. Under these conditions, literary critical deployment of the
ndings of speech act philosophy has tended to develop autonomously.
One result has been marked divergence over core issues. For example, literary
uses tend to assume that a speech act approach must treat so-called explicit
performatives as central, paradigmatic, even as exhausting the category of speech
acts. Speech act philosophers, on the other hand, tend to follow Austin in treating
these devices as a peculiar, somewhat eccentric, limiting case, or to follow Searle in
sidelining them altogether. Both tendencies are to be avoided, as we shall see. We
cannot get explicit performatives into proper perspective unless we appreciate them
as one among many signicant types of speech act.
Another result has been marked divergence over the use and understanding of key
terms. For example, by perform a speech action, analytic philosophers tend to mean
no more than execute such an action, carry it out, bring it off. What literary critics have
in mind, on the other hand, are particular ways of executing such actions, or particular
contexts in which such actions are executed. Performing a speech action means doing
it in a dramatic, theatrical, or histrionic way, or doing it in a dramatic or theatrical
context, requiring self-consciousness in its specially heightened sense and perhaps
some element of ritual. Not all literary theorists are as explicit about this as Judith
Butler, who is often careful to gloss her use of performativeas something that
constitute[s] a certain kind of conduct, for example.90 (Thus, to take a recent
example, Brian Cummings is able to reach effortlessly and without comment for the
word performative when he wishes to isolate a conception of soliloquy as an
instrument of theatricality.91) What makes matters worse is that differences over
core issues and key terms are often overlooked. Literary criticism has tended to assume,
for example, that it was in the dramatic rather than the simple sense that Austin and his
successors were elucidating the performative. This results in confused interpretations
and in applications that can only with profound distortion be made to t the texts.92
So it is no wonder that the usefulness of applying a speech act approach to literature
has regularly been questioned, and from the start. Monroe Beardsley pronounced his
scepticism early on.93 Eric Grifths, like many of those critical of Austin, reserves his
worst censures for Austins successors: they lack his apprehension and thus give way
to the philosophical craving for theoretical simplicity and economy, reducing (or
still worse, ignoring) what is complex and rich about language and its uses.94 Shoshana
Felman is similarly balanced between admiration for Austins approachshe
describes herself as seduced by Austinand anxiety about distortions that it may
encourage.95
90 Butler, Excitable Speech (1997, p. 18; my emphasis).

91 Cummings, Mortal Thoughts: Religion, Secularity and Identity in Shakespeare and Early Modern
Culture (2013, p. 173).
92 David Gorman identies some of the pitfalls; The use and abuse of speech-act theory in
criticism (1999, pp. 93119).

93 Beardsley, The concept of literature (1973, pp. 2339).
94 Grifths, The Printed Voice of Victorian Poetry (1989, pp. 3759; especially pp. 458).
95 The Scandal of the Speaking Body (2000, p. 48; see }4 particularly).
It is vital then to address the antipathy, and in its worst manifestationsin

analytic philosophy, and more specically in that part of analytic philosophy which
treats poetry with contempt or tries to exclude it, i.e. in speech act philosophy. If
attunement can bring peace here, it can hope to make progress, by creating
conditions in which philosophers and literary critics share views on the core issues
and the use of key terms, enabling us to explore the original idea fully and properly:
that work on a philosophy of speech acts may contribute to our understanding of
poetry.
Even under poor conditions, this idea has been quite fruitful, particularly in
recent years.96 And it has been usefully employed to criticize philosophical debate
about poetry. For example, Raymond Geuss makes informative use of Austin while
defending his view that there is no essence to poetry and thus no real question
about whether poetry is or is not essentially a form of knowledge. He calls on
Austin to draw a distinction between attempts to construe poems as speech acts (the
approach taken here) and attempts to construe poetry as prior to and constituting
the space within which speech acts can be performed (the approach taken by the
later Heidegger).97 What literary criticism currently recognizes as a speech act
approach has been used to considerable effect in the elucidation of literature
generally, and sometimes specically of poetry. Judith Butlers work on the
performative has been highly inuential, though there is a need to be cautious
here.98 Butler presents her approach as an application of Austin, but she differs
from him considerably in her interpretation, treating explicit performatives as the
paradigm of speech acts. And she differs from Austin in the class of things she sets
out to explain: not just the things we do with particular sets of sentences but the
way we act and are acted upon in our social, legal, political, sexual lives. The danger
for this approach is evident in these departures from Austin: by making the
paradigm of speech acts so very small and what is to be explained thereby so very
large, Butler risks spreading her account vanishingly thin. My aim is to show that
our analyses would be more effective if they proceeded from what attunement
offers: the shared understanding and exercise of such an approach.
I try to demonstrate some of what attunement can do in this book. But there are
limits on what a single study can offer. I shall use only a fraction of the resources
open to a speech act philosopher and examine only one segment of the material
represented by poetry: Shakespeares use of the Chaucer-type in the Sonnets.
Shakespeare often uses the type in his plays also. The most strenuous, repeated,
and reective uses occur in The Merchant of Venice, Act IV, Scene 1, where they
mark the re-centring of ordinary relationships around a legalistic focus: I pray you;
I do beseech you; I answer you; I stand for judgement; I swear; I stay here on
my bond; I charge you by the law; I protest; I take this offer; I pardon thee.
96 See Peter Robinson, Poetry, Poets, Readers: Making Things Happen (2002). Peter McDonald
makes use of Austin in his description of Geoffrey Hills defence of poetry in Serious Poetry (2002,
pp. 94102). John Kerrigan similarly appeals to Austin in his analyses of commitment-apt language in
Shakespeares plays in Shakespeares Binding Language (2016, pp. 359).
97 Geuss, Poetry and knowledge (2005, pp. 184205; especially p. 188 note 14).
98 Butler, Bodies That Matter (1993, chapter 8, pp. 22342) and Excitable Speech (1997 passim).
Here, the Chaucer-type is rst strongly identied with the specialized forensic
formulae which make much use of it, and its repeated use is then allowed to affect
and infect expressions used to sustain ordinary human relations, so that we begin to
have the suffocating sense that forensic terms exhaust the permissible forms
expressing such relations. These are fascinating matters, but Shakespeares uses of
the Chaucer-type in the plays require their own full treatment.99 The dramatic
context makes them at once more complex and more decipherable. So we shall set
them aside and concentrate on the Sonnets.
With resources so limited and a subject-area so narrow, the results must be
correspondingly restricted. If others become interested in adopting an attuned
approach, there are many such investigations to make. Remaining just with the
Sonnets, for example, we might examine Shakespeares use of non-Chaucer-type
phrases, or look in a more wide-angled way at the sheer variety of actions performed
in uttering words across the range of the Sonnets, or investigate discrete areas which
would respond particularly well to a speech act approach, such as the actions
Shakespeares speaker performs with peculiarly poetic forms like enjambment.
There is a standard view of what a speech act approach to Shakespeares Sonnets
would look like, associated with the pioneering studies of Helen Vendler and David
Schalkwyk.100 Both lean heavily on the very beginning of J. L. Austins How To Do
Things With Words rather than on its later radical self-correction. Both propose an
exclusive divide between two uses of language: those in which one states or describes
things (constative), and those in which one performs actions (performative).
Schalkwyk seeks to prove that the poems are performative rather than constative.101
In a similar way, Vendler tries to reverse the attitudes of readers who think of the
Sonnets as discursive propositional statements rather than as situationally motivated
speech acts.102 So this is what we have come to associate with a speech act approach
to the Sonnets: an approach that treats the sequence as a series of performative acts
rather than of statements or descriptions. Vendler and Schalkwyk do disagree in
important ways, but about what this position implies, not this position itself. For
example, Vendler thinks historical research must be of minimal signicance if the
Sonnets are performative rather than constative, whereas Schalkwyk thinks historical
research must be of maximal signicance if this is so.103
I have learned much from the acute and sensitive readings of Vendler and
Schalkwyk, as the reader will quickly appreciate. But my own speech act approach
to the Sonnets looks very different. It follows directly from the call to attune poetry
and philosophy, allowing our engagement with one to shape our engagement with
the other. For a critical approach to the poetry helps show us how discursive
99 Other signicant uses of the Chaucer-type in the plays occur in A Midsummer Nights Dream
2.2.110ff; 3.1.172ff; 5.1.3413; The Comedy of Errors 4.4.4952; Twelfth Night 3.4.14; As You Like
It 2.1.1579; 3.2.270; 5.4.185; Loves Labours Lost 1.2.5; 3.1.53; Merry Wives of Windsor 3.3.34; The
Taming of the Shrew 4.5.25; 5.2.1312.
100 Helen Vendler, The Art of Shakespeares Sonnets (1997); David Schalkwyk, Speech and Performance
in Shakespeares Sonnets and Plays (2002).

101 Schalkwyk (2002, p. 10). 102 Vendler (1997, p. 492).
103 Vendler (1997, pp. 14); Schalkwyk (2002, pp. 1316).
propositional statements and descriptions play an essential and deeply signicant

role in the Sonnets. And a philosophical analysis of utterances in the Sonnets helps
show us that the constative is a variety of performative, not in contrast with it.
Austin himself quickly recognized this, calling his own attempt to describe and
dene a dichotomy between the performative and the constative hopeless from the
start.104 Stating and describing are among the many things we do with words:
What we need to do for the case of stating, and by the same token describing and
reporting, is to take them a bit off their pedestal, to realize that they are speech-acts no
less than all these other speech-acts that we have been mentioning and talking about as
performative.105
By allowing these ndings to affect and respond to each other in the single, unied
activity of attunement, we are freed from various articial restrictions and thus see
more deeply into the poetry and into the uses it makes of language. We are able to
see, for example, that some Chaucer-type utterances count as simultaneously
constative and performative, and thus appreciate what is peculiarly signicant
about certain pivotal moments in the sequence, where the speaker is describing the
acts being performed in the very act of performing them. And instead of ignoring
the great weight of statements and descriptions in the sequence, or setting them
aside as beyond the means of a speech act approach, we can focus the considerable
resources of such an approach upon them. In short, by drawing on both poetry and
philosophy, attunement aims at a more fruitful analysis of the Sonnets, one that is
true to the Sonnets themselves and true to a genuine speech act approach.
IX
Attunement is the most apt response to the antipathy between poetry and phil-
osophy. That is the claim I shall be trying to support with argument and analysis.
Here, it only remains to point out certain features of the book, so as to help readers
navigate the chapters to come.
The book is intended for a diverse group of readers. So I have written it with
different needs and concerns in mind. In particular, though I hope readers will be
interested in both parts of the book, it is written so that one may start with either.
Those primarily concerned with philosophy will wish to start with Part I. They can
then look forward to the later chapters, if they wish to see what comes of attunement.
Those primarily concerned with literary criticism may wish to start with Part II, and
those more closely concerned with Shakespeare may wish to start halfway through
that part, at Chapter 12. Both can then look back to the earlier chapters, and to Part
I, if they wish to see what grounds attunement. To help these and other readers
remain orientated within the whole, there follows a prcis of the argument of each
104 Austin p. 66. The real task he sets himself is to distinguish kinds of things done by utterances,
hence his subsequent focus on the locutionary-illocutionary-perlocutionary distinction.

105 Austin, Performative utterances (1979, pp. 24950).
part. (There is a longer summary in the Conclusion, section III, which describes the
main arguments of each chapter.)
Part I focuses on making peace. It argues that, supercial confusion and misap-
prehension aside, analytic philosophy is not in fact deeply hostile to poetry. What it
intends by calling poetry non-serious is what poets and critics themselves often
endorse. Indeed, philosophy is well placed to appreciate poetry, once it adopts a
speech act approach and turns this action-orientated method to analyse poetic
utterances. To attune them to one another in this way, we need to correct the false
assumption that poetry is exempt from responsibility and commitment. And the
trade can then be two-way: criticism of poetry can guide and be guided by
philosophy.
Part II focuses on making progress. It shows that Chaucer-type utterances in
poetry call out for treatment with an attuned approach. Poetry contains many
examples of this type, offering ample illustration of its purpose and variety. But on
the one hand, such utterances have not attracted much literary critical attention or
been subjected to close study as a particular form, so what is peculiar to the poems
containing such utterances goes unappreciated. And on the other hand, though the
verbal form of such utterances is much studied by a speech act approach, the
examples are drawn from outside poetry, so there is little appreciation of the sheer
variety of this form and the purposes to which it is put. We should draw on
philosophy and critical receptivity to secure agreement about the core features of the
Chaucer-type, and then use these ndings to understand the ways that poets have
created variants on the form. Then we can discover further matter for philosophical
reection in deeper literary appreciation, and further matter for critical appreciation
in deeper philosophical reection. This demonstrates the vigorous spiralling progress
characteristic of attunement.
It may seem presumptuous in me, a philosopher, and an analytic philosopher at
that, to attempt literary criticism. I apologize if this causes undue annoyance to
some. I can only say that I would be guilty of worse had I not made the attempt. It
is no good my claiming that analytic philosophy and poetry really can learn from
each other only to duck out of demonstrating how I think this mutually benecial
inuence might work. Methods must be judged by their results. It is not enough to
climb Mount Pisgah; one must be prepared to scout the land for milk and honey
and risk coming back with lemons.
Attunement is a mutually shaping approach at the service of what it exercises: our
genuinely critical engagement with poetry and with philosophy. But neither
attunement nor its results are meant to be in competition with other literary critical
approachesunless in the very mild sense that any approach must compete for a
readers attention. In particular, read nothing disapproving about historicism into
the fact that I make little use of a historians methods of analysis. I am deeply
dependent on the fruits of historical investigations carried out by others.106 It is
106 For example, I do not doubt that the kinds of contexts on which historians characteristically
focus are relevant to what those sceptical of historicist inquiries call the intrinsic processes of poems;
e.g. Helen Vendler, Poets Thinking (2004, p. 5).
simply that, being part-trained as a historian, I am vividly aware of how know-

ledgeable one has to be about the historical material to make even the slightest
useful contribution. So let me emphasize: I see no reason at all why an approach
that attunes poetry and philosophy should not also draw on a historians skills, both
informing and being informed by their craft.
I often modernize spelling and punctuation, as is now standard practice, though
not when this is unnecessary, or when it disturbs rhythm, rhyme, or sense.107
Finally, a word about the title. Rift has a variety of senses. Its rst is the most
familiar: a split or crack or a rent in an object.108 Its second we have already
encountered: a breaking of wind. But there is also a third meaning: rift is
removable matter, that part of a horses hoof which is pared off when overgrown.
My title is meant to evoke all three senses.
In our present condition, it is the rst that stands out. The antipathy between
poetry and philosophy is a major fault, and this Rift in the Luteto follow the
Tennysonian thoughtthreatens to make their music mute. But the second sense
of rift is also apt for our present condition, if we can only become aware of it.
Rumbling away in the depths of both poetry and philosophy, there is an intermit-
tent impatience with the customary animosities, the perennial antipathy. If prop-
erly directed, this impatience may gather and burst through that crusty surface. It is
just such a transforming Rift in the Lute that this book tries to help stimulate. And
this releasing may bring about a deliverance in which rift takes on the third sense.
Misunderstandings resolved, antipathy extinguished, we will be able to treat
remaining obstructions to attunement as insignicant, so much Rift in the Lute,
mere dead matter to be pared off and removed.
This state of affairs is worth working to achieve. For when poetry and philosophy
recognize and endorse each others virtues, a mode of appreciation comes to life that
combines open sensitivity to the signicance of words with perceptiveness about
the uses to which they are put, so that poetry and philosophy come to be paired
forms of insight and inquiry into the way the world is and what is of value in it. It is
natural to desire this, possible to achieve it, and a delight to experience.
107 The approach is difcult to describe more closely except with an example. Lines 18635 of
Chaucers Troilus and Criseyde are:

Thow oon, and two, and thre, eterne on lyve,
That regnest ay in thre, and two, and oon,
Uncircumscript, and al maist circumscrive,
(Chaucer 2008, p. 585). To retain rhythm, rhyme, and sense while modernizing the spelling,
I transcribe it as follows (for present purposes, marking what is unchanged with italics):
Thou one, and two, and three, eterne on lyve,
That reignest ay in three, and two, and one,
Uncircumscript, and all mayst circumscrive,
108 Rift is in this sense a (geological) fault, but it is not necessarily a failing. Thus Robert Southwell
is free to nd comfort in the metaphor: O pleasant port, O place of rest, | O royal rift, O worthy
wound, | Come harbor me a weary guest, | That in the world no ease have found; from the poem Man
to the wound in Christs side; Southwell, p. 72.
PART I
SENSE AND SENSITIVITY

1
Austins Remarks
I
With the vulnerabilities of speech, J. L. Austin and Samuel Beckett shared a
poignant fascination. There are many ways in which the thing I am trying in
vain to say may be tried in vain to be said.1 Things may go wrong with our use of
words, and in particular with what we do with them. Austin dubbed the latter
infelicities and set about cataloguing the instances. His work has been praised as
almost botanical, groundwork for a future Principia Grammatica.2 But poetry is a
victim of his brisk efciencies.
At the head of Austins catalogue stand Misres and Abuses. Misres occur
when we fail outright to do what we try, or purport to try; there may be something
botched about what we say, and hence void about what we do. (I say I veto this
bill, for example, but lack the requisite authority.) Abuses occur when there is still
something wrong, even though we succeed in doing what we try, or purport to try;
there may be something hollow or professed about what we say, and hence not
consummated or not implemented about what we do. (I say I bet, for example,
and do indeed bet, though I do not intend to pay.) Austin then sub-divides these
classes. Misring is a genus whose species include misinvocations (non-plays;
misplays; misapplications) and misexecutions (miscarriages; aws; hitches; non-
executions). The species of abuse include insincerities (dissimulations) and infrac-
tions (breaches; non-fullments; disloyalties; indisciplines).
For all its due attentions, Austins catalogue of infelicities quickly develops its
own hitches and subtle aws, yawning gaps and breaches. The names for genus and
species mislead. The dividing-lines are neither lines (they are too vague) nor
dividing (their contents merge). Few of the possible instances are given space,
even in outline. The analysis deals only with information drawn from ordinary
circumstances, which turn out to exclude so much of what is integral to everyday
discourse that the resulting matrix ts only highly idealized speech situations.
Austin acknowledges all this. Indeed, far from disowning these infelicities about
infelicity, Austin parades the unwanted likeness between the analysis and what is to
be analysed. To quote from three of thirty consistently, persistently, apologetic
pages: I do not wish to claim any sort of nality for this scheme; let me hasten to
add that these distinctions are not hard and fast; such words . . . will not bear very
1 Beckett, Proust (1965, p. 123).

2 Gilbert Ryles description: see his Collected Papers Volume 1: Critical Essays (2009, p. 284).
38 Sense and Sensitivity
much stressing; I have not succeeded in nding a good name for [this] class.3 He
may justiably have felt, after long travail, that among the things it is in vain to say
are the ways it is in vain to say them.4
Perhaps. But this open-handed broadcast of failings in his scheme also throws
dust in the eye. A writer who suspends his catalogue of ordinary speech-traits with
the parenthesis (do not stress the normal connotations of these names!) is not
innocent of how this is done. (There is a keen likeness here with the Empson of
Seven Types of Ambiguity, who draws constant attention to his possible failings: that
his types may after all not be so very different from each other; that his denitions
of the types are in some way unhappy; that he mischaracterizes them in some way;
that he may have placed an example in the wrong category.5) And it is amidst such
commotion that poetry crops up, and keeps cropping up: rst in How To Do Things
With Words, his William James Lectures, given at Harvard in 1955 and published
posthumously with the lightest editing;6 then in Performative utterances,
a radio talk given for the BBC in 1956;7 and nally in Performative-Constative,
a contribution to a colloquium held at Royaumont in 1958, given originally in
French.8
The points made are few and Austin repeats them often, giving reason to think
he meant to nurture what he planted. He focuses throughout on the composing of
poetry, the use of language to issue utterances, rather than on the quoting or
reciting of poetry, the use of language to re-issue utterances.
Some of his remarks offer brief statements of his basic position:
(a) Poetry is a use of language which is not serious.9
(b) In poetry, language is . . . used not seriously.10
(c) If an utterance occurs in a poem it gures in a context not wholly ser-
ious.11
Some of his remarks attempt to expand on this basic position, to explain what it
amounts to:
(d) In poetry, the words are not spoken seriously.12
(e) In poetry, the words are not spoken so as to be taken seriously.13
3 Austin pp. 14; 16; 1617; 17. 4 Austin p. 16.

5 Michael Wood nds Empsons cheerful openness in this regard alarming and reckless if
admirable; Literature and the Taste of Knowledge (2005, pp. 978). I suspect Austin arouses
precisely the same feelings. It is not just a matter of temperament but of what one thinks they are
about. If one takes Austin and Empson seriously when they present their work as an ongoing
investigation into the means of investigation itself, as well as an investigation into language and
literature respectively, one will expect them to be open about problems and failures.
6 Austin pp. 910; 202; 92, fn. 2; 104; 122. See Editors preface, p. v.
7 Austin, Philosophical Papers (1979, pp. 23352; pp. 2401).
8 In John Searle (ed.), The Philosophy of Language (1971, pp. 1322; p. 15).
9 Austin p. 104. 10 Austin p. 22.
11 Austin, Performative-constative (Searle 1971, pp. 1322; p. 15.) 12 Austin p. 9.
13 Austin p. 9.
Austins Remarks 39
(f) If we issue an utterance of any kind whatsoever in writing a poem, it

would not be seriously meant.14
(g) If we issue an utterance of any kind whatsoever in writing a poem, we
shall not be able to say that we seriously performed the act concerned.15
(h) If the poet says Go . . . . . . , he doesnt seriously issue an order.16
It is striking how often serious occurs, but how rarely Austin repeats himself. Each
such remark makes a different point, hits a different target, as if carefully designed to
leave poets no possible respect in which they might regard what they do as serious.
The rest of his remarks take the form of one-off comments which remain
undeveloped and undefended; their role is evidently dependent and auxiliary:
(i) Poetry is a use of language which is not the full normal use.17
(j) When uttered in poetry, any and every utterance is in a peculiar way hollow
or void.18
(k) In poetry, language is used in ways parasitic upon its normal use;19 poetry is
one of the parasitic uses of language.20
(l) In poetry, language is used in ways which fall under the doctrine of the
etiolations of language;21 etiolation . . . occurs when we use speech in . . .
poetry.22
(m) utterances in general are substandard when they gure in a context . . .
[of] a poem.23
II
It is hard not to nd these remarks obnoxious, repellent in their tone of boisterous
disregard, of blanket contempt.24 They make no distinction between types and
instances of poetic utterance. They offer no arguments to demonstrate that no
poetry is serious. They show no recognition that serious is an ambiguous term,
and that it matters considerably whether what is being said is that poetry is
supercial, or insincere, or comical, or irresolute, or insignicant. They neither
excuse nor justify the added slurin explanation or in defence?that poetry is a
parasitic use of language, an etiolation. Many of these remarks make distinct
14 Austin, Performative utterances, p. 241. 15 Austin, Performative utterances, p. 241.

16 Austin, Performative utterances, p. 241. 17 Austin p. 104.
18 Austin p. 22. 19 Austin p. 22. 20 Austin p. 104. 21 Austin p. 22.
22 Austin p. 92, fn. 2. 23 Austin, Performative-constative, p. 15.
24 For a feeling response to these kinds of charges when directed at an individual, see William
Empsons reply to Geoffrey Strickland (originally published in 19545; reprinted in Selected Letters of
William Empson, 2006, pp. 2479). Forced to say what he liked about his own work, Empson
continues: This is disagreeably like writing an advertisement for myself, but consider how much
more disagreeable it is for me to be told that I was cooking up a fatuously tiresome mass of spoof,
licking my lips over the hope of jeering at anybody who was fool enough to take it seriously. The
meanmindedness of anybody who can believe I did that feels to me quite sickening (2006, p. 248).
claims, but there are no distinct arguments to support them. It is possible to use
language in a non-serious way and make serious points, just as it is possible to be
non-serious with serious uses of language. But we are not told how to make room
for, or comprehend, these complications.
Not that Austin is alone here. There is in some of T. S. Eliots criticism of poetry
much the same combination: frequent use of serious, unwillingness to specify or
look very deeply into what these uses are to be taken to mean, a carefreeness about
the usage which seems somehow calculated and is certainly not carelessness.
Consider his essay Milton I, for example. Here Eliot sets out to explain just
why Milton has done damage to the English language from which it has not wholly
recovered. His analysis centres on the claim that, The most important fact about
Milton . . . is his blindness. It is largely because of this, Eliot suggests, that it is not
so unfair, as it might at rst appear, to say that Milton writes English like a dead
language.25 Miltons compensating concentration upon the auditory imagination
has positive and negative aspects.26 Eliots main example of the latter is one where
that concentration leads to at least an occasional levity. He then quotes a passage
and says this:
I can enjoy the roll of [it] . . . but I feel that this is not serious poetry, not poetry fully
occupied about its business, but rather a solemn game.27
The weight of that not serious is that much heavier for having been prepared for by
Eliots conscious over-use of serious in the opening two paragraphs of the essay.
Eliot will express doubts about Milton which are more serious than those usually
held. There are serious charges to be made against him. One way of putting the
matter is not necessarily to bring a serious charge. Another way of putting the matter
appears a good deal more serious. And again, It is more serious, also, if
we afrm . . . .28 Serious is not used again until the end of the essay, and the
over-use at the beginning, combined with the absence which follows it, raises the
readers expectations, so that when it does come, at the critical point of the analysis, it
has developed considerable resonance: this is not serious poetry, not poetry fully
occupied about its business . . . . But this not serious resonates within a hollow.
What we are to make of it is never explained.
So Austin is not the only one whose attentions to poetry fail to satisfy the
obligations that his use of serious lay on him. Moreover, he does not seem to feel
the need to satisfy them. It might be said that he was simply joking, or that he
thought his claims transparent and just obviously true. But Austin never simply
joked in philosophy, and he could not have missed what is obvious: that these
claims are opaque and apparently offensive. Austin was not minded to treat the use
of language in poetry with due attention or care, and negligence in one so tempted
to pedantry seems pointed.
Austins carelessness about poetry may or may not be studied; it is certainly
pervasive:
25 Eliot, Milton I (1957, pp. 13845; p. 139). 26 Eliot, Milton I (1957, pp. 141, 144).
27 Eliot, Milton I (1957, p. 144). 28 Eliot, Milton I (1957, pp. 144, 138, 139).
Austins Remarks 41
as utterances our performatives are also heir to certain other kinds of ill which infect all
utterances. And these likewise, though again they might be brought into a more
general account, we are deliberately at present excluding. I mean, for example, the
following: a performative utterance will, for example, be in a peculiar way hollow or
void if said by an actor on the stage, or if introduced in a poem, or spoken in soliloquy.
This applies in a similar manner to any and every utterancea sea-change in special
circumstances. Language in such circumstances is in special waysintelligiblyused
not seriously, but in ways parasitic upon its normal useways which fall under the
doctrine of the etiolations of language. All this we are excluding from consideration.29
The passage is oddly clamorous. If one did not know the writer, the rash of italics
and dashed-off phrases would read like the tics of an obsessive in nervous exaltation.
Austin is an unusually energetic writer of philosophical prose, but the contrasts of
tone here are too hectic to be vigorousfrom furtive (in a peculiar way) to
expansive (any and every), from delicately allusive (a sea-change) to plain abrasive
(parasitic), from formal-pedantic (intelligibly) to absurdist-pedantic (the
doctrine of the etiolations). Austin has a ne ear for a debating-point, where to
place a phrase, how far to push what it betokens. But here the epithets demoting
poetry are allowed to tumble frantically on stagehollow, void, not seriously,
parasitic, etiolationscrowding out individual features and making a blur of the
charges laid.
If we can regain a sense of underlying control, it is because we imagine the text
spoken aloud (perhaps as we envisage it originally presented), and convert the
phrasing and typographical effects into the grasped arm, varying tones, and sudden
grin of the seasoned cajoler, with their Do you see? and Youre with me so far?
and I dont need to tell you, a peculiarly strained and straining sort of performance,
of course, and quite unlike Austins usual cool. (Austin himself bemoaned the fact
that features of spoken language are not reproducible readily in written language;
he regarded punctuation, italics and word order as jejune, rather crude means of
representing the tone of voice, cadence, emphasis of spoken delivery.30) But the
real mystery is why this performance is laid on in the rst place. These are supposed
to be matters we are excluding from consideration, after all. And mark the effort
even in that nal squeeze of the italics. What is causing this fuss over what we are
not to fuss about? Austin rarely sounds so hoarse.
Notable, then, are the exertions made and the energies expended. The attempt to
sound unrufed seems hollow and professed, like the very abuses being listed.
But what is unnerving about the hand-off Austin gives poetry is the evasion in his
off-handedness. Where effort is expected, because manifestly called for, it is the
backing off and away which is salient. Language in such circumstances is in special
waysintelligiblyused not seriously. It is unclear how we are to understand this
29 Austin pp. 212.

30 Austin p. 74. Austins brief comments on this point provoked Derrida to considerable efforts in
attempted rebuttal; see Limited Inc (1988, pp. 121; 1027). Eric Grifths and Simon Jarvis skirt this
debate to explore the deeper issues that Austins comments raise; see Grifths, The Printed Voice of
Victorian Poetry (1989, pp. 3759); Jarvis, How to do things with tunes (2015, pp. 36383).
distinction, between the serious and the non-serious, this idea that poetry is
parasitic, an etiolation. To accept or reject his position requires knowing what he
has in mind here. But when he comes to explain, his language is in ordinary ways
seriouslyused not intelligibly:
Surely the words must be spoken seriously and so as to be taken seriously? This is,
though vague, true enough in generalit is an important commonplace in discussing
the purport of any utterance whatsoever. I must not be joking, for example, nor writing
a poem.31
The rst sentence awakens hopes: partly because it raises a question and hence
recognizes the need to offer answers; partly because it invests seriously with
inverted commas, giving notice that this word has particular salience as the focus
of inquiry. But instead of clarication, we are simply readmitted to the problem:
the meaning of the statement is vague. This indeterminacy is then allowed to
breed: vague also is the truth of the statement; it is true only in the sense of being
true enough . . . . This qualication is then further qualied, in general. One
more push, it seems, and Austins original thought will collapse altogether. The
dash seems to be shoring up the claim against this tendency to give way, and Austin
uses it to rally his spirits: it is an important . . . , only to sink again: common-
place. That is the end of the attempt to make seriously intelligible to us an
endeavour that seems to have ended, or been nished off, before it was rightly
begun. We do know that, whatever serious means, Austin thinks it not applicable
to the use of language in poetry. We do know that we can be expected to endorse
that view. Furthermore, we know that all this is connected with an important
commonplace. But what this vital trie is, we can only guess.
Recapitulation passages betray signs of the same curiously ineffectual exertions:
there is another whole range of questions about how we are using language or what
we are doing in saying something which we have said may be, and intuitively seem to
be, entirely differentfurther matters which we are not trenching upon. For example,
there are insinuating (and other non-literal uses of language), joking (and other non-
serious uses of language), and swearing and showing off (which are perhaps expressive
uses of language).32
Trenching means to dig or cut a groove;33 to bite into; to gash or wound; to ght
over;34 to bury. It is strange for a philosopher to deny, to feel the need to deny, that
this is what he is about.
If Austin does not come to bite poetry or to bury it, he nevertheless manages to
continue offending it, and this despite not mentioning it here. Indeed, part of the
affront is that he does not need to. For we are expected to know that poetry is
included in the round-up of sequestered items by recalling what Austin has earlier
said: that it is a non-serious use of language and that it keeps company with

33 John Milton, to trench a eld, Paradise Lost I.677.
34 Shakespeare, No more shall trenching war channel her elds, 1 Henry IV 1. 1. 7.
Austins Remarks 43
jokingthe words must be spoken seriously . . . I must not be joking, for

example, nor writing a poem.35 (This trope recalls John Lockes comment:
Poetry and Gaming, which usually go together, are alike in this too, that they
seldom bring any advantage but to those who have nothing else to live on.36)
Austins commentary is not coercive in the rough way of the rst passage, but it
is something of a trick nevertheless, the path towards agreement being consider-
ably smoothed if an author makes following him depend on thinking like him.
At least the passage alerts us to the ploy: it is only if we fall for it that the step
from things which we have said may be to things which intuitively seem to be
is as easy as that comma and conjunction make it look.
Austin can be more peremptory in his attempts to co-opt:
We shall not always mention but must bear in mind the possibility of etiolation as it
occurs when we use speech in acting, ction and poetry, quotation and recitation.37
We shall not always mention, but [we] must bear in mind . . . . The burden of
deciding what to mention is evidently the authors alone, but there is equally no
doubt whose burden it is to bear the possibility of etiolation in mind. This direct
extension of Austins authorial self-reference to embrace his audience takes place
under the rule of elision but does subtle violence to its norms. Lexical suppres-
sion of nominal terms in structurally parallel phrases is possible under the
assumption that they simply repeat the term in the primary phrase. But here,
of course, it is only the word that is being repeated, and that word is ambiguous
between the rst-person singular term (the authorial We of the rst phrase) and
the rst-person plural (the ordinary We of the second phrase). This does violence
in turn to the norms of argument. No reason is given why We (plural) should be
bound by what We (singular) feel bound by. The trick, of course, was to engage
us in complicity; no reason needs to be given because we are, after all, in
agreement on this.
In a talk given for the BBC in 1956, Austin said:
And I might mention that, quite differently again, we could be issuing any of these
utterances, as we can issue an utterance of any kind whatsoever, in the course, for
example, of acting a play or making a joke or writing a poemin which case of course
it would not be seriously meant and we shall not be able to say that we seriously
performed the act concerned.38
The remark may lack clamour and martial vocabulary, but it is a performance
nevertheless, a show-piece, and one whose elements we are plainly invited to
relish. As Austin takes a swipe at poets, he shows off his poets appreciation of the
ways form can heighten word-value. The mordant tensions and unsatisfactory
releases, together with the rhythm in which one succeeds the other, have a poetic
35 Austin p. 9. 36 John Locke, Some Thoughts Concerning Education, section 174.

37 Austin p. 92, fn. 2. 38 Austin, Performative utterances, p. 241.
shape and intensity that could have been modelled on T. S. Eliots The Love
Song of J. Alfred Prufrock:39
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question . . .
Oh, do not ask, What is it?
Let us go and make our visit.
There is the same constipated beginning, each consideration given its due, each
painful turn of the inner coil marked by its comma or line-end, like a joking, self-
deprecatory skit on the stage-philosopher, winding himself up through qualica-
tions and distinctions to achieve the eminence necessary to pronounce judgement;
the dash or aposiopesis, like a buttress against the build-up; and then the same
giving way under pressure, the proposal breaking its barriers and gushing out in one
uninterrupted loosing, with the belittling bird-chatter it j . . . -it of Eliots nal
couplet matched by Austins mischievous not . . . seriously bobbing up twice in the
midst of the ow.
But Austins delivery threatens to evacuate his message, and this because of its
virtues, rather than in spite of them. For we derive pleasure from his utterance and its
ways of combining the very features it censures: its show-piece style, its joking ways,
its resistance to performing seriously the act of asserting what it asserts. But the
inclusion of these features makes what is said either self-defeating or false. What is
said would be self-defeating if we x on the fact that Austin combines these features
in issuing his utterance. They are sufcient to make the utterance count, by its own
lights, as not seriously meant, not seriously performed. Alternatively, what is said
would be false if we concentrate instead on the fact that evidently the utterance is
asserted as true, and hence seriously meant, seriously performed. This very utterance
is joking, resists performing seriously what it performs, and yet still manages to be
seriously meant, seriously performed. So it would count straightforwardly as its own
counter-example. In short, what Austin calls impossible is possible, and not just
possible but actual, and not just actual but actualized in and by the very utterance
meant to assert the impossibility. Vertiginous as this may appear, the problem is plain
enough: in describing one way of trying in vain to say something, he realizes another.
That there is something self-contradictory about Austins pronouncement is clear.
It is more difcult to identify the cause. Perhaps the reason why Austins argument
resists performing itself seriously, and hence risks contradicting itself, is that it is
expressed in a self-consciously poetic way. Then the remedy is simple and direct:
either accept that poetry can be seriously meant, or forgo poetic delivery when
philosophizing (no doubt most philosophers could bring themselves to accept this
trade-off). Or perhaps it is the subject-matter which causes Austins argument to
contradict itself. It is not possible to philosophize consistently while denying that
poetry can be seriously meant. It is poetry itself which evacuates Austins philosophical
39 T. S. Eliot, The Complete Poems and Plays (1969, pp. 1317; p. 13).
Austins Remarks 45
message. Then the remedy is a consummation for which poets might devoutly wish:
either accept that poetry can be seriously meant, or forgo philosophizing about it.
III
To decide between the options, we need to know more about why Austin aligns
poetry with what is not seriously meant and not seriously performed.
If the poet says Go and catch a falling star or whatever it may be, he doesnt seriously
issue an order.40
It is in this way that Austin clinches the foregoing passage (if we issue an utterance
in writing a poem, it would not be seriously meant and we shall not be able to say
that we seriously performed the act concerned). The manner may be airyor
whatever it may bebut there is effort in the selection, and it does not go to waste:
he uses the example again.41 The image, deniable but lingering, is of the poet as
buffoon and knave, his occupation at once both laughably pretentious (striving at
what is clearly impossible to achieve) and contemptibly mendacious (pretending
that what cannot be achieved can be). But Austins footing is not sure, despite the
high-handed manner. The speaker in Donnes Song is not even trying to issue an
order, seriously or otherwise. Go and catch a falling starand (to paraphrase) you
will accomplish something easier than nding a woman true and fair is no more an
order than Assault our ofcersand you will be prosecuted.
When the example recurs, it is in a subtly different context, and alongside
another example:
we may speak of the use of language for something, e.g. for joking; and we may use
in in a way different from the illocutionary in, as when we say in saying p I was
joking or acting a part or writing poetry; or again we may speak of a poetical use of
language as distinct from the use of language in poetry. These references to use of
language have nothing to do with the illocutionary act. For example, if I say Go and
catch a falling star, it may be quite clear what both the meaning and the force of my
utterance is, but still wholly unresolved which of these other kinds of things I may be
doing. There are parasitic uses of language, which are not serious, not the full normal
use. The normal conditions of reference may be suspended, or no attempt made at a
standard perlocutionary act, no attempt to make you do anything, as Walt Whitman
does not seriously incite the eagle of liberty to soar.42
The Whitman example again summons up the image of the poet as either conceited
and buffoonish or deceitful and knave-like. It fails for the same reason as Austins
appeal to Donnes Song. The poet does not tryseriously or otherwiseto
rouse the bird to soar. Unlike the Donne example, someone in the vicinity is indeed
engaged in the attempt described, but it is Beerbohms caricature of Whitman
(to whose title Austins tag alludes) rather than Whitman.
40 Austin, Performative utterances, p. 241. 41 Austin p. 104. 42 Austin p. 104.

If it were not for the fact that these are the only examples Austin offers in
conjunction with his claims about the non-seriousness of poetry, it might seem
mean-spirited to pick on them. But their uniqueness makes them prominent, if not
eminent or sufciently forceful. Given the gravity of his charges concerning poetry,
and their notable vaguenesses, it would be worse not to examine whatever examples
or evidence he does supply. Moreover, they reveal a good deal about Austins
attitude in his dealings with poetry. It is not simply that he is not choosy about his
evidence; he cares little who knows this, and even advertises the fact.
To suggest that a known caricature of a poet will do as well as a real poet when
offering conrmation of the non-seriousness of poetry is to imply that this claim
needs no conrmation. And of the various reasons why he might think this claim
needs no support, two are the most plausible. Either he thinks that the claim is just
obviously true, grave and severe as it is, or what he means by the claim is more
insipid than his rhetoric suggests, weak enough to count as non-controversial. The
second option may seem unlikely; it would suggest that Austin himself is being not
serious, playful even, when calling poetry non-serious. But this too is possible.
The passage containing the Whitman example is notable for adding not the
full normal use to the panoply of epithets Austin associates with poetry,
descriptions that he hopes will justify excluding it from his considerations.
One nal descriptionsubstandardis introduced in the talk he gave at the
Royaumont colloquium in 1958:
[A performative utterance is] liable to be substandard in all the ways in which actions in
general can be, as well as those in which utterances in general can be. For example, the
performative may be issued under duress, or by accident; it may suffer from defective
grammar, or from misunderstanding; it may gure in a context not wholly serious, in
a play, perhaps, or in a poem. We leave all that on one side.43
Not wholly serious: this qualication allows the charge not serious to slip
anchor and start drifting away. The addition of not the full normal use has a
similar effect. Both repeat the scarcely resistible falling off and away in This is,
though vague, true enough in generalit is an important commonplace . . . .
IV
So Austins handling of poetry is puzzling. Any combination of high-handedness
and half-heartedness must tend to be at least that. On the one hand, tremendous
clamour, energy, and exertion about the claims being made. On the other, palpable
laxness and reluctance about rendering those claims intelligible or conrming them.
Poetry is waved at so as to be waived altogether. But setbacks so vitiate this attempt
at dismissing poetry from the work at hand that it is immediately readmitted to
what is under waythe cataloguing of infelicitiesas a paradigm of the ills which
may afict attempts to do things with words: claims that are too blurred and
43 Austin, Performative-constative, pp. 1322; p. 15.

Austins Remarks 47
disordered to be vigorous or properly intelligible; formulations that are weakened at

each successive repetition by morbid internal tensions and pressures; jesting illus-
trations that fail and fall atter for the exuberance with which they are delivered.
Perhaps the high-handedness disguises an inner uncertainty and lack of convic-
tion. If so, the disguise betrays the doubts and gives them extra resonance. Perhaps
the half-heartedness reveals a robust conviction that the claims stand in no need of
conrmation, that the audience can just atly be expected to agree. If so, either
Austin misjudges his audience, or his claims are much weaker than the clamour
implies. Perhaps Austin regards poetry with contempt. His manner and choice of
terms certainly suggest that he feels averse to it and judges it to be of little or no
worth or account, to be looked down on, and regarded as low or inferior. If so, it
is surprising that he does not explain or justify an attitude so intense and
so unappealing. Perhaps his comments are themselves not meant to be taken
seriously; they are to be passed over as a slight, if slighting, interlude. If so, it is
uncharacteristically boorish of him to consider the joke passable at all, let alone to
repeat it so tiresomely. What, then, is going on?
2
Poets and Critics
I
There is something mystifying and perhaps self-contradictory about J. L. Austins
pronouncements on poetry. This has often been remarked on. Jacques Derrida and
Stanley Cavell are both alive to the virtues of Austins theorizing about speech acts,
but nevertheless nd regrettable intimations of prejudice in his strictures on
poetry.1 They interpret these failures as signs of a deeper and broader malaise in
current philosophizing. Of those who remain focused on poetry, Geoffrey Hill calls
it a philosophical irony
that a mind which strove for accuracy of denition while registering most acutely the
quotidian duplicities, which sought decent and comely order as fervently as did the
authors of the antique tropes, felt free to regard poetry as one of the non-serious
parasitic etiolations of language, as a kind of joking.2
Strove and fervently are discerning. There is certainly something eager and oddly
zealous about Austins search for accuracy of denition, however glib he sometimes
makes the surface of his prose. Registering is itself double-dealing, capturing in a
single gure both sides of Austins relationship to the quotidian duplicities of
language: his capacity to discern and accurately record the ways of words (listing)
and his facility for modifying those ways so that they do new things, thus adding to
what is to be recorded (enlisting). But felt free to is the key. These perceptive
tributes merely provide the force with which to turn it. The passage is a gracious but
steely way of putting the philosopher (back) in his place, the host delicately
reminding an unruly reveller that the invitation he has so odiously assumed was
never, you know, extended.
Hills response to Austin has been called, by Christopher Ricks, a Defence of
Poetry for our age.3 It is certainly tempting to see Hill as completing a role-reversal
of the parts devised by Philip Sidney.4 Austin had begun the process by casting off
1 Jacques Derrida, Signature event context (1972), reprinted in his Limited Inc (1988, pp. 123).
Stanley Cavell, Counter-philosophy and the pawn of voice in his A Pitch of Philosophy (1994,
pp. 53127).
2 Hill, Our word is our bond (1983), reprinted in his Collected Critical Writings (2008,
pp. 14669; p. 157).

3 Ricks, Austins Swink (1992), reprinted in his Essays in Appreciation (1996, p. 261).
4 Sidney, The Defence of Poesy, in Gavin Alexander (ed.), Sidneys The Defence of Poesy and
Selected Renaissance Literary Criticism (2004, pp. 354).

the sullen gravity with which Sidney had endowed his rudely clothed philoso-
pher, exchanging it for the impish wit of Sidneys poet. Part of Austins trick was to
transform Sidneys elusively light-hearted way with his own prose efforts (this ink-
wasting toy of mine5) into an allusively light-ngered way with the poetic efforts of
others (hence the appeals to Donne and to Whitman).6 Now Hill completes the
switch with his assumption of the discarded role, rebuking the philosopher for his
unprincipled levity. The movement is complete, but not the iterations to which levity
must subject itself. Hence Austin can now be widely thought of as the straight man
for one of Jacques Derridas more famous deconstructive performances.7
Hill nds a sterner way than Sidney to conjure us no more to laugh at the name
of poets, as though they were next inheritors to fools.8 For the quoted passage
(that a mind which strove . . . ) keeps its irritation gravely in check, but there is a
solemn measure to the half-incredulous tone. The philosophical irony is made to
seem like unfaithfulness to a common enterprise, an offence bordering on perdy.
Under the politeness, a sense of betrayal runs, and this gives the surface tension.
Ricks takes up the strain. Austin is, of twentieth-century philosophers, the one
most to be relished for his sensibility and for what he makes of it in his word-work.
Complex patterns of allusion to poets and poetry are to be found throughout his
writings. But his comments on poetry itself are askew, an unrufed lapse,
unthinking or thoughtless. Worse, they are pseudo-professional, being a philo-
sophers slighting of the poets enterprise.9
Hill and Ricks are working a trope, of course, one that has acquired a familiar
shape through long reection on the Plato case: how are we to reconcile the
philosopher who would exile the poets with the author of the dialogues, the creator
of Socrates, himself a poet?10 But to interpret Austin in this way makes one
immediately responsible: to make it seem plausible that Austin was indeed so
dismissive of poetry.
Poets and critics who have responded to Austin tend to assume much of what is
required here: that poetry is or aspires to be a serious use of language, neither
parasitic nor etiolated; that it is possible for poetry to achieve this end, of being a
serious use of language; that we know it is possible to achieve this end because we
know that achieving it is actual: there are examples of success, commonly agreed to
count as such, and which one can cite in evidence. Hence to deny that poetry is or
5 Sidney, The Defence of Poesy (2004, p. 53).

6 This elusive light-heartedness is plausibly interpreted as a reection of Sidneys Protestant
humanism, a context which encouraged him to be both extraordinarily condent and optimistic (if
the creations of poetry are not subject to nature, they may escape the consequences of the Fall) and
yet also anxious enough to be both elusive and even self-contradicting (if the will is infected, corrupted
in the Fall, is not our reason also, and henceamong much elseour ability to understand poetry?).
Brian Cummings is insightful on the ways that Sidneys Defence reects his inner conicts here, provid[ing]
the counter-argument to his own theory even as he evolves it, The Literary Culture of the Reformation
(2002, p. 270; see also pp. 2649).
7 Peter J. Rabinowitz, Speech act theory and literary studies in Raman Selden (ed.), The
Cambridge History of Literary Criticism, vol. 8 (1995, pp. 34774; p. 347).

8 Sidney, The Defence of Poesy (2004, p. 53; see also p. 13).
9 Ricks, Austins Swink (1996, pp. 2602; p. 264).
10 As Stanley Rosen puts it in The Quarrel Between Philosophy and Poetry (1988, p. 1).
Poets and Critics 51
could be a serious use of language is to deny that poetry achieves the end to which
it aspires, and on the grounds that it could not be achieved. Someone who takes
this view must regard poetry as either laughably pretentious (striving at what is, in
fact, impossible to achieve) or contemptibly mendacious (pretending that what
cannot be achieved can be). It would be natural if such a person felt disdain
for poetry.
The question is, why did Austin deny that poetry could be a serious use of
language, and thus exclude it from his theorizing about speech acts? According to
poets and critics, the explanation is that he identied poetry with a kind of
joking.11 And this, so they claim, reveals one of two things: either Austin was
insensible to the nature and value of poetry, or he was in the grip of the kind of
deep-rooted mistake that betrays a background myth at work, or a misleading
conviction, or some falsifying ideology. Poets and critics acknowledge that the rst
option is scarcely tenable. The tone (general) and the attention to allusion (par-
ticular) of Austins writing make clear that he was deeply sensitive to the nature and
value of poetry. But the second option, so they suppose, has much going for it.
They view Austins approach to poetry as distorted by professional antipathy, an
averting and something of an aversion that is nurtured and encouraged in the
institution and practice of philosophy itself.12
This is how Ricks describes Austins pseudo-professional . . . denigration of
literature. He portrays Austins remarks as a philosophers slighting of the poets
enterprise.13 Hill is both more cautious and more precise: Austins view of poetry is
distorted not by philosophy simpliciter, but by the empiricism he espouses.14
11 Hill, Our word is our bond (2008, p. 148). 12 Ricks, Austins Swink (1996, p. 262).
13 Austins Swink (1996, pp. 2601; 264). The impression that this remark may itself be a
slighting of the philosophers enterprise is not removed when we notice what is revealingly half-
hearted about Ricks attitudes towards philosophy, even on the best of occasionsand there is no
better than when he is admiring William Empsons poetry, since it is in part a philosophers enterprise
to appreciate such poetry, as Ricks almost nds himself allowing. Almost, but not quite. When he nears
that point, Ricks swerves sharply away and tries to park the reader before a distractingly hazier view:
On general grounds it is unlikely that poems as good as [Empsons] best would derive and create all
their energies from those philosophical problems and pains, that siege of contrary ideas, which critics
have rightly seen the poems as engaging with; certainly that siege is crucial to them, but the question for
the criticas it was for the poetis that of the relation between such a siege and an actual human
situation. What is it about the two thingsthis contrariety and that situationwhich precipitates the
one thing, the poem? (William Empson: the images and the story in The Force of Poetry (1984,
pp. 179243; p. 181). This may seem unexceptionable, so long as we give that all due notice and
refuse the invitation to reduce philosophical problems to a siege of contrary ideas. But note how
Ricks question assumes that there must be two things here: the contrariety involved in engaging
with philosophical problems and pains and the situation which is an actual human situation. We
should resist this. For on occasionfor example, those occasions which prompt Empsons poems or
sustain an effective reading of themthe former simply is the latter. What interests here is not so much
the general grounds for Ricks position (which in any case he leaves unspecied) as the background
context sustaining them, making their specication unnecessary. It is not, perhaps, an animus against
philosophy. But it is a form of reserve and reservation, of keeping things in their place (according to
some notion of what that place is) which, in its plain and seemingly unaggressive way, is all the more
effective in keeping up a mode or mood in which philosophy and poetry are made unreceptive to each
other. If this is so when supremely gifted critics attend to the most philosophically rich poetry, the
chances of receptivity in the general case are a matter of concern.
14 Hill, Our word is our bond (2008, pp. 13941).
Vincent Sherry takes Hills suggestion further than Hill himself, perhaps, would go.
He describes Austins view as guided by a reductionist attempt to control language
by restricting its activity to referential functions.15
The poets and critics then turn the screw. Although Austins attitude is a
professional (i.e. philosophers) failing, he is considerably more at fault than his
colleagues. In part, this is because his sensitivity to poetry is greater than theirs,
and hence his lapse is the more inexcusable. But it is mainly because his position
is more slighting towards poetry than theirs. His aversion goes beyond what can
be explained (away) as merely professional. He was a philistine, and might well be
dismissed as such. This is the keynote of Ricks response to Austin, though it is
not always clearly sounded. He writes that Austins denigration of poetry was
not altogether true to himself .16 But that altogether is busy ducking and
weaving in precisely the way thatas Ricks himself rightly complainsserious-
ly ducks and weaves in Austins remarks on poetry.17
In prosecuting his claims, Ricks offers a simple inference to the best explanation.
Austin reached for quotation marks when describing poetry as not serious. How
better or how else to explain this than by supposing he felt both an averting and
something of an aversion to poetry?18
So we can summarize the explanation favoured by poets and critics, based on
their interpretation of Austins motives and attitudes, as follows:
(1) Austin excluded poetry from his considerations (preliminary investigations of
speech acts).
What explains this is that:
(2) Austin regarded poetry as a non-serious use of language (parasitic and
etiolated).
What explains this is that:
(3) Austin regarded poetry as a kind of joking, whatever the pretensions of poets.
What partly explains this is that:
(4) Austin had a professional (i.e. philosophers) aversion towards poetry.
What this leaves partly unexplained about (3) is that:
(5) Austins antipathy towards poetry is stronger, more virulent than his
professional aversion.
15 Sherry, The Uncommon Tongue: The Poetry and Criticism of Geoffrey Hill (1987, p. 32).
16 Ricks, Austins Swink (1996, p. 264). 17 Ricks, Austins Swink (1996, p. 264; p. 261).
18 Ricks, Austins Swink (1996, p. 262).
II
This diagnosis departs markedly from the evidence in several respects, which is
revealing about those who offer it or are willing to be persuaded by it.
Under careful interpretation, we can accept (1) and (2). The phrase his consid-
erations causes difculties in (1). Some, encouraged by Derrida perhaps, tend to
suppose Austin meant that poetry is excluded from any consideration properly
regarded as philosophical.19 What Austin himself says, however, is that these are
issues we are deliberately at present excluding; further matters which we are not
trenching upon.20 He meant to leave it out of his own considerations only, and
even then only for a time, to defer taking it into account in his speech act approach.
Deferral of this sort is not taken as a cause for complaint. Ricks, for example,
agrees that there is a distinction to be made between poetic speech and the kinds of
speech Austin was interested in (what he calls art-speech and direct utterance).
Austin was right to set the former aside since the features he was uncovering only
properly belong to the latter: a performative utterance (I name this ship . . . )
cannot be thought exactly to perform itself when it gures within the different kind
of occasion which is a poem.21 Austin was at fault in the way he chose to separate
off the issues raised by art-speech, as if the difference in question came down to a
matter of the serious or [Austins prophylactic quotation marks] of the serious.22
But that is a quite different matter.
The phrases parasitic and etiolated cause difculties in (2). It would be wrong
to brush them off, as if the phrases denoted a merely logical dependency.23 But it
would be equally wrong to assume they are being used offensively. There is a
standard technical sense for parasitic and etiolated in philosophy, according to
which Austins use of them indicates respectively the dependency of poetic use on
other uses and the idea that poetic use would be weakened or thinned out or
rendered pale (blanched) without appreciation of such dependency.
Etiolated can mean sickly as well as pale, but this is an extended sense given
by though not essential to the etymology of the word (to grow into haulm). It is
certainly not implied by the use philosophers standardly make of etiolated; indeed,
it is sometimes excluded by that use.24 So when Austin advised us to bear in mind
the possibility of etiolation as it occurs when we use speech in . . . poetry, there is
no reason to assume he meant that such speech becomes unhealthy.25 At worst, the
19 Derrida, Signature event context in his (1988). 20 Austin pp. 22, 122.
21 Ricks, Austins Swink (1996, p. 261). 22 Ricks, Austins Swink (1996, p. 261).
23 Searle is misleading about Austins view here, and Derrida is misledor mock incredulous. See
Searle, Reiterating the differences: a reply to Derrida (1977, pp. 198208; p. 205); Derrida, Limited
Inc (1988, p. 92).
24 For example, Roger Crisp paraphrases Bernard Williams as follows: When I am deciding what
I should do, [Williams preferred approach] refers to me in a full-blooded way, with all my
commitments, and not to some abstract, etiolated, purely rational calculator of welfare. The
utilitarian self is too thin. (Mill on Utilitarianism, 1997, p. 142.) Too thin, perhaps, even to be
capable of counting as something that could be sickly?
25 Austin p. 92, fn. 2.
suggestion is that poetic usage may loseor will tend to lose (the sense is ambi-
guous)force-vivacity-liveliness when detached from uses of language outside poetry.
But this is not unacceptable, particularly when we note that it is perfectly consistent
with making the dependency two-way, an inter-dependency: that poetic usage lends
much-needed force-vivacity-liveliness to uses of language outside poetry. Austin knew
this very well, hence his constant borrowings from and allusions to poetry.26
Parasitic in Austins usage is parasitic upon linguisticswhere we can use the
phrase, as he does, without hint of distaste, revulsion, or moral opprobrium. It
refers to elements that were not originally present in words but which have been
developed from elements that were. Used in this way, parasitic does not imply that
one thing is living off another, let alone doing so in an abhorrent or undesired way
(any more than etiolated implies that it is in the nature of a dependency relation to
turn the dependent item sickly). It is appropriate to assume that, in a work of
philosophy, and without indications to the contrary, these terms are used in
the standard way. This is a symptom of the general quandary, of course. But
since the present aim is to avert unnecessary misgivings, it is worth erring on the
side of the obvious. At least we can expect Austins benediction on a policy of
splitting hairs to save starting them.27
If (1)(2) stand, under these interpretations, we should nevertheless reject
(3)(5). They do not represent Austins reasons for holding (1)(2).
In relation to (3), Austin says no more in any of the various controversial passages
than that writing a poem may be considered alongside making a joke. He also lists
acting a play, but there is no suggestion that he identied writing a poem with
acting a play, or that he meant to insult actors by identifying acting with making a
joke. In fact, Austin decisively separates poetry from joking (I must not be joking,
for example, nor writing a poem28), and precisely where the omission of a single
word (nor) could slyly have effected the very identication alleged against him.
In relation to (4), if philosophers have a professional attitude to poetry, it is not
aversion. Indeed, they do not even share a common view that poetry is non-serious.
The commonwidespread, general, familiarthought is that these issues are
controversial and merit specically philosophical investigation. Conrming this
does not require deep argument. It is enough to consider Plato and Aristotle and
their legacy. For whether or not they invented philosophical debate about the
nature and value of poetry, their views have certainly dominated and determined
ensuing discussion.29 And it is specically on the issue of what is spoudaios, good in
the sense of serious, that their views conict most sharply.
26 Stephen Mulhall contests this interpretation of the passages in which Austin uses etiolation; see
his Cats on the table, new blood for old dogs: what distinguishes reading philosophers (on poets) from
reading poets? (2016, pp. 2954).
27 Austin, Other minds in his Philosophical Papers (1979, pp. 76116; p. 76).
28 Austin p. 9; my emphasis.
29 Certainly the criticisms of Homer and Hesiod by Xenophanes and Heraclitus, standardly cited as
key evidence of what Plato calls an ancient quarrel between poetry and philosophy (Republic 607b),
look like nothing of the sort. For acute discussion, see Andrew Ford, The Origins of Criticism (2002,
chapter 2).
Platos concerns centre on two inter-linked claims: that tragic poetry is as

imitative as it could possibly be and that imitation gives no knowledge of the
thing imitated. Such poetry is a kind of game and not something to be taken
seriously (paidian tina kai ou spoudn).30 Aristotle, on the contrary, argues that
tragic poetry is serious, just as other forms of poetry can be. His description of
Homer, for example, is ta spoudaia malista poites (of serious things, the poet of
poets).31 He acknowledges that poetry is imitative, indeed that it is rooted in a
natural propensity to engage in imitative behaviour.32 But he thinks that this causes
no difculty; indeed, that it supports the general claim. For what is serious in poetry
that is so disposed is that it imitates and depicts what is serious.33 And serious
poetry is to be taken seriously. (The contrast is with comedy, which imitates what is
inferior and hence is laughable.34) In paraphrase, and with justication, Philip
Sidney has Aristotle say that poetry is studiously serious.35 He evidently felt that
serious alone is insufcient to capture the force of Aristotles claims here.36
Both lines of thought have their defenders in contemporary philosophizing about
poetry. Two inuential gures here are Gottlob Frege, who stands with Plato on the
issue of seriousness, and R. G. Collingwood, who stands with Aristotle. Frege
claims that poetry is not t for many of the tasks of languageassertion, for
exampleon the grounds that the necessary seriousness is lacking (der dazu ntige
Ernst fehlt).37 Collingwood claims that poetry alone is t for the greatest task of
languageto reveal to an audience at risk of their displeasure, the secrets of their
own heartson the grounds that it alone possesses the requisite seriousness, being
the communitys medicine for the worst disease of mind, which is the corruption
of consciousness.38
In relation to (5), if Austin is disdainful of poetry, this is less marked in him than
in other philosophers notorious for regarding poetry as non-serious: Plato and
Frege, for example.
Austin and Plato agree that poetry is justly excluded from what is to be
organized: the city and the preliminary classication of performative utterances
respectively. Both appreciate the use of language in poetry and reveal a talent for the
poetic use of language. But Austin does not claim that all poetry must corrupt or
corrode, creating a bad constitution in the soul.39 Nor does he ban poetryeither
from philosophy as a whole or from his speech act approach. His claim is simply
30 Plato, Republic, Book X, 602b78. One of the passages which give reason to extend the caution
shown by some, for example Alexander Nehamas, who note that Plato does not banish the artists (as
in Iris Murdochs sub-title to Fire and the Sun: Why Plato Banished the Artists, for example) but only the
poets, and indeed only the tragic poets; see his Virtues of Authenticity (1999, pp. 25178).
31 Aristotle, Poetics 1448b34. 32 Aristotle, Poetics 1448b5.
33 Aristotle, Poetics 1448b257; 1449b25. 34 Aristotle, Poetics 1448b257; 1449a327.
36 Not for nothing does Sidney describe himself as a piece of a logician; The Defence of Poesy
(2004, p. 3).
37 Frege, Der Gedanke (1918) in his Logische Untersuchungen (1993, pp. 3053; p. 36). English
translation in Logical Investigations (1977, pp. 130; p. 8).

38 Collingwood, The Principles of Art (1958, p. 336). 39 Plato, Republic, Book X, 605b78.
that the use of language in poetry is a dependent use, and that investigation should
therefore be deferred.
Austin and Frege (whose Grundlegung der Arithmetik Austin translated) agree
that poetry lies on the non-serious side of a divide in uses of language. But Frege
also denies that poetry may express thoughts put forward as true.40 Austin is careful
to leave truth out of it. He leaves open what Frege straightforwardly denies: that
something is actually asserted in poetry.41 Frege goes on to contrast the poetic with
the exact (streng), whereas Austin never denies that poetry can be precise, accurate,
correct, faithful. Frege describes the thoughts expressed in ction generally as mock
thoughts, citing seriousness again: such thoughts are not serious . . . all is play.42
Austin merely defers consideration of the use of language in poetry, but Frege rules
it out, and on grounds that do seem to imply some measure of disdain: The
logician does not have to bother with mock thoughts, just as a physicist who sets
out to investigate thunder will not pay any attention to stage thunder.43
III
The tendency of poets and critics to misrepresent Austin is too systematic to be
accidental. Perhaps the clearest indication that it proceeds from deeper misunder-
standings is the argument given for (4) and (5).
Sherry claims that Austin was a reductionist, attempting to control language by
restricting its activity to referential functions.44 This ascribes to Austin precisely
the opposite of the view he holds, and the very one he scrupulously identies so as
to reject it.45 Hill attempts to impose a Lockean or neo-Lockean gloss on Austins
semantic theorizing. This is equally implausible for the same reasons.46 Strangest of
all is Ricks argument for (5): that we know Austin had a special aversion to poetry
because this is the best explanation for his use of quotation marks in describing
poetry as non-serious.47 This is odd for several reasons. Inverted commas make
words salient; far from averting attention, they attract it. Austins use of such marks
do not invest that from which Austin is supposedly averse: i.e. poetry. The marks
do invest that from which he cannot be averse, for he uses the marks to ornament
serious and not serious alike. If Ricks argument for (5) were sound, Austin
would have to have been equally averse to the serious; and since the serious
evidently includes his own work (and, indeed, these very comments of his), this
argument would merely intensify what it is meant to diagnose: the impression of
self-contradiction about Austins remarks on poetry.
40 Frege, ber Sinn und Bedeutung (1892). English translation in Translations from the
Philosophical Writings of Gottlob Frege (1960, pp. 5678; p. 63).

41 Frege, Der Gedanke (1977, pp. 130; p. 8).
42 Frege, Logik (1897). English translation in Posthumous Writings (1981, pp. 12651; p. 130). It
is not part of my argument that Austin knew this essay; quite possibly he did not.
43 Frege, Logik (1981, p. 130). 44 Sherry, The Uncommon Tongue (1987, p. 32).
45 Austin pp. 111. 46 Hill, Our word is our bond (2008, pp. 1479).
47 See Ricks, Austins Swink (1996, p. 262).
Given these problems, aversion does not seem to provide an explanation at all.
This would leave the inference itself invalid. There is another way of arriving at that
conclusion. At least two better explanations are more readily to hand. Both explain
the marks in terms of purposes for which Austin might reasonably have employed
them, and neither appeal to aversion.
One possibility is that Austins inverted commas are tweezers lifting a common-
place term out of its format of habitual connection. This is Hills description of the
use Ezra Pound makes of such marks in Hugh Selwyn Mauberley.48 We know
Austin shared the aim because he beat Hill to the image:
words are not (except in their own little corner) facts or things: we need therefore to
prise them off the world, to hold them apart from and against it, so that we can realise
their inadequacies and arbitrariness.49
The idea is that the marks are used to bring pressure to bear on the words they
enclose, terms so common in these contexts that it would otherwise be easy to let
them slip by. The aim is to advertise a common blindspot, to hold up the offending
term to careful scrutiny. The technique unites critics and philosophers. William
Empson applies it to the former: I shall frequently pounce on the least interesting
aspect of a poem, as being large enough for my forceps.50 When Austin applies it to
the latter, he uses it, characteristically, to tweak them: philosophers should take
something more nearly their own size to strain at.51
Why might Austin invite and encourage such scrutiny? Allusion is one possibil-
ity. Then his marks carry out one of the functions of quotation marks, drawing
attention to a relation between the words so ornamented and their use by others.
Our ndings so far make this interpretation possible and even likely. There were
familiar texts that Austin was recalling, knew that he was recalling, and knew that
he would be known to be recalling. He marked serious and non-serious alike to
draw attention to the positions that others in his philosophical grouping take
towards poetry, knowing that seriousness is the key and common factor, and
one that would stir recognition.
Another possibility, consistent with the rst, is confession. Austin is acknow-
ledging that the terms serious and non-serious alike are rough approximations,
inadequate except for the particular task he has assigned them here: to function as a
temporary label for a topic whose investigation is being deferred. The commas are
then used like scare quotes, drawing attention to the words so ornamented, urging
caution about putting too much weight on them. (Seriously is not to be taken too
seriously.) And there is much need for such confession, of course; a central purpose
of the long discussion of Austins remarks was to demonstrate precisely that.
Given these straightforward alternative explanations, it would be careless simply
to assume that Austins use of inverted commas demonstrates an aversion to poetry.
48 Hill, Our word is our bond (2008, p. 151).

49 Austin, A plea for excuses in his Philosophical Papers (1979, pp. 175204; p. 182).
50 Empson, Seven Types of Ambiguity (1963, p. 26).
51 Austin, Truth in Philosophical Papers (1979, p. 117).
It would also be rash. Austins use of these marks is inconsistent. Of the ten
occasions where he uses (non-)serious or (non-)seriously, only four are orna-
mented with inverted commas or italics.52 Of the six controversial passages in
which these and other allegedly offensive terms occur (etiolation; parasitic), only
three employ ornamentation of either sort.53 Since Austin is so evidently incon-
sistent in his ornamentation, we should be guarded in what we infer from the
evidence. It is likely that, given the opportunity to correct and improve his texts
before their publication, Austin would have standardized his ornamentation. But
we should not just assume what the result would be, that ornamentation would be
used throughout or rejected throughout.
There are further signs of negligence. Ricks calls Austins quotation marks
prophylactic as well as an expression of aversion.54 But the one interpretation
contradicts the other. To express aversion is to commit oneself: to having or feeling
the associated attitudes of distaste, repugnance, loathing. Whereas the whole
point of prophylaxis is to escape commitment (often out of a desire to evade its
consequences).
The appeal to prophylaxis does little to explain Austin, but it does reveal
something about those making the attempt. We assume much about an author if
we interpret his purposes as prophylactic rather than, for example, confessionary.
The latter is openly cautionary; it lays bare the need for excuses, whether it provides
them or not. The former is shrewdly precautionary; it anticipates situations in
which excuses might be needed and prevents them occurring. If the inverted
commas around non-serious were prophylactic, Austins intention would be to
cover himself rather than to draw attention to the inadequacy of his phrasing, laying
the ground for his future acquittal rather than urging that the phrase be read with
caution and care. Since Austin has the opportunity to use other phrases or to
improve those he does use, such a manoeuvre would render his discharge dishon-
ourable. It would be to take preventative action of the very sort that he himself
openly deridesas when the bigamist arms himself with the excuse that he did not
seriously mean his words of committal, guarding against the possibility that the fact
he has no right to tender them will subsequently be discovered.55 To assume that
this must be what Austins inverted commas represent, and to ignore those many
occasions where Austin almost compulsively draws our attention to failings in his
scheme (I do not wish to claim any sort of nality for this . . . ; let me hasten to add
that these distinctions are not hard and fast . . . ; such words . . . will not bear very
much stressing; I have not succeeded . . . 56), suggests deep animus.
So things seem to have gone badly wrong. Austin raises the question of poetry,
but carelessly and with apparent disdain for his target. Poets and critics interpret his
remarks and diagnose the condition from which they spring, but misrepresent
Austin and contradict the evidence in ways that are as careless and disdainful as the
attitudes they set out to diagnose. Again, what is going on?
52 Austin pp. 9 (twice); 104; 122. 53 Austin pp. 9; 92, fn. 1; 104.
54 Ricks, Austins Swink (1996, p. 261). 55 Austin pp. 910.
56 Austin pp. 14; 16; 1617; 17.
3
Philosophers
I
J. L. Austin is playful and somewhat mocking towards poetry. His tone reveals that
Saki-esque strain in his humour which found amusement at the thought of adults
treating others with a childs malice, a glee laid bare in his taste for tasteless
examplesof treading on babies, throwing bricks in upturned faces, pushing
people over cliffs, biting hunks off peoples calves.1 But how weightily do analytic
philosophers take him here, in this his light deliverance?
Analytic philosophers tend to nd what Austin says about poetry innocuous: that
Austin is not being wholly serious himself; that he does not really mock poetry; or that
he does not mean to mock poetry; or that he does not mean quite what he says, or at
least does not intend what his words strictly and literally mean; or that his remarks
themselves are not serious; or that they do not mean what they appear to mean, or what
they are commonly taken to mean; or that his remarks are not meant to make claims; or
that they are not intended to state more than we all believe anyway; or that they are
meant to do no more than amuse some and agitate others, a slight and slighting
intermission in the argument proper, so that it was perhaps unwise of him to have
uttered these words, given poetic sensibilities, but that the worst that can be said of
him is that in expressing his natural ebullience he was tactless. And anyway, does he say
anything about poets that poets do not freely say about themselves?2
So philosophers have tended to profess bemusement at the offence taken. Some
even attempt to reverse the charge. It is those offended by Austin who are to blame
for any unpleasantness arising; they are being unwarrantedly touchy. This is more
intelligible, acceptable even, once we discover that Austin exercised his wit to
ridicule philosophy itself:
You will have heard it said, I expect, that over-simplication is the occupational disease
of philosophers, and in a way one might agree with that. But for a sneaking suspicion
that its their occupation.3
1 See Austin, A plea for excuses (1979, pp. 194; 190; 195) and Pretending (1979, pp. 175204; p. 256).
2 A favoured example is Shakespeare the sonnet-writer, sending up sonnet-writing in the advice that
his character Proteus gives the pining Thurio: You must lay lime, to tangle her desires | By wailful
sonnets, whose composed rhymes | Should be full-fraught with serviceable vows, Two Gentlemen of
Verona, Act III, Scene 2, lines 6971.
3 Austin, Performative utterances (1979, p. 252). So Austin might have said with Robert
Southwell, I feel in what vein thy pulse beateth, and by thy desire I discover thy disease; Mary
Magdalens Funeral Tears in The Prose Works of Robert Southwell (1828, pp. 184; p. 47).
Indeed, Austin is happy to describe philosophizing disdainfully, as a low or inferior

activity, and as something it would be a delight to be nished with. He contem-
plates with joy a future science of language where
we shall have rid ourselves of one more part of philosophy (there will still be plenty left)
in the only way we can ever get rid of philosophy, by kicking it upstairs.4
So if we interpret Austins remarks as insulting towards poetry, it is likely we will be
charged with over-sensitivity. That is the subtly silencing quality of levity, of
course, that it wrong-foots the butt of the joke into a scrupulous self-examination,
an enervating self-consciousness which obstructs effective response. Is there a joke
I am not getting? A vulnerability I am revealing? Moreover, the target must rst
paraphrase the joke to respond to the charges buried within it, and beating the
comic kinks out of provocative prose so as to rebut a charge would make anyone
seem ridiculous.
Philosophers tend to think there is no contempt for poetry in Austins remarks;
he merely dressed up a trivial point in playful language. Austin certainly knew
about the bit where you say something and the bit where you take it back.5 But is it
plausible that he indulged himself in this way with poetry?
Much of what philosophers require here, they assume: that there is a distinc-
tion between standard and non-standard uses of speech; that Austins terms
serious and non-serious were meant to pick out this distinction; that poetry
falls on the non-standard side of this divide; that the distinction itself may not
be sharp, but that poetry does not fall into a grey area; hence that excluding
poetry is a minor move that calls for no extensive explanation and should prompt
no complaint.6
We might question the claim that poetry is obviously non-standard. Philo-
sophers respond that Austins aim was to make various preliminary investigations
into speech acts. His attention was correctly taken up with the basic case in which
one does things with words: making promises, for example, or issuing statements.
Poets may appear to do these things in what they write, but only in a special or
exceptional way. Hence poetry is quite properly excluded from consideration.
Relative to Austins purposes, it is non-standard.7
In short, the explanation favoured by philosophers, based on their interpretation
of Austins motives and attitudes, is in some agreement with the poets and critics.
Like them, they think:
4 Austin, Ifs and cans (1979, p. 232). 5 Sense and Sensibilia (1962, p. 2).
6 See P. F. Strawson, Intention and convention in speech acts (1971a, pp. 14969; esp. p. 149).
Also John Searle, Speech Acts (1969, p. 57 and fn. 1); Kendall Walton, Mimesis as Make-Believe (1990,
pp. 5; 85; 103).
7 In replying to Derridas paper Signature event context, John Searle produced something like a
canonical version of this response: see his Reiterating the differences: a reply to Derrida (1977,
pp. 198208).
Philosophers 61
(1) Austin excluded poetry from his considerations (preliminary investigations of

speech acts).
But here philosophers insist on adding that this is a temporary deferral of examin-
ation. It is not, as some touchy readers of Austin suggest, the permanent removal of
poetry from considerations properly regarded as philosophical.
Like poets and critics, philosophers think that what explains (1) is that:
(2) Austin regarded poetry as a non-serious use of language (parasitic and
etiolated).
Here also, philosophers have something to add. They insist that parasitic and
etiolated are meant in the technical sense used standardly among philosophers:
respectively, the dependency of poetic use on other uses, and the idea that poetic
use would be weakened or thinned out (blanched) without such dependency.
(We have discussed this in Chapter 2.) They think it would be unwarrantedbut
revealingly touchyto assume that these terms express distaste, or aversion, or
moral censure.
Philosophers also insist on reading (2) somewhat differently from poets and
critics:
(2*) Austin regarded poetry as a non-standard use of language; non-serious is
merely a playful way of expressing this.
Given this interpretation of (2), philosophers can reject the dangerous elements of
the analysis made by poets and critics: that Austin regarded poetry as a kind of
joking; that he had a professional aversion to poetry; that his personal antipathy to
poetry was stronger than this professional aversion.
II
The philosophers account would explain much: why Austins remarks are
routinely passed over by philosophers with scarcely a glance; why philosophers
who have dealt with these remarks at any length have been responding not to
Austin directly, but to the storm of protests his work encouraged; and why their
response tends to be conciliatory on matters of tone and unbending on matters
of substance.
But this explanation ies in the face of the evidence. Non-serious does far more
damage than philosophers admit. To suppose they have answered the reasonable
complaints of poets and critics is to fail to take them seriously.
Austin does not call poetry non-standard. He calls it non-serious. Non-
standard and non-serious both cover a broad range of meanings, but they are
quite distinct ranges. Non-standard extends from unusual and extraordinary
and untypical, through irregular and non-customary to special, exclusive,
and elite. Non-serious, on the other hand, extends from humorous and
comic, through unimportant, non-critical, and insignicant, to frivolous
and irresolute, and from there to inauthentic and insincere. With these distinct
ranges in mind, we could not claim that Austins meaning is preserved when
not . . . standardly is substituted for not . . . seriously in any of his remarks.
Austins tone is certainly playful. But the offhand manner is studied, attentive to
its effect. The offending passages are too extended and consistent, too persistent for
the philosophers mode of exculpation. Ten times he uses not . . . serious (or some
variant: non-serious; not . . . seriously) to describe poetry and the use of language
in poetry. On two separate occasions, he repeats the phrase three times over. Subtle
changes of detail and emphasis may distinguish the passages and justify examin-
ation of each repetition. But it is the over-kill which is salient, and no doubt
intended to be. It is not plausible that a writer so conscious of the values of
particular words would so frequently use one wordand make a point of over-
using itwhen he meant another. It is equally implausible that he would have
done so without ever using the word he did mean.
In offering their rationale for Austins remarks, philosophers neglect a deeper
issue. They claim that he playfully belittles poetry so as to excuse shepherding it
from the stage. But that assumes the ejection itself was necessary.
As utterances our performatives are also heir to certain other kinds of ill which infect all
utterances. . . . All this we are excluding from consideration. Our performative utter-
ances, felicitous or not, are to be understood as issued in ordinary circumstances.8
As a way of bracketing-off subjects for subsequent discussion, this is the kind of
move which satises most philosophers. There is no need to name examples of
utterances issued in non-ordinary circumstances. If a request for illustration were
pressed, this response would be quite sufcient:
For example, there are insinuating (and other non-literal uses of language), joking (and
other non-serious uses of language), and swearing and showing off (which are perhaps
expressive uses of language).9
But Austin repeatedly felt the need to name poetry as an excluded use of language, and
to go on employing it as his preferred example. Moreover, he chose the most
controversial of reasons for excluding it: that it is non-serious. He had made non-
literal and expressive salient alternatives; either would have served his purposes just as
well. It seems that Austin is making, and not just taking, the opportunity to belittle
poetry. And he evidently means us to recognize this intention in what he says. So poets
and critics have a legitimate complaint: that Austin does not playfully belittle poetry so
as to usher it from the stage, but that he ushers it from the stage so as to provide occasion
for its playful belittling. All this philosophers ignore. And in failing to excuse what
patently needs excusing, they give the impression of holding poetry in disdain.
Philosophers also try to escape what patently needs explaining. This gives its own
impression of disdain. Austin writes that if we issue an utterance of any kind
whatsoever in writing a poem, it would not be seriously meant.10 But is this to
8 Austin pp. 212. 9 Austin p. 122.

10 Austin, Performative utterances (1979, p. 241).
Philosophers 63
say that the utterance is meant, just not seriously; i.e. the not negates the adverb?
Or is it to say that the utterance is not meant at all; i.e. the not negates the verb?
The same question arises when Austin claims that, as regards utterances of any
kind issued in writing a poem, we shall not be able to say that we seriously
performed the act concerned.11 Does that mean that no act at all is performed,
or that an act is performed non-seriously? And again, when we are told, If the poet
says Go . . . . . . , he doesnt seriously issue an order,12 does that mean the order is
indeed issued, but not seriously, or that no order is issued?
It is possibleand occasionally temptingto suppose that Austin chose ser-
iously, and used it repeatedly, because it left him uncommitted on this fundamen-
tal issue. It is not as if there are no alternative terms that he might have used to make
his claim. Consider really and properly, for example. If we substitute the rst
(e.g. we shall not be able to say that we really performed the act concerned), we
imply that the act is not performed at all. If we substitute the second (we properly
performed . . . ), we imply that the act was performed, just imperfectly. Given the
availability of these and similar terms, it seems disdainful of philosophers to fail to
address a signicant issue: why Austin stuck resolutely with a term that raised a
signicant ambiguity.
This difculty arises because of patterns of negation. A similar problem arises
because of the positions of words in sentences. Austin was particularly interested in
the ways in which the placing of modier terms affects the meaning of sentences:
Clumsily, he trod on the snail, for example, as against, He trod clumsily on the
snail.13 The phrase we seriously performed the act concerned might be taken as
equivalent to We performed the act concerned seriously, where the adverb serves
to describe the way the action was performed. But it is equally equivalent to
Seriously, we performed the act concerned, where the adverb serves the assertive
aspectthat we did indeed perform the actionand neither says nor implies
anything about how it was performed. And the fact that the phrase is preceded
by a not (we shall not be able to say that) raises precisely the same question as
the rst: is it that we did not perform the act at all, or that we did not perform
the act seriously?
This problem is related to a third, though not quite so directly. Austin claims that
an utterance is in a peculiar way hollow or void if introduced in a poem.14 His choice
of precisely these terms is provocative, given that hollow and void have a special role
in his catalogue of infelicities. (To recall: in Austins proprietary usage, an utterance is
void when the speaker fails outright to do what he tries to do in saying it. I say I veto
this bill, but lack the requisite authority. And an utterance is hollow when the
speaker succeeds in doing what he tries to do, but there is nevertheless something
improper about the action: it is not fully consummated or implemented. I say, I bet
you 5 that such-and-such an event will occur, but have no intention of paying the

13 Austin, A plea for excuses (1979, p. 199).
14 Austin p. 22.
forfeit.) Austins choice of terms seems to indicate that utterances in poetry are
examples of the very problematic uses of language that he is listing. If this is what
he means, then a considerable tension is introduced. The very moves designed to
exclude poetic utterances from his catalogue of (mis)uses of language include them. If
this is not what he means, it is hard to see why he should specically have chosen these
terms. Philosophers pass over these issues in excusing Austin.
The tension introduced here is not resolved by the phrase in a peculiar way, in
whose scope the disjunction hollow or void is allowed to occur. Indeed the
ambiguity of peculiar simply replays the problem and heightens the tension by
baulking the issue, giving the impression that something which might unsettle the
argument is being avoided. For if peculiar means distinctive or unique here,
then that suggests Austin is not using hollow and void in their technical sense;
hence we are not to suppose that poetic utterances are examples of the infelicities
being listed. But if peculiar means unusual or rare, that implies the technical
sense is indeed in use, and hence that the list of infelicities must be extended to
include poetic utterances. This leaves us with an ambiguity that shares a similar
form with the earlier problem. Austin might be saying that poetic utterances are not
infelicities at all, or that they are not infelicities in the usual way.
If we assume that it is in his proprietary, technical sense that Austin applied
hollow and void to poetic utterances, a further question arises. For he carefully
avoids saying which they are. If our poetic utterances are void, and thus some sort of
misre, then we fail outright to do what we (purport to) try to do in saying them.
The idea, presumably, is that we fail to make a promise or give praise (or whatever) in
saying I promise . . . or I praise . . . in a poem. If our poetic utterances are hollow,
and thus some sort of abuse, then we succeed in doing what we try to do in saying
them. It is just that there is something not consummated or not implemented
about what we do. In saying I promise . . . or I praise . . . in a poem, for example,
we make a promise and give praise, but (perhaps) lack the intention to do what is
promised and lack the requisite thoughts and feelings for sincere praise.
So this version of the problem returns us to the rst. Is it that, in issuing a poetic
utterance, we do not perform the act concerned at all? Or is it that we perform it
imperfectly, that there is something non-serious about what we nevertheless
succeed in doing? Austins philosopher advocates make no attempt to dispose of
these ambiguities or resolve these tensions. Hence what they endorse is no clearer
than what Austin proposes. Moreover, they give no sign of having noticed these
issues, though they are obvious from a glance at Austins remarks. If this is not just
blindness to failure, it may be a readiness to condone it.
III
Serious and not serious bear the full weight of Austins remarks. They ought to
concentrate the attentions of the philosophers who excuse them. But here also
philosophers pass over the worries.
Philosophers 65
Austin claims that a variety of things are not serious when they occur in poetry:
uses of language; contexts; words that are spoken; utterances that are meant; acts
that are performed; orders that are issued. But it is very far from clear what he
means. For even if we suppose that serious has the same meaning when conjoined
with use of language, or context, or utterance (which it need not have), that
meaning comprehends a vast range of possibilities, one that Austin might have
enjoyed conguring by genus to appreciate fully the distinctions between the
various species.15
(i) (a) Solemn
(b) Stern
(c) Grave
(ii) (a) Humourless
(b) Staid
(c) Sombre
(iii) (a) Determined
(b) Purposeful
(c) Resolute
(d) Steadfast
(iv) (a) Pedantic
(b) Dogged
(c) Plodding
(v) (a) Signicant
(b) Important
(c) Decisive
(d) Critical
(vi) (a) Hazardous
(b) Disquieting
(c) Dangerous
(d) Dire
15 Ricks uses this range to effect in discussing the seriousness of Keats; Keats and Embarrassment
(1974, chapter 6, pp. 14356). Seriousness here seems primarily to mean Keats watchfulness
(p. 155, taking up a prompt from Keats letter to Hessey of 8 October 1818), but that term
broadens considerably under the pressure of Ricks examples of Keats seriousness: (i) Keats
awareness of the perils of pleasure, of self-indulgence, satiation, distaste (p. 144); (ii) Keats
recognition of the things in life that are not bliss, and of the things about bliss which are not simply
blissful e.g. the bliss of others (p. 145); (iii) Keats insistence that hunger after truth and delight in
sensation are not simply to be contrasted, e.g. that one can hunger after the relation of truth to delight
in sensation (recognizing that what we feel about sensation need not just be delight) (p. 147); (iv)
Keats imagination, which deeply respects and values the limits of the sympathetic imagination
(p. 149); (v) Keats alertness to the way that happiness is vulnerable to the accusation of
complacency, self-absorption, indifference to others; giving some reason to be wary here, but
without falling into the trap of being suspicious or ungenerous towards happiness (p. 152); (vi)
Keats sense that our duty to pleasure is double: to gain it for ourselves and to delight in others
gaining it (p. 153); (vii) Keats continual recognition that he has momentarily fallen into the wrong
tone of voice e.g. one of self-commiseration, and not simply correcting it, but deriving new energy of
self-knowledge and invigoration from it (p. 155).
(vii) (a) Sincere

(b) Earnest
(c) Genuine
(d) Honest
(viii) (a) Pompous
(b) Self-important
(c) Portentous
Hence it is at least equally unclear what Austin means when he says that a use of
language, or a context, or an utterance, or an act is not serious. Even if we suppose
not serious means something univocal when conjoined with each of these phrases,
what meaning is that? The possibilities are as numerous as with serious and can be
listed in such a way as to make plain the similarities of structure:
(i) (a) Light
(b) Supercial
(c) Triing
(d) Lacking depth
(e) Lacking solidity
(ii) (a) Comic
(b) Amusing
(c) Humorous
(d) Funny
(e) Jocular
(iii) (a) Irresolute
(b) Vacillating
(c) Indecisive
(d) Unsure
(e) Unreliable
(iv) (a) Frivolous
(b) Unkeen
(c) Playful
(d) Pleasure-seeking
(e) Inattentive
(v) (a) Insignicant
(b) Unimportant
(c) Non-critical
(vi) (a) Safe
(b) Harmless
(c) Anodyne
(vii) (a) Insincere
(b) Disingenuous
(c) Inauthentic
(d) False
Philosophers 67
(viii) (a) Pretentious

(b) Posturing
(c) Affected
(d) Feigning
Philosophers offer no answer to this question either. In leaving vague what
Austin tries in vain to say, it is in vain they try to assist. At one level, this matters
little. In none of these senses, perhaps, can non-serious be applied generally to uses
of language in poetry, or to poetic contexts, utterances, or acts; not even (especially
not) on the narrowest conceptions of what counts as poetry. Ignore insensitivity to
poets; it is insensibility to poetry which would be manifest in supposing otherwise.
But it does matter, for our diagnostic purposes, that neither Austin nor the
philosophers who analyse his position clarify which of these senses is meant. (Not)
serious would be an odd term to use, and use repeatedly, if there had been an
intention to make the meaning plain. As we can see, unless explained, its sense
resists that. Moreover, Austin was fully aware of this form of resistance. He had
recognized and recorded its features when exposing the harm that philosophers do
with similar terms, like real and free.16
These terms do not possess a single, speciable core meaning which holds for
each of their uses. This is true of other words also. But what is peculiar about this
group is that their uses need not be ambiguous. Thus there is nothing obviously
ambiguous about a serious witness, a serious challenge, a serious talk, a serious
wound, a serious climb, a serious decit, a serious reason, a serious worker, a
serious drink, serious music, or a serious play, even though serious can mean
something different in each case. A witness has to be earnest to be serious; not so a
serious drink. A drink has to be potent to be serious; not so a wound. A wound has
to be grave to be serious; not so a worker. A worker has to work hard to be serious;
not so a decit. A decit has to give cause for anxiety to be serious; not so serious
music. One can be solemn without being important, determined without being
humourless, pedantic without being pompous, honest without being grave, self-
important without being genuine, earnest without being plodding, critical without
being sombreand yet each of these may function as the precise synonym for a
particular and non-ambiguous use of serious.
This plurality-without-ambiguity is possible because what serious means on any
occasion is partly dependent on whatever substantive term or phrase it is then
qualifying. (Seriously is similarly dependent on the verb it modies; these points
may be transposed accordingly.) Serious qualies the substantive with which it is
associated, but its meaning is in turn dependent on that substantive. Manus manum
lavat. And this dependency is strong.
First, which meaning serious has on an occasion of use depends on the
substantive it qualies, thus permitting one and the same thing to be both a serious
x and not a serious y, depending on the value of x and y (a serious judge may not be,
perhaps cannot be, a serious drinker).
16 See Austin, Sense and Sensibilia (1962, chapter VII); A plea for excuses (1979, p. 180).
Second, that serious has meaning on an occasion of use depends on its

substantive, thus preventing one from knowing what serious means in sentences
like this is serious unless one knows what is being referred to by this. Austin
himself claried the point with a contrast: one can say this is pink without
knowingwithout any referenceto what this is.17 Again, if one and the same
thing is a pink ower and a rose, it must be a pink rose. Not so with real, as
he pointed out; and not so with serious. The terms are substantive-hungry, in
his phrase.18
If serious (like real and free) is strongly dependent on the substantive it
qualies (and seriously on the verb it modies), that does not imply that the
association is sufcient to determine its meaning on any occasion of use. Its hunger
is not always satised with sortals. This is something we have already discovered.
Serious and non-serious remain ambiguous between the various species of their
types, even when Austin gives them substantive terms and phrases to qualify, like
use of language; context; words that are spoken; utterances that are meant;
acts that are performed; orders that are issued.
Once we assemble these various elements, Austins position stands in need of
considerable support. He bases his claims on the repeated use of a term whose
meaning is left undetermined. (It would be misleading to continue to say that the
meaning is left unclear or opaque; this would imply the meaning is determined and
we are simply prevented from knowing what it is.) Moreover, he is well aware that
this is so. Not only does he specify the reasons, he points out the dangers in using
similar terms in this way. It seems probable, then, that Austin does not intend to
make the meaning of these claims determinate. Given that these claims are basic to
his position, this is to deny that he really had one to advance. So those who
support Austin have much to make up for. But philosophers neglect to do so.
The exculpation which philosophers offer misrepresents Austin, overlooks what
is serious beneath his playfulness, excuses inconsistencies in his account, obscures
its deeper ambiguities and tensions, rushes to conrm his main claims and ignores
their indeterminacy. There is partiality and prejudice here. The attitudes of
philosophers appear as troublingly careless and disdainful as those they set out to
appease.
IV
So what is wrong is rife. Austins remarks stirred poets and critics to reveal their
disdain for philosophy. Now philosophers expose their own prejudice against
poetry: they condone the insults, neglect the tensions and contradictions, hide
the ambiguities, and assume a determinacy where all is vagueness. Few would be
content with so unstable a position unless predisposed to the view. No wonder so
17 Austin, Sense and Sensibilia (1962, p. 69).

18 Austin, Sense and Sensibilia (1962, p. 68).
Philosophers 69
much that is philosophically signicant in poetry is ignored, and so much in

philosophy that is relevant to the appreciation of poetry goes unrecognized.
We have a choice: to bemoan a defective communicative environment that
deprives poetry of its full expressive capacity and philosophy of its full critical
potential, or to understand the situation in the hope of changing it. If we take the
latter course, our rst task is to use whatever knowledge we have attained to set
about answering the questions set.
Why is it that Austin and other speech act analysts exclude poetry? Can we reject
their reasons? Is there an endemic or institutional failure of receptivity in such
analysis where poetry is concerned? Might it be possible to start again and this time
remain fully open and alive to poetry whilst pursuing a speech act approach?
4
What Matters
I
It helps to ask a basic question: why does Austin mention poetry at all? The answer
can be extracted from the very rst of the controversial passages in How To Do
Things With Words.1 Austin is defending the general claim that saying can make it
so, and his attention is caught by cases in which ones saying something can make
it the case that one is committed to some person, or thing, or course of action. For
example, saying the words of the marriage service can make it the case that one
person is committed to another in the marital way; saying I promise to V can make
it the case that one person is committed to a certain course of action in the
promising way. And since it is the state or condition of being committed that all
these sayings make so, Austin can express his general claim here using the (trans-
lated) motto of the Stock Exchange: Our word is our bond.2
The obvious objection is that one can say things that are commitment-aptof
the right form to make the saying of them a committingand not actually make a
commitment. (This form presumably requires use rather than mention, explaining
why phrases are not commitment-apt when they are quoted or recited.) So the
objector may complain, But the circumstances may not be appropriate. For
example, saying the words of the marriage service may not make it the case that
Abelard and Heloise marryperhaps Abelard is already married. Or the objector
may protest, But one may not be saying these words seriously. For example,
saying, I promise to marry you may not make it the case that I promise anything at
allperhaps I am wearing a Groucho Marx mask and imitating his voice. Austin
accepts both points. He can do so with equanimity since his claim suffers no
retraction or alteration. Saying can still make it so; it is just that (to employ the
objectors terminology) the circumstances must be appropriate and one must be
saying it seriously.
At this point, poetry makes its eeting appearance. The objector may complain,
But one may compose poems, issuing utterances which are commitment-apt,
without actually making a commitment. But composing poetry is another case
1 Austin pp. 910.

2 We tend to use commitment and being committed to refer both to the state or condition of
being bound and to the doing of what one is thereby bound to do, i.e. keeping the commitment. As
context should make clear, it is only the rst sense that is under discussion here.
of saying things non-seriously; so Austin says (seriously). Hence here too, saying
does not make it so. Here, ones word is not ones bond.
This tells us what Austin thinks is at stake when he calls poetry non-serious:
(a) he is adopting the terminology of his opponents so as to meet them in reply; (b)
he is interested in the ordinary case where there is a making-so relation between
the act of saying commitment-apt things and the state or condition of being
committed; and (c) he is insisting that poetry is an extraordinary case where some
of the preconditions for the holding of this relation do not obtain.
So it is no wonder that Austin took a contentedly disengaged stance, and that the
standard explanations and complaints t so ill with his remarks.
Given (a), the task of being clear and precise about serious and non-serious
falls to his opponents, not him. So their protests rebound to their discredit; any
ducking and weaving that the terms permit weakens their case, not his. Given (b),
the task of giving a satisfactory account of the nature and value of poetry falls to
others, not him. Poetry enters with the objections of his opponents, and it exits
once he has shown what the objectors themselves accept: that it is a special case, to
be dealt with differently from ordinary uses of commitment-apt phrases. Given (c),
the tendency of Austins remarks is not to insult poetry but to liberate itfrom the
very people who seek to defend it. For suppose poets insist on their licence: that
they are permitted to act other than as their utterances commit them to acting (or at
least that they are excused when they fail to act in this way). Then if Austin is right,
their utterances could not commit them, no matter how pregnant with apt
phrasing. So there is no commitment to keep, and no possibility of failure to
prepare for. Talk of licences, permits, and excuses assumes there is a shortfall to
license, a decit to permit, a let-down to excusewhich is to betray deep confusion
about the nature of poetry and what it is that poets undertake.
II
With these claims in mind, we can begin to reconcile Austins remarks with the
interests of the poets they have seemed to oppress.
If he is right, poets are not bound by their utterances, even when they use forms
of words that are commitment-apt. And this is a conclusion that poets themselves
nd both useful and salutary. Thus Christopher Ricks commends him: Austin was
right to distinguish art-speech from direct utterance,3 for he recognized that poetry
is exempt from the general performative principle of which this would be an
instance:
Austin . . . was right to judge that a performative utterance . . . cannot be thought
exactly to perform itself when it gures within the different kind of occasion which
is a poem.4
3 Ricks, Austins Swink (1996, p. 261). 4 Ricks, Austins Swink (1996, p. 261).
What Matters 73
Seamus Heaney seems to be uplifted by the same waft of warm air when he ies
straight over his so:
The line is from a poem, so it has the free-oating status of poetic utterance.5
Geoffrey Hill agrees that poetry differs from ordinary language-use in this respect;
as he puts it, there can be no identity between saying and doing in poetry. He also
gives reasons to appreciate efforts, like Austins, to explain or account for this truth.
One reason is that a demonstration is useful, since it is something that poets
themselves often have to work hard to discover:
Modern poetry . . . yearns for this sense of identity between saying and doing . . . but to
Pounds embarrassment and ours it discovers itself to possess no equivalent for
hereby.6
A second reason is that the truth here is something poets themselves sometimes
resist. If identity between saying and doing is unachievable in poetry, then the
yearning for it is mistaken and needs to be shown to be. Hence a demonstration of
the truth, like Austins, is necessary.
A third reason to appreciate Austins efforts is that this yearning for identity is
not just mistaken and poignant (because destined for frustration) but dubious. Hill
is deeply suspicious of the desire for an identity between saying and doing in poetry
that would issue in a commitment to stand by ones words.7 He can make that
desire seem contemptible and shoddy, at once both laughably posed and lament-
ably inadequate, as in The Mystery of the Charity of Charles Pguy:8
Must men stand by what they write
as by their camp-beds or their weaponry
or shell-shocked comrades while they sag and cry?
So a demonstration that this desire is radically misplaced is not just usefully
corrective for philosophers, who may otherwise treat poetry as a counter-example
to Austins performative analysis. It is equally usefully corrective for poets, who may
otherwise yearn after an unachievable identity between saying and doing.
Taken out of context, Hills remark about Pounds embarrassment has been
misinterpreted, as meaning no more than that modern poetry lacks explicit-making
markers of performativity.9 But Hill does not say or imply that previous poetry once
possessed what modern poetry now lacks: an equivalent for hereby. What he
identies as peculiar to modern poetry is simply the discovery of this lack and the
5 In interview with Dennis ODriscoll, Stepping Stones (2008, p. 304). The immediate occasion for
this remark is commentary on Blacksmith shop by Czeslaw Milosz.

6 Hill, Our word is our bond (2008, pp. 14669; p. 163).
7 Shakespeare and Jonson, two poets Hill greatly admires, tend to contract out of direct
commitment; Jonsons dramatic poetry in Sejanus and Catiline (2008, pp. 4157; p. 53).
8 1, 1316 (1983, p. 9); in Hill, Broken Hierarchies (2013, p. 143).
9 For the stimulus to explain matters here, I am grateful to Christopher Mole, The performative
limits of poetry (2013, pp. 5570).

yearning to ll it.10 And he uses hereby expressly to mean that which may only be
implicit in a performative utterance (common practice in speech act literature11):
As Warnock notes [a performative utterance] contains, either explicitly or implicitly,
the word hereby. Hereby is an indication that the utterance itself is doing the job
that it says is done.12
Hill goes on to conrm that his claim concerns performativity itself, not just its
explicit-making markers:
This is, by general consent, one of the most compelling instances in which to say
something is to do something; and yet the inescapable correlative seems to be that
hereby can do what it says only because there exists some idea of sanction (real or
ctional) to back it up.13
Hill does not say that explicit markers can be employed only because there exists
some idea of sanction to back them up. (This is just as well; it would be curiously
unmotivated to suppose that absence of the idea of sanction would leave a poetic
utterance fully capable of being performative but just deprive it of the means to
make that performativity explicit.) He says that herebyas contained explicitly or
implicitly in an utterancecan do what it says only because there exists an idea of
sanction. Hence when he goes on immediately to add that modern poetry dis-
covers itself to possess no equivalent for hereby, what he means is that it
discovers there is no idea of sanction which would enable it to do . . . the job that
it says is done.14
So poets and critics endorse Austins aim to liberate poets from the assumption
that their utterances might commit them, that they need a licence to permit failure
to keep such commitments. And they recognize that, since yearning lies behind
this false assumption, it is useful and worthwhile to have the error revealed and the
truth demonstrated.
There are wider advantages to embracing this interpretation of Austins remarks
on poetry. In one respect, what is at stake here is a philosophical account of the
10 And Hill widens even this aspect in reprinting the paper; the sentence now reads: Romantic and
modern poetry, we may suggest . . . (2008, p. 163).

11 For example, John Searle writes whether the hereby occurs explicitly or not, the performative
utterance is about itself in How performatives work in Harnish (1994, pp. 7495, p. 81). See also
Austin pp. 578, 61; G. J. Warnock, Some types of performative utterance in Isaiah Berlin et al.
(1973, pp. 6989).
12 Hill, Our word is our bond (2008, p. 153). Hill quotes here from Warnock, Some types of
performative utterance (1973, p. 83).

14 We may wonder: if Hill thought Pound mistaken to ascribe poetry the capacity to be
performative, why did he bother drawing attention to Pounds much less signicant error of
confusing the verdictive with the exercitive? The answer is that Hill is obliged to because his aim in
this paper is to identify where Pound went wrong. The suggestion Hill pursues is that Pound took
poetry to be capable of performative acts of the verdictive variety, and that he combined this claim with
the confused assumption that verdictive acts are exercitive, to arrive at the conclusion that poetry is
capable of performative acts of the exercitive variety. Since this diagnosis of Pound hangs as much on
the second claim as the rst, Hill is obliged to draw attention to Pounds confusion about the verdictive
and the exercitive.
What Matters 75
ways we do things with words. If we hold that language-use in poetry is non-

serious, we stand to retain the general performative principle that saying can make
it so and its particular instance, the commitment principle, that saying certain
words (e.g. I hereby promise to V) can make it the case that the speaker is
committed in some way to some person, or thing, or course of action. This is a
gain for the Austinian analysis of speech acts.
In another respect, what is at stake here is the nature and status of poetry. If we
hold that language-use in poetry is non-serious, we stand to retain the rule that
commitment-apt utterances in poetry could not issue in commitments. This is a
gain for the position that poetry is exempt and that the demonstration of this truth
is useful, necessary, and salutary.
In yet another respect, what is at stake here are relations between philosophy and
poetry, as discussed above. Here the rst and second gains combine to produce a
third. For if we hold that language-use in poetry is non-serious for the reasons
Austin gives, and if we value the exemption this affords for the reasons poets give,
we stand to retain the idea that philosophy is capable of recognizing and endorsing
the values and virtues of poetry in a way that proves useful and illuminating to both.
This is a gain for the position that poetry and philosophy can be integrated as forms
of inquiry and means of insight into the way the world is and what is of value in it.
This nal gain may seem surprising, given the levity with which Austin treats
poetry and the hostility with which poets receive his remarks on their work. It helps
to recall that Austin treated philosophy with at least equal levity. (For example:
You will have heard it said, I expect, that over-simplication is the occupational
disease of philosophers, and in a way one might agree with that. But for a sneaking
suspicion that its their occupation.15) In short, Austin uses poetry to clarify a
question of philosophy and borrows non-serious to correct a confusion about
poetry, demonstrates ways in which philosophy and poetry genuinely illuminate
each other, and concludes to the direct advantage of both. This is pretty clearly a
gain for the integration of philosophy and poetry.
Whether matters can be made this simpleare no poetic utterances performa-
tive? Do none make commitments?is an issue that we will pursue in a moment.
Austins direct remarks form too insubstantial a basis; he wrote too little about
poetry for us to feel condent about what his views here might have been. We
cannot say, for example, whether Austin meant what he says about poetry to
generalize across every piece of writing that might count as such. And this places us
in a bind. For to claim that he did mean it to generalize would be to violate
principles of charity. We would be ascribing him a view that is implausibly strong,
not only without sufcient evidence that this is indeed his view, but in the face of
evidence to the contrary. (If he did indeed hold this view, he would surely have
made some attempt to defend himself against obvious retorts: for example, that
poems differ greatly in form, content, and aim; that some poems make assertions;
that those responsible for such poems may be committing themselves thereby, at

least to the truth of what they say.) But we violate the same principles of charity if
we deny that Austin meant what he says about poetry to generalize across every
piece of writing that might count as such. We would be ascribing him a view that is
irresponsibly and unaccountably vague, again in the face of evidence to the
contrary. (If he did indeed take that line, he would surely have made some attempt
to distinguish the types and varieties of poetry, even if only to answer the questions
that his explicit claims then make pressing: which types and varieties may be
accounted serious, for example; which might be capable of issuing commitments;
and so on.)
III
We know what we stand to gain if we agree that language-use in poetry is non-
serious: the integration of poetry and philosophy, the exemption of poetry, the
securing of Austins speech act analysis. Suppose we agree that these ends would
indeed be the goods they are represented as being. We now need to know about the
price: in particular, whether it is affordable, and if not, whether it is avoidable.
What we are being asked to pay is less than might be thought. Consider three
possible ways of understanding the claim that language-use in poetry is non-
serious: (i) Commitment-apt utterances in poetry cannot issue commitments; (ii)
Performative-apt utterances in poetry cannot issue anything; (iii) Utterances in
poetry cannot issue anything.
The price of Austins argument is that we agree to only the weakest of these
claims, i.e. (i). To put this in terms of our gloss, we have to endorse (i) to be able to
claim exemption from the commitment principle, that commitment-apt utterances
in the proper circumstances make commitments. Thus we deny that one instance
of the general performative principlethat saying can make it soapplies to
poetry. But we need not deny that other instances apply. For example, one can say
things in poetry that are of the right form to make the saying of them an order, or a
request. We have (as yet, at any rate) no reason to deny that we thereby give an
order or make a request. Exemption from the commitment principle, in other
words, does not entail exemption from corresponding instances of the general
performative principle (those applying to orders and requests, for example). So
we can reject both (ii) and (iii).
This is something of an irony, of course. Ricks complains that Austins price is
too high, but as the quotation above reveals, he is prepared to offer (ii), which is
considerably more than Austin asks. Perhaps Ricks thinks Austin named (iii) as his
price; he certainly interprets Austin as saying not only does the poet not seriously
issue an order (i.e. (ii) presumably), the poet does not seriously issue anything
(i.e. (iii)).16 That seriously makes the charge as ambiguous as the position it
attacks, of course, but the suggestion is that Austin endorses (iii). One who does so
16 Ricks, Austins Swink (1996, p. 261).

What Matters 77
can certainly deny that poetry is capable of issuing pleas; and according to a
hallowed rule, those incapable of pleading are exempt from being judged (precisely
the rule used to exempt the dumb from judgement in the medieval period17).
Hence (iii) would certainly deliver the exemption Austin offered; but I nd no clear
evidence that this was indeed a price he was willing to pay. In any case, it is not one
he need pay. More importantly: nor need we, for any of the three gains on offer.
So we need to guard against the temptation to inate the price. But the cost may
still be prohibitive. A complex passage of Hill suggests that, whether or not we
could afford it, we should not:
[Austin] requires that we study actual languages, not ideal ones and one can all too
readily envisage the contempt with which he would dismiss Santayanas assertion that
mind is incorrigibly poetical in its transmutations of material facts and practical
exigencies into many-coloured ideas. If such etiolations were the truth of poetry
one would be bound to favour Austins prosaic method, taking the sentences one at a
time, thoroughly settling the sense (or hash) of each before proceeding to the next one.
Performative utterances that are in a peculiar way hollow or void, that cannot be said
to enact, contrive to avoid taking the rap for their own claims.18
This is not the Austin of our gloss; but before judging the abuse we should make
sure of the target. The bite is in the last sentence. The utterances in question
include poetry; we know this not simply because of the context but by the direct
appeal to Austins own remark:
a performative utterance will, for example, be in a peculiar way hollow or void if said by
an actor on the stage, or if introduced in a poem, or spoken in soliloquy.19
Thus utterances in poetryin Hills interpretation of Austinare both hollow
and void, in Austins own proprietary usage. They are void because they cannot
be said to enact; hence they are what Austin would call a misre (in saying them,
the poet fails outright to do what he purports to try to do). They are hollow
because they contrive to avoid taking the rap for their own claims; hence they are
what Austin would call an abuse (in saying them, the poet succeeds in doing what
he tries to domake a promise, for example, or give praisebut his attempt
to avoid taking responsibility for what he has done thereby, e.g. the commitment
that a promise made imposes on one to act in some way, e.g. the commitment that
praise given imposes on one to think, or feel or judge sincerely in some way, makes
what he does false or duplicitous).
In short, if Hill is right, then the price Austin exacts is indeed very high. We
would have to agree that producing poetry is to engage in duplicity and double-
dealing; that this is what it means to say language-use in poetry is non-serious.
Clearly if the price is duplicity and the gain bogus, we should not pay. But it is
doubtful that Austin was so thoroughly confused about his own position as to have
thought we had to. For the point of claiming that certain utterances cannot be said
17 See Naomi D. Hurnard, The Kings Pardon for Homicide (1969, p. 169).
18 Hill, Our word is our bond (2008, p. 150). 19 Austin p. 22.
to enact is precisely that there is then no rap to be taken. A use of language in

poetry cannot be both hollow and void; Austin introduced one to exclude the
other. To gain exemption, there is no need to deny that poetry can enact; this
would be to claim that performative-apt utterances in poetry cannot issue anything
(i.e. (ii) above), when we need only deny that they can commit one (i.e. (i) above).
Austin loses exemption if he claims that language-use in poetry is hollow; this
would be to claim that the commitment is made, just not implemented or not
consummated.
So what is the evidence that Austin linked the exemption of poetry with
duplicity, let alone set the latter as the price for the former? One passage only
seems to answer: the continuation from the remark we have already glossed,
Surely the words must be spoken seriously and so as to be taken seriously? This is,
though vague, true enough in generalit is an important commonplace in discussing
the purport of any utterance whatsoever. I must not be joking, for example, nor writing
a poem. But we are apt to have a feeling that their being serious consists in their being
uttered as (merely) the outward and visible sign, for convenience or other record or for
information, of an inward and spiritual act: from which it is but a short step to go on to
believe or to assume without realizing that for many purposes the outward utterance is
a description, true or false, of the occurrence of the inward performance. The classic
expression of this idea is to be found in the Hippolytus (l. 612), where Hippolytus
says . . . my tongue swore to, but my heart (or mind or other backstage artiste) did
not. Thus I promise to . . . obliges meputs on record my spiritual assumption of a
spiritual shackle.
It is gratifying to observe in this very example how excess of profundity, or rather
solemnity, at once paves the way for immodality. For one who says promising is not
merely a matter of uttering words! It is an inward and spiritual act! is apt to appear as a
solid moralist standing out against a generation of supercial theorisers: we see him as
he sees himself, surveying the invisible depths of ethical space, with all the distinction
of a specialist in the sui generis. Yet he provides Hippolytus with a let-out, the bigamist
with an excuse for his I do and the welsher with a defence for his I bet. Accuracy and
morality alike are on the side of the plain saying that our word is our bond.20
Austin is addressing two different objections to his general performative principle
that saying can make it so. One we know already: that it is sometimes the case that
ones utterances are commitment-apt and do not actually create a bond or make a
commitment (e.g. when circumstances are not appropriate). Touchstone makes a
joke of this in As You Like It, preferring the appropriately named Sir Oliver Martext
to perform his marriage with Audrey:
20 Austin pp. 910. Austins point, in part, is that Hippolytus is not to be taken seriously because he
does not use language seriously. So it is not irrelevant to notice how non-seriously Austin himself takes
Hippolytus, as portrayed by Euripides. He is studiedly careless about the fact that the line is difcult to
translateliterally, it says, My tongue swore, my mind (phren) is unsworn; or It was my tongue that
swore. My mind took no oath. Austin ignores the fact that Hippolytus takes the trouble to repeat-
negate the word for swearing. He translates phren as heart, and then palms off the difculty of this
translation onto Hippolytus himself, i.e. implying that Hippolytus is using to his advantage the fact
that it (can) signify something rather complex, not exactly translatable by mind either.
What Matters 79
I am not in the mind but I were better to be married of him than of another, for he is
not like to marry me well; and not being well married, it will be a good excuse for me
hereafter to leave my wife.21
The other objection Austin addresses is quite different: that it is never the case that
ones utterances create a bond or make a commitment, for it is not utterances that
make commitments at all, but inner acts; the utterances merely describe those
actsor report them, as Austin says when he repeats the essentials of the
argument.22
Austin acknowledges the truth of the rst objection and contextualizes his
general principle accordingly: prior conditions have to be met for the principle to
hold. When one speaks non-seriously in this sense, one is not bound.23 Austin
rejects the second objection somewhat out of hand; he gives no better reason than
that to accept would prove useful to the hypocrite. He is adamant that one has
made a commitment when the prior conditions have been met and one says things
that are of the right form to make the saying of them a commitment. This is so
regardless of ones plea that no inner act backed up ones words. If it is in that sense
that one has spoken non-seriously, one is nevertheless bound, no matter what
ones delinquent urge to cry off prompts one to add. So the distinction between the
senses of speaking non-seriously has something in common with the distinction
between types of misre which make what is said void, and types of abuse which
make what is said hollow.
Despite the manifest differences, there are some weak connections between the
two objections. One is that, in both cases, though in different senses, the speaker
may be described as using language non-seriously. A second is that poetry is made
relevant to both, being mentioned in relation to one and used in relation to the
other. These links are imsy enough, but they might seem to support a third:
that Austin is claiming or implying in this passage that the use of language in
poetry is non-serious in both senses. That, I think, explains why Hill assumed it
was Austins view that performative utterances in poetry cannot be said to enact
[i.e. the rst sense], contrive to avoid taking the rap for their own claims [i.e. the
second sense].24 If that is the case, of course, then part of Austins purpose is to
align the poet with Hippolytus, the bigamist, and the welsher, who all plead guilty
to having spoken non-seriously in the second sense in the hope of being let off
what their words have committed them to. If so, then the poets contrivance would
be to no avail: speaking non-seriously in this second sense grants no exemption.
But it is highly improbable that this is what Austin did think. This is so for at
least three reasons. The rst we have already given: that Austin would have to have
21 As You Like It, Act III, Scene 3, lines 815.

23 If Euripides Hippolytus is too complex an example, we might replace it with the story of
Thomas Cranmers consecration as Archbishop of Canterbury: he took a solemn oath to the Pope,
preceded by a solemn protestation that the oath would not be binding. His biographer calls this,
delightfully, a morally dubious manoeuvre; Diarmaid MacCulloch, Thomas Cranmer (1996, p. 88).
been implausibly confused about his own position. The second is that Austin
would have to have assumed that the use of language in poetry can be non-
serious in both senses. But he introduced one sense precisely to exclude the other.
The third is that Austin would have to have concluded that language-use in poetry
is non-serious in the second sense and hence not exempt. But that is precisely the
opposite of the conclusion he set out to establish. Genuine exemption is obtained
by agreeing that language-use in poetry is non-serious in the rst sense. Paying
that price is consistent with denying that the second sense grants exemption at all,
so there is no need to engage in duplicity or double-dealing.
IV
So our gloss guards against ination of the price. It also raises the value of the
purchase, for it resolves our last puzzles about Austins remarks (again in his
favour).
Recall that Austins central claims about poetry were ambiguous and in the same
basic way. If we produce utterances in poetry with performative-apt phrases, we
shall not be able to say that we seriously performed the act concerned;25 it would
not be seriously meant;26 the use is not serious27 or is used not seriously;28
the words are not spoken seriously;29 they are not spoken so as to be taken
seriously.30 Does this mean that what is said here is done (e.g. the commitment
is made; the order is issued; the promise is made; the praise is given) but not
seriously? Or that it is not done at all?
Recall also that it was unclear why Austin calls such utterances in a peculiar way
hollow or void.31 Does he mean to include them after all in his catalogue of
infelicities? What does he mean by peculiar? And why he does not say which he
thinks they are: hollow or void?
We have proposed that (a) Austin adopts (not) seriously from the objector to
meet him in reply; (b) Austins remarks are directed at the ordinary case of
utterances with commitment-apt phrases; and (c) Austin treats poetry as an
extraordinary case where such utterances do not issue commitments. We can
now say that (d) when Austin says utterances with commitment-apt phrases in
poetry are not serious, what he means is that no attempt is made to issue
commitments with such utterances: the prior conditions are not met.
This enables us to answer several of the questions raised above, via investigation
of Austins remarks. Austin held that utterances in poetry with commitment-apt
phrases are in a peculiar way hollow or void because they are neither but have
elements of both.

27 Austin p. 104. 28 Austin p. 22. 29 Austin p. 9.
What Matters 81
Given (d), they are not cases in which something is tried and goes wrong; hence
they are not infelicities at all; hence they are not that species of infelicity called a
misre and what they say is not void. That they make no attempt is what makes
them in a peculiar way hollow: they share with the genuinely hollow the fact that
the requisite intentions are lacking.
Given (c), they are not cases in which a commitment is made; hence they are not
abuses and what they say is not hollow. That they make no commitment is what
makes them in a peculiar way void: they share with the genuinely void the fact that
the prior conditions for success are not met. It is also clear how we are to
understand the ambiguous claims.
Given (b), we are to interpret these claims as about utterances in poetry with
commitment-apt phrases only, not about the general class of utterances with
performative-apt phrases.
Given (d), they are not cases in which attempts at commitment are made.
So Austins remarks neither belittle poetry (as merely a kind of joking) nor
underestimate it (as merely an opportunity for mild mockery) nor set it aside (as
merely a non-standard use of language). If they have critical bite, it is in a helpful
way, drawing attention to inadequacies in the quarrel between philosophers and
poets, ambiguities in the key-terms, their role and position. Above all, Austin
merely borrows non-serious and makes sure to return it with advantages, securing
the exemption of poetry not only from the commitment principle (that
commitment-apt utterances in the proper circumstances make commitments) but
from the very possibility of infelicity, whose myriad ways he is cataloguing. The
point of his remarks is to secure his approach to speech acts and justify the
exemption of poetry from the commitment principle, an instance of the general
principle that saying can make it so. Even his strongest opponents among the
poets and critics endorse the exemption; they recognize their gain.
About the fundamental and signicant issues, then, there is agreement. There is
no real ground for the mutual antipathy between philosophy and poetry. It is a
relatively supercial matter, caused by surface misapprehensions that we can correct
and confusions that we can dispel.
V
The speech act approach in philosophy has been our focus, to this point, for an
essentially negative reason. Our overall aim is to understand and resolve mutual
antipathies that damage philosophy and poetry, so it was right to concentrate on
the kind of philosophy most notoriously disdainful of poetry, that represented by
the speech act approach.
Now that we have a sense of the true situation, that there is no depth to this
hostility, we are free to explore more positive reasons to make a speech act approach
our focus. It can help us see that philosophy has tended to adopt the wrong kind of
approach to poetic utterances, one that distorts some features and blinds us to
others. Moreover, it can offer a better approach, one that pays due attention to the
features characteristic of and essential to poetic utterance. In short, our positive

reason to focus on a speech act approach is that it is itself what enables us to
understand and resolve mutual antipathies that damage philosophy and poetry.
Various questions lie at the heart of these issues. In Chapter 5, we will ask about
how philosophical debate about poetry has been organized, and what may be wrong
with this organization. This will put us in a position to discover more precisely how
a speech act approach can usefully realign philosophical debate about poetry.
5
Truth
I
At least since Plato and Aristotle made debate about the nature and value of poetry
rigorous and systematic, philosophy and criticism have tended to proceed under a
governing assumption, commending or condemning poems and poets accordingly:
that the business of language is essentially to state, describe, report, and to do so
truly or falsely. It was this same governing assumption against which Austin inveighed.
In helping to initiate a speech act approach, he sought to correct a particular tendency
of philosophy: to overlook the fact that saying things is fundamentally a matter of
doing things. Philosophy neglects this, he thought, because it proceeds under the
governing assumption: that the business of language is essentially to describe some
state of affairs or to state some fact, to report or to constate, to assert, which it
must do either truly or falsely.1 It may or may not be true of philosophical approaches
to language in general that they proceed under this assumption. Austin himself came
to question the diagnosis.2 But it certainly seems to t philosophys approach to the
use of language in poetry.3
Before reviewing evidence that this assumption is indeed governing in philoso-
phys approach to poetry, we should clarify what it comes to. We may judge a
statement (description, report, assertion) in many ways: is it well expressed, polite,
acute, helpful? But where such forms of language are employed, the fundamental
signicance of what is said depends on whether it is true or false. So if poetry is
1 Austin pp. 15. It is important not to lose sight of the fact that there are distinguishable claims
here: it is one thing to say that the business of language is statement (descriptive or assertoric) and
another to say that philosophizing about language turns ultimately on the issue of truth and falsity.
What can obscure the distinction is an appreciation of what seems to be the correct diagnosis: that what
underlies the tendency to think of utterances as ultimately truth-orientated is the tendency to assume
they are essentially statements (descriptive or assertoric). For useful reections on related matters, see
Huw Price, Semantic minimalism and the Frege point (1994 pp. 5479).
2 Proceeding from the conclusion of Lecture IV (p. 52), Austins How To Do Things With Words
consists of a series of attempts to recognize a more complex situation and meet it with an appropriately
complex strategy.
3 There are exceptions, particularly of late. Roger Scruton retains a primary role for the truth-telling
aspect of poetry while undermining the tendency to conceive of this aspect in terms of stating facts
about the external world; Poetry and truth in The Philosophy of Poetry (Gibson 2015, pp. 14961).
For alternative recent attempts to revise the truth-orientated approach, see Peter Lamarque, Poetry and
abstract thought (2009b, pp. 3752); John Koethe, Poetry and truth (2009, pp. 5360).
essentially a matter of stating (describing, reporting, asserting), it is natural to make

philosophical debate about poetry turn on the issue of truth and falsity.
To say this is not to claim, absurdly, that truth and falsity are the only topics of
philosophical signicance. The value of poetry is one among several other topics
that are also frequently discussed. But it is to claim that truth and falsity are the
dominant, primary concerns, the ones to which other signicant topics are related
in a subordinate, secondary way. For example, philosophical debate about value in
poetry often turns quickly into a debate about truth in poetry, and we would expect
this given the governing assumption (that poetry is essentially a matter of state-
ment, description, report, assertion), for truth then gures as the value to which
statement and description aspire.
Again, to say that debate turns on truth and falsity is not to claim general
agreement about what makes a statement true or false. Quite the opposite. Current
discussion, for instance, makes precisely that issue its focus, and in so doing turns
on truth and falsity. There may be many reasons to regard a statement (description,
report, assertion) as true. Because it is an accurate factual description of some
specic state of affairs, or because it is a statement of some generalization, or
because it is an adage or truth, or because it is an insight, or because it is an
accurate depiction of what it is like to be some particular way, or because it is a
conceptual truth, or because it is a cognitive reinforcement of what would otherwise
be a mere intimation. And so on. Which of these reasons is sufcient to make a
statement (description, report, assertion) true? And which, if any, best ts the case
of poetry? Current discussion focuses on these questions.4
Some would characterize the debate more narrowly still: as turning on the issue
of knowledge (i.e. that which is not just true, but held with whatever support is
necessary to make it known).5 But although this is true of some central gures and
issues, it excludes many others, as we shall see. Hence the wider denition is
generally preferable.
Philosophical discussion of poetry is dominated by discussion of views at one end
of a spectrum: the claim that poetic utterances consist of statements (descriptions,
reports, assertions) which can be, and often are, true. Those who assert this claim
belong to a broad church whose members are in other respects quite unlike each
other: Aristotle, Sir Philip Sidney, Hegel, Wordsworth, John Stuart Mill, Matthew
Arnold, A. C. Bradley, F. R. Leavis, Iris Murdoch, Michael Hamburger, Kendall
Walton, Peter Kivy all belong.6 Some insist that there are reasons to regard such
4 Peter Lamarque usefully navigates the material (in relation to literature in general) in The
Philosophy of Literature (2009a, esp. chapter 6 (Truth) pp. 22054). Equally helpful, though
concentrated on defending its own position, is his Truth, Fiction and Literature, with Stein Haugom
Olsen (1994).
5 Raymond Geuss does so, making instructive use of the familiar threefold distinction between
kinds of knowledge (propositional knowledge; knowledge-as-skill; knowledge-as-acquaintance) to

categorize different ways of identifying poetry with knowledge; see Poetry and knowledge in his
Outside Ethics (2005, pp. 184205).
6 Aristotle, Poetics 1448a258; 1448b257; 1449a327; 1449b25. Sidney, The Defence of Poesy
(2004, pp. 354). Hegel, Aesthetics: Lectures on Fine Art, Part III, Section III, ch. 3 passim (1975, esp.
pp. 960; 965; 9678; 9812). Wordsworth, Preface to Poems (1815) in Wordsworth: The Major
Truth 85
statements (descriptions, reports, assertions) as guaranteed to be true. Others claim,

more mildly, that such statements must tend to be true, or are, at least, usually
true. Differences here depend on disagreements about what makes utterances in
poetry true.
If what makes poetic utterances true is the fact that they accurately represent
certain specic elements of ordinary realitywhat it is for ourselves to experience
or feel something, for examplethen a strong view seems warranted. For these are
matters to which we seem to have immediate and transparent access, so that our
utterances (so long as they are sincere) will seem privileged, at least by comparison
with reports we might make about the experiences and emotions of others, or about
states of the world.7
Some think that what makes poetic utterances true is the fact that they represent
a world of the imagination:
What meets us in poetry has not a position in the same series of time and space, or, if it
has or had such a position, it is taken apart from much that belonged to it there; and
therefore it makes no direct appeal to those feelings, desires, and purposes, but speaks
only to contemplative imagination.8
If correspondence with such a world is what makes poetic utterances true, then we
might, but need not, be privileged with respect to it.9 For such a world is not
necessarily within easy cognitive grasp of the poet. It might even be conceived of as
containing elements or arrangements that might forever exceed that grasp.
Privilege can be made to return, however. Suppose that what makes poetic
utterances true is the fact that they represent the ways things are in a ctional
world, as xed by the poet himself in a game of make-believe. Suppose further that
what the poet says is consistent; that it is possible, in relation to this world, for all
his utterances to be true together. Then it is possible to argue that such utterances
could not be false; that they are guaranteed to be true even. Of course, beyond
consistency, speaking truly would be no great test of a poet on this picture. Those
who hold it need not even regard themselves as bound by A. C. Bradleys modest
requirement: that the test of poetry lies simply in the question whether it satises
our imagination.10 For a poetic utterance might fail in this regard, and yet be true.
If, on the other hand, what makes poetic utterances true is the fact that they
represent the way things are in the world of sense-experience, then a milder view
Works (2000, pp. 62639). Mill, Autobiography (1989, pp. 1067). Matthew Arnold, The study of
poetry in Essays in Criticism, second series (1898, p. 48). A. C. Bradley, Poetry for poetrys sake in
Oxford Lectures on Poetry (1909, pp. 334). F. R. Leavis, Reality and sincerity in The Living Principle
(1975, pp. 12534). Iris Murdoch, Fire and the Sun: Why Plato Banished the Artists (1978). Michael
Hamburger, The Truth of Poetry (1969, chapter 1). Kendall Walton, Mimesis as Make-Believe (1990,
pp. 3543). Peter Kivy, The laboratory of ctional truth in his Philosophies of Arts: An Essay in
Differences (1997).
7 On relations between understanding and the emotions in literature, see Jenefer Robinson,
Deeper Than Reason (2005).

8 A. C. Bradley, Poetry for poetrys sake (1909, pp. 67).
9 See T. J. Diffey, The roots of imagination: the philosophical context (1981).
10 Bradley, Poetry for poetrys sake (1909, p. 7).
seems correct. For it will seem equally plausible that some utterances fail in this
regard, and hence turn out to be false. And if what makes poetic utterances true is
the fact that they correspond with a super-sensible or transcendent reality, then we
might form an even weaker opinion. For this realm may be sufciently distant from
what our cognitive faculties grasp with ease that very little of what we say about it
turns out to be true, let alone knowable as such.
It may seem odd to include F. R. Leavis in this group. Does his warm
promotion of sincerity not lead him to contrast sincerity with truth-telling?
The impression is hard to retain beside his well-known analysis of Hardys
After a Journey. Here, he takes sincerity to be a quiet presentment of specic
fact and concrete circumstance made possible by detailed attention to the outer
world and controlling strength in the poets inner world. On this view, there is,
and could be, no contrast between sincerity and truth-telling. Sincerity is a way
of telling the truth, one which puts the truth beyond question.11 Sincerity is the
key virtue precisely because Leavis agrees to the governing assumption: that
poetry is essentially a matter of stating (describing, reporting, asserting) facts,
situations, states of affairs; what he calls presentment. Indeed, he is strongly
supportive of the view represented by this particular group: that poetry can
(and ought to) carry out this role in uttering the truth. What he adds is a closer
interpretation of what this amounts to: an attentiveness to the specic and
the concrete.
Other members of the same group have been free to subtract this closer
interpretation. Philip Sidney, for example, thought that being tied . . . to the
particular truth of things is the historians mark, a hindrance from which the
poet can be advantageously free.12 Samuel Johnson agreed.13 Wordsworth also,
who said of poetry: Its object is truth, not individual and local, but general and
operative.14
The governing assumptionthat the business of poetry is essentially statement
(description, report, assert)is shared by those who reject the particular claim that
poetic utterances can be, and often are, true. We can ll in the rest of the spectrum
in describing these views. Figures as various as Plato, Francis Bacon, John Locke,
and Jeremy Bentham congregate around this opposite pole: claiming that poetic
utterances consist of statements (descriptions, reports, assertions) that tend to be,
and perhaps must systematically be, false.15 Differences here depend on disagree-
ments about what makes utterances in general true, what truth is, and what it
11 Reality and sincerity in The Living Principle (1975, pp. 129, 134). I. A. Richards seems to take
the stronger view: that in literary criticism, sincerity is the (indeed, perhaps, the only) way of telling the
truth; it is what truth in this context comes to; see Principles of Literary Criticism (1926, esp. chapter
34; e.g. p. 271).
12 Sidney, The Defence of Poesy (2004, p. 221). 13 Johnson, Rasselas, chapter 10.
14 Preface to Lyrical Ballads (1802) in Wordsworth: The Major Works (2000, p. 605). Simon Jarvis
offers a deeply appreciative study of the context that enables interpretation of this and like remarks;
Wordsworths Philosophic Song (2007, see especially pp. 821).
15 Plato, Republic, Book X. Bacon, The Advancement of Learning, ix. Locke, An Essay concerning
Human Understanding, III, x. 34. Bentham, The Rationale of Reward (1843, pp. 2534).
Truth 87
requires. But it is easiest to appreciate the differences by appeal to what is conceived

as incompatible with truth.
If true statements cannot tolerate ornament or gurative devices, as some
supposebecause truth requires plainness or simplicity, for examplethen a
strong view seems warranted. For we may usually reserve the term ornament for
utterances that are particularly decorated and embellished. But if the term is meant
in its straightforward sense, and no poetry could count as such if it were entirely
without ornament or gurative device, then perhaps poetic utterances must be false.
We might draw a similarly stark conclusion if true statements must be entirely
dispassionate, or if the appreciation of such statements must be possible without
use of our imaginative faculties. If the truth must be exact, or useful, or depend on
minute and comprehensive examination of all details of a subject, then a milder
view seems correct. For it is possible that some poetic utterances should succeed in
these regards, however uncommonly, and hence turn out to be true. Again, we may
draw a milder conclusion if we decide that true statements cannot (purport to) refer
to ctitious entities. For poetry need not contain reference to such entities to count
as such.
Some are suspicious of poetry because it pleases and entertains, or at least sets out
to do so. The idea seems to be that poetic utterances cannot achieve this without
being falsewithout distorting reality, for example, or supplanting it altogether. But
the concern may go deeper: that poetry undermines our ability to appreciate what is
true; that it vitiates reason by stimulating the passions, or by exciting prejudices.
We might draw a mild conclusion from this. Poetry may act in these ways, but it
need not do so to count as such. Plato, on the other hand, drew a strong conclusion.
Simply to count as such, poetry must at least be imitative, and this is sufcient to
make it a corrosive inuence, one that must create a bad constitution in the soul.16
This is to move far from the rst pole (that poetic utterances can be, and often
are, true), indeed to its polar opposite (that such utterances tend to be, or
systematically must be, false). But there is a more modest position, lying between
them: that the statements (descriptions, reports, assertions) of which poetry consists
are neither true nor false. Those who occupy this central groundthey include
such divergent gures as Coleridge, Gottlob Frege, I. A. Richards, and A. J. Ayer
feel no pull towards either pole, or resist the attractive powers of both.17 The
difculty they face is the strong internal relation between statements-descriptions-
assertions-reports and truth (falsity). How might an utterance count as a statement
(etc.), and yet be neither true nor false? They tend to respond by insisting that all is
not as it meets the eye.
16 Plato, Republic, Book X, 605b78. There is something as vertiginously self-undermining about
these claims, in their relation to the way they are uttered, as Plato thought characteristic of poetry, at
least if Shelley is right: Plato was essentially a poetthe truth and splendor of his imagery, and the
melody of his language, are the most intense that it is possible to conceive; A Defence of Poetry in
Shelley: The Major Works (2003, p. 679).
17 S. T. Coleridge, Biographia Literaria II. G. Frege, ber Sinn und Bedeutung (1960); Der
Gedanke (1977, pp. 3053). I. A. Richards, Science and Poetry (1926, pp. 569). A. J. Ayer, Language,
Truth and Logic (1971, pp. 279).
On the surface, those who utter poetry produce statements (etc.), thereby
stating-describing-asserting-reporting how things are, claims which are up for
evaluation as true or false. But perhaps deeper down, matters are otherwise. On
one view, poetic utterances are really expressions of feelings and emotions. On
another, though more than merely expressive, poetic utterances are less like
assertions than intimations of the way things are. On a third view, if such utterances
are more than mere intimations, they nevertheless fall short of presenting proposi-
tions for afrmation or denial. What they present instead are items for aesthetic
contemplation. Coleridge may have held such a view when he insisted that poetic
utterances aim at pleasure, rather than truth.18 Or again such utterances may be
prescriptive, setting out what should be the case, rather than stating or describing
what is the case.
These options offer a variety of ways to maintain the governing assumption while
denying that poetic utterances are either true or false. Poetry remains essentially a
matter of statement and description. But there is a particular, possibly attenuated,
sense in which this has now to be understood.
Perhaps issues of truth are beside the point. Gottlob Frege points out one reason
to suppose this is so. In hearing an epic poem, so he claims, we are interested only in
the euphony of the language and the images or feelings which it arouses, not in
truth. One could ask whether utterances in poetry are true. But to do so would
cause us to abandon aesthetic delight for an attitude of scientic investigation. And
poetry, or its value, would not be properly appreciable if viewed with that atti-
tude.19 Elsewhere, Frege takes a less accommodating view. One cannot ask whether
utterances in poetry are true or false; they are not even put forward as either. The
form of such utterances may be assertoric, but their content is not.20 They are
pseudo-statements, expressing mock thoughts, like stage thunder.21
A. J. Ayer is equally ambivalent. He identies a major difference between the
man who uses language scientically and the man who uses it emotively, namely
that the one is primarily concerned with the expression of true propositions, the
other with the creation of a work of art.22 This may mean that we merely miss the
primary concern of poetry if we ask whether its utterances are true. But it may
equally mean that this is not a question we should, or could, ask; that the conditions
for the possibility of evaluating an utterance for truth are simply absent when that
utterance is emotive in content. Indeed, this latter option seems to be his considered
view. He describes emotive utterances as used to express feeling about certain
objects, but not to make any assertion about them.23 That thought puts pressure
on the governing assumption, of course. But before we ask whether we can preserve
the conception by trying to accommodate the thought, it is worth asking whether
the assumption itself is worth preserving.
18 S. T. Coleridge, Biographia Literaria II, 1011, 104.

19 ber Sinn und Bedeutung (1960, p. 63).
20 Der Gedanke (1977, pp. 3053; p. 36).
21 Logik in Posthumous Writings (1981, pp. 12651; p. 130).
22 A. J. Ayer, Language, Truth and Logic (1971, p. 28).
23 A. J. Ayer, Language, Truth and Logic (1971, p. 111).
Truth 89
II
Each of the positions on this spectrum has its supporters and its appeal. Which
should we espouse? That will depend, presumably, on which offers the best
understanding of poetry. And this we cannot determine except by application. So
suppose we test these positions by asking what each would make of a poem.
Consider, for example, this rst quatrain of the sonnet Thou art indeed just by
Gerard Manley Hopkins:24
Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend
With thee; but, sir, so what I plead is just.
Why do sinners ways prosper? and why must
Disappointment all I endeavour end?
We should have to start by asking whether the statements (descriptions, assertions,
reports) of facts (situations, states of affairs) of which the poem consists are true, or
false, or neither. If they are true or false, is there some reason why they must be? If
they are neither true nor false, are they nevertheless put forward as such? And so on.
Once we have answers to these questions, we should then go on to analyse these
statements and descriptions more closely, seeing which of the various positions on
our spectrum best ts them. And the test will be whether this process achieves our
aim: of producing the best understanding of the poetry, one that is plausible,
intelligent, suitably receptive to what is going on.
If we think the statements (descriptions, assertions, reports) of facts (situations,
states of affairs) in Hopkins poem are generally true, for example, we can ask what
makes them sothat they accurately represent experiences and emotions of the
utterer, to which he has privileged access, perhaps. Or if we think these statements
(etc.) are generally false, we can ask what is incompatible with truththat these
statements (etc.) are not entirely plain, simple, dispassionate, perhaps. Or if we
think these statements (etc.) are neither true nor false, we can ask what is not as
meets the eyethe fact that these are really expressions of feelings and emotions,
perhaps, rather than the statements (etc.) they appear to be.
We might progress nicely enough, in these and similar ways, if we could simply
get the process started. But it is not at all clear how we might set about doing so.
This becomes immediately obvious once we attend to the poem itself, whether or
not we take the poets advice to read it adagio molto and with great stress.25 For the
quatrain does not obviously consist of statements (descriptions, assertions, reports)
of facts (situations, states of affairs). And it does not seem to consist of pseudo-
statements or -descriptions, -assertions, -reports either.
Half of its contentsthe two questionsdo not even have the grammatical
form of statements. The rest should not be pressed to that form. The rst sentence
24 Also known, by the Latin of its epigraph, as Justus quidem tu es, Domine; Hopkins: The Major
Works (2002, p. 183).

25 Hopkins; letter to Robert Bridges, 21 March 1889, Correspondence Volume II 18821889 (2013,
p. 989).
is not a statement but an acceptance, an admission (indeed); it does not assert

something as true, but concedes, expresses a willingness to recognize the truth of
something. The rst two lines have a preparatory purpose in relation to the latter
two, but not to state or describe or report on the circumstances in which the
subsequent questions will be raised. Their function is to prescribe an interpretation
for these questions, the way in which they are to be takenas serious inquiries,
proceeding from careful consideration of genuinely puzzling facts, and in accord
with a dutiful sensibility, as opposed to the way they may otherwise appear: mere
expostulations, triggered by anger and permitted by arrogance. The speakers but,
sir is an ejaculatory salutation. His I plead is not, plausibly, a describing of himself
as pleading, but a pleading.26
Questions, salutations, concessions, reservations. A considerable body of poetry
is devoted to these. Indeed, poetry contains many other uses of language which
are not, and cannot be reduced to, statements of fact or descriptions of states
of affairs: uses which name, entreat, exclaim, command, recommend, warn,
promise, espouse, apologize, congratulate, curse, condole, wish, and appraise,
for example.
Pick up a volume of poems in one hand and a list like this in the other, and two
facts should become apparent. First, the set of poetic utterances that consist of these
other uses of language is remarkably large. Second, the set of poetic utterances that
consist of statements of facts and descriptions of states of affairs is often signicantly
dependent on these other uses of language. The point, purpose, meaning, and
signicance of statements and descriptions would often be lost, and usually wholly
misconstrued, unless they are seen as tted into a context composed of other uses
and shaped by them.
Consider another example, the celebrated envoi to Chaucers Troilus and
Criseyde:27
O moral Gower, this book I direct
To thee and to thee, philosophical Strode,
To vouchen sauf, their need is, to correct,
Of your benignities and zeals good.
And to that sothfast Christ, that starf on rode,
With all mine heart of mercy ever I pray,
And to the Lord right thus I speak and say:
(I direct: I dedicate. To vouchen sauf, their need is, to correct: to ensure you agree, where
necessary, to correct it. Sothfast Christ, that starf on rode: resolute Christ, who died on the
cross.)
These lines are laced together with a series of verbal phrases in the present
indicative activeI direct . . . , I pray . . . , I speak and say . . . of a character
26 How we are to understand phrases of this sort, the rst person concatenated with a verb in the
present indicative active, is complex and the main subject of Part II, where I call them Chaucer-type
and use the results of the present inquiry to elucidate various examples of its use in poetry, including
this poem of Hopkins.
27 Troilus and Criseyde (2008, p. 585).
Truth 91
that commonly occurs in both poetic and non-poetic utterance. The sentences in
which they occur do not express commands or wishes or questions or exclamations,
and it may seem tempting to classify them in the grammatical category of state-
ments. But this would be a grave mistake. And it is Austins work on the occurrence
of phrases with this character in ordinary non-poetic uses of language that shows
us why.28
First, the one uttering each such phrase is notor at least not primarilystating
that he is doing what he would be said to be doing in uttering it.29 Nor is he thereby
describing his doing of what he would be said to be doing. He is doing itdirecting
his book to another, praying, speaking, and saying, as the case may be. To use
Austins phraseology: in uttering certain things, he does certain things. Or again:
something is done in being said.
Second, what statements make of interest about themselves is primarily a matter
of their truth-values: whether what one is stating to be the case accords with what is
indeed the case, whether it is a statement of fact, for example. But it is unclear that
the sentences that these verbal phrases compose even have truth-values at all,
let alone that it is primarily in terms of truth that we assess them. What utterance
of these sentences makes of interest about themselves is primarily a matter of their
doings, what actions one would be performing in uttering them (for example, what
one would thereby be doing or causing to be done).
Now it is not irrelevant to ask of such an utterance whether what is said to
have been done is in fact done. And in that way, the question of truth can be made
to re-enter. But it does so in a secondary and indirect manner that distinguishes an
utterance of this particular sort from statements. It is because such an utterance
purports to do things that we can askamong other thingswhether what
purports to have been done has truly been done. And it is not of such an utterance
itself that we ask is it true? The sentence we directly consider, on such an
occasion, is a sentence about such an utterance, a secondary sentence that has the
form, That utterance did in fact do what it purported to do. And there is no
difculty in asking of this secondary sentence is it true? because it is, after all, a
bona de statement.
III
So the assumption on which the old debate-dening spectrum reststhat poetry is
a matter of statements and descriptions which are, or purport to be, true or falseis
itself false, and quite disastrously so. At best, it gives sole attention to what cannot
be seen in isolation, the set of poetic utterances that consist of statements and
descriptions. At worst, it distorts, demotes, or wholly excludes those utterances that
consist of other uses of language.
28 Austin passim; particularly Lecture I.

29 Not all would agree; we shall return to this in Part II, which studies these Chaucer-type
utterances.
The effects are felt wherever the assumption has governed. In analytic philoso-
phy, for example, a sentence like this will tend to pass unquestioned:
Poetry, in its most extreme forms, involves the wrenching of language from the norms
and structures that allow it to be used in the formulation of propositions.30
Similarly, a literary critic may write:
I think that literature is a report on experience, but I do not think that it is a privileged
report on experience31
knowing that the assumption itself will pass without question, and hence that our
attention can freely focus instead on an unnecessarily restrictive interpretation of it.
The assumption may affect even the most careful literary critical attentions.32
For example, it warps William Empsons discussion of John Donne when Seven
Types of Ambiguity33 turns to one of the Holy Sonnets:34
What if this present were the worlds last night?
Mark in my heart, O Soule, where thou dost dwell,
The picture of Christ crucied, and tell
Whether that countenance can thee affright,
Teares in his eyes quench the amasing light,
Blood lls his frownes, which from his piercd head fell.
And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell
Which prayed forgivenesse for his foes erce spight?
No, no; but as, in my idolatrie
I said to all my profane mistresses,
Beauty, of pitty, foulness onely is
A sign of rigour; so I say to thee,
To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assignd,
This beauteous form assures a piteous mind.
Empson claims that there are two dramatic ideas associated with the rst sentence.
One is terror, which the sentence seems to be expressing when met with at the
30 Adrian Moore, The Evolution of Modern Metaphysics (2012, p. 480).

31 Louis Menand, Afterword 2007, Discovering Modernism: T. S. Eliot and his Context (2007, p. 165).
32 And it may even affect studies that are fully aware of challenges to the assumption. John Kerrigan,
for example, makes perceptive use of Austins insights into speech acts but systematically mistakes the
purpose for which Austin marshalled them, so that they are made to gure, under considerable strain,
as components of a highly sophisticated version of a truth-orientated approach; Shakespeares Binding
Language (2016, see in particular pp. 359; 42231). This is evident throughout his analyses of
Shakespeares plays, which are his focus, but also in his commentaries on various Sonnets, such as
Sonnet 152, which is replete with oaths, vows, contracts, and pledges (2016, pp. 4745). That they are
speech acts is integral to their status, Kerrigan acknowledges, but he thinks their claims to moral
assertion are equally integral to that status and identies truth as what they are ultimately directed at:
to bring everything to the point where hope and credit calls itself truth (2016, p. 475).
33 Empson, Seven Types of Ambiguity (1963, pp. 1734).
34 Since I am discussing Empsons interpretation, I have printed it as he does. There are differences,
of punctuation and spelling, from current standard versions; for example, The Complete Poems of John
Donne, ed. Robin Robbins (2010, pp. 5523). As a prompt to wider consideration in matters of
punctuation, Theodore Redpaths essay, The punctuation of Shakespeares Sonnets, is particularly
helpful (1976, pp. 21751).
Truth 93
beginning of the poem: suppose the end of the world came now? The other is calm
condence, which the sentence seems to be expressing when reviewed from the
perspective attained by the end of the poem: Why, this may be the last night, but
God is loving. What if it were?35
This is sufcient for him to regard the line as ambiguous. A more austere usage
would insist that there is a difference between what a sentence strictly and literally
means and the dramatic ideas with which it may be associated, and that whereas
ambiguity relates properly to the rst, Empsons evidence summons up the second.
But Empson uses ambiguity in an extended sense, and is explicit about his
reasons.36 Nothing in what follows need turn on this point, so we will adapt to
his practice.
The real issue is how this ambiguity plays out in relation to the whole poem. The
two meanings clearly tend in different directions, and if pursued they might
conict. But here they seem to be held together, in tension no doubt and uneasy,
but in union nevertheless. The prospect of doom which alarms also reassures,
because it is the prospect of salvation. And the opening sentence is able to preserve
and express this unity because it has the form of a question. The speaker never
commits himself wholly to what his alarm might prompt, and he is never entirely
given over to what his comfort might allow.
The beauteous form assures because, and only because, the fear which
prompted the question originally remains live. The speakers mind is piteous
because it remains in need of this assurance. The speakers mind oscillates, certainly,
feeling the force of both meanings. But this state of the speaker is complex, not
divided. And it is complex precisely because the meanings it contemplates are being
forced into agreement. To be vulnerable to forces which can be united though they
tend to diverge may sound paradoxical, but it is simply the condition for the
possibility of oscillation.
That the rst line is a question is crucial. The ambiguity would play out in a
wholly different way if the form were not interrogative. We see this if we follow
Empsons reading. For Empson treats the ambiguity as an example of his fourth
type: where two or more meanings of a statement do not agree among them-
selves.37 If this is the frame in which we are forced to relate the whole poem to the
ambiguity of the rst line, we are left in effect with two options. Either the speaker
is asserting both meanings, and hence his mind does not agree in itself, or the
speaker is only asserting one meaning, and it is up to us to discover which.
But both options would misrepresent the poem, and badly. The rst would distort
because it makes the speakers conict too grave. The main object of attention would
become a particular divided mind, rather than the right way to face the worlds
ending. The second would distort because it does away with the speakers conict
altogether. The issue, and it turns out only ever to have been an issue for the reader, is
to work out what one thing the speaker has been asserting all along.
35 Empson, Seven Types of Ambiguity (1963, p. 174).

36 Empson, Seven Types of Ambiguity (1963, pp. 1920).
37 Empson, Seven Types of Ambiguity (1963, p. 160; my emphasis).
Empson endorses this second option. He also expresses distaste for the poem.38
These facts are connected.39 On the interpretation he supports, the poem loses all
movement and interest. What the speaker has been stating and asserting all along is
security and comfort.40 The action is all and only in our coming to see this. No
wonder Empson nds it distasteful.
Something has gone wrong, and we are primed to recognize what is responsible.
Under pressure from the governing assumption, Empson treats the rst line as a
statement rather than a question. This ts his description of fourth-type ambiguity
but blinds him to the reading which gives the poem its power: that the sentence
expresses thoughts which can be made to agree, though there is sufcient diver-
gence to make clear a complicated state of mind in the speaker. On Empsons view,
the rst lines two possible meanings do not agree and no attempt is made to make
them agree. One is ascribed to the speaker and the other is simply to be discarded as
not asserted, not meant. There is no divergence, no complicated state of mind. The
poem becomes weirdly insipid.
This is the governing assumption at work. If it were easy to spot, it would be easy
to root out. Faced directly with the Donne poem, Empson would surely have given
due signicance to the fact that it begins with a question. But the assumption works
more subtly than that. Empson discusses the poem because he needs to exemplify a
certain type of ambiguity. It is this type that claims his direct attention and it is on
his description of this type that the governing assumption works: his insistence,
from the start, that it must be statements which instantiate the type.41 This is
inuence at a distance: the assumption determines a frame, which is then applied to
instances. And inuence of this sort is protected, relatively secure. For if we notice
that some instance does not t a frame, we will tend rst to reconsider the instance,
or tweak the frame, or overlook the difference (being trained to expect a certain
roughness in any model). These are all ways of neutralizing evidence of a deeper
error. Hence we may never come to appreciate what, as in this case, is actually to
blame: the assumption that determines the frame.
IV
Poetry is not exclusively concerned with making statements or offering descriptions
that are (or purport to be) either true or false. Moreover, those parts of poetry which
do consist of statements or descriptions nevertheless fall into the same general
category as the envoi from Chaucers Troilus: they are utterances which are
38 Empson, Seven Types of Ambiguity (1963, p. 174, n. 6).

39 Empson claims that his distaste has little to do with the ambiguity in question (Seven Types of
Ambiguity, 1963, p. 174); sometimes a little is enough.
40 Empson, Seven Types of Ambiguity (1963, p. 174): But looking back, and taking for granted the
ends general impression of security, the rst line no longer conicts with it.
41 Empson also makes statements that instantiate the sixth type (Seven Types of Ambiguity, 1963,
p. 207), the only other category where he could do this: i.e. where the central case of the ambiguity in
question is a matter of a whole sentence or clause, rather than a single word or phrase.
Truth 95
primarily to be regarded in terms of action, of what they do. So we ought to realign

our approach towards utterances in poetry. And our ndings so far give us reason to
look into a speech act approach, for the action-orientated method it takes to
utterances in general.
What we need is clear enough: an approach to poetry which gives open
consideration to all types of poetic utterance: questions, commands, apologies,
curses, and so on, as well as statements, descriptions, assertions, and reports. And it
is clear what we can have, now we have defused the threat of deep mutual antipathy
between philosophy and poetry: rst, a genuinely philosophical approach to poetry
which appreciates the need to be receptive to it; second, an approach that is suitably
alive and responsive to the fact that poetic utterances can be ways of doing things.
Perhaps what we can have ts what we need. For one thing, a speech act
approach that makes poetic utterance turn on action could justify itself as genuinely
philosophical. It could make good use of those forms of receptivity which philoso-
phy as philosophy can offer. Analyses of the modes of action and agency in the
general case would sharpen our ability to perceive and appreciate the particular.
Again, such an approach could distinguish between the different types of poetic
utterance. To question or to command is not to apologize or curse, for example.
They differ precisely in what it is to do what one does thereby. And such an
approach could also recognize what these various types have in common. Ques-
tioning and commanding are deeply like apologizing and cursing, for example.
What they share is precisely that they are things we do. There is enough here to
look into the possibilities.
6
Action
I
The idea of an action-orientated approach to poetry is not new. Nor is one simple
justication for it: that poetry is, or should be viewed as, a form of action. The word
poetry itself, from the Greek for making, suggests it. But the idea itself tends
always to be presented as something of a discovery, a possibility we tend to overlook
or to be blind to, an approach we must always be recovering a sense for.1 The tone
of Ezra Pounds remark is accordingly admonishing:2
When Shakespeare talks of the Dawn in russet mantle clad he presents something
which the painter does not present. There is in this line nothing that one can call
description; he presents.
If philosophers have generally overlooked the present possibilitythat saying
things in poetry is to be thought of, and philosophically elucidated as, doing
thingswe cannot always blame failure to appreciate the seriousness of poetry.
Aristotle suffered from this blindspot even though he treated poetry as capable of
being serious. For example, he is prompted at one point to defend poets against the
kind of criticism Protagoras levels at Homer: that the poet phrases the opening of
the Iliad (Sing, goddess, of the anger . . . ) as if it were a command, when it is
evidently meant to be a prayer. And Aristotle does precisely what we would expect
of a speech act philosopher: he lists the various different modes of action that poetry
employscommanding, praying, stating, threatening, questioning, answering. But
he does so only to separate his inquiry, twice over, from one that turns on action.
The issues arising are, he thinks, diction-related (peri tn lexin), and hence require
expertise in rhetorical delivery (ts hypokritiks), unlike his own (philosophical)
inquiry. And the objects of such an inquiry are, he thinks, forms, gures, modes of
speech (ta schmata ts lexes), not the art of poetry (ou ts poitiks on therema). His
is a philosophical inquiry, and into poetry; hence it will pass over these matters.3
The claim that poetry is a form of action does not entail that philosophical
debate about poetry should turn on action, of course. We might happily subscribe
1 Not least because of a reserve on the part of poets which tends to conceal it. It is striking, for
example, given the invitation extended by his choice of title, Art and Action, that the strongest theses
C. H. Sisson permits himself to defend concern the possibilities of accommodation between literature
and . . . practical life (1965, p. x; my emphasis, his tweezers).
2 A Retrospect in Literary Essays of Ezra Pound (1954, p. 6).
3 Aristotle, Poetics 1456a341457b7; 1457b7.
to the rst idea, while insisting that the issues of philosophical interest in poetry turn
on truth. But here too we can nd support, if of a self-consciously eccentric kind.
Heidegger defended the idea that it is as a particular kind of actionas stiften (by
which he meant to compound the senses of grounding and disclosing)that
poetry is of real signicance to philosophy.4 This greatly inuenced Paul Celan in
his thinking about poetry.5 More recently, Giorgio Agamben has defended a subtle
version of this conuence, drawing on an eclectic combination of suggestive
remarks byamong othersAristotle, Novalis, Marx, and Nietzsche.6
The governing assumption has been put under pressure before, most recently by
gures in the centre of the old spectrum (e.g. Frege, Ayer). This is predictable: once
we weaken or sever the relation with truth, and regard the assertoric function of
poetic utterances as secondary, it becomes impossible to sustain the view that poetry
is essentially a matter of stating and describing. Attempts to retain the governing
assumptionpoetic utterances are mock statements, or pseudo descriptions
seem desperate. Mock statements are not second-class statements, after all; they
are not statements at all.
As I have argued in the Introduction, most signicant literary contacts with a
speech act approach focus exclusively on the contribution to our understanding of
prose. And most signicant analytic philosophy contacts with poetry focus on the
contribution to our understanding of moral philosophy, thus overlooking the use
that might be made of a philosophy of speech acts. The notion of speech acts has
been used beyond analytic philosophy, and sometimes to elucidate poetry, but
usually in a way that differs markedly. My focus remains with analytic philosophy,
since my aim is to provide for attunement where philosophy treats poetry with
contempt or tries to exclude it altogether. As I have also argued in the Introduction,
many question the usefulness of applying a speech act approach to poetry. But some
of the principal ideas have been fruitful when applied to poetry. And some of these
ideas have usefully been employed to criticize philosophical debate about poetry.
Speech act approaches are often deployed in negative and piecemeal fashion, but it
is possible to be positive and comprehensive. Or so I hope to demonstrate.
4 But there is an underlying truth-orientatedness about Heideggers approach to poetry. The action
in terms of which we are to conceive poetry is revelation; poetry is essentially a creative process that
unconceals hidden aspects of existence. Roger Scruton accurately reects this primacy of truth over
action in the use he makes of Heideggers ideas about poetry; see Poetry and truth (2015,
pp. 14961).
5 Whether it inuenced what he wrote or helps in its interpretation is another matter, and it helps to
keep them apart. See James K. Lyon, Paul Celan and Martin Heidegger: An Unresolved Conversation,
19511970 (2006); Raymond Geuss, Celans Meridian (2010, pp. 11741); Philippe Lacoue-
Labarthe, Poetry as Experience (1999, part 1). This last develops the idea, particularly useful for
approaching Celans notion of a common root to thinking and thanking (denken/danken), of a poem
as being obliged into thought (1999, p. 22).
6 The Man Without Content (1994, Poiesis and praxis, pp. 6893). See also his The End of the Poem
(1996, pp. 10915) which concludes that poetry should really only be philosophized (p. 115), thus
doubling back on Wittgensteins dictum that philosophy should really only be poeticized.
Action 99
II
As we proceed, we will need to cut a new groove into the relevant material. A truth-
orientated approach forecloses on the very possibility of treating poetic utterances as
speech acts, let alone using such treatment to help realign relations between philosophy
and poetry. Indeed, it is within a truth-orientated approach that current antipathies
settle down so comfortably. Moreover, the truth-orientated approach runs notoriously
into difculties of its own. Some caused Austin himself to break off and start again in
the midst of his own philosophizing.7 Others caused his successors to try to start again.8
Cutting a new groove is easier once we realize and fully appreciate that the old
groove has no peculiar rights over this material. Austin was not the rst to
philosophize fruitfully about speech acts. He insists that grammarians have not
seen through the disguise of sentences that seem to be merely descriptive and that
philosophers have done so at best incidentally.9 But medieval scholastic philo-
sophers and grammarians did so, thoroughly, systematically, and with considerable
subtlety.10 The issues were of the highest moment, since the efcacy of sacramental
formulae turns on the possibility of speech being accounted a form of action. In
some cases, the words take the form of rst-person present-tense statements
(e.g. Ego te baptizo in the case of the sacrament of Baptism; Ego te absolvo in the
case of the sacrament of Penance). To utter these words, in the correct conditions,
is to perform a particular action.11 Austin is merely rediscovering a distinction that
was quite familiar throughout the Middle Ages.12 It was familiar because people
were attentive to it, and they were attentive to it because it mattered.13
7 Austin p. 91.
8 Among several such turns are those represented by (i) John Searle, Speech Acts (1969); (ii) John
Searle and Daniel Vanderveken, Foundations of Illocutionary Logic (1985); Daniel Vanderveken,
Meaning and Speech Acts vols III (19901); (iii) William P. Alston, Illocutionary Acts and Sentence
Meaning (2000).
9 Austin p. 4.
10 The distinction between actus signicatus and actus exercitus, introduced in the thirteenth century
by Robert Kilwardby in his commentary Super Priscianum Minorum, plays a major role in Roger
Bacons Summa Grammatica. This would be enough to falsify Austins report, but it would be wrong to
focus exclusively on the elite: the distinction seems to have been widely recognized through
appreciation of the conditions for the giving and receiving of sacraments.
11 Contemporaries were alive to the relevance of these conditions for they were aware that these
very words could be uttered and yet no such action be performed. Perhaps the utterer was merely
rehearsing a baptism; perhaps he was not licensed to absolve; perhaps he held heretical views that
prevented him conferring sacraments; perhaps he was not sufciently learned to have used the correct
words in the correct way. This mattered, of course: whether their child had actually been baptized;
whether they had actually been absolved. Hence they were attentive to the distinction between
sentences of statement-form which do perform actions and those which do not.
12 Indeed, participants were well aware of the two basic corrective moves that Austin eventually
recognizes he needs to make. Sentences whose uttering is a doing may, but need not, look like rst-
person present-tense statements: the Eucharistic formula (Hoc est corpus meum) does not. And
sentences whose uttering is a stating may also be regarded as sentences whose uttering is a doing; for
stating is something one does. Hence the scholastic distinction is not between actions and non-actions,
but between two different modes of action: actus signicatus and actus exercitus.
13 Aquinas, for example, dealt with the relevant issues in relation to formulae of Baptism (Summa
Theologiae III, q 72) and the Eucharist (III, q 78), benetting from discussion of the actus signicatus/
What form should such a new approach take? A dual framework, so it might be
thought: one structure, which treats truth as basic, to deal with statements and
descriptions in poetry, and a second structure, which treats action as basic, to deal
with other kinds of language-use. But a dual framework would be inelegant and
perhaps unworkable. And it is quite unnecessary, for in describing something as such-
and-such, or in stating that something is thus-and-so, one does things; one performs
the actions of describing and of stating. Hence we can treat action as basic also to
descriptions and statements, enfolding both within the same larger structure. This
would give us a single framework, which would be quite consistent with what we have
learnt from the failure of the governing assumption. Descriptions and statements are
not paradigm instances of any basic category of language-use. They take their place
among the variety of other ways in which saying things counts as doing things.
To orientate debate towards action in this way is not necessarily to ignore the
issue of truth. It is not even to reduce truth to something that is relevant only to the
particular case of statements and descriptions. It is always relevant to ask, of any
uttering which also purports to be a doing, whether what is supposed to be being
done is indeed being done. It is an important fact about using words to make
promises, for example, that there are circumstances in which one does not make a
promise, even though one utters the appropriate words. But an approach that turns
on action would treat such relations to truth as secondary. Settling whether it is true
that something is in fact done in some particular poetic utterance is dependent on
settling logically prior issues, basic to the nature of poetic utterances as such. For
example, what it is to do certain things in producing such utterances, whether it is
possible for such things to be done in certain circumstances, what would make such
doings possible, how they are to be done correctly, or at all, and so on.
What should we require of such a new approach? Consistency and plausibility, of
course. Insight also: the approach should improve our understanding of what is
going on in a particular poem. But receptivity and attunement will be the main test.
Does the approach open up philosophy and poetry to each other? In such a way
that philosophy might be of use to poetry and its criticism? In such a way that
philosophy itself might benet?
To proceed further, we need to develop such an approach, testing and improving
it by appeal to these questions. This is the main purpose of Part II. To make
investment in this project worthwhile, however, we rst need to raise and reply to
objections to it, answering challenges where possible, modifying the approach
where necessary. That is the purpose of the rest of this chapter.
III
If we realign our approach so that action rather than truth is made basic to poetic
utteranceif descriptions and statements are no longer treated as the paradigm
actus exercitus distinction. For a philosophically informed historical account, see Irne Rosier-Catach,
La Parole Comme Acte (1994) and La Parole Efcace: Signe, rituel, sacr (2004).
Action 101
then philosophical debate about poetry will proceed against a radically different
spectrum of possible positions.
At one end of the new spectrum are people who would afrm that those
responsible for poetic utterances do things in saying what they thereby say. This
seems the correct position, since poetic utterances can indeed be speech acts, and
explicitly so. Utterances that match Chaucers envoi are sufcient to show this,
though they are just one amidst a range of evidence. Other types of evidence are
equally interesting because they show that there are ways of performing actions in
uttering sentences in poetry which are peculiar to poetry.
Some speech acts are dependent on the syntax of enjambment, for example,
a phenomenon peculiar to poetry. (We cannot say it is unique to poetry because
sign-writers, for example, can achieve effects by the way they lay out prose.14 But it
is to poetry we should look for the full complement of such effects.) In Douglas
Dunns poem Arrangements, for example, the line-break acts like a corner to be
turned, thus enabling the utterance to do precisely what it says:15
And here I am, closing the door behind me,
Turning the corner on a wet day in March.
Enjambment makes the utterance performative: I am hereby | Turning the corner.
The occasion shares aspects with Chaucers envoi: the verbal form playing the
decisive role is rst-person singular present indicative activethough here
the present is progressive rather than simple, I am Ving rather than I Vand the
verb used is a word for what the speaker can be reported as having done in uttering
the sentence. But there is this additional feature: that it is because of the enjamb-
ment that what is done is guaranteed to have been done by the utterance itself.
Some speech acts are dependent on metre, also a phenomenon peculiar to
poetry. In Tennysons poem Crossing the Bar, for example, there is another
turn, but this time from the iambic to the trochaic. Again, the requisite word
appears (turns this time), making the utterance name precisely what it does:16
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound or foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
In fact, there are two turnings here. Tennysons sentence describes one in perform-
ing another, and the turning performed is the turning dependent on metrical
change. Evidently this occasion does not belong to the basic form of Chaucers
envoi: the decisive verbal phrase is not rst-personal in form. But the occasion is
closely related: given the role metre plays, the utterance is both self-guaranteeing
and self-referential.
14 So I disagree with thoselike Giorgio Agamben, in The End of the Poem (1996, p. 109)who
claim that the possibility of enjambment is one (indeed, the only) criterion for distinguishing poetry
from prose.
15 Dunn, Elegies (1985, p. 17). 16 Tennyson: A Selected Edition (2007, pp. 6656).
So it seems that poetic utterances can indeed be speech acts, and explicitly so.
Cases of the Chaucer-type are sufcient to show this, though they are just one
amidst a range of types. Philosophy stands to benet from the recognition that this
is so: philosophers could use poetry to add to what is known about speech acts from
the study of non-poetic uses of language alone. There are distinctions which the
study of poetry enables the philosopher to appreciate fully, and there are types of
speech act, or at least ways of achieving such acts, which a philosopher could only
discover and identify by studying poetry.
Hence there is good reason to afrm that those responsible for poetic utterances
do things in saying what they thereby say. At the other end of the new spectrum are
people who would deny that those responsible for poetic utterances are capable of
doing what they say in saying what they do. We will examine the kinds of reasons
they might offer in a moment.
Finally, towards the centre of the action-orientated spectrum are people who
would claim that it is incorrect either to afrm or deny that those responsible for a
poetic utterance are capable of doing things in saying what they say. They may
argue, for example, that in these special circumstances, something is indeed done
in the saying, but it is nevertheless not what those responsible purport to be doing
in saying it. Or they may say that, if anything at all is done in these circumstances,
it is done only in a weak sense: the action of those responsible is not fully
performed, not wholly brought off. This is Austins own position, of course, and
we know why he shares it with poets and critics: because they treat poetry as exempt
from issues of responsibility and commitment. We will take up these issues in
Chapter 7.
IV
The claim that those responsible for poetic utterances may indeed do things in
saying what they thereby say is subject to criticism. Difculties and objections can
be distinguished into three groups: those that relate primarily to the action (the
putative doing); those that relate primarily to the deed (the thing putatively done);
and those that relate primarily to the agent (the one responsible for the putative
doing). We shall address each in turn.
First, then, it is natural to wonder whether what we have so far taken to be
actions should indeed count as such. We tend to think of actions as interventions
in the world, events that make a difference, occasions in which some kind of change
is caused or brought about. And we treat as paradigmatic of the term action
instances like opening windows, throwing balls, standing up, blowing ones nose.
All these actions can be regarded as movements, and all are, or at least involve,
movements of the body. But many of the cases of action in poetry we shall review
are not movements of any sort, let alone bodily movements: someone directs a
poem to another, or asks a question, or greets matrimony, or bids farewell, or
considers a cat, or describes a woman, or wonders. It is beside the point, of course,
that speaking can be regarded as a bodily movement; we are not asking whether
Action 103
producing speech is an action, but whether certain things we do in speaking

directing, asking, greeting, for examplecount as actions.
If these worries pose an objection, it is to the philosophy of speech acts as a
whole, rather than to the claim that uttering in poetry can count as a form of action.
For it is a speech act approach which claims that the relevant verbstogether with a
host of others (to warn, urge, advise, plead, veto, propose, promise, consent, afrm,
deny, revise, etc.)do indeed name actions, even though they do not name move-
ments, bodily or otherwise. Furthermore, we may wonder whether the objection
itself is sound. For the philosophy of speech acts has grounds for regarding as forms of
action what these verbs name. We are happy, after all, to afrm that warning and
urging and advising, and so on, are all things that we do as agents. Finally, we may
question the assumption that lies behind the objection: that bodily movements are
the paradigm of actions. We may do so while acknowledging that actions are
interventions in the world which bring about change. This is because bodily
movements are evidently not the only way of intervening in the world, and perhaps
not even the only standard way. Taken together, these remarks suggest a natural
way to handle the initial objection. We should distinguish, just as Austin does,
between ordinary physical actions and the special nature of acts of saying
something.17 Poetic uttering can then be regarded as a species of the latter group.
But this does not make the issues concerning action disappear entirely. Some of
the cases we shall review do in fact use verbs which would ordinarily imply some
sort of movement, perhaps even bodily movement: to display articles for dressing,
to turn oneself home, to shrine another person. And this might immediately
suggest that we have straightforward evidence that poetic uttering can indeed be a
form of action, even using the paradigm-based account of what an action is. In fact,
however, these cases are more contentious still. For the fact that all these move-
ments take place in poetry (Tennyson I would shrine her in my verse18) may seem
to undermine their claim to being genuinely accounted movements at all. Of course,
it may be said in reply that this response simply begs the question. But that does not
resolve the larger issue: whether poetic uttering can be deemed a genuine action at
all, even if of a form that sets it apart as belonging to a special group, acts of saying
something. It may be said, for example, that it is only in a limited, non-standard,
attenuated, or simply metaphorical sense that poetic uttering can be accounted a
form of action. This raises signicant issues within the philosophy of action, and
one that has yet to receive its share of attention.
Suppose that poetic utterings may indeed count as doings, and of the type we call
action. Then a second set of difculties arises: what we are to make of the
corresponding deeds, those things that are thereby done. The main issues here
turn on how we should count such deeds, and how we should locate them in time
and space. These questions turn out to be related at a deeper level.
The answers may seem straightforward in the Chaucer case. In producing the
utteranceO moral Gower, this book I direct | To thee and to thee, philosophical
17 Austin p. 113; cf. pp. 11115.

18 Tennyson, Reticence, The Poems of Tennyson (1987, pp. 6289).
StrodeChaucer directs his work to others. What is done thereby is done once
and for all, on the particular occasion and in the particular place of his producing
the utterance. But this is not always the case; indeed, it is perhaps the exception. In
lines we shall review from Virgils Aeneid (Arms, and the man I sing19) and from
Smarts Jubilate Agno (For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry20), it is more plausible to
think that the deed corresponding to the action named in the verse is done, not
once in the spatio-temporal location of its initial production, but on as many
occasions and in as many locations as there are repetitions of the utterance.
Sometimes the possibility of such repetition is made explicit. A familiar instance
occurs at the conclusion of Yeats Easter 1916:21
I write it out in a verse
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
The passage begins with a Chaucer-type phrase (I write it out in a verse), denoting
what is presumably a one-off event. But this leads straight into a declaration of
commitment tothe essentially repeatable character of the general type of which
this particular action is an instance: stating that those named are changed utterly.
Instances of this general type are performed in each repetition of the utterance, of
course; not just wherever green is worn.
Other cases appear more difcult, hovering uneasily between the unrepeatable
one-off instance and the innumerably repeatable occasion. Poets exploit this
indeterminacy. For example, in The Triumph of Love, Geoffrey Hill writes:
SoCroker, MacSikker, OShemI ask you:
what are poems for?22
This instance has its ancestor in Chaucer: That I axe, why that the fthe man / Was
noon housbonde to the Samaritan?23 Something is done here: namely, a question
is asked. But it is unclear whether this question was asked once and for all
(as Chaucer directed his poem), or whether it continues to be asked on as many
occasions as the utterance is repeated (as in Yeats Easter 1916). The directedness
of the question and its naming of addressees speak for the former, but the weight of
the question and its resonance within the poem speak for the latter. This is a
difculty for the interpretation of the poem, of course, and of a sort that poets may
19 Virgil, The Aeneid, Book I, line 1; in Drydens translation. The Oxford Book of English Verse
(Ricks 1999, p. 208).

20 Christopher Smart, Fragment B, lines 6957. The Oxford Book of English Verse (Ricks 1999,
p. 286).
21 W. B. Yeats: Collected Poems (1950, p. 205).
22 CXLVIII (1998, p. 82); in Hill, Broken Hierarchies (2013, p. 285).
23 Chaucer, The Wife of Baths Prologue, in The Riverside Chaucer (2008), lines 212.
Action 105
seek to build into reception of their poetry. It is not a problem for the overall claim
that poetic utterances may count as actions.
The third set of difculties relates primarily to agency. Actions are by agents. So
if a poetic uttering is to count as an action in some context, we expect an answer to
an identity-question of the form, who is the agent of that context? But it is a
truism that poetry frequently, intentionally, by design, and with calculation makes
that question difcult, or even impossible, to answer. Poets are praised, after all, for
the generosity of [their] ventriloquism.24 So it can be difcult to say whether the
agent of the context is the poet, or a guise the poet has taken, or a ctional person
who speaks for the poet, or a ctional person quite removed from the poet, or some
thing that is not a person at all, or some complex made up of all or none of these.
The difculties run deeper still. Perhaps we should not simply assume, in the
special conditions set by the context of poetry, that the identity-question is a good
question, one that could have an answer (i.e. whether any answer it could have is
something we might discover or come to know). For if it is not exactly a truism, it is
certainly a familiar thought, that we somehow miss the point of particular poems if
we insist that there must be some fact of the matter, whether discoverable or not,
about which a particular individual is responsible for any poetic utterance.
These issues arise even, perhaps especially, when poetry contains uses of the rst-
person term. Most of the examples we have used, being examples of the Chaucer-
type, not only contain uses of that term but turn on them. It might seem that, here
at least, the identity-question creates no difculties. For we might suppose that, in
using I, the poem indicates that it is appropriate to raise the identity-question.
Moreover, we might think that the use of I gives us directions on how to answer
that question: if we identify the referent of the use of I, we will know who the
agent of the content is. But this simply postpones resolution of the original
problem. For it is at least equally difcult to say whether the referent of the use
of I is the poet, or the poets guise, or a ctional person, or some complex made up
of all or none of these. And it is at least equally legitimate to ask whether the
corresponding identity-question is a good one. For there may be good reason to
reject the assumption that, in the special context of poetry, there must be some fact
of the matter, discoverable or not, about who is referred to by the use of I.
If poetry does indeed resist application of these identity-questions, we are owed
an explanation why. The most robust vindication would be this: that poetry resists
application of the notion of agency altogether. But if this is correct, then evidently
we could not regard poetic utterings as speech acts, or indeed any species of action.
So this may be too robust a vindication. A plausible alternative is to claim not that
poetry resists application of these identity-questions exactly, but that it simply
resists attempts to answer them, making the issues arisingintentionally, by
design, and with calculationdifcult or impossible to resolve. This weaker way
of framing the point still leads to a distinctly sceptical conclusion. For if a poetic
uttering resists attempts to identify its agent, and actions are by agents, then it is
24 Robert Lowell on Browning in his After enjoying six or seven essays on me (2003, pp. 98992;
p. 992).
plausible to conclude that the uttering resists attempts to have itself identied as
an action.
We can respond to objections of these sorts in various ways. Perhaps the context
of poetry is special enough to justify making the connection between action and
agency looser than in the normal case. If this is correct then it would be possible to
regard poetic uttering as a form of action without assuming that the identity-
questions have an answer, let alone one that we could provide. But this response is
less robust than it might appear. Once action-in-poetry is made an exception to the
general case, there is a risk of attenuating the sense in which poetry can be
accounted action at all.
Another way of responding is to claim that, in many cases at least, the identity-
question is applicable, and indeed readily answerable. Chaucer himself, for example,
seems a good candidate for the agent and referent of I in the verses quoted from
his Troilus. Who else could it be who directs his book to moral Gower and
philosophical Strode? And where the identity-question is not easily answered,
the very difculties we experience may indicate that it is nevertheless applicable.
The lines quoted from Geoffrey Hills The Triumph of LoveI ask you: / what
are poems for?may provide an instance of this. The poem artfully exploits the
play between a poets voice and the voice of the person who is that poet. This can
make it seem equally uncomfortable either to attribute the thoughts expressed
directly to Hill himself or not to do so. But this difculty seems integral to the way
the poem works itself out. Far from making the identity-questions inapplicable,
Hill raises them to the status of a key puzzle, one we must grapple with if we are to
grasp the poem at all. And if the identity-questions are therefore at least applicable,
then there is no reason to doubt the exercise of agency here. What is done in the
uttering of this poem is genuinely done; questions are raised, for example. And this
is so, not in spite of the fact that the identity of the agent remains unsettled, but
precisely because the poem makes the question of identity a puzzle.
So the claim that poetic uttering can count as a form of action, a speech action,
raises difculties. But none of these difculties amount to objections to the overall
claim. Rather, they set an agenda for the interpretation of specic poems, a list of
questions that interpretations must resolve to count as satisfying. And this agenda
proves an essential device. For where these difculties arise, they direct the atten-
tion to the very issues that the poem itself is trying to raise.
7
Responsibility
I
If poetic uttering can indeed count as a form of speech act, we are free to realign
philosophical debate so that it turns on action rather than truth. This gives
prominence to responsibility and commitment. Since this is the most signicant
consequence of realigning the debate, it is worth dwelling on three issues: why
responsibility and commitment must play a leading role, whether and how they can
do so in the context of poetry, and what is implied thereby.
The reason why these notions must play a leading role arises from the nature of
the realigned debate: the fact that what will matter fundamentally is not whether
what is said is true, and if it is true whether it is aptly said, and if it is aptly said
whether it was right to have said it, but rather whether what is said is done, and if it
is indeed done, whether it is done well, and if it is indeed done well, whether it was
good to have done it.
For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry.
For he is the servant of the living God duly and daily serving him.
For at the rst glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way.1
In uttering this, does Christopher Smarts speaker in Jubilate Agno indeed manage
to consider his cat Jeoffry? This is a basic, primarily pragmatic, question. Perhaps
there was no real intention to do what the words claim to do. If so, the deed may
nevertheless be done, by accident perhaps, or perhaps by mistake. Or perhaps there
was an attempt that fails to come off. If the deed is done, and it was intended to be
done, we may ask questions that are primarily aesthetic, concerning the manner in
which the speaker carried out this action. Was this manner pleasing? Were the
words apt, well ordered, suited to their task? Or is there something botched about
the performance? Was it carried off, but in a way that is ugly, bumbling, in some
sense ineffective? Finally, we may ask questions that are ethical, roughly speaking.
Was the action carried off in uttering these words right or good? Was it dutiful, or
tting, or virtuous to have performed this action? Or was this action wrong, or evil,
or malicious? Was it tactless, or insensitive, or cruel to have performed it?
The criteria of evaluation will change accordingly. For if what is at issue is the
truth in what is said, then those who produce poetic utterances will be judged
1 Smart, Fragment B, lines 6957. The Oxford Book of English Verse (Ricks 1999, p. 286).
primarily in relation to their epistemic standing. Did they have reason to say what
they did? Did their statements rest on evidence, on argument, on reasoning? But if
what is at issue is the action in what is said, those who produce poetic utterances
will be judged primarily in relation to their responsibility. Who is it who actually
performed this action and is thus answerable for it? What were their immediate and
underlying intentions in doing so? Are they accountable for the ways in which the
action was carried out, for its consequences?
These questions can be asked at each of the three levels just identied. So we will
ask of Chaucer, for example, whether it was indeed he who intentionally and
voluntarily directed his Troilus to Gower and Strode, or whether he was somehow
constrained to do so. This is a primarily pragmatic question. We will also ask
primarily aesthetic questions: for example, what he meant by choosing precisely
these words rather than any others to perform this action. Finally, we will ask
whether Chaucer is to be praised or blamed for making these persons the recipients
of the book. This is a primarily ethical question.
Each of these questions of responsibility rest in their turn on issues of commit-
ment. Did the person who performed this action really mean to do what in fact they
did? Did they realize what obligations would be laid on them by doing this? Did
they accept, consent to, or undertake these obligations? For if the answer to any of
these questions is No, then we may refuse to hold the person responsible for what
was done, or at least qualify their responsibility, at each of the three levels:
pragmatic, aesthetic, ethical.
For example, when Hill writes, I ask you: | what are poems for?, we will
question whether the speaker is genuinely committed to what asking a question
plausibly requires. Does he take up a position of inquiry; is he open to possible
answers; does he make himself receptive and sensitive to evidence? If the speaker
utters these words as a mere rhetorical device, he is not committed in these ways.
And if he is not committed to asking a question, we may deny that he is responsible
for asking one, on the grounds that no question can have been asked. (I discuss this
particular example in detail in Part II, defending the claim that the speaker does
indeed perform the act of asking named in uttering these lines.) So this is one clear
indication of the pivotal role that commitment and responsibility play in a
realigned, action-orientated debate. Where commitment and hence responsibility
are absent, it is plausible to deny that the relevant action has even been performed.
II
This leads directly to the second issue: whether responsibility and commitment can
indeed be present in poetic utterance, and, if so, how. That there should be doubt
about this might seem strange. There may be particular instances where it is unclear
who exactly is responsible for a poetic utterance, or whether there is a genuine
attempt by the persons responsible to commit themselves. But some would deny
that responsibility and commitment are ever possible in the particular context that
is poetry.
Responsibility 109
As we know, Austin declared that poetry is not serious for precisely this reason.
He took the view that, when produced in the poetic context, any and every
utterance is in a peculiar way hollow or void.2 In his proprietary usage, an
utterance is void when the speaker fails outright to do what he tries to do in
saying it (I say, I veto this bill, for example, but lack the requisite authority). An
utterance is hollow, in his sense, when the speaker succeeds in doing what he tries
to do, but there is nevertheless something improper about the action: it is not fully
consummated or implemented (I say, I bet you 5 that such-and-such an event
will occur, for example, but have no intention of paying the forfeit).3 So if Austin is
correct, when anyone produces an utterance in poetry which contains a commis-
sive verb, one that is apt to make a commitment, the act named is not brought
off: what is said is not done. Moreover, the requisite intention is lacking: no real
attempt is being made to bring off what is said. Poets are free to use commitment-
apt verbs, but the utterances they thereby produce neither succeed in making
commitments nor attempt to do so. Thus there is nothing for which those
who produce poetry might be held responsible. In the poetic context, language
is only ever on holiday. And for this reason, poetry is not to be regarded
as serious.
It is helpful here to think about how Samuel Johnson introduced serious into
his biography of the poet Abraham Cowley.4 Cowley wrote amorous ditties,
though Johnson assures us he in reality was in love but once, and then never
had resolution to tell his passion.5 Cowley wrote these ditties because, in his own
words, which Johnson quotes, poets are scarce thought freemen of their company
without paying some duties, or obliging themselves to be true to Love.6 Johnson
thinks this cannot but abate, in some measure, the readers esteem for the work and
the author. His censure is based on the thought that the basis of all excellence is
truth: he that professes love ought to feel its power.7 His sense of the frivolity in
Cowleys proceeding then provokes him to a general observation and judgement,
with serious at its head, providing a kind of key note, a defensible attack on some
kinds of poetry, and thus (were it not for the fact that Austin does not distinguish
between kinds, but calls all poetry non-serious) usable by serious critics who might
wish to defend Austin by supposing that what provoked him was also a love of
certain sorts of seriousness, which poetry is in danger of undermining:
It is surely not difcult, in the solitude of a college, or in the bustle of the world, to nd
useful studies and serious employment. No man needs to be so burthened with life as
to squander it in voluntary dreams of ctitious occurrences. The man that sits down to
suppose himself charged with treason or peculation, and heats his mind to an elaborate
purgation of his character from crimes which he was never within the possibility of
committing, differs only by the infrequency of his folly from him who praises beauty
which he never saw, complains of jealousy which he never felt; supposes himself
2 Austin p. 22. 3 Austin pp. 1245.

4 Cowley, The Lives of the Poets (2009, pp. 553).
5 Cowley, The Lives of the Poets (2009, p. 8). 6 Cowley, The Lives of the Poets (2009, p. 7).
7 Cowley, The Lives of the Poets (2009, pp. 8, 7).
invited, and sometimes forsaken; fatigues his fancy, and ransacks his memory, for
images which may exhibit the gaiety of hope, or the gloominess of despair, and dresses
his imaginary Chloris or Phyllis sometimes in owers fading as her beauty, and
sometimes in gems lasting as her virtues.8
Johnsons use of serious here helps distinguish Austins view. Both would regard
Cowleys amorous ditties as not serious (Cowley, perhaps, would have agreed).
Both point to the same considerations: that the utterances of which they are
composed, though commitment-apt, do not succeed in making commitments
and do not attempt to do so. The poet, or his language, is on holiday. But whereas
Johnson thinks this is true of some poetic practices (from which Cowley happily
extracted himself), Austin thinks this is true of all poets and poetry.
And this position is untenable. To undermine it, we need not argue that poetry is
always, or indeed usually, responsible, committed, and thus serious. We need only
produce examples of commitment-apt utterances in poetry where there is a genuine
attempt to make that commitment, and where that commitment is indeed made.
The Chaucer example will sufce, perhaps. For it seems evident that he is respon-
sible for his act, and committed to what it entails, in producing the poetic utterance
which directs his poem to Gower and Strode. So it is possible to be both
responsible and committed in poetry.
This holds true in a wider sense than that which Austin wanted to deny. For
poets need not use commissive verbs to commit themselves responsibly. They do so
whenever they are serious in their use of language. For to be serious is to acknow-
ledge what is required if one is to be taken seriously: a commitment to be
reasonably clear about what one means, to be willing to explain what one says, to
account for what one claims. And it is not only possible but actual that poets
commit themselves responsibly in these various ways (for example, in essays,
reviews, manifestos, interviews).
This is just as well, since responsibility and commitment are essential to any
vindication of poetry as serious. Unless one is capable of doing what one says, one
cannot be serious in saying what one does. And to be capable of doing what one
says requires being able to commit oneself in saying it. So those responsible for
poetic utterances must be able to count as such in a deeper sense than mere causal
efcacy. It must be possible and actual for them to commit themselves in saying
what they do. Hence it must be possible and actual for them to be, and to be held to
be, responsible in what they say.
We can put this another way. Being serious is at least to acknowledge what is
required if one is to be taken seriously. And to be taken seriously in what one says
8 Cowley, The Lives of the Poets (2009, p. 8). It is a marvellous passage and captures something of
what we found questionable in the behaviour of Clutorius Priscus, as Tacitus describes it (see the
Introduction). But note that the cause of criticism shifts markedly in its course: to indulge in voluntary
dreams of ctitious occurrences is rst unnecessary, then wasteful, then a pursuit with an aim not
worth achieving, then one with an aim that is not achievable, then untrue, false, inconstant. Not that
this energetic progress need reect any confusion in Johnsons mind. But it does seem that, in his
excitement at the rhythm of his prose, he stretches consideration of the thought beyond what sprung it,
and this is a fancifulness that surrenders Johnson somewhat to the very indulgence he is criticizing.
Responsibility 111
requires making certain commitments: for example, to be reasonably clear about

what one means; to be willing to explain what one says; to account for what one
claims; to supply reasons for ones position; and so on. As Peter McDonald notes,
Geoffrey Hill recognizes this relation between the seriousness of poetry, the
existence of these obligations, and the plentiful opportunities for failure; in his
critical writing,
the gure of the poet must emerge as someone mired in the complexity of languages
relations with both afrmation and seriousness, as well as with imaginative will; as someone
in a x, who is not triumphing over language, but battling a path within language.9
If utterances in poetry could not issue in commitments, poets would stand in no
need of excuses. But they would also be compelled to accept that such utterances
are non-serious.
Not that proceeding on this basis will be easy. It is a complex matter, after all, to
specify the conditions under which utterances in poetry count as complying with
the conditions and obligations on seriousness. This is particularly so if William
Empson is right, that the machinations of ambiguity are among the very roots of
poetry.10 But the preceding arguments give us resources for two tentative remarks.
First, the difculties here seem to be more of the nature of complications than
objections. We ask under what conditions these problematic utterances count as
serious because we suppose there are such conditions. Indeed, plausibly, it is only
because there are conditions under which utterances in poetry count as complying
with the conditions and obligations on seriousness that we recognize ambiguity at
all, either as a permissible exception to the relevant rules or as the breaking of them.
Second, the difculties here seem to be of the sort that call equally for the poets
talents and the philosophers tools. For ambiguity can work to clarify meaning, just
as word-play can serve to strengthen the binding force of a pronouncement, and
poets can achieve this feat.11 In achieving it, they show the feat could be accom-
plished, which is what interests philosophers.
Word-play and ambiguity can also distend or distort meaning, of course, just
as they can cancel the commitments which the relevant utterance seemed to
announce. But it is partly because we know how word-play can reinforce a
pronouncement that we recognize its capacity to evacuate pronouncements in
9 McDonald, Serious Poetry (2002, p. 100). McDonald has argued more recently that Geoffrey
Hills claim to seriousness stakes itself on poetry that refuses to regard licence and poetic licence as
admissible terms; see But to my task: work, truth, and metre in later Hill (2012, pp. 14369;
especially pp. 1628). I am suggesting that the truth is more complex.
10 Seven Types of Ambiguity (1963, p. 3). Empsons claim needs to be set beside the stricture Yeats
expressed: You must always write as if you were shouting to a man across the street who you were
afraid wouldnt hear you, and trying to make him understand (to Frank OConnor; quoted in Richard
Ellman, The Identity of Yeats (1954, p. 201). The question that should bother us is whether these views
are as much opposed as they might at rst appear, and if they are, whether that opposition is not of the
supportive kind that two sides of an arch exert on each other.
11 Ezra Pounds remark assumes this point, and focuses it further: The poets job is to dene and yet
again dene till the surface of detail is in accord with the root in justice. Letter to Basil Bunting,
December 1935 (Pound 1951, p. 366). Geoffrey Hill ponders the thought to memorable effect in his
Our word is our bond, Collected Critical Writings (2008, pp. 14669; p. 165).
their delivery. It is in these opposing powers that poets deal, just as it is to the
differences between their effects that philosophers draw attention. And what both
activities reveal is not only that ambiguity has serious as well as non-serious uses,
but that we can appeal to relevant criteria here, ways of telling when one or the
other is operative. In short, what conditions poets must meet to count as serious in
what they say is a difcult and perhaps controversial matter. But that such
conditions exist and can be met are claims we can reasonably endorse.
The pivotal role which commitment and responsibility play in the realigned,
action-orientated debate raises a third issue: what follows? We have already recog-
nized two implications, both of which concern poetry directly. Responsibility and
commitment are required if an action is to be performed in a poetic uttering; and
both are required if poetry is to count as serious. We now have the means to
recognize a third implication, with a direct impact on philosophy.
III
To make responsibility and commitment central is to change the criteria of
evaluation, as we have seen. So a philosophical debate which takes account of
this change will make the nature and value of poetry depend not on the conditions
that must obtain for it to be true, but on questions about who is accountable for a
particular utterance, what was intended by some particular choice of words,
whether the action performed is one for which its author can be praised or blamed,
and so on. Now these are precisely the questions which dene literary criticism and
which commentators on poetry have placed at the centre of their endeavours. The
truth-orientated debate tended to track what interested those with general con-
cerns: where it was mentioned at all, poetry was treated as an opportunity to
illustrate general philosophical theses about language. Making responsibility and
commitment central to debate enables philosophy to track what guides and
motivates those attuned to poetry itself. We may defend the attempt to realign
debate on various grounds, but it is ultimately this prospect of bringing philosophy
into alignment with criticism which stimulates.
So responsibility and commitment become prominent in a realigned action-
orientated debate in ways that are both defensible and illuminating. Those who
make utterances in poetry can be regarded as committed and responsible. Poetic
utterances involving or invoking the commissive sub-class of verbs and verbal
forms are capable of bringing about commitments. Thus philosophical debate is
provided with the grounds to treat serious poetry as serious and the justication to
treat sensitive commentary as essential.
If poets are indeed capable of responsibility and commitment in making poetic
utterances, we would expect indications of anxiety about their role in contemporary
culture. This is just what we nd in prose commentaries by contemporary poets.12
12 For example, Dennis ODriscolls interviews with Seamus Heaney: Stepping Stones (2008).
Responsibility 113
It is also what we discover embedded in contemporary poetry. These latter

instances are of more direct relevance to the issues at hand: enactments of anxiety
at responsibility and commitment offer one nal type of action which poems can
perform. There is space enough to identify just two salient issues.
One concerns what it is possible for a poem to achieve. These lines from
Kathleen Raine are an example of the Chaucer-type:13
All I have known and been
I bequeath to whoever
Can decipher my poem.
But there are complications. For the act of bequeathing to be genuinely and
successfully performed, it must be possible for someone to inherit all I have
known and been. And it must be possible for a poemindeed this poemto be
the instrument of this bequeathing. If this is not possible, it must be because either
of two things are the case. Either there is something hollow or professed about the
speakers act, or her attempt to perform it fails altogether.14 The rst possibility
implies that the speaker lacks commitment. The second possibility absolves the
speaker from responsibility.
There is a way to resolve this tension. Perhaps the real signicance of these lines
lies not in a bequeathing by one person to another, but in what that bequeathing
signies: a particular revelation of the speaker about herself, that she is such that all
she has really known and truly been can beand isbequeathed in and through
this very poem. This would be consistent with the achievement of the act, and
hence with the ascription of commitment and responsibility to the speaker.
This resolution, which preserves the capacity of a poem to achieve things, comes
at a price. For the poem to succeed in committing the speaker, making her
responsible for what she says, we have to recongure what the poem acts on: in
this case, the speakers own self. A price of this sort may seem too high, and we
might distrust those who are willing to pay it. This would itself be a cause of anxiety
about the poets role. But there may be a deeper cause: not the price of success, but
success itself.
This is the second salient issue: whether it is desirable for a poem to achieve. Roy
Fisher raises it in It is Writing:
Because it could do it well
the poem wants to glorify suffering.
I mistrust it.
I mistrust the poem in its hour of success,
a thing capable of being
tempted by ethics into the wonderful.15
13 Short poems 1994, The Collected Poems of Kathleen Raine (2008, p. 343).
14 What Austin calls failures of abuse (pp. 2538) and misre (pp. 3952) respectively in Austin.
15 The Long and the Short of It: Poems 19552005 (2005, p. 221).
To express mistrust at achievement in poetry by means of poetry is itself an

achievement of poetry. The wonderful into which poetry is tempted includes
the thought that ethics could tempt. To point this out is ethical and hence to
succumb to the temptation. In these various ways, the poem is encompassed, quite
knowingly, by the very dangers it identies. This gives it the authentic feel of
anxiety, a condition which is essentially, and self-consciously, self-undermining.
But the poem leaves one crucial aspect unexplored. It bothers Fisher that what
the poem wants is to do what poetry can do well. This seems to be his diagnosis for
a familiar complaint: that poetry glories suffering, turns it into the wonderful
(it could do it well). But what is it about the hour of success which makes poetry
capable of being tempted by ethics?
Perhaps we have the resources for an answer, at least in part. In successful poetic
utterances, poets perform acts of responsibility and commitment. This places their
actions deep in ethics, the realm of what is owed and what ought to be done. And
perhaps it is by this that poets are tempted. For it is an easy stepbut a step
nonethelessfrom recognizing that what one does is constrained by ethical con-
siderations to supposing that what one does must direct itself towards achieving
ethical ends. It is a plausible diagnosis: that the reason why a poem might end up
glorifying suffering is that it aims at ethical ends rather than suffering, looking
beyond one to achieve the other. Reason indeed to be anxious about what it is
possible for a poem to achieve.
IV
There are then good grounds to extend Austins analysis of speech acts in ordinary
language to the case of poetry. Chaucer-type cases are just one of many ways to
show that those responsible for poetic utterances may indeed do things in saying
things. Philosophical debate about poetry might helpfully be made to turn on
action and what is done with words, rather than on truth and what congruity there
is between what is said and what is the case.
Evidence can be ordered to this effect. Examples of poetic utterances reveal
underlying distinctions in the way poetry does things with words. The addition of
new categories of actions, some peculiar to poetry, reveals ways in which philosophy
can increase knowledge of language-use by attending to poetry.
Objections can be dealt with. For it seems that, when we analyse the problems
into those primarily concerning the action, the agent, and the thing done, the
analysis of speech acts in ordinary language can indeed be extended to the use of
language in poetry.
These implications can be welcomed. For responsibility and commitment come
to the fore when philosophical debate about poetry turns on action rather than
truth.16 Poets are capable of both in making poetic utterances. So we can vindicate
16 The more general interpretative claim, that responsibility and commitment come to the fore
when philosophical debate about language more generally is made to turn on action, and that this
Responsibility 115
poetry as a serious use of language while aligning suitably sensitive criticism with
the concerns of philosophy. These implications can also be feared. Responsibility
and commitment place familiar burdens and constraints on those enjoined. This
gives reason for what we nd evidence of: anxiety about the poets role in
contemporary culture.
This completes our reconciliation of philosophy with poetry. The rst step was
to show that antipathy here was not so deep as to be irremediable. But if the
agreement between philosophy and poets-critics was hopeful, it was also unsound,
being based on a falsehood. Poetry is not exempt from issues of responsibility and
commitment. Poets recognize that their utterances can be serious in this sense.
Their poetry reveals anxieties that this recognition induces. Philosophy needs to
recognize this also, forcing it to realign itself with poetry. For if poetic utterances
were exempt from issues of commitment and responsibility, this would place a
restriction on a speech act approach, whose inquiries and ndings are limited to
uses of language that are not exempt. Poetry would be beyond such philosophizing.
But once we recognize that poetry is not in fact exempt, we can lift this restriction.
A speech act approach can now embrace poetry within its range of inquiries. This
confers major advantages on both: it opens philosophy to fresh new evidence of the
workings of language while simultaneously opening poetry to the resources of
philosophy, enabling criticism to discern newly appreciable features of poems. In
short, when we lift the restriction and realign poetry with philosophy, a new
possibility arises: of attuning them to each other.
So the upshot is positive. Austin thought that if philosophical debate about
language were made to turn on action rather than truth, it would bring about a
revolution in philosophy, the greatest and most salutary in its history.17 It
may yet be possible to achieve something of like interest in the study of poetry.
Making a start at this is the plan for Part II, which moves from short analyses of a
wide range of examples, through closer readings of individual poems, to a long
investigation of a single sequence: Shakespeares Sonnets.
should be seen as a key Austinian point, is explored in different but combinable ways by Shoshana
Felman in The Scandal of the Speaking Body (2000) and by Nancy Bauer in How To Do Things With
Pornography (2015, esp. chapter 6). As Bauer phrases it: what [Austin] is doing in How To Do Things
With Words . . . is proposing that the way we talk is in large part a function of our capacity for taking
responsibility for what we do (2015, p. 95).
17 Austin p. 3.
PART II
D O I N G TH I N G S WI T H
ATTUNEMENT
8
Chaucer-Type
I
O moral Gower, this book I direct
To thee and to thee, philosophical Strode,
To vouchen sauf, their need is, to correct,
Of your benignities and zeals good.
And to that sothfast Christ, that starf on rode,
With all mine heart of mercy ever I pray,
And to the Lord right thus I speak and say:
Thou one, and two, and three, eterne on lyve,
That reignest ay in three, and two, and one,
Uncircumscript, and all mayst circumscrive,
Us from visible and invisible foon
Defend, and to thy mercy, everichon,
So make us, Jesus, for thy mercy, digne,
For love of maid and mother thine benign.
Amen.1
(I direct: I dedicate. To vouchen sauf, their need is, to correct: to ensure you
agree, where necessary, to correct it. Sothfast Christ, that starf on rode: resolute
Christ, who died on the cross. Eterne on lyve: eternally living. Digne: worthy.)
I direct . . . , I pray . . . , I speak . . . , (I) say . . . . These verbal phrases are
particularly salient in Chaucers envoi to Troilus and Criseyde and they have a
particularly salient characteristic: in uttering them, speakers perform the very acts
they name. Here, the speaker directs (i.e. dedicates) his book, he prays, he speaks,
he says. In consequence, these phrases have a peculiarly energetic and immediate
quality. They also have a self-referential character, in two different senses. Speakers
1 Troilus and Criseyde V.185670 in The Riverside Chaucer (2008, p. 585). For useful commentary
on this passage (among the most popular of Chaucers texts in the fteenth century), relating poetic
with diplomatic uses of the envoi-form and showing how both draw on the notions of sending and
commissioning in ways that unsettle the terms of the performance, see Ardis Buttereld, The Familiar
Enemy: Chaucer, Language and Nation in the Hundred Years War (2009, pp. 187200; p. 187; p. 193).
The passage is evidently related to the envoi of the Parsons Tale (Go, litel bok, go, litel myn
tragedye . . . ) but for present purposes it is the contrast that is noteworthy: phrases of the Chaucer-
type are absent there.
120 Doing Things with Attunement
refer to themselves in uttering each such phrase. Moreover, what they say refers to
itself, naming the very act that uttering it performs.
Verbal phrases with this character occur elsewhere in Troilus and Criseyde. But it
is here that Chaucer uses the form to greatest effect, setting aside the various
narrating personae who have sustained the tale to that point. And it is the play
between the two salient features of these phrasesthe energetic immediacy and the
self-referencethat provides the poetry with its force. Chaucer uses the one to start
up the disparate undertakings of the rst stanza, with its urry of directions and
salutations and requests and appeals, and the other to gather them in, pinning them
back to the self and the utterance at each point of dispersal, thus setting up a
rhythm that trains the movement for the concentration of the second stanza, with
its ever-narrowing focus and ever-deepening quiet, converging by degrees on a
single point. Here, these verbal phrases are absent, and the abrupt withdrawal of
their peculiar forcefulness creates an impression of all things running down, until
the form is gently evoked at the very end, resuscitating the dead word Amen from
its merely formulaic use so that it has again, for a moment, the sense and force of
the absent rst-person, act-performing, self-referring verbal phrase it once was: I
hereby commit myself to what I pray.
The form is austere: a minimal grammatical and syntactic unit formed by the
concatenation of a subject term with a verb, the latter in agreement with the former.
The subject term is always the rst-person pronoun, a singular referring expression
uniquely directed on each occasion of use so that it refers to at least and at most one
person or not at all, where the referent is determined in the simplest way, as the
person who uses-produces it on the occasion of use or the person made salient in
the context of that use.2 The verbs differ with each occurrence of the syntactic
unitdirect, pray, speak, saybut they are equally austere in form: present
(simple or progressive) in tense, indicative in mood, active in voice. And they are
used in a way that is equally clear in meaning. Directing (dedicating), praying,
speaking; these are verbs of doing, and what they name here are the things one does
in saying them.
[R]ight thus I speak and say. The effort to speak plainly, decisively, is itself
plain: a simple construction, to forestall fanciful interpretation, unnecessary com-
plexities of thought; simple verbs, to avoid vagueness and uncertainty, multiple
senses, contradictory associations. The sentential clauses create a sense of steady
directedness in these lines, as resolute of focus as the subject term they employ.
Sothfast is Chaucers word for this quality, manifest in the lines that name it. It
may be that ambiguity is a fundamental condition of poetry, if the term is taken in a
sufciently broad sense to mean a word or grammatical structure that is effective in
several ways at once.3 And it may be that no use of language can entirely close down
2 The rst option is the standard view among philosophers of language. David Kaplan is largely
responsible for making it the current orthodoxy; see Demonstratives and Afterword (1989,
pp. 481614). I recommend the second option; see my I: The Meaning of the First Person Term (2006).
3 This is William Empsons denition of ambiguity, in its fundamental situation; Seven Types of
Ambiguity (1963, pp. 201). He has already given note: I propose to use the word in an extended
sense (p. 19). Indeed I . . . shall think relevant to my subject any verbal nuance, however slight, which
Chaucer-Type 121
all ways of being effective except one. But that is what these lines seem minded to
achieve: an effectiveness that is decisive because effective in one way only.
Some uses of language in poetry issue a particularly clear call for an approach that
turns on action. The envoi of Chaucers Troilus and Criseyde is one example. We
have looked at the Chaucer-type utterance in Part I, but to focus fairly exclusively
on a specically philosophical issue. There is much more to be said when we attune
philosophy and poetry to each other, treating poetry as poetry while simultaneously
deploying the resources of analytic philosophy.
A brief overview of what is to come may be helpful. Analytic philosophers have
given considerable attention to understanding the peculiarities of Chaucer-type
utterances as they occur outside poetry. So the rst task (Chapters 8 and 9) is to
show how we can improve our critical receptivity to poems by employing some of
the distinctions and discriminations achieved by philosophy. This enables us to
develop a closer critical appreciation of the variety of uses poets have found for
utterances of this type. Many of these uses exemplify features that philosophy
identies as at the core of the type, but some diverge in new and exploratory ways,
putting pressure on our sense of what the core is, our ability to identify it. So the
second task (Chapter 10) is to show how closer appreciation of poetry in turn
enables us to deepen our inquiry into features of philosophical signicance, with
further benets for critical receptivity. The underlying aim is to demonstrate that
this circling around philosophy and critical receptivity is really a spirallinga
circling with progresssince we can use each to enhance the other. So the third
task (Chapter 11) is to start deploying this attunement of philosophy and poetry, to
show how each may enhance the other in longer and more intense appraisals
of poems. We will make a start with longer passages (Prynne, Yeats) and then
whole poems (Hopkins, Hill) before heading into Shakespeares Sonnets (Chapters
12 to 17).
II
It is pardonable to go on calling our phrase Chaucer-type since the examples we
shall study are of verse in English, of which the noble philosophical poete in
Englissh has been called the stremes hede.4 But of course verbal phrases with this
character occur frequently in verse in other languages also. The phrase-type is used
often in Classical verse, for example, and to considerable effect in Pindars
gives room for alternative reactions to the same piece of language (p. 19). Note how I shall think
relevant allows Empson to extend even beyond his extension, a licence he will make use of. He goes on
immediately to say, Clearly this is involved in all such richness and heightening of effect, and the
machinations of ambiguity are among the very roots of poetry (p. 21). It is important to take this last
phrase with those already quoted.
4 The gure of Love calls Chaucer noble philosophical poete in Thomas Usks The Testament of
Love, expressly for his treatise on Troilus (1897, p. 123). For the reference to stremes hede, see The
Riverside Chaucer (2008).
Olympian Odes.5 Virgil launches his Aeneid with a well-known example (Arma
virumque cano), which Dryden preserves in his translation:
Arms, and the man I sing, who, forcd by Fate,
And haughty Junos unrelenting Hate;
Expelld and exild, left the Trojan Shoar6
Many instances of the form are of this sort, where poets draw from a particular set
of verbs, one that includes I sing (say; speak), I plead, I dedicate, I thank, I
welcome, I bid farewell. This is not surprising. These are verbs of doing which
name actions that are straightforwardly performed in the act of uttering. They
belong to the set of verbs most obviously tted to the Chaucer-type.
But the Chaucer-type in its austere form has wider and more complex uses also:
when the verb has a broader literal sense, or when it is used metaphorically. This
extends what may be done in the uttering beyond what it is immediately evident
that a mere uttering can accomplish. And these uses provide new materials for
familiar problems in the philosophical study of language.
In such study, one is particularly conscious of the salient aspects of the Chaucer-
type: the energetic immediacy and the self-reference. Some forms of poetry are
primarily forms of witness to action. Some forms of poetry are forms of action,
though appreciating the precise ways in which this is so requires work. The
Chaucer-type seems different from either: it is not primarily a mere witness to
action, and it requires no work at all to appreciate that it is a form of action. That
this is so is immediate, transparent, straightforward; such utterances wear their
action-nature on their face.
To be conscious of this transparency is not yet to understand it. The Chaucer-
type marks a peculiarly powerful form of language-use, one in which acts are
performed simply in uttering words. So there are considerable energies for poets
to harness. But what gives such utterances this energy is not as obvious as we
might think.
We might assume that the power of such utterances lies in what is peculiar about
them: the form of Chaucer-type phrasing. But not all utterances in the rst-person
present tense indicative active even name acts. I am John Smith and I dislike sh
do not. And of those that do, not all perform the acts they name. I shop three times
a week and I boil rice in a saucepan do not. Indeed, not all such utterances
perform acts, even when the act they name is of a sort that could be performed
simply in uttering words. I rarely warn people about smoking and I bet too much
too often do not. Worse, utterances that are of the Chaucer-type may share an
identical form with utterances that are not. If I utter the words I promise you my
weeks salary, I might thereby make a promise, or at least make an attempt at
5 Zeus, you I invoke; I praise [Psaumis] as a diligent rearer of horses; I pray you welcome this
victory revel; I promise it will be no inhospitable folk that you will meet; I come singing of
Asopichus. The 4th, 8th, 11th, and 14th odes respectively. Pindar: The Complete Odes (2007,
pp. 13, 24, 34, 40).
6 The Oxford Book of English Verse (Ricks 1999, p. 208).
Chaucer-Type 123
performing the act so named. But I can also utter those same words and not even
make that attempt. If I say I promise you my weeks salary. And then what do I do?
I bet it all at the races, I am simply reporting on some action of mine (perhaps one-
off, perhaps habitual), not performing that act.
So what exactly is the Chaucer-type? How does it differ from formally similar or
even identical uses of language? What explains its peculiar powers? One way to set
about answering these philosophers questions is to gain a closer appreciation of what
the Chaucer-type does, what functions it has, what it is used to do. This would be a
stale and perhaps unprotable task if we were forced to live off the philosophers usual
diet of etiolated, context-deprived examples (like those deployed in the previous
paragraph). Far better to do so while drawing on examples of the type in English lyric
poetry. The variety reveals differences which provide the means to distinguish and
the opportunity to discriminate. So that is how we shall continue to proceed.
Chaucers successors have developed the Chaucer-type form, nding ever new
purposes for it to satisfy, tricks for it to turn. The process begins early with what is
plausibly a deliberate echo of Chaucer: the ending of Robert Henrysons own
Troilus tale, The Testament of Cresseid:
Now, worthie wemen, in this ballet schort,
Maid for your worschip and instructioun,
Of cheritie, I monische and exhort,
Ming not your lufe with fals deceptioun.7
(Ballet: narration. Ming: pollute.)
What is of particular literary critical interest is the point and purpose of the Chaucer-
type in its austere form. It often occurs in places where one might expect the grand
gesture: opening or closing lines, for example. The passages from Chaucer, Virgil, and
Henryson are examples. But it is sometimes more in the midst of things that such
expansiveness is called for. So Chaucer also uses it when The Canterbury Tales is well
under wayfor example, to introduce us to the Wife of Bath, busy in her own cause,
and recalling the meeting of Jesus with the woman of Samaria:
What that he mente therby, I kan nat seyn;
But that I axe, why that the fthe man
Was noon housbonde to the Samaritan?8
This largeness of gesture need not be public. The Chaucer-type can be used to
articulate the gestures of a private conversation, or of what may actually be an entirely
inner argument. Robert Southwell regularly uses the type, and often for this purpose:
Left orphan-like in helpless state I rue,
With only sighs and tears I plead my case,
My dying plaints I daily do renew,
And ll with heavy noise a desert place.9
7 The Testament of Cresseid & Seven Fables, tr. Seamus Heaney (2009, p. 46).
8 The Wife of Baths Prologue, 202 in The Riverside Chaucer p. 105.
9 I die without desert, Southwell pp. 489; p. 48.
The Chaucer-type enables him to form an inner commentary on the moves he is

making in the making of them:
Yet still I tread a maze of doubtful end
...
She is a friend to love, a foe to loth,
And in suspense I hang between them both.10
This inner commentary is one role among many that Shakespeare gives the
Chaucer-type in his Sonnets.11 The type plays a dominant role in almost half
the Sonnets, even if we simply count clear and semi-clear instances. If we consider
the contrastive instances against which the type plays, where the same verbal form is
used but whatever act is performed is not named, and if we further take into
account the network of connections between the various Sonnets in which all these
uses work, it may be said to play a cardinal role in all of them.12
Grant (I grant . . . ) is one of the verbs that Shakespeare favours in deploying
the Chaucer-type; instances occur in Sonnet 79:
I grant (sweet love) thy lovely argument
Deserves the travail of a worthier pen,13
and in Sonnet 82:
I grant thou wert not married to my Muse,
And therefore mayst without attaint oer-look
The dedicated words which writers use
Of their fair subject, blessing every book.14
and again in Sonnet 130:
I grant I never saw a goddess go:
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.15
There is often a Chaucerian simplicity about the phrasing. The act performed in
the uttering is named straight out and the act so named is itself reasonably simple,
requiring no special ritualized or institutional setting. Almost all clear uses of the
type in the Sonnets, and very many of the semi-clear, follow this same pattern. Five
examples sufce to illustrate this. Sonnet 14:
Or else of thee this I prognosticate,
Thy end is truths and beautys doom and date.
10 Josephs Amazement, Southwell pp. 213; p. 23.

11 He often uses the type in his plays also (see comments in the Introduction), but we must set these
aside, as requiring their own full treatment.
12 The nal six chapters of Part II attempt to give substance to this claim.
13 Sonnet 79, Shakespeare p. 539. 14 Sonnet 82, Shakespeare p. 545.
15 Sonnet 130, Shakespeare p. 641.
Chaucer-Type 125
Sonnet 40:
I do forgive thy robbry, gentle thief,
Although thou steal thee all my poverty;
Sonnet 111:
Pity me then, dear friend, and, I assure ye,
Even that your pity is enough to cure me.
Sonnet 123:
This I do vow and this shall ever be:
I will be true despite thy scythe and thee.
Sonnet 124:
To this I witness call the fools of Time,
Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime.
But complexity comes in different forms. Other occasions in the Sonnets are
certainly elaborate and imply a more reective interest in the form itself and its
possibilities. For example, Shakespeare sometimes elongates the Chaucer-type
phrasing, thereby giving a different emphasis to the act that the utterance names
and performs, as in Sonnet 25:
Let those who are in favour with their stars
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,
Unlooked for joy in that I honour most.16
Joy is the unlooked-for verb, separated from its subject term and comprehending
all that falls within that space, made that much more joyous by the delay and by its
appearance in the unexpected form of a verb of action, expressing what the speaker
does. There is an intimate relation here with Sonnet 45, which incorporates the
same verb into the same rst-personal construction and leaves both to the nal
couplet:
This told, I joy; but then, no longer glad,
I send them back again and straight grow sad.17
III
The two most signicant philosophical analyses of the non-poetry equivalent to
Chaucer-type utterances are those by J. L. Austin in How To Do Things With Words
and by John Searle in How performatives work (1989).18
Austin used the non-poetry equivalent to launch his analyses of speech acts.
He does not give any name to this particular form. What we are calling the
16 Sonnet 25, Shakespeare p. 431. 17 Sonnet 45, Shakespeare p. 471.

18 Reprinted in Basic Topics in the Philosophy of Language (Harnish 1994, pp. 7495).
Chaucer-type would count as a sub-group of the class that he calls Explicit

Performatives, that section of the overall class which essentially deploys the rst
person in the present-tense indicative active.19 Other members of the overall class
include phrases whose verbs are in the second person (You hereby stand accused of
stealing) and third person (The management hereby apologizes for the late
running of this train), in the plural (The workers hereby formally reject your
offer), and in the passive voice (You are hereby red; This child is hereby named
John; Shoplifters are hereby warned: you will be prosecuted).
Somewhat confusingly, Austins favourite examples of explicit performatives are
Chaucer-types but a sub-class of that sub-class, where the performative verb names
a ritual-ceremonial act, requiring special institutional contexts (e.g. marrying a
woman, naming a ship, bequeathing a possession). Not all Chaucer-types require
a special context; very few of those we have observed so far do.
The term performative has itself been the cause of much confusion, and of
precisely the sort it was designed to prevent, or at least circumvent. It was meant in
a simple and general sense to indicate . . . that the issuing of the utterance is the
performing of an action.20 But it is often used for particular types of action, those
that present as performed in a specialized, usually theatrical sense of that word.21
This usage is dominant in literary criticism, where the restriction is usually tacit and
assumed. One may dene and deploy terms as one wishes, of course, but it would
be unfortunate if this usage were to restrict critical attention to these particular
types of action alone.22
It is not difcult to see why Austin should have chosen the Chaucer-type to
launch his analyses of speech acts. (He himself admits to slyness in doing so.23) In
committing himself to that investigation, he had in mind two broad movements of
criticism, and the Chaucer-type makes his points particularly clearly. First, he
thought philosophy of language over-attentive to the meanings of words and
sentences in circumstances that conceal or ignore their use in doing things. And
because the one really salient feature of the Chaucer-type is the fact that uttering
instances performs actions, indeed the very actions named by their main verbs, this
form is a standing rebuke to that way of doing philosophy of language. Second, he
thought philosophy of action and ethics over-attentive to acts which are simply in
the last resort physical movements (e.g. simple bodily movements like raising ones
arm) in ways that conceal or ignore acts which are not of this sort, though they may
be performed simply enough in uttering words.24 And because the actions named
by the main verb in uttering instances of the Chaucer-type (e.g. dedicating a poem
in saying I direct . . . ) are not simply in the last resort physical movements, this
form is a standing reproof to that way of doing philosophy of action.
19 Austin p. 61. 20 Austin pp. 67. 21 See the Introduction, section VI.
22 This is not to deny that useful results can be obtained by interpreting performative in the
restricted sense that isolates and privileges the theatrical or histrionic. David Schalkwyk, for example,
uses the opportunity to identify interesting relations between Shakespeares Sonnets and his plays in his
Speech and Performance in Shakespeares Sonnets and Plays (2002). But my aim is to see what use we can
make with Austins unrestricted sense.
23 Austin p. 56. 24 Austin pp. 1920.
Chaucer-Type 127
Austins analysis of the Chaucer-type launched not only his own broader
investigation of speech acts but also those of the various analysts who have followed.
P. F. Strawson speaks of Austins discovery of the explicit performative formula.25
But re-discovery would be more accurate, since scholastic philosophers and
grammarians had previously identied precisely this formI baptize you; I
absolve youand analysed it with great subtlety.26 Austins analysis remains the
most inuential, despite the fact that few would now wholeheartedly support it.
This is partly because it is still the one proposal with which all others start out, as a
contrast to their own claims, and partly because opposition to it is often the one
factor that unites these otherwise widely diverging theories. But there is more going
for his proposal than is usually recognized, which has often been misrepresented
and which anticipates many subsequent observations and arguments.
Such misrepresentation usually results from ignoring one or other of two
signicant features of the analysis. First, Austin makes explicit in his rst sentence
that his proposals are meant to be neither difcult nor contentious.27 Not that we
need agree with him that they are neither difcult nor contentious. But we should
notwithout excellent reasonascribe him positions that he would evidently have
regarded as difcult or contentious. Second, Austin described his proposal as a
preliminary isolation of the performative and remarks of the passages in which he
discusses the type: Everything said in these sections is provisional, and subject to
revision in the light of later sections.28 We have to remind ourselves of this context,
as we were evidently meant to do, when interpreting passages in which Austin
might otherwise be taken as offering a denitive statement of his position.
Searles analysis, appearing thirty years later, benetted from the variety
of intense debates about the Chaucer-type in the intervening years to which
he and others had made particularly signicant contributions: foremost
participants include P. F. Strawson,29 E. J. Lemmon,30 John Searle,31 David
Wiggins,32 Geoffrey Warnock,33 L. Jonathan Cohen,34 David Lewis,35 Stephen
25 Strawson, Austin and locutionary meaning (1973, pp. 4668; p. 52, my emphasis).
26 See Irne Rosier-Catach, La Parole Comme Acte (1994) and La Parole Efcace: Signe, rituel, sacr
(2004).
27 Austin p. 1. 28 Austin p. 4; p. 4, fn. 2.
29 Strawson, Intention and convention in speech acts (1971a, pp. 14969) and Austin and
locutionary meaning (1973, pp. 4668).

30 Lemmon, On sentences veriable by their use (1962, pp. 869).
31 Searles How performatives work (1989) works within the general programme set by (i) Searle,
Speech Acts (1969), which treats a Chaucer-type utterance like I order you to leave as a combination of
performative prex (indicating the illocutionary force of the utterance) and propositional content; and
(ii) Searle and Vanderveken, Foundations of Illocutionary Logic (1985), which argues that Chaucer-type
utterances are declarations. As Searle acknowledges, it is not until How performatives work that he
accounts for how such utterances actually operate (showing that they are declaratives does not answer
the transposed question, i.e. how declaratives work). He also explains, in the process, how the same
syntactical sequence can, in different cases, occur as either force indicator or as propositional content
(for example, I promise in I promise you 5 and I promise too much).
32 Wiggins, On sentence-sense, word-sense and difference of word-sense (1971).
33 Warnock, Some types of performative utterance (1973, pp. 6989).
34 Cohen, Do illocutionary forces exist? (1969, pp. 42044).
35 Lewis, General semantics (1983a, pp. 189232) and Scorekeeping in a language game (1983b,
pp. 23349).
Schiffer,36 Kent Bach and Robert Harnish,37 Donald Davidson,38 Jane Heal,39
Colin McGinn,40 Carl Ginet,41 James D. McCawley,42 and Jennifer Hornsby.43
If discussion of the type has never achieved this intensity again, that is partly
because Searles paper is widely perceived as having settled the main issues.44 Not
that Searles own nal proposals about the nature of the type can claim universal
endorsement. William P. Alston, in particular, has maintained a formidable and
adversarial position, in papers published prior to Searles and in the subsequent full
statement of his own analysis (part of his overall proposal to identify the notion of a
sentences being meaningful with the notion of its having a certain illocutionary act
potential).45 But Searles means of dening and organizing the issues, his way of
presenting the options, has dominated discussion ever since.46 Those who support
a conicting analysis almost invariably do so for reasons that depend on the
structures his proposals put in place.
So much for the main players. Once we have considered more samples of the
Chaucer-type, we will be in a better position to start examining their proposed
analyses of it. One form of complexity that poets employ to explore the possibilities
of the Chaucer-type makes use of the sense of the verb. Often that sense is quite
literal and there is no difculty in appreciating the uttering as performing the act it
names (e.g. I direct / dedicate; I ask; I grant). But the verb can also be extended
beyond its strict and literal sense, or used metaphorically, so as to expand what may
be done in the uttering beyond what is immediately evident that a mere uttering
can accomplish.
Thus Sir Philip Sidney, who often deploys the Chaucer-type, sometimes uses
verbs in whose strict and literal sense the uttering performs the act named:
36 Schiffer, Meaning (1972).

37 Bach and Harnish, Linguistic Communication and Speech Acts (1979).
38 Davidson, On saying that (1984a, pp. 93108) and Moods and performances in the same
volume (1984b, pp. 10921).

39 Heal, Explicit performative utterances and statements (1974, pp. 10621).
40 McGinn, Semantics for nonindicative sentences (1977, pp. 30111).
41 Ginet, Performativity (1979, pp. 24565).
42 McCawley, Remarks on the lexicography of performative verbs (1979, pp. 16173).
43 Hornsby, A note on non-indicatives (1986, pp. 929); Things done with words (1988,
pp. 2746); Speech acts and performatives (2006, pp. 893912).

44 Particularly signicant subsequent contributions include Daniel Vanderveken, Meaning and
Speech Acts vols III (19901); Charles Travis, On being truth-valued (1994, pp. 16786); Huw
Price, Semantic minimalism and the Frege point (1994, pp. 13255); William P. Alston, Illocutionary
Acts and Sentence Meaning (2000); Kirk Ludwig and Daniel Boisvert, Semantics for nondeclaratives
(2006, pp. 86492); Ruth Garrett Millikan, Language: A Biological Model (2006, pp. 13964).
45 Alston, Illocutionary Acts and Sentence Meaning (2000). The proposal turns on Alstons denition
of a speakers performing an illocutionary act as their assuming responsibility for certain states of affairs
relating to the proposition they express, where this in turn means conferring on members of his
linguistic community the right to subject him to various sorts of criticism in the event that that state of
affairs does not obtain.
46 As recognized and promoted by the collection by Daniel Vanderveken and S. Kubo, Essays in
Speech Act Theory (2001).

Chaucer-Type 129
O absent presence Stella is not here;

False attering hope, that with so fair a face
Bare me in hand, that in this orphan place,
Stella, I say my Stella, should appear.47
But his use of the type colludes with the metaphorical and sometimes he combines
the two in the main verb:
Cease eager Muse, peace pen, for my sake stay,
I give you here my hand for truth of this,
Wise silence is best music unto bliss.48
I give you here my hand is ambiguous, naming both what may be done literally in
the uttering (where uttering comprehends written utterance and hand stands for
what is written), and what may only be done metaphorically in the uttering (giving
ones hand to be held).
Poets often use this collusion with metaphor to allow the Chaucer-type to enact
an inner drama. This is Milton depicting Satans self-reection as absorption
absolute, and insulated from action without:
Under what torments inwardly I groan:
While they adore me on the throne of hell,49
Often, use of the austere form to establish inward reectiveness is dramatic
preparation for an emphatic, momentous act, where the same form comes again
to hand. Thus this same speech, in which Satan groans inwardly in uttering
inwardly I groan, ends:
Evil be thou my good; by thee at least
Divided empire with heavens king I hold
By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign;
As man ere long, and this new world shall know.50
The syntax, with its repeated By thee, makes I hold double-faced: both I hold
empire, divided with the king of heaven and Evil, I hold by thee. That second face
has in turn two senses: It is by evil that I have and retain empire and Evil, I assign
myself to you. And this last is a resplendent example of the Chaucer-type, in whose
uttering Satan repeats his earlier act of committal.
To ground his analysis of utterances of this type, Austin makes claims that can be
distinguished into three groups.
First, and in positive mode, he offered two dening features of the type:
(a) They have humdrum verbs in the rst person singular present indicative
active.
47 Sidney, Astrophil and Stella, 106; Sidney: The Major Works (2002, p. 210).
48 Sidney, Astrophil and Stella, 70; Sidney: The Major Works (2002, p. 181).
49 Milton, Paradise Lost IV.88 (2004, p. 87).
50 Milton, Paradise Lost IV.11012 (2004, p. 87).
(b) They are such that the uttering of the sentence is, or is a part of, the doing of
an action, which again would not normally be described as, or as just,
saying something.
When Shakespeares speaker says I grant (sweet love) thy lovely argument . . . , for
example, he concedes something.
Second, and now in negative mode, Austin offered three further dening features
of the type:
(c) They can fall into no hitherto recognised grammatical category save that of
statement.
(d) They are not nonsense.
(e) They are not pseudo-statements.
When Chaucer says, O moral Gower, this book I direct | To thee, for example, he is
evidently not using the grammatical form for asking a question or issuing an order
or making a request, and if we search further through the catalogue of forms, it
seems closest to a statement.
Finally, and in an attempt to explain and account for the preceding claims,
Austin made two negative assertions, apparently (and controversially) identifying
them as two aspects of the same claim:
(f) Such utterances are not true or false.
(g) Though such utterances appear to be statements, that is really just masquerade.
They do not describe or report or constate anything at all. They do not have
the logical form of statements, despite their supercial, grammatical appearance.
Austin put the point facetiously: when I utter the (Chaucer-type) formula in the
marriage-service, I am not reporting on a marriage: I am indulging in it.51
It is these two nal assertions, (f)(g), which have drawn the lions share of
critical attention, and they are the ones with which Austins position is most readily
identied. Indeed, they reect a striking fact about the history of debate about the
Chaucer-type.
For a considerable period after their initial presentation by Austin, these claims
were generally regarded as quite obviously true, and they constituted an orthodoxy
around which succeeding analysts developed their views on related matters.52 But
51 Austin p. 6; pp. 111. Austin irts with what would be an additional proposal, were he to go
further than what we should feel tempted to say: namely, that any utterance which is in fact
performative should be reducible, or expandible, or analysable into a form, or reproducible in a
form, with a verb in the rst person singular present indicative active (grammatical), i.e. the form of
the Chaucer-type utterance (Austin pp. 612). This would give the strongest possible (stronger than
necessary) justication for the priority of attention given to utterances of that type. Difculties for the
proposal (explaining why Austin was tentative, perhaps) arise in cases where (i) there would be no
obvious candidate referent for the rst-person term and (ii) there would be too many candidates.
52 Geoffrey Warnocks Some types of performative utterance (1973, pp. 6989; see pp. 801, fn. 2)
offers interesting evidence: though condent that Austin is wrong, the paper testies to his hesitancy
about saying so, given what he took to be a strongly Austinian consensus, until about 1970.
Chaucer-Type 131
after growing doubts and the publication of various counter-proposals in the years
around 1970, that orthodoxy reversed itself, and analysts have since developed their
views around the general assumption that Chaucer-type utterances quite obviously
are statements, of one sort or another (that they are evaluable as true or false is not
taken as so obviously the case).
There are exceptions to this rule. William Alston picks up a point Austin himself
noted.53 There is (in English) a precisely tailored alternative form if speakers
intend, in uttering something, simultaneously to perform an act and to state that
this act is being performed: the continuous or progressive present, e.g. I am
commanding you to go.54 To push the point to Austins conclusion, we would
need to call on implicature: that the speaker would not intend this statement if he
did not use this form.
Jennifer Hornsby is another exception. She notes of Chaucer-type utterances that
they appear to be cut out for a use that is incompatible with making a statement. For:
If someone states that p, then usually it is possible to think of her as coming out with
her words because she already believes, or takes herself to know, that p; by contrast,
someone who says that she promises to return the book usually intends to make it the
case that, by speaking, she will come to have promised this.55
Nevertheless, she regards it as a signicant fact about such utterances that they
should be truth-evaluable (the utterances success consists precisely in its truth).
Searles analysis of the Chaucer-type is a paradigm of the new orthodoxy, though
he tries harder than most to account for the features that led Austin to think
otherwise. In his view,
(h) A Chaucer-type utterance does indeed make a statement
which Searle denes as an intentionally undertaken commitment to the truth of
the expressed propositional content.56 But
(i) The primary purpose of such an utterance is nevertheless to perform the act
named by the main verb.
Primary indicates what distinguishes Searles view from those held by many of
those rejecting Austins analysis. It implies that
(j) The statement is derivative from the act named by the main verb, rather than
vice versa.
So if Sidneys speaker produces a Chaucer-type utterance in saying I give you here
my hand for truth of this, for example, the primary purpose is to give this assurance.
It is only in a secondary, derived sense that the speaker also makes a statement. Again,
we shall hear Blakes speaker say I cry, Love! Love! Love! But it is only in a secondary
sense that he states what he is doing. His primary endeavour is to do it, to cry.
53 Austin p. 47. 54 Alston, Illocutionary Acts and Sentence Meaning (2000, p. 125).
55 Hornsby, Speech acts and performatives (2006, p. 904).
56 Searle, How performatives work (1989, p. 82). He thinks we must accept (h) if we are to take
seriously the fact that a performative sentence is grammatically an ordinary sentence in the indicative
mood (1989, p. 80).
This takes much of the sting out of Austins rejoinder, of course (that when
I utter the words of the marriage-service, I am not reporting on a marriage: I am
indulging in it). For Searle can say that one is indeed performing the act (indul-
ging in marriage), but that it is nevertheless also the case that one is stating what
one is doing. The point is that doing the latter takes nothing from the former,
which remains the leading feature.
On Searles view, Chaucer-type utterances are all cases of declarations, speech
acts whose point is to create new facts, to make what is the case match what is
said.57 Where these new facts are themselves speech actse.g. ordering, promising,
statingthey are linguistic. Otherwisee.g. adjourning meetings, pronouncing
marriages, declaring wars, ring workersthey are extra-linguistic.
So Searles leading idea can be expressed in this way: the declarative-performative
aspect of such utterances is primary; their assertive-constative aspect is derived. As
evidence of this priority, Searle cites the fact that the self-guaranteeing feature of
Chaucer-type utterances can be explained by their declarative-formative aspect, and
not by their assertive-constative aspect.
This gives us rival sets of claims with which to review further instances of the
Chaucer-type, further examples of the uses to which it has been put in English
verse. The Chaucer-type is sometimes used as an expostulation in the midst of an
inquiry, a train of thought, or an argument. It has this function in Blakes Visions of
the Daughters of Albion:
I cry, Love! Love! Love! Happy happy Love! Free as the mountain wind!
Can that be Love, that drinks another as a sponge drinks water?58
The type need be neither momentous nor particularly grave, but it is hard to shake
these associations from the use. Hence the form has a function in comedy: when it
is intended that substance and gesture mismatch. The grandiloquent drunk is a
turn with which Byron makes play:
I write this reeling
Having got drunk exceedingly to day
So that I seem to stand upon the ceiling)
I saythe future is a serious matter
And sofor GodsakeHock and Soda water.59
The form, and the verb which conveys it, can be cast against this type: to effect a
gentle self-questioning. Robert Louis Stevenson gives it this role:
My house, I say. But hark to the sunny doves
That make my roof the arena of their loves,60
57 Searle, How performatives work (1989, p. 86).

58 Plate 10, line 16. The Oxford Book of English Verse (Ricks 1999, p. 326).
59 Byron, Don Juan (unincorporated stanza), The Oxford Book of English Verse (Ricks 1999, p. 381).
60 Stevenson, My house, I say, Oxford Book of English Verse (Ricks 1999, p. 513).
Chaucer-Type 133
Declaration and appropriation are the subjects here, actions to which the Chaucer-
type is itself appropriate. But Stephensons purpose is to question what is proper to
property, which puts the form itself, its propriety, in question. For he contrasts the
speakers attitude with that of the doves in a way that mimics the form and gently
ridicules its use:
Our house, they say; and mine, the cat declares
And spreads his golden eece upon the chairs;
A particularly quiet, forceful example of the Chaucer-type occurs in Gerard Manley
Hopkins I wake and feel, a poem that breaks off to reect consciously, conscien-
tiously, on its own use of I speak, I say, and I mean, what such uses may or
might commit one to:
With witness I speak this. But where I say
Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament
Is cries countless,61
We might take it that, in most circumstances, to utter I speak this or I say such-
and-such is to perform exactly the act so named. But where the act named as
speaking this or saying such-and-such is taken as not simply the act of uttering
certain words but of meaning what is meant, and what is meant by the speaker
differs from what the words themselves strictly and literally mean, gaps are allowed
to open between what is meant in one sense and what is meant in another, and
between what is uttered and what is performed. Which are we to take as what is
uttered when the two part company: what the speaker means or what his words
strictly and literally mean? And what if only one of these matches that which is
performed? These complications threaten the Chaucer-type quite as much as they
enrich it, hence the disquiet that results in and from Hopkins scrupulous self-
corrections. Hence also our interest in understanding what is under threat, the form
itself, what a Chaucer utterance is exactly.
61 Hopkins, Hopkins: The Major Works (2002, p. 166).

9
Elaborating the Type
I
There is a spectrum of views about Chaucer-type utterances. All accept that an
utterance of the Chaucer-type, when successful, performs the act named by the
main verb. At one end of the spectrum are those (like Austin) who insist that such
an utterance is not a statement at all and that it is not truth-evaluable. At the other
are those who insist not only that the utterance is a statement and truth-evaluable,
but that these features identify what is primary about the utterance. Geoffrey
Warnock, David Lewis, and Jane Heal offer variants of this position.1 Towards
the middle of the spectrum are those who claim with Searle that, although a
Chaucer-type utterance is also a statement, what is primary to that utterance is
that it is a performing of the act named by the main verb.
We can put this in a different way to help bring out the differences. Those
situated at the opposite end of the spectrum from Austin claim that it is in stating
that such-and-such is the case that a Chaucer-type utterance performs a certain act.
Those situated towards the middle claim that it is in performing a certain act that a
Chaucer-type utterance states that such-and-such is the case.
We can then ll in the spectrum, moving back from the end opposed to Austin
(almost all analysts are to be found between that end and Searles middle position).
Close to the end opposed to Austin are those who claim that Chaucer-type
utterances are a type of indirect speech act: the speaker produces a statement, and it
is up to the hearer to infer from this the intent to perform some other speech act.
Bach and Harnish offer an analysis of this sort.2 They claim that in saying, I order
you to leave, the speaker states that he is ordering the addressee to leave, and it is up
to that addressee (and whoever else makes up the audience) to infer that the speaker
is ordering the addressee to leave.
Donald Davidsons view is a little closer to Austins. On his view Chaucer-type
utterances are semantically equivalent to two utterances, both of them statements.
But he denies that the combined utterance is the utterance of a conjunction, and so
denies that it has a truth-value.3 This is to reject Austins (g) but to accept his (h).
1 Geoffrey Warnock, Some types of performative utterance (1969, pp. 6989); David Lewis,
General semantics (1983a, pp. 189232); Scorekeeping in a language game (1983b, pp. 23349);
Jane Heal, Explicit performative utterances and statements (1974, pp. 10621).
2 Bach and Harnish, Linguistic Communication and Speech Acts (1979).
3 Davidson, On saying that (1984a, pp. 93108); Moods and performances (1984b,
pp. 10921).
Hornsby adopts the reverse option: she insists that to state that p is already to
believe that p, whereas to deliver a Chaucer-type utterance is to make it the case that
p, and so such utterances are cut out for a use that is incompatible with making a
statement.4 However, she does not deny that such utterances are truth-evaluable.
Kirk Ludwig and Daniel Boisvert do deny this. On their view, Chaucer-type
utterances do not have truth-conditions but something analogous, namely
satisfaction-conditions.5
Searles position is roughly in the middle of the spectrum.
Bearing many similarities, but somewhat closer to Austins position, is that taken
by Stephen Schiffer, in his earlier work. Here, Chaucer-type utterances share their
logical form with statements, but the speaker nevertheless produces them without
the full conventional force of a statement.6 In saying I order you to leave, for
example, the speaker intends it to be mutual knowledge between himself and his
addressee that his primary intention is to get the addressee to leave, not (as would be
the case if the speaker uttered the sentence with the full conventional force of
a statement) to produce in the addressee the belief that the speaker is ordering him
to leave.
This view must presumably allow for the fact that, on some occasions where an
explicit performative of the Chaucer-type is produced, the speaker does intend it to
be mutual knowledge between himself and the addressee that his primary intention
is to produce a belief in the addressee; for example, in his uttering, I warn you that
snake is dangerous. Bearing these distinctions in mind, we gain a deeper appreci-
ation of poets who complicate their use of the Chaucer-type.
Yeats was fond of the Chaucer-type, and the settling down which comes with
frequent useimpossible to replicate by brief illustration but apparent in whole
poemsmakes for a steadier pressure:
I call on those that call me son,
Grandson, or great-grandson,
On uncles, aunts, great-uncles or great-aunts,
To judge what I have done.7
On other occasions, Yeats transforms what can be orid about the Chaucer-type, so
that it becomes a device of gentle insistence:
I say that Roger Casement
Did what he had to do.
He died upon the gallows,
But that is nothing new.8
4 Hornsby, Speech acts and performatives (2006, p. 904). See also her A note on non-indicatives
(1986, pp. 929) and Things done with words (1988, pp. 2746).
5 Kirk Ludwig and Daniel Boisvert, Semantics for nondeclaratives (2006, pp. 86492).
6 Schiffer, Meaning (1972, pp. 10710).
7 Yeats, Are You Content?, W. B. Yeats: Collected Poems (1950, p. 370).
8 Yeats, Roger Casement, W. B. Yeats: Collected Poems (1950, p. 351).
Elaborating the Type 137
Here the testamentary lies down with the tired, which is one way in which we
might hear the concluding Chaucer-type in Easter 1916:
I write it out in a verse
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.9
The passage introduces a complication, for whose possibility we have tried to
account, beginning as it does with a Chaucer-type phrase (I write it out in a
verse), denoting what is presumably a one-off event, but leading straight into a
declaration of, a commitment to, the essentially repeatable character of the general
type of which this particular action is an instance: stating that those named are
changed utterly. It seemed reasonable to say that instances of this general type are
performed in each repetition of the utterance.
Similarly quiet, similarly forceful, the Chaucer-type in its austere form can draw
on a parallel use: as wording for a legal instrument. There are various verbs for poets
to draw on here: I name; I give; I accuse; I witness; I plead; I judge. Kathleen
Raine takes the opportunity afforded in her Short poems 1994:
All I have known and been
I bequeath to whoever
Can decipher my poem.10
Verbs like say and speak and write are central to the Chaucer-type: as modes of
utterance, they name actions which can be achieved directly and immediately in
utterance. By one remove, verbs like think and remember are also central.
Notoriously, one may utter words without thinking; one may even say I think
without thinking. But it is usually the case that ones uttering conveys ones
thinking. And on most occasions, to say I think is to do something more than
say those words: it is to do what is named in what one says; that is, to think. Thus
Thom Gunn in Considering the Snail:
What is a snails fury? All
I think is that if later
I parted the blades above
the tunnel and saw the thin
trail of broken white across
litter, I would never have
imagined the slow passion
to that deliberate progress.11
9 Yeats, W. B. Yeats: Collected Poems (1950, p. 205).

10 Raine, The Collected Poems of Kathleen Raine (2008, p. 343).
11 Gunn, The Oxford Book of English Verse (Ricks 1999, p. 644).
The act of thinking this trail through, here enacted, is as much the subject as the
trail itself. The train of one follows the trail of the other, and the action of each is as
halting, slow, meticulous. Gunn draws on a variety of poetic devices here; for
example, that parting of the stanzas which later | I parted negotiates. What
underwrites the possibilities of identity between train of thought and trail of snail
is the Chaucer-type.12 And this makes various questions about the analysis of that
type pressing.
II
Are Chaucer-type utterances truth-evaluable statements? It is a striking fact requir-
ing explanation that this question has drawn almost all the philosophical attention
that has been given to such utterances. We have, after all, named several other issues
that might have done so. For example: what sets such utterances apart from those
with the same form (using the same sentence)? What conditions are there on their
successful performance? What kinds of action are such utterances capable of
performing, in what circumstances? What role does the rst person play; how
signicant is it? And so on.
The explanation seems to be that speech act analysts tend almost invariably to
proceed in an external way. Though sensitive to varying degrees to features of the
Chaucer-type as manifest in a small number of examples, they take the correct
analysis to be whichever one suits the larger-scale treatment that the analyst prefers,
or whose truth they take to have been established. And the larger-scale treatments at
issue have dictated that it is with this questionwhether Chaucer-type utterances
are truth-evaluable statementsthat the analysis of these utterances must be
principally concerned.
Austin himself set the pattern here. It was to endorse his general view of language
that he chose to launch his analysis with the Chaucer-type. He took such utterances
to provide the clearest and most powerful evidence that the use of language to do
things other than make statements is so foundational that we must go wrong if we
focus our larger-scale treatments exclusively on whatever brings out its statement-
making features. And since he restricted his example-set of Chaucer-type utterances
so as to match and manifest the features characteristic of this larger-scale treatment,
it is really very dubious whether anything but that treatment has any genuinely
effective role at all to play in his analysis of such utterances.
Thus, despite his characterization of Chaucer-type utterances as using hum-
drum verbs, his own examples are drawn exclusively from a highly specialized sub-
set whose verbs assume an unusual, ritualized, and ceremonial use: to marry, to
confer names, to bequeath possessions.13 He also stacks the deck by tending to use
12 Similar things may be said of parallel cases: for example, I remember. Of the possibilities
offered, some are realized in Thomas Hoods I Remember, I Remember, in The Oxford Book of English
Verse (Ricks 1999, pp. 40910).
13 Austin pp. 56.
specialized senses of the term statement and the verb to state; for example, to
report. In combination, it is indeed hard to resist his view: that in uttering the
requisite words (in the marriage ceremony, for example), I do not report on an
action but perform it.
However, we need only consider genuinely humdrum uses of verbs and a more
generalized sense of state to see that many Chaucer-type utterances either fail to
support Austins larger-scale treatment or support the very positions it was designed
to replace. For example, it is quite natural to describe the Yeats lines:
I say that Roger Casement
Did what he had to do14
as both performing the act they name and as stating that that act is being
performed. But the issues here are complex and not easily decided; we shall come
upon them again in examining Shakespeares Sonnets.
Other speech act analysts have tended to adopt an even stronger external
approach. Instead of seeking endorsement for their preferred larger-scale treatment
of language and choosing the most appropriate sub-set of Chaucer-type utterances
to do so, they have taken the correct analysis of those utterances to be whichever
best ts that treatment.
This goes a long way to explaining why the general trend should be so deter-
minedly against Austins analysis. The preferred large-scale treatments among
philosophers of language are truth-conditional approaches to the compositional
semantics of natural languages. Utterances that are neither statements nor truth-
evaluable would present an obstacle to such approaches (how can they mean what
they do if they lack truth-conditions?). Hence there is a strong preference for
analyses of Chaucer-type utterances on which they come out as at least truth-
evaluable, if not as statements.
David Lewis adopts a particularly strong external approach. His larger-scale
commitments enforce views that are the polar opposite of Austins. If any sentences
are masqueraders, on his view, it is those that do not appear to be usable to make
truth-evaluable statements. So he does not question whether Chaucer-type
utteranceswhich do have the appearance of truth-evaluable statements, as all
including Austin acceptshould be taken at their face value. Indeed, so sure is he
that this appearance gives the essential truth about such utterances, he makes them
the basis for his account of non-indicative sentences. All uses of such sentences are
semantically equivalent to Chaucer-type utterances, he claims, so despite their face
value, all such uses must actually be truth-evaluable statements.
Lewis calls this the method of paraphrased performatives:
i) Treat non-declaratives as paraphrases of corresponding Chaucer-type
utterances
So the imperative Be late! is to be treated as I command you to be late; the
question Are you late? is to be treated as I ask whether you are late. The idea
14 Yeats, Roger Casement, W. B. Yeats: Collected Poems (1950, p. 351).

behind (i) is that non-declaratives have the same base structure, meaning, inten-
sion, and truth-value at an index or on an occasion as these paraphrases.
(ii) Claim that there is no difference in kind between the meanings of these
Chaucer-type utterances and non-declaratives and the meanings of the ordinary
declarative sentences.15
This method does not imply that Chaucer-type utterances be regarded as declara-
tive, of course. But Lewis prefers to do so, with the overall result that the distinction
between declarative and non-declarative sentences becomes a purely syntactic,
surface distinction.
The weak point of this analysis is that, as several others have pointed out, in
treating non-declaratives as paraphrased performatives, it gets their truth-
conditions wrong.16
Other analysts nd other ways to be external. John Searle designs his analysis of
Chaucer-type utterances so that it ts a particular taxonomy of speech acts, itself
designed to t a particular taxonomy of mental acts: those expressing basic mental
attitudes to a proposition.
Donald Davidson makes his analysis of Chaucer-type utterances depend on his
prior paratactic analysis of indirect discourse: we are to treat the Chaucer-type
utterance I say that Roger Casement did what he had to do as semantically
equivalent to Roger Casement did what he had to do and I assert that because
it is useful to treat sentences of indirect discourse (e.g. Galileo said that the earth
moves) in this way.17 Signicantly, Davidson does not aim to reduce non-
indicative sentences to Chaucer-type utterances; it is sufcient for his purposes to
exploit analogies between them. And for this purpose, he appeals to a point that
Austin himself was keen to stress: that utterances like Go! can often be used to
achieve what we achieve by utterances like I order you to go.
Kirk Ludwig and Daniel Boisvert choose for their analysis of Chaucer-type
utterances what best ts their preferred fullment-conditional treatment of non-
indicative sentences.
External approaches move the real action from the analysis of Chaucer-type
utterances to identifying the correct large-scale treatment. Even Austins interest in
determining exactly what such utterances are falls away once he introduces the
ritual-ceremonial sub-set that endorses his preferred larger-scale treatment. Such
approaches also have a somewhat distorting effect on the issues arising. Whether
Chaucer-type utterances are truth-evaluable statements becomes the privileged
question. But it is at least as signicant to ask what sets such utterances apart
from those with the same form, what conditions there are on their successful
performance, and what kinds of action such utterances are capable of performing.
15 Lewis, General semantics (1983a, p. 222).

16 See Hornsby, A note on non-indicatives (1986, pp. 929); Alston, Illocutionary Acts and
Sentence Meaning (2000, pp. 3013).
17 Davidson, Moods and performances (1984b, pp. 10921).
There is an alternative: to make Chaucer-type utterances themselves our focus,

determining the correct analysis by seeing which best ts what they themselves
make apparent. This internal approach depends on having a rich and varied
selection of examples, of course. For if we concentrate on the usual etiolated diet,
it is very likely that the analysis we arrive at will apply only to a special sub-set. It
also depends on having discriminating means of studying those examples, so that
philosophical reection has a sound basis.
Now this is exactly what poetry and its criticism offer, of course. We are in the
midst of demonstrating that English poetry can provide us with a rich and varied set
of examples. And we can employ the techniques of literary criticism to clarify them.
So the internal approach has several advantages. It returns the action to the
analysis of Chaucer-type utterances, gives balanced form to the issues arising,
and, above all, offers an opportunity for poetry and its criticism to become
genuinely benecial to philosophy.
III
Poets often produce Chaucer-type utterances when they use rst-person present-
tense phrases whose verbs name acts that may be performed in the uttering (e.g. I
dedicate, I grant, I thank, I welcome, I bid farewell, and so on). But this is not
always a straightforward, unambiguous matter. Such forms may mean I [hereby]
plead (dedicate, thank, etc.), in which case they are of the Chaucer-type. But the
same forms may also be used in a purely descriptive way, as in I [tend to] plead, or
I [habitually] thank, in which case the act named is not (necessarily) performed in
the uttering. J. H. Prynnes Thoughts on the Esterhzy Court Uniform contains
lines that are ambiguous because they t either option:
How can we sustain such constant loss.
I ask myself this, knowing that the world
is my pretext for this return through it, and
that we go more slowly as we come back
more often to the feeling that rejoins the whole.18
I ask myself this; is the speaker hereby asking himself this question (in which case,
the utterance is of the Chaucer-type), or is he just describing himself as one who
habitually asks himself this question (in which case, perhaps, it is not)? The sense
teeters uncomfortably between the options, the straightforward present indicative
and a tense dubbed the habitual indicative, widening an ambiguity in the rst
sentence: though phrased as a question, it lacks a question-mark.19
When used more than once in a single context, the Chaucer-type may function
as a unifying device. Chaucers envoi is an example, where the overall effect is one of
intensity and strength. The several uses of the form, each employing the rst
person, gather up a number of diverging acts by ascribing each to the same referent.
18 Prynne, Poems (2005, p. 99). 19 See Austin p. 56.

This braces and strengthens each in relation to the others, forming a growing
concentration. To become aware of this is to draw particular attention to the role
and function of the rst person in utterances of the type.
Repeated uses of the Chaucer-type, and hence repeated reference to the same
person, need not strengthen our sense of this persons own unity. The overall effect
can be to weaken this sense, to be reective about this weakness, so that use of the
type can become a meditation on disunity. Geoffrey Hills use of the Chaucer-type
in Oraclau: Oracles is profuse:20 Let us, I beg; I elegise; I write; I allude; I do |
Acknowledge; I recommend; I admit; I wish; I argue; I recuse. Far from
strengthening each use of the Chaucer-type by associating it with every other use,
here it is the difference between each such use that is being marked. Repetition does
not draw together the various themes or unify a train of thought, but draws
attention to the instability and variability of the issuing self, its vulnerability to
mood and circumstance, its emotional volatility. The impression here is of desper-
ate fragility, loss of focus, distractedness, the uncheckable diverging energies of the
speaker. Use of the Chaucer-type becomes a study in that very form of incapacity
to concentrate, to contemplate, to be attentivewhich forms the argument of the
sequence.21
To pursue the internal approach, we need not ignore what other analysts
provide. Indeed, it will be very helpful at particular points to draw on the ndings
of external approaches and to compare and contrast analyses. But this approach
will be careful to distinguish between the kinds of support that such analyses
receive. Whether some analysis happens to match some larger-scale treatment
will be set to one side. What counts is whether the analysis ts what is apparent
in Chaucer-type utterances themselves. Nor need the internal approach ignore the
particular issue which has focused the attentions of other analysts: whether
Chaucer-type utterances are statements and truth-evaluable. But the approach
can deal with this issue as it ought to be dealt with: one among several others of
equal signicance, dependent on a resolution that settles all. And to that end, it is
deeply helpful to be attending to examples that themselves draw reective attention
to the characteristics of the Chaucer-type.
One way to draw attention to the characteristics of the Chaucer-type is to
produce an instance but undermine its usual effects. Poets do this in elongating
the form or separating out its elements, as in The Way my Mother Speaks by
Carol Ann Duffy:
I say her phrases to myself
in my head
or under the shallows of my breath,
restful shapes moving.
The day and ever. The day and ever.22
20 Hill, Oraclau: Oracles 128 (2010, p. 43); 31 (p. 11); 43 (p. 15); 62 (p. 21); 74 (p. 25); 82 (p. 28);
93 (p. 31); 100 (p. 34); 136 (p. 46).

21 Hill, Oraclau: Oracles 125 (2010, p. 42). 22 Duffy, The Other Country (1990, p. 54).
The separation of the operative verb (I say) and its content (The day and ever. The
day and ever) puts a strain on the form of the Chaucer-type which undercuts what
is otherwise its most striking and characteristic effect: that immediacy or transpar-
ency between what is said and what is done. This undercutting has its own purpose,
it seems: to mark the ways in which the speakers particular reections, or perhaps
her general reectiveness, threaten to interpose between what is said and what
is done.
The Chaucer-type may be reective in another way: to raise and confront the
question of what poems themselves are for (including the very poem that contains
and is partly composed of that Chaucer-type utterance). Hill gives it precisely this
use in closing The Triumph of Love:
It is poignant, indicative of a particular self-consciousness, that in this return to
Chaucer and the grand gesture (But that I axe), Hills speaker must climb to such
expansiveness, where the Wife of Bath managed to open at that pitch. The form
leaves it unclear whether this question is asked once and for all, as Chaucer
dedicated his Troilus, or whether it continues to be asked on as many occasions
as the utterance is repeated, as with the changes of which Yeats writes in Easter
1916. The directedness of the question and its naming of addressees may support
the former. The weight of the question and its resonance within the poem certainly
speak for the latter.
This is a difculty for the interpretation of the poem, of course, but one that the
poet may consciously seek out, so as to determine an aspect of its reception. For
Hill goes on immediately to provide an answer: They are to console us | with their
own gift, which is like perfect pitch. And the earlier interpretative difculty
prepares and encourages us to ask in turn what it is likely that the poet wishes us
to ask: whether this answer is given once and for all, or whether a response
continues to be required on as many occasions as these utterances are repeated.
Neither is as consoling, perhaps, as gift-like, as the fact that we are not told.
IV
What is the Chaucer-type for? What uses does it have? Our explorations in English
verse have given us peculiarly rich resources and a generous answer: to make grand
gestures, in public and private; to enact action in the world at large and in the
thinking through of trains of thought; to break trains of thought; to sustain a gentle
self-questioning; to depict expansive personalities and insulated self-absorption; to
achieve comic effects and a simple seriousness; to perform special and ritualized
actions in institutional settings; to puzzle or surprise about the acts which mere

uttering can perform; to announce and reect on the anxieties peculiar to poets; to
effect and sustain ambiguity; to unify acts via repeated reference to the same person
and to strengthen or weaken our sense of that persons own unity by such repeated
reference; and in almost every casesurprisingly, if we tend to associate the type with
plain bombastto secure reective interest in the form itself and its possibilities.
The critical task is to continue showing that, and how, utterances of the
Chaucer-type do indeed do these things, in the context of the particular poems
of which they form a considerable part; to explain in greater detail how these effects
are there achieved; to understand more deeply what the poet does to make these
particular workings possible; to investigate more persistently the possible reasons
the poet has for producing precisely these effects; to continue uncovering the wider
intentions these particular effects are designed to full; and to use these results in
evaluating the poem aesthetically and even (in a broad sense) morally or ethically.
We shall pursue this critical task in Chapter 10 by continuing to circle between
philosophy and poetry, taking the opportunity offered by a useful divergence. On
the one hand, and for all the noise of disagreement, there is a strong central core of
agreement in the philosophical analysis of Chaucer-type utterances. On the other
hand, poetry has put considerable exploratory strain on the Chaucer-type, con-
stantly producing utterances that recall the form but differ from it in some
fundamental way. Using what is agreed on in philosophy, we can perceive what
is strained in poetry more accurately and appreciate the effects this achieves more
acutely. Conversely, and by thus improving our critical appreciation of its use in
poetry, we can deepen our philosophical analysis of the Chaucer-type.
10
Four Features
I
What is the Chaucer-type? Our explorations in poetry and philosophy reveal
considerable disagreement about more supercial matters, but this serves to make
more salient what is generally agreed. In uttering the relevant sentence, the speaker
does something (beyond the uttering). This is the rst and most general feature; we
might call it Doing. Second, the sentence uttered contains a sentential clause
consisting of a subject term (the rst-person pronoun in the nominative) concat-
enated with a verb of doing (rst-person singular, present tense, indicative mood,
active voice) combined with an explicit or implicit hereby or its equivalent. This is
a specifying feature we might call Phrasing. Third, the verb in the sentential clause
is a word for what the speaker does in uttering the sentence. This is another
specifying feature we might call Naming. And nally, the act named by the verb
in the sentential clause is assuredly performed in uttering the sentence. We might
call this fourth feature Securing. It is worth going into each of these four features
in more detail so as to place attunement on a rmer footing.
Doing
In uttering the relevant sentence, the speaker does something (beyond the uttering).
For example: in uttering O moral Gower, this book I direct | To thee and to thee,
philosophical Strode, Chaucer directs (dedicates) his Troilus and Criseyde to Gower
and Strode. As Austin puts it: the uttering of the sentence is, or is a part of, the
doing of an action, which again would not normally be described as, or as just,
saying something.1 In uttering other sentences contained in the poetry we looked
at in Chapter 9, the speaker prays, speaks, sings, asks, cries, bequeaths, calls, argues,
and so on.
It would be false to say that the utterance merely communicates this act, or
merely informs us that this act has been performed. Uttering I direct . . . is the
dedicating, that which makes the fact of the books being dedicated so. This is not
to deny either (i) the speaker need not have used precisely these words (or perhaps
any words at all) to have performed this action successfully, or (ii) there must have
been a book and a speaker authorized to dedicate it. So evidently there is a sense in
1 Austin p. 5.
which uttering these words alone would have been insufcient. (Austin acknow-
ledges these points explicitly, while denying that the success of the outer act
here, the dedicationwould also require performance of an inner act,2 hence the
relevance of this discussion to his views concerning poetry; see Part I.)
The point of adding (beyond the uttering) is obvious: to prevent the notion
dened from appearing trivial, merely a formal reection of the fact that to say
something is to do something.3 But the In uttering, the speaker locution
raises issues of philosophical interest. It is meant to map the action-statement that
lls the second gap (e.g. Chaucer dedicates his book to Gower and Strode) onto
the quoted utterance that lls the rst gap (e.g. O moral Gower, this book
I direct . . . ). And how this mapping works, how the in uttering operator engages
it, what makes it possible, are unclear.
The answer that rst presses is that we should understand this mapping as an
identity-claim between acts. Thus In uttering A, B would be taken to mean The
action that is the uttering of A just is the action that is described by B. On this
view, Chaucers uttering of O moral Gower, this book I direct . . . just is
Chaucers dedicating his book. But this view may need revising. For suppose, as
is plausible, we should individuate actions by their proximal effects. The proximal
effect of Chaucers act of uttering is the utterance that he produces, whereas the
proximal effect of his act of dedicating is the dedication he produces. If this is
enough to distinguish the action that is uttering A from the act that is described by
B, we must nd an alternative way to understand the mapping relation.
But before we are in a position to do this, we need to be aware of two things in
particular: the range of possible instances of the Chaucer-type by contrast with
other cases, and the role played by further features which help determine this form.
For there is a particular way in which the In uttering, the speaker locution
holds true for sentences of the Chaucer-type, and it is this way that we have still to
identify. The three further features of the type represent the attempt to do this.
To put this another way: Doing is true of very many kinds of utterance, perhaps
indeed of all (though the claim may then be stretched beyond usefulness). We need
the other features to give specicity to our understanding of the Chaucer-type, to
distinguish utterances of this precise sort from utterances of other sorts.
II
Phrasing
The sentence uttered contains a sentential clause consisting of a subject term (the
rst-person pronoun in the nominative) concatenated with a verb of doing (rst-
person singular, present tense, indicative mood, active voice) combined with an
explicit or implicit hereby or its equivalent.
2 Austin pp. 711.

3 As E. J. Lemmon puts it, in On sentences veriable by their use (1962).
Four Features 147
For example, Chaucers utterance contains just such a sentential clause in I

direct . . . . Other examples in the poems we have looked at include I ask, I
grant, I prognosticate, I forgive, I assure, I vow, and so on. The tense may be
the simple present, I V (as here) or the progressive present, I am V-ing (as in the
example from Douglas Dunn4).
Phrasing distinguishes the Chaucer-type from other sorts of performative utter-
ance; those whose verbs are in the second and third person, in the plural, and in the
passive voice, for example.5
So the rst person has an essential role here. Indeed, it was principally because of
this that Austin chose to focus on the type: the I who is doing the action does
thus come essentially into the picture; this implicit feature of the speech-situation
is made explicit.6
Others take this focus as their principal cause of concern. According to David-
son, for example, it introduces an intolerable discrepancy between the semantics of
certain rst-person present tense verbs and their other-person other-tense vari-
ants.7 But essential need not mean signicant, of course.8
The appeal to hereby distinguishes the Chaucer-type from other sorts of
utterance made using sentences with this same grammatical form. Thus I drink
beer, or on page 56, I note a mistake in your argument, or In January, I promise
to uphold the Constitution (said by a president-elect, looking at his diary) all
contain a sentential clause consisting of a subject term (the rst-person pronoun in
the nominative) concatenated with a verb of doing (rst-person singular, present
tense, indicative mood, active voice). But these examples employ what we might
call the Habitual, Historic, and Intentional present, respectively. None of these
utterances count as Chaucer-type. That this is so is evident from the fact that in
none of them is there, or could there be, an implicit hereby.
Utterances formed using the continuous present, that peculiarity of English,
sometimes satisfy Phrasing. There may be an implicit hereby in uses of I am
warning you, for example, and of I am ordering you. Austin seems to deny this,9
though his motives may be impure, for if Chaucer-type utterances could be
composed using the continuous present, this would undermine his main claim:
that such utterances can have nothing to do with describing (or even indicating)
what I am doing at present.10 As he acknowledges, it is precisely the business of
the continuous present to describe this.11 He also acknowledges that there may be
4 And here I am, closing the door behind me, | Turning the corner on a wet day in March, Dunn,
Elegies (1985, p. 17).

5 Some authors use explicit performative in a restricted way, applying it only to cases in which the
verb is rst person, present tense indicative; for example, William P. Alston, Illocutionary Acts and
Sentence Meaning (2000, p. 124). This would make explicit performative essentially synonymous with
Chaucer-type, of course.
6 Austin p. 61. 7 Davidson, Moods and performances (1984b, p. 117).
8 Various philosophers spot tensions here: for example, L. Jonathan Cohen, Do illocutionary
forces exist? (1969, pp. 42044; esp. pp. 4245) and Jane Heal, Explicit performative utterances and
statements (1974, pp. 10621).
9 See Austin pp. 47; 56. 10 Austin p. 56. 11 Austin p. 56.
an implicit or explicit hereby in constative utterances; for example, I hereby state

that p.12
Hereby helps mark that immediacy and transparency between utterance and
action that is so distinctive a feature of the Chaucer-type. Not that the word is often
uttered. The main reason for this is that it does not need to be. Its role is to clarify or
emphasize the fact that Doing obtains in a particular way, rather than to make it the
case that it obtains in this way, and usually there is no need to clarify or emphasize.
Indeed, where there is no obvious need to clarify or emphasize, one would not
add hereby unless one had very particular communicative intentions in mind. For
example, saying, I hereby order you to go over the top, when the hereby-less
equivalent would still quite clearly be an order, might implicate that the speaker
expects to be ignored and that, in addition to giving the order, he is warning the
addressee that a record of these events is being takensomething the speaker would
make every attempt to avoid if he wished the addressee to believe he was trusted.
Other words and phrases can be used, of course (hence Phrasing says or its
equivalent). Chaucer uses right thus in the dedicating passage from Troilus, for
example. Now can be used for this purpose, as in I now declare myself a
candidate. (Evidently now does not always have this use; to say I now drink is
not to perform the act but to accompany it.)
A consequence of Phrasing is that the utterance to which the sentential clause
contributes incorporates one feature of self-reference: it refers to the self responsible
for it. For it incorporates the rst person, a device of self-reference, so that one of
the things the speaker does in uttering it is refer to himself.
III
Many utterances conform to Doing and Phrasing without being of the Chaucer-
type. This is usually because they do not satisfy a third feature:
Naming
The verb in the sentential clause is a word for what the speaker does in uttering the
sentence.
For example: direct (dedicate) is a word for what Chaucer does in uttering
O moral Gower, this book I direct . . . . Similarly, cry, write, call, and be-
queath are words for what the speakers do in uttering sentences contained in other
poems we have looked at.
Many sentences contain a clause whose uttering on some occasion constitutes an
action of a certain sort. Of these, only some name the very action which uttering
them performs. This is because there are only some kinds of action that it is possible
to perform in uttering a sentence, and there are only some verbs that name these
12 Austin p. 61.
Four Features 149
kinds of action. The boisterous chap in tweeds may be doing many things in saying,
I shoot anything that movespreening himself, warning bystanders, horrifying
youbut the action so named is not one of them.
Naming holds for a limited set of sentences. Many verbs do not name actions at
all. Of those that do, many do not name kinds of action which can be performed in
uttering a sentence. So Chaucer is careful to choose verbs that clearly satisfy both
requirements for his envoi: direct (dedicate), pray, speak, say. Other poets arouse
concerns, court ambiguities, by choosing verbs that do not clearly satisfy both
requirements.
Just as Phrasing makes a Chaucer-type utterance incorporate one feature of self-
reference (one of the things that the speaker does, in uttering it, is refer to himself),
so Naming makes it incorporate another such feature: one of the things that the
speaker does, in uttering it, is to refer to what he is doing in uttering it. Another way
to think of this second self-referential feature of the Chaucer-type utterance is that
the speaker makes explicit what he is doing in uttering it. The difference between
saying, I will give you 5 and I promise to give you 5, for example, is that in the
latter case the speaker does not just make a promise, but says something about what
he is doing in uttering this sentencethat it is a promise he is making.
IV
The fourth feature of the Chaucer-type follows from the rst three, but is worth
making salient and considering in its own right:
Securing
The act named by the verb in the sentential clause is assuredly performed in uttering
the sentence.
For example, in uttering O moral Gower, this book I direct . . . , Chaucer does
indeed dedicate his book. The act thus named is successfully performed in the
successful performance of the uttering.
It is easy to misunderstand Securing.13 It neither says nor implies that everything
about a Chaucer-type utterance is assured. In particular, it does not imply that the
whole sentence is true.
If I say I am hereby making a statement in French, for example, I satisfy Doing
(I do something beyond mere uttering: I make a statement), Phrasing (I use the
rst-person singular present indicative active with hereby), and Naming (I name
what I do in uttering it). Nevertheless, what I say is false. The point is simply this:
13 Some of the confusion may result from somewhat misleading ways of referring to this property of
Chaucer-type utterances: that they are veriable by their use (for example, E. J. Lemmon 1962) or
self-guaranteeing (for example, Searle 1989). The rst assumes what is controversial: that such
utterances are veriable in the rst place. The second leads too easily to ination of the claim.
despite the fact that the whole sentence is false, I still satisfy Securing, for I do
indeed make a statement.
Similar remarks apply to the case of thinking. For example, if I am thinking I do
not exist is indeed what I am thinking, then the thought is false though that
component of it, that I am thinking, is assuredly true.
Moreover, Securing does not claim that, if the act named by the verb is to be
performed, only the uttering of the sentence is required. In the Chaucer example,
for instance, there needs to be a book, and the speaker needs to be authorized to
dedicate it. Nevertheless, it is not the presence of the book or of the authorized
speaker that performs the act of dedicating. This act is performed in the speakers
producing of the Chaucer-type utterance.
Like Doing, Securing holds in the rst place for utterances. Both characterize
what is said, using a sentence, on some particular occasion. The contrast is with
Phrasing and Naming, which hold in the rst place for sentences, devices that may
be used, and re-used, or not used at all, to say something.
Despite this distinction, Naming and Securing are close. When the sentence used
for an utterance conforms to Naming, and circumstances allow, it must be the case
that something is done in the uttering and that what is done is named by the verb in
the sentence. But the converse does not hold.
This underlines what is reduced, circumscribed, about Naming. What the
speaker does in uttering a sentence may be assured, even though the sentence
does not name that act. For example, I may say I dedicate this book to you and
be assured to have done something thereby, though I do not perform the act
named in the sentencebecause I do not even try to perform the act named
(I am quoting Chaucer, for example, or joking), or because I fail at what I try
(I am under some misapprehension, for example, about who has the right to
dedicate this book).
There are various ways of describing what is required here. David Lewis speaks of
a change in conversational score governed by a rule of accommodation, for
example, and illustrates this with the case of ship-naming. The requisite rule
would be roughly this: if, at time t, something is said that requires for its truth
that ship s bear name n; and if s does not bear n just before t; and if the form and
circumstances of what is said satisfy certain conditions of felicity; then s begins at t
to bear n.14
Circumstances of these countervening sortsquotation, joking, misapprehension
raise interesting philosophical questions with literary critical implications, as we
know.15 But our present focus is on characterizing the Chaucer-type. And since
utterances of this sort combine Naming with Securing, we are not here concerned
with such issues.
14 Lewis, Scorekeeping in a language game (1983b, pp. 2478).

15 These circumstances are pertinent to our inquiry in one particular way: it is sometimes said (as we
know from Part I) that poetic utterances are to be lodged beside quotation and joking as non-serious
uses of language, and hence as lacking the context in which they might be considered as performing the
acts they name.
Four Features 151
V
So much for the bare bones, extracted and arranged in a preliminary way.16 To do
better than this, we need to appreciate each such feature at work, in the particular
utterances that compose particular poems. And here a problem of discriminability
arises: how to observe and examine each feature at work and in movement when
that movement depends on the combined work of these features, their complex
structural cooperation.
If it is not possible wholly to overcome this difculty, we may nevertheless work
with it. There are occasions in poetry where one or other of these features is absent or
compromised in some way. These occasions are particularly useful for several reasons.
They tell us a good deal about the Chaucer-type itself, putting each of its features
successively into relief. They show us how to discern more precisely the workings of
each feature of the form, to appreciate what each contributes on occasions where
the form is present, by drawing attention to the variety of effects induced when that
feature is absent or knowingly compromised. They tell us a good deal about poets
and poems, putting aims and purposes into relief. They offer lessons in the variety
of ways, and the variety of reasons for which, a poet might come as close as possible
to the Chaucer-type, but nevertheless not use it.
To that end, we shall examine various examples, sorting them in a rough way
into six basic types:
a) Keeping the act present but using the future or past tense
b) Keeping the rst person but making it implicit
c) Dropping the rst person altogether
d) Naming the act but performing it with the whole poem
e) Leaving the act unnamed
f) Stretching the relation between naming and doing.
The intention throughout will be to continue to use poetry and philosophy to
enhance each other.
The verbal phrase in the Chaucer-type is in the present tense. One close set of
variant forms puts the verb in the future; thus Christopher Smart in Jubilate Agno:
For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry.
For he is the servant of the living God duly and daily serving him.
For at the rst glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way.17
16 I stress this is a preliminary characterization, one that postpones mention of more complex,
controversial possible additional features, for example convention and audience uptake. For
discussion, see Austin pp. 11617; P. F. Strawson, Intention and convention in speech acts (1971a,
pp. 14969); William P. Alston, Illocutionary Acts and Sentence Meaning (2000, pp. 24; 67). For
application of these aspects of Austins thought to political and legal debate, see in particular Rae
Langton, Speech acts and unspeakable acts (1993, pp. 30530); Jennifer Hornsby, Speech acts and
pornography (1995, pp. 22032). This debate assumes a strong reading of Austin; Nancy Bauer notes
a reason to prefer a weaker interpretation in How To Do Things With Pornography (2015, p. 191, note
17). I propose my own view of the role of uptake in Speech, action and uptake (2011, pp. 12137)
and relate this specically to poetry in Uptake in action (2017).
17 Smart, Fragment B, lines 6957; The Oxford Book of English Verse (Ricks 1999, p. 286).
To utter I will consider may be, indeed usually is, merely to announce ones
intention to do so. In this context, however, we may take the utterance as a whole as
an act of considering, a doing-in-saying. Then the verbal form playing the decisive
role is not only rst-personal but names the act done here and now, in the uttering,
despite the fact that the verb used is future.
Another close variant of the Chaucer-type puts the verb in the past tense.
Gerard Manley Hopkins launches The Windhover with an example, where
the main verb (caught) may mean not (only) catch sight of but accurately
render, thus naming the act that is being performed as the whole sentence is
being uttered:
I caught this morning mornings minion, king-
dom of daylights dauphin, dapple-dwn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rlling level ndernath him steady ir, and strding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstacy!18
Geoffrey Hills September Song embeds another example in parentheses:
(I have made
an elegy for myself it
is true)19
These lines might be interpreted merely as a statement: that a particular act has
already been performed. But they might also be heard as part of a set of utterances
that perform the act named as they are being uttered. There is evidently a tight
restriction on the kinds of circumstance in which uttering I have made an elegy
could count as performing the act of making an elegy. But in this context, the
phrase seems evidently to have this performative use.
The rst person is explicit in the Chaucer-type. Another direction for variant
forms is to make the rst person implicit. This is characteristic of certain sorts of
salutation in verse, as in William Blakes An Island in the Moon:
Hail Matrimony made of Love
To thy wide gates how great a drove
On purpose to be yokd do come20
18 Hopkins, The Major Works (2002, p. 132).

19 Hill, King Log (1968, p. 19) in Hill, Broken Hierarchies (2013, p. 44). Hill is explicitly
recalling Horaces Exigi monumentum aere perennius and perhaps also Shakespeares Sonnet 55:
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments | Of princes shall outlive this powrful rhyme, but to
achieve a contrasting tone and effect from the Horace and Shakespeare poems, which are aptly
described by A. D. Nuttall as the poets vaunt, attaining a note of star-defying audacity; Two
Concepts of Allegory: A Study of Shakespeares The Tempest and the Logic of Allegorical Expression
(1967, p. 122).
Four Features 153
Gerard Manley Hopkins Pied Beauty opens with a similar example:

Glory be to God for dappled things
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;21
If the sense of the rst words is to be paraphrased as I greet Matrimony . . . and I
give glory . . . respectively (rather than Let Matrimony be greeted or Let glory be
given, which are also possibilities), then the lines count as a close variant of the
Chaucer-type of doings-in-sayings. For the rst person is then implicit, and what is
done is named in the uttering.
Similar remarks apply to certain expressions of leave-taking, as at the start of
Drydens To the memory of Mr. Oldham:
Farewel, too little and lately known,
Whom I began to think and call my own;22
and in Basil Buntings Against the Tricks of Time:
Farewell, ye sequent graces,
Voided faces, still evasive!23
Here the rst person is at least present, if implicit.
A very different set of variant forms drops the rst person altogether. Since the
presence of the rst person is one of the more striking, immediately recognizable
features of the type, these variants may appear to exist at some distance. But they
retain another, equally striking, and immediately recognizable feature: they name
the very act performed in the uttering of them. Some poems keep naming to the
verbal phrase but extend performing to the uttering of the whole passage or poem.
This can be done whilst retaining the rst person (we have already seen two
examples: Hopkins The Windhover and Hills September Song) or whilst
omitting it altogether.
Pope illustrates the latter in The Rape of the Lock, a passage which begins:
And now, unveild, the Toilet stands displayd,
Each Silver Vase in mystic Order laid.24
and continues:
This Casket Indias glowing Gems unlocks,
And all Arabia breathes from yonder Box.
The Tortoise here and Elephant unite,
Transformed to Combs, the speckled and the white.
Here Files of Pins extend their shining Rows,
Puffs, Powders, Patches, Bibles, Billet-doux.

23 Basil Bunting, Complete Poems (2000, p. 188).
24 Canto I, lines 1212; 1338, The Oxford Book of English Verse (Ricks 1999, p. 259). The passage
continues to line 148.

In uttering this, the articles used in dressing stand displayd.

Austin Clarke offers another example of extended performance of a named act
(shows), but without use of the rst person, in Mabel Kelly:
He sees the tumble of brown hair
Unplait, the breasts, pointed and bare
When nightdress shows
From dimple to toe-nail,
All Mabel glowing in it, here, there, everywhere.25
Forms which diverge still further from the Chaucer-type put greater pressure on
this second central feature: that the type names the act which uttering it performs.
Towards the end of his A beautiful nymph going to Bed, Swift penetrates the
distancing comedy and sophisticated distaste which has ridden him to that point:
The Nymph, tho in this mangled Plight,
Must evry Morn her Limbs unite.
But how shall I describe her Arts
To recollect the scatterd Parts?
Or shew the Anguish, Toil, and Pain,
Of gathring up herself again?26
It is possible to interpret these lines as renouncing, if only for a moment, the
heartless knowingness of the indicative form, replacing it with the interrogative,
giving the impression that the speaker is suddenly, and genuinely, at a loss. This
gives a feeling glimpse of the Anguish, Toil, and Pain involved in being the woman
(even if she is a type) described. For uttering how shall I describe . . . shew? is not
usually to describe or show anything. But this context gives the question-form the
necessary resonance and poignancy to do precisely what it doubts can be done, and
in the very act of asking how it can be done.
Here what is done is named explicitly, if in a hesitant way. In other poems, what
is done in the uttering is not named explicitly, and in this respect they lie further
distant from the Chaucer-type:
Sheridans The School for Scandal offers a complex example of a familiar trope:
Heres to the maiden of Bashful fteen
Heres to the Widow of Fifty
Heres to the aunting, Extravagant Quean,
And heres to the House Wife thats thrifty.27
But to gain the sense of this, we have to supply that which draws it back towards
utterances of the Chaucer-type. So a plausible paraphraseI drink in honour of
the maiden of bashful fteen . . . makes explicit both the rst person and the
name of the act being performed, an act that is done in the uttering.
25 Austin Clarke, Collected Poems (2008, p. 295).

26 The Oxford Book of English Verse (Ricks 1999, pp. 2435; p. 245).
Four Features 155
Austin Clarkes A Curse offers another example of this:

Black luck upon you Seamus Mac-an-Bhaird
Who shut the door upon a poet
Nor put red wine and bread upon the board.28
Here the rst person and the name of the act being performed in the uttering are
made explicit by the title-suggested paraphrase: I curse you . . . . Or this is
ostensibly so. Another interpretation is that the act is not being performed at all,
either because the utterance is ironic, or because the uttering takes place in the
peculiar context of a staged ction.
The fteenth-century song-poem Adam lay ibowndyn ends:
Blyssid be the tyme that appil take was,
Therfore we mown syngyn Deo gracias!29
Here what is donethe singing of Deo graciasis named in the uttering itself.
But what plays the decisive role is a modal auxiliary under deontic interpretation
(must). So the relation between what is done in uttering these lines and what is
said is considerably more complex than in instances of the Chaucer-type. What is
done, and by the one uttering the lines, is what (so it is said) should be done, and by
those addressed. Since the utterance calls for more than what is done in uttering it,
there is a sense in which what is done is less than what is said.
Poets sometimes produce occasions of the converse sort, making it possible for
utterances to do more than what they say. Where such utterances give the impres-
sion of being still tenuously connected to the Chaucer-type, despite putting
the relation between naming and doing under such pressure, that is because they
re-secure the connection with the other most characteristic feature of the type:
explicit and prominent use of the rst-person singular form.
Tennysons unnished poem Reticence is an example:
Latest of her worshippers,
I would shrine her in my verse!
Not like Silence shall she stand,
Finger-lipt, but with right hand
Moving toward her lips, and there
Hovering, thoughtful, poised in air.30
The poem may be said to treasure and venerate its subject in the restrained way that
is proper to reticence. Hence, in an established sense of this rare verb, the one
responsible for the utterance does indeed shrine reticence in verse.31 But although
the decisive phrase is rst person singular, it is subjunctive and conditional in
form, expressing a desire or intentionI would shrine her. And although what is
done may be regarded as named in the uttering itself, the connection is not
28 Austin Clarke, Collected Poems (2008, p. 112).

30 Tennyson, The Poems of Tennyson (1987, pp. 6289).
31 Oxford English Dictionary, to shrine: sense 3.
emphatic, not secured, as it is in the Chaucer-type. For to say I shrine such-and-

such is not necessarily, or thereby, to shrine anything at all; still less I would shrine
such-and-such.
If reticence is indeed shrined here, that is an achievement of the whole verse,
rather than of the particular sentence in which the decisive phrase occurs. More-
over, what is thus done, by the one uttering the lines, is what (so it is said) that same
utterer merely desires or intends to do. So the whole utterance might be regarded,
albeit un-emphatically and insecurely, as achieving a particular end in the act of
expressing the desire or intention to achieve that end. Hence what is done might be
regarded as going beyond what is said.
There is some tension here with Cleanth Brooks well-known discussion of
Donnes The Canonization (Well build in sonnets pretty roomes; | As well a
well wrought urn becomes | The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombes). Brooks
argument turns on the claim that:
The poem is an instance of the doctrine which it asserts; it is both the assertion and the
realization of the assertion. The poet has actually before our eyes built within the song
the pretty room with which he says the lovers can be content. The poem itself is the
well-wrought urn.32
But this claim seems under-warranted and perhaps even counter to the argument of
the poem. The poem has not actually built a pretty room, within or without the
song, and if there is a gurative sense in which the poem can be thought of as a
pretty room, there is none in which it can be thought of as a sonnet.33
What Brooks overlooks is the possibility that the poem, by taking one form and
specifying another, precisely resists any move to have itself identied with the
realization of the doctrine it asserts. By contrast, Tennysons Reticence presents us
with no such difculties. The poem straightforwardly shrines reticence by treas-
uring and venerating it. In short, Donnes substantives cause difculties for Brooks
where Tennysons verbal form eases the identication of what is said and what is
done. For something can shrine, even if that is taken narrowly to mean perform the
ofce of a shrine, without itself being a shrine.
VI
As this last set of representative poems shows, the Chaucer-type is a form from
which poets depart in different directions: keeping the act present but using the
future or past tense; keeping the rst person but making it implicit; dropping the
rst person altogether; naming the act but performing it with the whole poem;
leaving the act unnamed; stretching the relation between naming and doing. These
variants and divergences draw attention to the form from which they depart in as
striking a way as utterances that express this form in its purity.
32 Brooks, The Well Wrought Urn (1949, p. 16).

33 Michael Spiller, The Development of the Sonnet (1992).
Four Features 157
Clearly, then, the Chaucer-type is a considerable resource that poets exploit for
its energy and variety. It works within different styles, and may be used to promote
different registers. It can be grand and powerful, also subtle and delicate. It can be
used in forthright fashion openly to perform acts that it clearly names, and it can be
used to obscure and even conceal those acts, hiding them in plain view, or
suggesting or insinuating what is not actually said. In these and other ways, it can
convey or conduct a variety of larger affairs, including affairs of great seriousness, of
hilarity, of sincerity, and of duplicity.
A philosopher and a literary critic will tend to face the evidence provided by these
examples from poetry differently. The former will seek rst for the underlying form,
the principles determining the type, will identify central and limiting cases, nice
questions concerning grey areas. The latter will seek rst for the differences between
even the closest cases, identifying what is particular and individual about each, that
precision of intent or expression or realization which distinguishes it from any other.
And yet. Without in any way denying or correcting either tendency, we are
appreciating how each can contribute to the other. The very existence of these
varied instances in poetry, let alone the criticism which makes us realize more
acutely what they are about, provides the philosopher with new examples and
counter-examples, ample means to reform and correct certain very persistent ideas
about the general form of the Chaucer-type. And the questions which the philoso-
pher asks to arrive at and apply general principles concerning this form provide the
literary critic with new and sharper tools, ample means to discern what is individual
and specic to each particular case. In what follows, we shall continue to demon-
strate these possibilities of attunement while interrogating more closely what
underpins them.
The combination of Doing, Phrasing, Naming, and Securing helps determine the
Chaucer-type. But as we are beginning to appreciate, it is the distinction between
the features, the articulation they lend the whole, that aids critical appreciation.
Doubtless there are senses in which Doing may be said to apply to many, or most,
or even all sentences in poetry. But it is possible that what one does in uttering a
sentence is not named by that sentence. This might make the relationship between
utterance and action unclear. What, then, is done in the uttering? Moreover, it is
possible that what one does in uttering a sentence is not secured by its uttering.
This might make the relationship between utterance and action unsafe. Is anything,
after all, done by the uttering?
What is peculiar about genuine Chaucer-type utterances is precisely that they do
not challenge the relationship between utterance and action in either of these ways.
Naming and Securing modulate Doing so that this use of language in poetry
becomes plainly, unmistakably, blatantly, a form of action. Phrasing is at the service
of both Naming and Securing. This is the source of the transparency we have noted
as one primary manifestation of the Chaucer-type utterance. But it is not always
clear whether an utterance is of the Chaucer-type. There are occasions of a quite
different sort than those we have discussed so far, where it is quite clear that
departures from the strict form are made and it is simply left to us to determine
how close or distant the resulting utterance is from the Chaucer-type.
The contrast is with occasions where the conditions required by Phrasing seem to
be met, but we are nevertheless in doubt as to whether we should hear an implicit
hereby. Is what is named done in the uttering (Naming)? Is what is done secure,
assuredly performed in the uttering (Securing)? Indeed, is anything at all actually
being done, beyond the uttering (Doing)? Where poets leave us in doubt about this,
critical attention provides us with further aids to philosophical reection on the
Chaucer-type.
11
Four Poets
I
J. H. Prynne courts various ambiguities in his Thoughts on the Esterhzy Court
Uniform.
How can we sustain such constant loss.
I ask myself this, knowing that the world
is my pretext for this return through it, and
that we go more slowly as we come back
more often to the feeling that rejoins the whole.1
The poem is in part a reection on different ways we might think over the notion of
returning. Aspects of that division are exposed in play over the Chaucer-type:
I ask myself this. The speaker may beherebyasking himself this question.
Or he may be describing himself, even if only to himself, as one who tends to ask
himself this question, in which case the act of asking is not being performed here.
The sense teeters uncomfortably between the options, the straightforward present
indicative, and a tense Austin dubs the habitual indicative,2 widening an ambi-
guity in the rst sentence. Though phrased as a question, it lacks a question-mark.3
The calm urgency in these lines suggests that I hereby ask myself this captures
the sense, and that the clause is of the Chaucer-type. There is that about this
moment which forces me to ask this question, to set myself now in search of an
answer, or at least to recognize this as a moment where my attention is xed on this:
how can we sustain such constant loss?
On the other hand, and with at least equal reason, given the steady follow-
through after the rst comma, and the need for a suitable referent for this return,
we may assume that the clause is a statement or description about what he tends to
do, and is a habitual indicative, rather than of the Chaucer-type. This is a question
that I have a tendency to ask myself; I do it habitually, or at least regularly, or at
least whenever prompted; it is a question to which I return.
1 J. H. Prynne, Poems (2005, pp. 99100; p. 99). 2 Austin p. 56.

3 This is in accord with what Prynne describes, in characteristically circumspect fashion, as
mostly . . . my own aspiration: to establish relations not personally with the reader, but with the
world and its layers of shifted but recognizable usage; and thereby with the readers own position within
this world. Quoted by Nigel Wheale, Crosswording: paths through Red D Gypsum (2009,
pp. 16385; p. 168).
It is a matter of what the speaker is really attending to. If the utterance is of

Chaucer-type, then the speakers attention, and ours, is xed on the question: how
is it possible for us to sustain such constant loss? It is this asking of the question
which evokes the feeling that rejoins the whole. On the other hand, if the
utterance is in the habitual indicative tense, a statement or description about
what he tends to do, then the speakers attention, and ours, is xed on something
other than the question: the questioner, perhaps, or the fact that the speaker asks
the question. Then the line How can we sustain such constant loss is distanced
somewhat; at best a prompt or cause for what we are concerned about, but perhaps
only part of the background. That itself is then felt as a loss: we go more slowly as
we come back | more often.
On this view, the options are straightforwardly contradictory. What is being said
cannot be held together in thought, and the speaker does not try; the reader is
forced to invent an interpretation. This is a possibility. There certainly are two
distinct and contradictory movements of thought which the poem sets us to think:
that return is possible and actual (assumed in the lines quoted: the world | is my
pretext for this return through it), and that return is not actual (stated outright at
the outset: we do not return), perhaps even impossible.
We may think there is too much overt play between the options to suggest
something so decisive and simple. Though one option is meant, elements of the
other may be included. And there are ways for both to lie before the attention. For
example, if we are being brought to attend to one via the other. So the sentence
might be of Chaucer-type, but subtly appealing to the alternative, so as to express
something more self-reective: It may be that I regularly ask myself this, but that is
not important; what matters here is that there is that about this moment which
forces me to ask: how can we sustain such constant loss?
Equally, the sentence might be in the habitual indicative, a statement or
description of what the speaker tends to do, but one that subtly appeals to the
Chaucer-type alternative, so as to intimate something more active and direct:
Whenever I ask myself this, it is this question alone that I attend to; it xes my
attention.
That both possibilities are alive and active gives proper value to what follows:
Soon one would live in a sovereign point and
still we dont return, not really, we look back
and our motives have more courage in
structure than in what we take them to be.4
The thought is evidently awkward for the speaker; it cannot be expressed cleanly. It
needs a stress-mark (still) and another go ( . . . , not really). And these attempts at
clarity leave the ambiguity in place. Indeed, they cannot but know that they do so,
when the term that is meant to do the cleaning up (really) is itself a notorious
muddier of waters.
4 J. H. Prynne, Poems (2005, pp. 99100; p. 99).

Four Poets 161
We do return, if in an unsatisfactory way, and we look back. We do not return

at all; instead we look back. The movements of thought may be contradictory, but
the speaker will not relinquish either; each is thought through the other.
II
On similar occasions, where the ambiguity of an utterance in poetry rests on
whether it is of Chaucer-type, it may be that one sense is renounced, though
never quite relinquished.
Yeats short poem What was lost begins:
I sing what was lost5
We may take this, as we are surely invited to dorecalling this instance in the
Aeneid, but also Yeats fondness for the formas an utterance of the Chaucer-type.
Indeed, given the title, we may take this as a peculiarly strong instance of the
Chaucer-type: one that expands considerably on what it is self-reexive about.
Naming tells us that, in a Chaucer-type utterance, what the poet does is named and
made explicit in the very act of uttering what he utters. But usually, this naming
extends only to the verb: the poet sings in singing I sing . . . . Here, naming also
includes the title: the poet sings what was lost in singing What was lost. Or
perhaps we should say that the poet sings What was lost in singing what was lost.
This makes no difference to the point about Naming. It does make a difference
to the way we understand the poem. And that in turn reveals something of interest
about Doing and the In uttering, the speaker locution which represents it. It
matters in which order we ll the gaps; we cannot swap them about ad lib.
As the poem continues, a difculty arises:
I sing what was lost and dread what was won,
I walk in a battle fought over again,
My king a lost king, and lost soldiers my men;
Feet to the Rising and Setting may run,
They always beat on the same small stone.6
The lexical suppression of the subject term of the second and subsequent clause of a
structurally parallel construction would normally invite reconstruction of the
elliptical clause on the model of the complete antecedent clause.7 We are licensed
to supply I for the gap in dread what was won because we treat the clause as we
treat I sing what was lost. And since we treat this latter clause as a Chaucer-type
utterance, this may mean that we should treat the former in the same way.
5 What was lost. W. B. Yeats: Collected Poems (1950, p. 359).

6 What was lost. W. B. Yeats: Collected Poems (1950, p. 359).
7 This is the basic principle commonly accepted as governing interpretation of verb-phrase ellipsis,
despite considerable disagreement about the subsidiary principles to be deployed in subsequent

analysis; see F. Cornish, Anaphora, Discourse, and Understanding (1999).
The problem is that the elliptical clause does not seem to permit this reading.
The phrasing seems appropriate enough. But this is the only one of the four features
of the Chaucer-type that the utterance seems to satisfy. To dread something is not
to do something (though it may lead to doing something); this contrasts with
Doing. Hence dread is not a word for what the speaker does in uttering the clause;
this contrasts with Naming. And clearly the speaker need not dread anything in
uttering the words [I] dread; this contrasts with Securing. The reasons why the
clause fails Doing, Naming, and Securing respectively mean that we cannot add
hereby or its equivalents to it either. Hence it only appears to satisfy Phrasing. And
since it fails this test also, we should treat [I] dread what was won as a statement or
description.
Now if reconstruction of this elliptical clause is licensed by parallelism with the
antecedent clause, and the elliptical clause is to be treated as a statement or
description, that may give us reason to treat the antecedent clause as a statement
or description. Then I sing what was lost could not, after all, be treated as of
Chaucer-type either. Singing what was lost is something I tend to do, am in the
habit of doing, do from time to time; it is not what I hereby do.
We are not forced into this habitual indicative reading, however. It might be
possible to reconstruct the elliptical clause without insisting on parallelism at this
deep level, recovering the singular term I while maintaining our sense of the
antecedent clause as it rst appeared. The lexical dependence of a statement or
description on a Chaucer-type utterance would be awkward only in syntactic
exposition. The condition it would express is straightforward enough: that one
recognizes an underlying mood (of dread) as the context in whichor perhaps out
of whichone acts (sings).
Nevertheless, we may have better reason to renounce our rst impressions. Sing
gives purpose to the possibility. It is a word that is sometimes used to distinguish
poetry from prose, and, by extension, what poets do in each case: producing poetic
utterances as opposed to producing utterances about poetry, reections on it,
statements about it. In using it, Yeats draws attention to the distinction, a gap
which the lexical suppression then makes us feel. We realize, with a slight shock,
that what we had taken as transparently an act is in fact a reection on action. Being
made to feel this gap, in renouncing rst impressions, may be part of the extended
reection that the poem is meant to enact: that reection on action may pass as
action, and that to be acquainted with this is to be acquainted with a falling-off,
part of the loss on which the poem reects.
This would make the poem that complex thing: an utterance about poetic
utterance that disclaims its status as poetic utterance while being, or perhaps in
being, or perhaps by being, itself a poetic utterance.
This play between action and reectionthe one conditioning the other, each
dening itself in contradiction to the otherteases itself out in Yeats metre. When
we hear the rst clause as of Chaucer-type, as an action set against the reections
which follow, we are primed to discern something sprightly in the nal clause, a
lightness on the penultimate beat: Thy lwys bet n th sme smll stne. If we
cancel the rst impression and insist on a relentlessly reective reading throughout,
Four Poets 163
we will hear instead a nal molossus: Thy lwys bet n th sme smll stne.
Whichever we may decide on, the possibility of the alternative continues to niggle
away at us.
III
Sometimes we recognize well enough that a Chaucer-type utterance has been
produced, but proving it to the satisfaction of sceptics requires that critical attention
guide and be guided by philosophical reections. Recall this example from Geoffrey
Hills The Triumph of Love, which some doubt is of the Chaucer-type:
The claim at issue is that the speaker performs the act of asking named in uttering
this. We may take this to be clear enough, even on the face of it, but it is worth
thinking how we might defend the claim.9
The emphasis that metre places on ask helps; it marks that tremor of genuine
interrogation which Ricks nds elsewhere in Hill.10 This is made clearer when the
lines are replaced in context so that we appreciate the solemn answering to which
this asking tends:
what are poems for? They are to console us
with their own gift, which is like perfect pitch.
Metric emphasis sustains the impression that I ask you is an exclamatory phrase
indicating disgust or asseveration (OED). This makes it an asking in exasperated
mode rather than no asking at all (compare Now, I ask you, can anybody stand this
kind of thing?11). Indeed, by this late point in Hills sequence, its audience is fully
aware that the modulation from exasperated asking to solemn responding is
peculiarly characteristic of its speaker.
The run-on after the question-mark (what are poems for? They are to console
us . . . ) perhaps suggests that the asking does not pause for an answer. But this is no
objection to the claim at issue; one may give ones answer rst and still count as
having asked a question. What the asking prompts is an act of answering, I think,
but even if one doubted this, it would not disturb the point: that what prompts it is
an act of asking. And nor does it unsettle this point to recognize that the other
question-marked phrases in this passage do more than simply register requests for
information. That is at least to acknowledge that they also are acts of asking. So the
appeal to context only reinforces the claim at issue.

9 For the stimulus to do so, I am grateful to Christopher Mole, The performative limits of poetry
(2013, pp. 5570).
10 Ricks, Geoffrey Hill 1: the tongues atrocities (1984, pp. 285318; p. 292).
11 Joseph Conrad, Youth (1975, p. 37). This is the example of exasperated asking cited by the OED.
There is perhaps a price to saying I ask you rather than simply I ask: that one is
not to be taken as asking a question at all unless one thinks the person to whom one
directs it exists. So it might undermine the claim at issue if we could be convinced
that both (i) the question is only directed at those named (Croker, MacSikker,
OShem) and (ii) the speaker thinks those named are non-existent.
But we would have to overlook context, verbal features, and poetic effects to
be tempted by (i). For Hill does not write, So, I ask you Croker, MacSikker,
OShem . . . , which would indeed limit directedness, but carefully segregates the
three names with dashes, and then places the whole phrase I ask you after their
occurrence. This implies that the you to whom the asking is directed comprehends
the audience of the uttering, and not only those named in it. Indeed, the audience is
by now familiar with the cold-shouldering that Hills dashes administer when
these particular names occur elsewhere in the poem (e.g. And yesbugger you,
MacSikker et al.,I do | mourn and resent your desolation of learning12). So the
speaker is presented as overlooking those named, directing his question above them
to the audience beyond.
Paying due attention to context, verbal features, and poetic effects also tells
against (ii). There is a specicity about the way these names are used throughout
the sequenceLothian [MacSikkerED] told us he saw | a draft typescript;
San OShem | saidtrenchantlythat the mans epigraphs | are his audience;
Confound you, Crokeryou and your righteous | censure! I have admitted, many
times, | my absence from the Salient13which implies that the speaker thinks
these people exist and are recognizable.14 Not that these need be the names by
which the individuals are known, of course. They need not even be pseudonyms for
three individuals. Most likely they are collective names for groups, introduced by an
implicit reference-xing stipulation: Let us call this group of English critics
Croker; of Scottish critics MacSikker; of Irish critics OShem.
Paying attention to allusion here is enlightening. In a well-known essay produced
several years before The Triumph of Love, Christopher Ricks observed of Hill that
he was not willing to be as imperious as Coleridge15 and he used an entry from the
latters Notebooks (3231) to illustrate the kind of Coleridgean moment we would
not expect from Hill:
What is MUSIC? Poetry in its grand sense?
Answer.
Passion and order atond! Imperative Power in Obedience!16
12 Hill, The Triumph of Love CXIX (1998, p. 63).

13 Hill, The Triumph of Love CXI (1998, p. 58); CXXXVIII (p. 74).
14 That is certainly what Hills knowledgeable, and perhaps nervous, commentators assume
which may explain why one should wish to administer comfort: although in time their identity will
become a parochial matter; Jeffrey Wainwright, Acceptable Words: Essays on the Poetry of Geoffrey Hill
(2005, p. 85).
15 Ricks, Geoffrey Hill 2: at-one-ment (1984, p. 325).
16 Ricks, Geoffrey Hill 2: at-one-ment (1984, p. 325).
Four Poets 165
The mimicry of form in what Hill then produces is striking:

what are poems for? They are to console us
with their own gift, which is like perfect pitch.
Let us commit that to our dust. What
ought a poem to be? Answer, a sad
and angry consolation.17
Hill seems to be showing off that he too can raise the question, wield the pressured
rhetorical form of question-answer (Answer), and respond to it in as straight a
way, while ornamenting the typeface with implied vocal modulations.
To be struck by the mimicry is to wonder at the reckoning. Why administer it?
More specically, why should this question (what are poems for?) prompt a
response so precisely articulated as a correction of Ricks critical comment? What-
ever the exact explanation, we have a particularly nice example of the ways in which
poetry and critical reection may shape each other.
IV
So far, we have been dealing only with parts of poems. But an attuned approach is
fully capable of dealing with whole poems, taking up the challenge of showing how
Chaucer-type utterances t into broader patterns, how they serve larger purposes.
We may conclude this chapter with two examples.
The rst is a poem we have cited before and can now return to with new
resources: Thou art indeed just, by Gerard Manley Hopkins.
Justus quidem tu es, Domine
si disputem tecum; verumtamen justa loquar ad te:
quare via impiorum prosperatur? etc (Jerem. XII 1.)
Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend
With thee; but, sir, so what I plead is just.
Why do sinners ways prosper? and why must
Disappointment all I endeavour end?
Wert thou my enemy, O thou my friend,
How wouldst thou worse, I wonder, than thou dost
Defeat, thwart me? Oh, the sots and thralls of lust
Do in spare hours more thrive than I that spend,
Sir, life upon thy cause. See, banks and brakes
Now, leavd how thick! lacd they are again
With fretty chervil, look, and fresh wind shakes
Them; birds buildbut not I build; no, but strain,
Times eunuch, and not breed one work that wakes.
Mine, O thou lord of life, send my roots rain.18
17 Hill, The Triumph of Love CXLVIII (1998, p. 82); in Hill, Broken Hierarchies (2013, p. 285).
The poem, dated 17 March 1889, is situated exactly between the events it describes
(a retreat made in January 1889, i.e. three months earlier) and Hopkins death (in
June 1889, i.e. three months later).19 It is tempting to view it as a simple cry, the
record of a frozen and despairing instant.20 But this is a misapprehension that can
only be sustained by very selective quoting from the retreat notes.21 What those
same notes bear out is something quite different: the poem is the compacting of a
complex and extended development: the turn, turn, and upturn of a progress of
thought.22 The poem bears close relation with George Herberts The Collar at
many points but most poignantly in respect to this essential progress.23 Yet mark
the contrast: Hopkins uses the position achieved to turn to God in demand as
Herbert does not.
The poem is itself leaved and laced: with seven instances of the rst-person,
present, indicative, active form (I contend; I plead; I endeavour; I wonder;
I . . . spend; I build; I . . . strain). Hereby is implicit in only one of these.24 This is
the most meagre of the group: I wonder. Hopkins sets it in the exact middle of the
string, creating a sort of tent, a progress up to and away from the thoughtful act.25
19 Hopkins, The Major Works, Notes (2002, p. 387).

20 These bitter thoughts led, not to pride in himself as worthy of better opportunities, but to self-
loathing in which he could only cry out the epigraph to his poem Justus es, Domine . . . , Norman
H. MacKenzie, A Readers Guide to Gerard Manley Hopkins (1981, p. 203). With Christian resources
no longer dependable for Hopkins, he is now placed in the Victorian fragmented world, with no
language but a cry, Norman White, Hopkins: A Literary Biography (1992, p. 401).
21 Or by ignoring those notes altogether, as would be required to support an interpretation of the
poem along these lines: The voice changes from that of an unrewarded person resentfully asking why
am I treated like this? to that of a Romantic poet bewailing his lack of inspiration (White, Hopkins:
A Literary Biography, 1992, p. 447). This is, to my mind, quite unrecognizable as a characterization of
Hopkins poem, and not simply because it ascribes the speaker a petulance that is quite absent from his
tone and matter. White says, plausibly enough, that The I of the rst part is a moral being contrasted
with immoral surroundings, and in the second part an uncreative poet contrasted with his creative
surroundings (p. 447). But rather than leap to thatalbeit commonconclusion, we might ask what
evidence there is in the poem that the creativity missed here is poetic. That there is ample evidence that
Hopkins university work and general situation in Ireland was sufcient cause for what he says here is
something his biographer knows well and, in other places, takes seriously.
22 What begins on 1 January 1889 as that course of loathing and hopelessness which I have so often
felt before becomes by 6 January the outward-moving recognition (Yesterday I had ever so much
light) that all but Christ are essentially in this position, even John the Baptist: Everything about
himself is weak and ineffective, he and his instruments; everything about Christ is strong. And the
motor for movement here is Hopkins own imaginative energy, belying his earlier self-image as a
straining eunuch: close meditation on the actual physical movement that the Baptist makes with his
scoop in baptizing Jesus leads him to the likeness between that vehement action and winnowing
wheat, separating it from chaff, which points him towards that strength of Christ; Hopkins: The Major
Works, Retreat notes (2002, pp. 3025). The prompt for the meditation would have been the
commemoration of Christs baptism, celebrated on 6 January until 1955 in the Catholic Church.
23 Is the yeare only lost to me? | Have I no bayes to crown it? | No owers, no garlands gay? all
blasted? | All wasted? | Not so, my heart: but there is fruit, | And thou hast hands.
24 Shakespeares Sonnet 14 has the same ratio (6:1); we shall examine it in Chapter 12.
25 The two parts of the phrase thoughtful act are meant to be equally weighted. In the background
here is a condensed response to E. E. Phares sensitive and sensible commentary on Hopkins, The
Poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins (1933). Phare is surely right that Hopkins is interested most in
action, in creatures which are exercising all their energies (1933, p. 38). But an extended comparison
of Hopkins with Valry (pp. 3841) leads her to a set of exclusive contrastsbetween action and
thought, motion and reection, progress and stillness-equilibriumwhich in turn convinces her that
Four Poets 167
This invests the verb with a signicance we might otherwise miss but that is true
to the act being performed in the poems uttering: that I wonder may mean not
only I ponder, speculate but also I marvel, gaze in awe. It also reects the position
of the speaker, caught in intimate struggle between reective thought and thought-
ful act, unable to settle on the latter until the very last lines dutiful demand, a call
for action, but action to or on rather than by the speaker: Mine, O thou lord of life,
send my roots rain.26
So Hopkins dealings with the Chaucer-type support the impression of a speaker
pressed between an acute sense of the injustice of his situation and an equally acute
recognition of the justice of God. This is precisely Jeremiahs bind in the epigraph,
of course: if one recognizes from the start that God is just, how can justice be ones
ground of complaint against God? But Hopkins plays a mischievous game with his
borrowing. His beginning is Jeremiahthe rst two and a half lines are a fairly
straightforward translation of the epigraph from the Latin and into poetry. But the
etc, which implies more of the same, actually marks the exact point of Hopkins
divergence from Jeremiahone that will release him from the bind in which
Jeremiah remainsthat the injustice of his situation and the justice of God
together license his dutiful demand. For where Jeremiah is stuck wondering at
the fruitfulness of the wicked so as to entreat the Lord to deal harshly with them (in
the exuberance of the King James, to pull them out like sheep for the slaughter,
and prepare them for the day of slaughter27), Hopkins speaker wonders at the
barrenness of his own condition, which gives him the platform to demand merciful
dealing from the Lord. For Jeremiah, it is You are just Lord, but . . . ; the
admission is there to offset the boldness to come. For Hopkins, it is You are just
Lord, and so . . . ; the admission is part of the same move, the boldness gathering
strength from the admission. This is condence indeed.
But this point is achieved only via vigorous shuttling: between legitimate
complaint and legitimate dependency, being daring and being accepting, initiating
action himself and reecting on action initiated by others, the good (God) and the
bad (sinners). And this tension between being active and passive, being spontan-
eous and receptive, is forced up through the poems handling of the Chaucer-type.
For although there is no implicit hereby to six instances of the rst-person form, it
is precisely these verbs which name the very acts that the speaker is performing in
uttering this poemI contend, I plead, I endeavour, I . . . spend, I build,
I . . . strain. So Hopkins takes up these phrases into the speakers shuttling,
intensely reective poems like Thou art indeed just must be the exception in Hopkins oeuvre,
depicting neither action nor the exercise of energy but the tranquillity which comes as a result of a
deliberate suspension of anxiety (p. 100). To the contrary, I think this poem presents a counter-
example to the exclusive contrast: focused on the speaker in thought and reection, it is nevertheless
interested most in action, the exercise of energy, movement, progress. The play with the Chaucer-type
helps make this point.
26 Hopkins appreciation of vehement action is particularly notable in his approach to the
theological notion of grace; see On personality, grace and free will in The Sermons and Devotional
Writings of Gerard Manley Hopkins (1959, esp. p. 154).
27 The Vulgate: Congrega eos quasi gregem ad victimam, et sanctica eos in die occisionis.
engaged in the intimate struggle between an acting and a reecting, a doing and a
reporting on a doing.28
Particularly interesting in this respect is I that spend, at the very centre of the
poem. It is charged for Hopkins by Shakespeares Sonnets, which twice run spend
against the line-end (as here) when (as here) the speaker manages to press his
addressee for an answer while simultaneously looking deeply into himself:
Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
Upon thyself thy beautys legacy? (Sonnet 4)
Nay, if thou lourst on me do I not spend
Revenge upon myself with present moan? (Sonnet 149)
Shakespeare and Hopkins both draw on the extravagant ambiguities of spendto
exercise, pay out, ejaculate, dispose of, deprive oneself, use up, exhaust. Hopkins
does so to greater effect, perhaps, playing it against the eunuch theme: at the heart
of his desolation, spend is a prolic breeder of meaningsspecically, of names
for actsmore specically still, of names for acts the speaker is performing in the
uttering of this poem, if not exactly in the uttering of this phrase (there is no
implicit hereby here).29 Here too, then, a phrase, like its speaker, shuttles vigor-
ously between action and reection, and in its fruitfulness it contains a taste and
presentiment of the resolution to come.
V
Geoffrey Hills Ovid in the Third Reich is a second whole poem on which we may
practise attunement. It is perhaps better known than studied, so that commentators
have with equal condence issued wildly divergent interpretations. It has been
described as a satire, an elegy, a meditation, an excusing, a considering, a mocking;
its speaker has been identied with a general type, the poet, or the innocent
German, and with a particular person, a Furtwngler gure, even Hill himself; its
main subject has been labelled complacency, silence under Hitler, what innocence
is worth, the privileging of aesthetics over morality, justice, and history, the
autonomy of poetry, acquiescence.30 It is time, perhaps, to reconsider what we
28 The demand for rain may incorporate this shuttling movement, being both that which falls
downwards and that which enables growth upwards. That this gure may have been in Hopkins mind
is supported by Catherine Phillips reading of an earlier Hopkins poem, The Lantern out of Doors
(1877); see Gerard Manley Hopkins and the Victorian Visual World (2007, pp. 2556).
29 These thoughts are consonant with Peter Larkins theme of relations of scarcity, developed in
relation to readings of Wordsworth; see his Wordsworth and Coleridge: Promising Losses (2012),
particularly Relations of scarcity: ecology and eschatology in The Ruined Cottage (2012, pp. 7791)
and Scarcely on the way: the starkness of things in sacral space (2012, pp. 10717). The central idea
here is that the kinds of difculties a poet might experience in translating natures indecipherable relation
to human suffering into a meaningful grief or achieveable mourning are compounded when the
changeful vitality of natural environments confronts the narrower adaptive demands of human
beings (Introduction, 2012, pp. 17; p. 2).
30 See David Bromwich, Skeptical Music: Essays on Modern Poetry (2001, pp. 267); S. A. Brown,
Review of T. Ziolkowski, Ovid and the Moderns (2006, pp. 11617); Robert Crawford, Review of
Four Poets 169
take ourselves to know. By bringing out the poems dealings with the Chaucer-type,
we may be able to shed fresh light upon it.
non peccat, quaecumque potest peccasse negare,
solaque famosam culpa professa facit.
Amores III, iv
I love my work and my children. God
Is distant, difcult. Things happen.
Too near the ancient troughs of blood
Innocence is no earthly weapon.
I have learned one thing: not to look down
So much upon the damned. They, in their sphere,
Harmonize strangely with the divine
Love. I, in mine, celebrate the love-choir.31
I love is the text which the poem works on and around, each word occurring three
times in its course, and the treatment of the phrase conrming the steady souring:
what is tenuously joined in the rst line cannot be sustained but splits up and is
reversed in the last line, Love. I, a full stop coming down hard like a sword
between. Seemingly played against this movement, and at the very end, I . . .
celebrate is the only candidate for the Chaucer-type. The in-lling, in mine,
separated off fore and aft by its commas, a punctuated portraying of the speakers
sphere, conveys its hesitations about this. It may be an act performed in the
uttering, I hereby celebrate, or it may be something more low-key, a report
about an attitude, a practice. Or indeed it may be both, the consensus among
philosophers being that uttering the Chaucer-type does not just perform the act it
names, but reports it as being performed. So deciding between these options takes
up the issue that has focused philosophical debate concerning the Chaucer-type. It
also takes us to the heart of the matter, as we shall see.
The poem is high-altitude stuff: a complex structure, brutal changes of subject,
emphasis, and mood, all pressed as thin and at as the blandness of the speaker.32
But it is vampiric also: give it a drop of blood and the whole thing quickens with
life. Lines 34 evoke the Germanic Bahrprobe, the ritual test working off the
superstition that the body of the murdered will bleed again in the presence of
A Treatise of Civil Power (31 August 2007); Stephen T. Glynn, Biting nothings to the bone: the
exemplary failure of Geoffrey Hill (1987, pp. 23564; p. 240); Susan Gubar, The long and the short
of Holocaust verse (2004, pp. 44368; p. 457); Adam Kirsch, The poetry of ethics (18 July 2008,
pp. 1112); E. M. Knottenbelt, Passionate Intelligence: The Poetry of Geoffrey Hill (1990, p. 105);
David Middleton, The formal pledge of art (1997, pp. xlixliv; p. xlii); Christopher Ricks, Cliches
(1984, p. 364); Vincent Sherry, The Uncommon Tongue: The Poetry and Criticism of Geoffrey Hill (1987,
p. 16); Jeffrey Wainwright, Acceptable Words: Essays on the Poetry of Geoffrey Hill (2005, pp. 21, 87).
31 Hill, King Log (1968); in Hill, Broken Hierarchies (2013, p. 39).
32 If one is tempted to equate blandness with plainness, consider Hopkins Thou art indeed just,
which is plain certainly but not bland. Hill is after a certain voice here, of coursea certain tone. Many
of his other King Log poems would be neatly caught by John Wains description of William Empsons
poetry: the slow, heavy fullness of his lines; a miraculous blend of the colloquial immediacy of Donne
and the immense weight of Hopkins (Wain, Three contemporary poets, 1957, p. 179).
their murderers, a crux in the Nibelungenlied.33 Suddenly we are on to the speakers

twist of mind: thinking of innocence as a weapon; regretting that in this instance it
is not a weapon; unfazed by the presence of so much blood, and caught instead by the
unfortunate effect, thatlike a compass disturbed by too much magnetic material
bleeding where there are troughs of blood is useless as an indicator of guilt.
Hill is as subtle as Hopkins in the game he plays with his epigraph, which might
be translated: Anyone who can claim they do not sin is without sin; it is only
admitted guilt that makes a person notorious.34 What we couldnt guess, what
Hills speaker disguises, is that Ovids speaker is not being deeply cynical at all.
Indeed the strategy of Ovids speaker is mortifying, and actually rather endearing, if
ill-advised. He is pleading with his beloved. The passage as a whole might be
translated: Since you are so beautiful I do not beg you not to sin; I only ask that
you do not force me, miserable as I am, to know about it. I dont ask that you be
chaste, but only that you stir yourself to lie about it. Anyone who can claim they do
not sin is without sin; it is only admitted guilt that makes a person notorious.35 By
contrast, Hills speaker is not pleading with another but pleading for himself; he is
offering excuses. Understand me, my situation; you will see I am not so far from
the standard. I love the usual things; I nd the usual things difcult. And anyway,
I was not really the agent. So you cant blame me.36
These observations return us to the issue: is I . . . celebrate of the Chaucer-type
or not? What hangs on this? Either way, the thought seems ghastly. The speaker
separates himself from the damned, he is not of their sphere, but he does celebrate
that with which the damned are in strange harmony: the love-choir.37 The thought
here reects a familiar proposal: that the divine economy is such that even evil can
33 Stanzas 10436. Kriemhild has Hagen stand before the bier on which Siegfrieds body is laid, and
his wounds bleed anew. Gunter still tries to blame the death on robbers, but Kriemhild says she now
knows that he and Hagen are guilty of the deed. As late as James I in England, prominent
commentators sanctioned the judicial ritual associated with belief in this phenomenon: a suspect was
to approach or touch a corpse to prove their innocence or guilt; see Alexandra Walsham, Providence in
Early Modern England (1999, pp. 89; 99).
34 Ovid, Amores, III.14, lines 56. In Christopher Marlowes version, She hath not trod awry that
doth deny it, | Such as confess have lost their good names by it. The Complete Poems and Translations
(1971, p. 182). In a 2006 Oxford recorded reading, Hill translated it roughly as She who can deny
her sin has not sinned; and the only crime is to confess. Christopher Ricks thinks the Ovid passage
engages that dark thought that its not doing something dishonourable that matters, its being found
out (Ricks 2008). Jeffrey Wainwrights rendition is still more austere: the idea is essentially whoever
can deny wrongdoing is innocent; only those who own up are guilty , Acceptable Words (2005, p. 21).
35 Ovid, Amores, III.14, lines 16.
36 Not for nothing is Hill so taken with Hopkins comments on bidding; the art or virtue of
saying everything right to or at the hearer, interesting him, holding him in the attitude of
correspondent or addressed, or at least concerned, making it everywhere an act of intercourseand
of discarding everything that does not bid, does not tell. See Hill, Alienated majesty: Gerard M.
(2008, p. 529). Hopkins comments occur in a letter to Robert Bridges, 4 November 1882, Volume II
Correspondence 18821889 (2013, p. 547).
37 The love-choir is perhaps a reference to Dantes Paradiso. The Third Heaven is particularly
relevant because of the Third Reich (Cantos 89); it is the Sphere of Venus, related to Ovid, author of
the Ars Amatoria. Moreover, Dante and Beatrice are greeted here by a (love-)choir singing Hosanna
(8.2830). One of the choir (Charles Martel) steps forward to them and says, One circle and one
circling and one thirst are ours as we revolve . . . .
Four Poets 171
be made to work out for good. What horries is the thought of the speaker using
this proposal to underpin his excuses, to ground his pleas of innocence. His
I . . . celebrate is his claiming the right to be unfazed by whatever it is that he
has done, orwhat may be equally damningwhat he has left undone.
And now it is clear why it would t, would be so savagely appropriate, if this
phrase were of the Chaucer-type. It is in uttering this phrase, and by extension the
whole poem containing it, that the speaker stakes his right to being unfazed. The
speaker hereby justies speaking blandly of his association with great evil. And he
does so in speaking blandly of great evil. This makes the poem come right with a
click like a closing box, to recall a Yeats remark that Hill approves.38 In this case,
the click shuts off the speaker in his timeless, airless sphere.
VI
These various reections have brought us to the point where philosophy, poetry,
and the criticism of poetry are shaping each other. Attunement with philosophy
helps explain an essential part of what literary criticism is called on to explain: the
force of poetry. And philosophy benets also. Attunement with poetry helps focus
what philosophy is called on to focus: the very possibility of our speaking and
thinking and acting as we do. This is some distance from the point at which we set
to one side external speech act analyses of Chaucer-type utterances (Chapter 9). So
it is worth reecting on the intervening stages that have brought us to this inter-
shaping attunement. Attunement is a single unied activity, but it helps to describe
what we have done in two complementary ways.
Looked at in one way, the aim has been to sharpen our sense of the main
philosophical questions concerning the Chaucer-type by looking closely at the
stresses that poetry exerts on the form. So in studying various poems in this chapter,
I have tried to see more precisely what Chaucer-type utterances are, to identify what
sets them apart from utterances with the same form (e.g. those expressed using the
same sentence), to understand what conditions there are on their successful
performance, to appreciate what kinds of action such utterances are capable of
performing and in what circumstances, to see what role the rst person plays.
Looked at in another way, the aim has been to sharpen our critical engagement
with poems, using the philosophical sense that we have sharpened by looking at
poetry. So in studying various poems in this chapter, I have also tried to identify
and order the effects that a Chaucer-type utterance achieves, to say more exactly
how such an utterance achieves each of these effects on each such occasion, to list
more precisely the conditions that make these particular utterances possible, to
discriminate more carefully between each of their functions, and thus to identify
more closely the various purposes they serve.
38 Hill, Poetry as menace and atonement (2008, p. 4).

We can describe attunement in either of these two different ways, and there is no
danger in our doing so, as long as we recognize what we are about: taking up two
different perspectives on the same, single, unied activity.
Our internal speech act approach has put us in a position to attempt longer and
more searching appraisals of poetry. Pursuing this approach, we shall now devote
our attention to a single sequence of poems: Shakespeares Sonnets. By addressing
poetry that is familiar to us, we shall be able to appreciate what is fresh about an
attuned approach. And by looking at a whole sequence, we shall be able to
experiment more imaginatively with the critical resources such an approach puts
at our disposal.
12
Shakespeares Sonnets
I
Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck,
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well
By oft predict that I in heaven nd.
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
As truth and beauty shall together thrive
If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert:
Or else of thee this I prognosticate,
Thy end is truths and beautys doom and date.
Sonnet 14 contains seven instances of the rst person in the nominative, present
tense, indicative mood, active voiceI pluck; I have; I can tell fortune; I nd;
I derive; I read; I prognosticate. The last of these, I prognosticate, stands out
because here, and here alone, the verb names the very act performed in the uttering
of it. We can appreciate this by a simple test: this phrase, alone, contains an implicit
hereby: I [hereby] prognosticate.
This is no mere coincidence. The move towards this act-naming, act-performing
phrase is guided by the movement in this sonnet, from thought alone to thoughtful
act. The sonnet is essentially constructed from a set of negative constructions
Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck; not to tell of good or evil luck; Nor
can I fortune to brief minutes tellwhich give no promise of an uttering that
performs an act, let alone one that names the very act it performs. Moreover, the
nal couplet suggests a conditional constructionif you do not do this, I will do
thatwhich would rule out the possibility of such an utterance. And yet it is
precisely here that the Chaucer-type, however surprisingly, crops up: this
I prognosticate, | Thy end is truths and beautys doom and date.
The speaker acts here, even if he obscures the fact with the disjunction (Or else
of thee). Hereby is implicit because the speaker does indeed prognosticate.
Whether what he foretells comes to pass is conditional: on how the person
addressed now acts, for example. But that he utters a foretelling is not. This
demonstration of ability heartens, by contrast with what has gone before: the list of
things that the speaker cannot doforetell plagues, dearths, the quality of the
seasons, the weather of brief minutes, the fortune of princes.
And yet, again by contrast, there is something disheartening here. For what the
speaker succeeds in doing, in uttering these words, lies simply, and rather limply, in
his having said that something will occur. This falls far short of what the emphatic
tone implies, that the speaker has foretold something which would require that this
something does in fact occur. Indeed, the telling point lies here: that the one act
the speaker does nd it within himself to perform, the one act he feels capable of
performingthe capacity exercised in his uttering I prognosticate . . . is so
meagre that it is something he can succeed at, no matter how things turn out.
II
There are two signal and related facts about Shakespeares Sonnets.1 One is often
remarked and the cause of grand divides in critical approaches: the sequence is
composed of indexical expressions rather than proper names.2 The other has gone
unremarked, so far as I know: the Chaucer phrase-type plays a cardinal role
throughout the sequence.3 I prognosticate in Sonnet 14 is an example of this type.
1 I here acknowledge my general debts, since specic references will not convey general dependence,
though the latter has often been of far greater signicance to me. First, to the various commentaries on
the Sonnets, and particularly Helen Vendler, The Art of Shakespeares Sonnets (1997), Katherine
Duncan-Jones, Shakespeares Sonnets (2010a), Stephen Booth, Shakespeares Sonnets (1977), John
Kerrigan, William Shakespeare: The Sonnets and A Lovers Complaint (1995). Second, to the critical
heritage made available in Peter Jones, Shakespeare: The Sonnets (1977), Hilton Landry, New Essays on
Shakespeares Sonnets (1976), James Schiffer, Shakespeares Sonnets (1999). Third, to the surveys of
criticism in Paul Edmondson and Stanley Wells, Shakespeares Sonnets (2004) and the aforementioned
Kerrigan, Duncan-Jones, and Schiffer. Fourth, to the observations about the Sonnets contained
in primarily historical works, recovering Shakespeares biography, particularly Park Honan,
Shakespeare: A Life (1998, pp. 18191), Katherine Duncan-Jones, Shakespeare: An Ungentle Life
(2010b, pp. 24651), Stephen Greenblatt, Will in the World: How Shakespeare Became Shakespeare
(2004, pp. 23055), Alison Shell, Shakespeare and Religion (2010), David Scott Kastan, A Will to
Believe: Shakespeare and Religion (2014). And fth, moving from primarily informative to avowedly
provocative investigations, particularly Keir Elam, Shakespeares Universe of Discourse (1984), William
Empson, Essays on Shakespeare (1986), Lynne Magnusson, Shakespeare and Social Dialogue (1999),
Joel Fineman, Shakespeares Perjured Eye (1986), Brian Cummings, The Literary Culture of the
Reformation (2002) and Mortal Thoughts: Religion, Secularity and Identity in Shakespeare and Early
Modern Culture (2013), David Schalkwyk, Speech and Performance in Shakespeares Sonnets and Plays
(2002), Paula Blank, Shakespeare and the Mismeasure of Modern Man (2006), Richard C. McCoy,
Faith in Shakespeare (2013).
2 All commentaries note this, but of particular signicance here is David Schalkwyks study (Speech
and Performance in Shakespeares Sonnets and Plays, 2002; particularly Introduction and chapter 4)
since it is within his own version of a speech act approach that he focuses on this feature of the Sonnets.
The occurrences of will/Will (Sonnets 57, 135, 136) have to be reckoned with by all accounts,
particularly when they occur in relation to my name (Sonnet 136). Joseph Pequigney plausibly relates
these occurrences of will and my name to the sub-sequence of Sonnets 714 in Sonnets 714: texts
and contexts (1999, pp. 282304).
3 It plays a signicant role in some of the plays also. See in particular The Merchant of Venice 4.1 (on
which I commented in the Introduction); A Midsummer Nights Dream 2.2.110ff; 3.1.172ff;

5.1.3413; Twelfth Night 3.4.14; As You Like It 2.1.1579; 3.2.270; 5.4.185; Loves Labours Lost
Shakespeares Sonnets 175
These two facts are related, most directly in the rst person.4 I is both an
indexical expression and essential to the Chaucer-type. The verb with which I is
concatenated in the Chaucer-type is present tense, indicative mood, active voice. It
names the very act performed in uttering itmore precisely, in uttering either part
of the poem, for example the sentence containing the phrase as in Sonnet 14 (of
thee this I prognosticate), or in uttering the whole poem as in Sonnet 15, whose
nal couplet names the action which the entire sonnet may be said to perform:
And, all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.
Other examples of the Chaucer-type, drawn from throughout the sequence,
include Sonnet 19, But I forbid thee one most heinous crime; Sonnet 40, I do
forgive thy robbry, gentle thief ; Sonnet 82, I grant thou wert not married to my
Muse; Sonnet 112, Mark how with my neglect I do dispense; Sonnet 123, This
I do vow and this shall ever be; Sonnet 124, To this I witness call the fools of Time.
In all such cases, it would be appropriate to add herebyI hereby prognosticate;
I hereby engraft you new; and so onindicating the presence of the Chaucer-
type, where the verb names the act being performed in the uttering.
Sonnet 15 claims a certain pre-eminence here. The nal couplet not only names
the action performed by the whole sonnet in which the Chaucer-type phrase is
embedded; it names the action performed by the whole sequence in which this one
sonnet is embedded:
When I consider every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment;
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows,
Whereon the stars in secret inuence comment;
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheerd and checked even by the selfsame sky,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory;
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful time debateth with decay
To change your day of youth to sullied night,
And, all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.
1.2.5; 3.1.53; Merry Wives of Windsor 3.3.34; The Taming of the Shrew 4.5.25; 5.2.1312. But we
must set these uses aside, as requiring their own full treatment.
4 Bruce Smith puts the rst person in its proper place, as one among the whole variety of indexical
expressions deployed in the Sonnets; see I, you, he, she, and we: on the sexual politics of Shakespeares
Sonnets (1999, pp. 41129). Since I remain focused on the Chaucer-type, which uses one indexical
alone, I cannot pursue that course here. But this is one of several respects in which the present study
simply makes a start; to get a full sense of the role played by the rst person in Chaucer-type utterances
in the Sonnets, it would be necessary to give equal attention to the role of other indexical expressions.
Saying When I consider every thing that grows is not necessarily to engage in that
reectionbut it is, nevertheless, to consider that considering. Similarly, saying
When I perceive that men as plants increase is not necessarily to exercise that
capacity for judgementbut it is, nevertheless, to reect on that perceiving, and
hence, in an accepted sense, to perceive that perceiving.
Thus much of what is true of the Chaucer-type holds in both these cases. What
the speaker does in uttering these phrases is essentially what he names in his
uttering. It is just that the considering and perceiving which are done are not
identical to the considering and perceiving which are named: in each case, the
former encompasses the latter, makes it its object and reects on it.
It is by appreciating this play with the Chaucer-typethis conceit of an
inconstant staythat we open the way to the larger design of the sonnet. For the
possibilities of exactly these moves, made at the launch of the rst and second
quatrains, are those by which the poem stakes its claims in the nal couplet, with its
use of the Chaucer-type: I engraft you new.
The idea is that, just as a young shoot may be inserted into an established tree,
where the encompassing allows it to ourishjust as one considering may be
inserted into another, one perceiving into another, as objects of fruitful reection
so this poem encompasses the addressee, makes him its object, and offers reections
which will enable him to ourish.5
This in turn recalls the design of the internal sequence into which this sonnet ts:
to encourage the addressee to marry and have children.6 Hence the closing phrase
I engraft you newis ambiguous, where both senses are of the Chaucer-type. The
gardening sense is perhaps uppermost because prepared for in preceding sonnets
engraft meaning to encompass in something growing, ourishing; to graft one
thing onto another. The other sense, which works by appeal to engrave, is a writing
or a printing sense: engraft meaning to encompass in something written.
It may seem that the ambiguity is the occasion of inner strife.7 (Here, as so often,
the metaphorical richness of Shakespeare is an incitement to argument.8) That is: it
5 The metaphor may also be a hawking one: a falconer might engraft new feathers onto the wing of a
trained hawk, either to repair damage or to improve capacity for ight. The standard term for this is
imping (the word Robert Southwell uses when adopting the hawking metaphor to justify publication of
his prose work Mary Magdalens Funeral Tears: he expresses his anxiety about corrupt versions of the book
as the fear that someone might have imped it in some sick and sorry feathers of his own fancies; To the
reader, The Prose Works of Robert Southwell, 1828, p. viii). The hawking metaphor would be something of
a counterpoise to previous sonnets and the overall idea, of course, since that which is here engrafted onto
something growing and ourishing does not itself thereby grow and ourish. There is something of the
grave here (see comments later in this chapter): a thing that is no longer ourishing encompassed in that
which is (see further Stephen Greenblatt, Hamlet in Purgatory, 2001, p. 313, note 1). The whole complex
of ideas and associations is rich enough for further teasing out; Sonnet 37, discussed here, reverses the
direction of empowerment (from addressee to speaker): I make my love engrafted to this store.
6 Erasmus Epistle to persuade a young man to marriage, to which Shakespeare was indebted, used
the grafting analogy; see Shakespeare p. 382.

7 Thus belonging to the latter and more troublesome end of William Empsons spectrum: the
contradictory (sixth type) or full contradiction (seventh type); Seven Types of Ambiguity (1963,
pp. 20770).
8 So I do not entirely understand why Christopher Ricks should think such richness, in a similar
case, defeats all argument; Miltons Grand Style (1963, p. 48).

may seem that the gardening sense is counter-posed to the writing-printing sense, so
that the reader is forced either to choose one over the other sense or to convict the
author of a divided mind. But we might also borrow from the metaphor itself to
transcend this conict, forming a higher union out of the two senses by seeing how
one might be engrafted in the other: it is precisely in being encompassed in
something that is written-printed (this poem) that the addressee is grafted onto
that which will encourage it to grow, to ourish.9
This unifying end in the Chaucer-type works its resolution because of the way
the poem begins, When I consider . . . , and then continues When I perceive . . . ,
phrases that carefully hold apart the considering and perceiving which are done and
the considering and the perceiving which are named, strands which the economy of
engrafting then draws together at the close. Hence the action performed by the
phrase that is of the Chaucer-type is dependent at depth on the work set in motion
by phrases that are not of the Chaucer-type. Shakespeare uses phrases that lack this
form to enrich and inform those that do possess it.
III
Determining which rst-person utterances are of the Chaucer-type is not always
simple. The disjunction in Sonnet 14 complicates matters, for example. Moreover,
the Sonnets contain many playful instances, where the form of the phrase-type is
present but not quite the effect, or where the effect is present but not quite the
form, as in Sonnet 15.
This playfulness cultivates uncertainty, hesitation, instability. Is this an instance
of the Chaucer-type or not? Is the named act being performed here or is it not? But
it is an uncertainty that has deeper roots, in the speaker himself. And here we may
spot an analogue of that divergence in dramatic soliloquy on which Shakespeare
played so much, between words spoken by a character, expressing their state of
mind, and words merely passing through the mind of a character.10 Shakespeare
often portrays him as plunged into seemingly bottomless uncertainty about
whether he is actually performing the acts he appears to be performing. And
instead of seeking assurance from others, he connes himself within the ow of
9 Notwithstanding the memento mori, that the movement from engraft to engrave evokes the
tomb: to encompass a person in something written is to encompass them for eternity. I engraft you
new may mean both I hereby engrave you new and in here I grave you new. Shakespeare was fond of
generating ambiguities of this sort with the en- prex; his dealings with ensconce in Sonnet 49 are an
example which we shall examine. He was also fond of using it to evoke a gruesome liveliness about
grave matters, as in Sonnet 86: That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse, where the conceit
causes ripe to mature within the closeness of the phrase from sign of health to mark of rottenness.
Similarly, Robert Southwell in his description of Mary Magdalen: neither would she turn her thoughts
to pasture in a dead mans tomb. Mary Magdalens Funeral Tears in The Prose Works of Robert Southwell
(1828, pp. 1184; p. 24).
10 James Hirsch distinguishes these two varieties from the more familiar third, where the character
is fully aware of playgoers and addresses them directly; see Shakespeare and the History of Soliloquies
(2003).
self-consciousnessthus anticipating the peculiar character of the Cartesian medi-

tator: trying to provide for the content of thought about himself as a performing
agent, a persisting self, from within the rst-personal perspective alone, by increas-
ingly frantic reection on his own reections.11 This raises epistemic issues that
pursue and complicate those to which Stanley Cavell draws attention. Cavell
famously nds anticipation of Cartesian scepticism in Shakespeare, but in the
plays only, and it is a scepticism about the external world and other minds.12
What we nd with the Chaucer-type is anticipation of Cartesian scepticism in the
Sonnets, and it is a scepticism about the self.
Shakespeares play with the Chaucer-type explores the condition of such a person
in all its roundness. It is not as relentlessly dire as philosophers like to have us
believe. The speaker plumbs the sense of failure and weakness, of anxiety and
depression at the lack of assurance available when conned to ones rst-personal
perspective, but he also rises to a sense of elation at occasional victories, at
discovering within oneself the resources for self-condence, regained assurance.13
Sonnet 79 helps redress matters in this way:
Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace,
But now my gracious numbers are decayed,
And my sick Muse doth give another place.
I grant (sweet love) thy lovely argument
Deserves the travail of a worthier pen,
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent
He robs thee of, and pays it thee again.
He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word
From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give
And found it in thy cheek; he can afford
No praise to thee but what in thee doth live.
Then thank him not for that which he doth say,
Since what he owes thee, thou thyself dost pay.
11 This is the peculiarly Cartesian approach; it arises when, as Kant memorably put it, one treats
reection on ones own thoughts as the sole text from which to develop ones entire wisdom; Critique
of Pure Reason A243/B401. Eliot noted this self-consciousness which had not been in the world before
(a new world coming into existence inside our own mind; The revolution is immense), and though
he professed himself unqualied to expose in detail how the change came about, was himself prepared
to posit that it pre-dated Descartes, an instance of a general claim: the state of mind appropriate to the
development of a new science comes into existence before the science itself ; The Varieties of
Metaphysical Poetry (1993, pp. 2612). For a guarded and possibly deating approach to related
themes (there are as many denitions of solipsism as there are individuals who wish to waste time over
a self-inicted task, p. 414), see Geoffrey Hill, Tacit pledges (2008, pp. 40723).
12 See Cavell, Disowning Knowledge, Introduction (1987, pp. 137).
13 There is undoubtedly in this also that struggle to transmute his personal and private agonies into
something rich and strange, something universal and impersonal which Eliot thought alone
constitutes life for a poet; Shakespeare and the stoicism of Seneca, Elizabethan Essays (1934,
p. 49). For enlivening commentary on Eliots changing attitudes towards the thoughts composing
this important essay, see Christopher Ricks, Decisions and Revisions in T. S. Eliot (2003, pp. 1119).
The sonnet has considerably more vim than critics recognize.14 But we need to
attend to the Chaucer-type to see this.
The sonnet triangulates and is part of a particular group that does so (Sonnets
7886). The speaker continues to celebrate the fair youthi.e. the fair friend
(104), lovely boy (126), man right fair (144)who has been the subject since
the rst sonnet, but he does so in and by discussing another poet who has also
celebrated him. This gives resonance to a clear instance of the Chaucer-type: I
grant, sweet love . . . . The operative phrase, I grant, might be mistaken at rst for
a clearing of the throat. It gradually acquires signicance since it names the
particular type of action which the speaker associates with the fair youthas he
will say in Sonnet 87:
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting,
And for that riches where is my deserving?
Moreover, the speaker implies that granting is an act that the rival is incapable of
performing: he robs and pays, only lends what he steals, and only gives what is
already to be found. Indeed, granting is an act that the rival is incapable of having
performed on him: the fair youths free giving becomes, for him, a paying.
In naming the act of granting, the speaker performs it, and thereby claims
associationin this case excluding associationwith the youth. This granting is
done in the sight of the rival, or at least done while acknowledging that the youth is
in the sight of that interested party, thus consciously drawing the youths attention
to this fact, perhaps in awareness that the youth already has that other in his sights,
perhaps advertising his awareness of that awareness.
Katherine Duncan-Jones thinks the sonnet displays the chop-logic of Shakespeares
jesters when they seek to displace rival aspirants to favour.15 But the efforts are
subtler than this implies, and also more serious, sincere, candid. The surface-point
may be this: that no praise or thanks need be extended to the other poet, since
whatever value his work has derives entirely from the value of the fair youth. But, as
in all triangulations, we can take any two points as a base and ask what their relation
tells us about the third. This means that here we canand can feel invited totake
the youth and the other poet as our base points and ask what the poem implies
about the speaker. Is it true of the speakers work alsowhich crucially includes this
very sonnet, of course? Does its value derive entirely from the value of the fair
youth, so that no praise or thanks need be extended to the speaker?
It is the Chaucer-type which enframes this question. What exactly is being
granted here; what should, or could be granted? What opportunity does the speaker
have, now that he has a rival? What is he capable of granting, now that his Muse is
sick? What is it possible for him to grant, consistently with his integrity, the self-
possession we hear in his tone, so that the granting retains its value?
14 Don Paterson calls it A bleak, plain and forlorn little poem; Reading Shakespeares Sonnets (2010,
p. 227).
15 Katherine Duncan-Jones, Shakespeares Sonnets (2010a, p. 268).
Touchy matters, of course, given that the speaker is dealing in the same coin as
his rival. To compare himself favourably with the other poet without diminishing
the object of their joint attentionby implying that the youth might be susceptible
to mere attery, for example, of the sort the rival may providerequires a particular
strategy, one that maintains distance from one point of the triangle (the other
poet) without undermining the particular relationship between the speaker and the
other point (the fair youth).
Certainly the speaker is keen to decry his own present efforts (my gracious
numbers are decayed; my sick Muse). But he does so in a way that implies it was
not ever so. And the placing of the repeated alone at the same metrical point in the
rst two lines gives subtle preparation for this contrast. Whilst I alone . . . com-
pounds two ideas: that the speaker was alone, solitary, and that he was the only one
who acted in a certain way.
The repeated placing suggests that My verse alone . . . is a similar compound:
the speakers verse, when set apart from all other verse; the speakers verse was the
only verse which possessed a certain property. And the conjunction of these
compounds hints at several underlying thoughts. At the surface: whatever value
(grace) the speakers past efforts have was derived from their subject, the fair
youth, alone. Beneath: there would have been no such efforts if the speaker had not
been alone, solitary, distant from the youth also, and calling on his aid; there will be
no such value, now that these verses are no longer unique. And lower still, a hint:
that My verse alone had all thy gentle grace may reverse the surface thought:
whatever value (grace) the fair youth has, it was derived from this verse alone. We
are to consider this, perhapsnoting as we do that it is not impossible for both to
be true: it would be a reciprocal arrangement between speaker and fair youth, and
exclusive also, one that would oust the rival poet most satisfactorily, thus serving the
general economy.
The But now of line 3 exerts a pressure conveyed by these underlying thoughts,
once they are set going; we expect an equally complex contradiction. In the past,
the speakers efforts were forced in solitude; in the past, the speakers efforts derived
their value entirely from the value of the fair youth. Now, neither speaker nor verse
are alone, solitary; they are joined by the rival and his work. Now, the speakers
efforts may be somewhat independent of the fair youth. All the poorer and more
decayed for that, no doubt. But the Chaucer-type performs the key act here. It
isnowthe speaker who is in a position to grant something, and hence to
perform the fair youths proper and identifying role, in however modest a way.
And is the performance so very modest? The sonnet would not be describing the
contrast we feel it is describing with the work of the rival poet, whose value we are
constantly told does depend on the fair youth alone, if it were not implied that this
current work contains value from another source: from the speaker himself,
independently.16 Indeed, we are almost compelled to assume this, if we think
16 So the moment and movement here bear relation with that of askesis in Harold Blooms
description of the strong post-Enlightenment poet, for whom such surrender is one aspect of a
successful defence against the anxiety of inuence; The Anxiety of Inuence (1973, p. 121). The
that the value of this poem resides partly in its reectiveness, its invitation to ask
from where its own value derives. For that invitation is extended by the speaker
alone, and is thus at least one value derived independently of the fair youth.
Sonnet 131 also contributes to this roundedness of Shakespeares portrayal of the
sceptical situation. It raises the issue of what it is to be sure and loses it again in a
dizzying pattern of success and failure, all of which turn on the speakers play with
the Chaucer-type:
Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel,
For well thou knowst to my dear doting heart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
Yet in good faith some say, that thee behold,
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan;
To say they err I dare not be so bold,
Although I swear it to myself alone.
And to be sure that is not false I swear
A thousand groans but thinking on thy face
One on anothers neck do witness bear
Thy black is fairest in my judgements place.
In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,
And thence this slander as I think proceeds.
The speaker rst does something, though professing to lack the assurance to do it;
then fails to do something, though giving the impression of possessing the assur-
ance; then turns that failure to his advantage, and achieves what evidently he always
had it in mind to achieve.
Start with the rst use of the rst person in the nominative: To say they err
I dare not be so bold. The speaker succeeds in sayinghow could he not?what
he claims to dare not say, in the very act of claiming to dare not say it. This is a
familiar trick. But what is made to matter is that the speaker holds this true: that
they err (in denying that the addressee has a face with the power to make love
groan). And whether he is trying to assure himself of this, or his addressee, he is
confronted by a string of failures.
That he holds this true is something that he swears to himself alone, but not,
and this turns out to be the point, in the very saying of it. For the form I swear
occurs in a larger construction (Although . . . ) which implies distance. Swearing to
this is something he does, or would do, but not precisely here.
The reason why the speaker abstains from an utterance of the Chaucer-type
becomes clear as he continues: a lack of the assurance required, or at least a play at
lacking that assurance. In order to be sure, he feels the need to swear to his own
swearing. But if the one self-swearing is no good, then nor can the other be, and the
strong poet-speaker pursues internalization as a way of separation, of estrangement from all

precursors [and] their worlds, but then experiences an involuntary shock at his own expansiveness
and posits a new kind of reduction in the poetic self while continuing to diminish the realities of
other selves and all that is external (pp. 1201).
strategy looks desperate. The turn to another form of witness, thinking on thy
face, looks more frantic still, since it is precisely that face which is in question.
So it turns out that there is nothing stronger than assertion here: that this face
does indeed have the power concerned. And what is odd, revealingly so, is that the
speaker thought, or pretended to think, that assertion was insufcient, not strong
enough to convince the addressee (or himself, perhaps?). The search for other forms
of assurance weakens what is in his power to assert and diminishes what assertion
might achieve.
This catch prompts desperation and can be used to comical or tragic effect. At
other times, in other contexts, it might have been both. But here it turns out to
be neither: the nal couplet sees to that. The voiding of assurance, in avoiding the
Chaucer-type, is strictly limited, contained, part of the speakers design. This is the
best that can be done in pleading the case; and look at where it would get us; but
we can leave all this to the side, because the charge that should be levelled is so
much worse.
IV
That is a rst pass over the Sonnets. We shall return for a second go in what follows,
looking more closely at more poems in the sequence. But let us pause for breath.
Analytic philosophers are often accused of packing and re-packing their bags for
journeys they never actually take, so I have tried to get immediately underway. But
there is a time for questions, for checking what is packed in the bags we are
journeying with. What is the idea behind all this?
One aspect will have been clear from the outset: the attempt to do some literary
criticism. Recognizing the dramatic salience of the Chaucer-type has the power to
develop and change the way we see the Sonnets, both individual poems and the
sequence as a whole. It recongures elements, sharpens attentiveness, unlocks
principles of composition. Of course, we have only touched on the surface so far.
To study the role that the Chaucer-type plays in the sequence as a whole, we should
have to add (i) the 31 sonnets in which such instances of this phrase-type play a
signicant role to (ii) the 40-odd further sonnets in which slight variants dominate,
and then consider (iii) the sonnets with strong thematic or linguistic connections to
these instances, which together produce a network of signication that connects up
all 154 sonnets, many times over.
A second aspect will have been becoming steadily clearer: the attempt to do some
philosophy. In exploring the use made of the Chaucer-type, we have been entering
into various areas of philosophy. The most obvious area, perhaps, is philosophy of
languageunderstanding what this phrase-type is, what its dimensions are, what is
at issue when there is ambiguity about whether a phrase is of this type. But a second
area we have been entering into is philosophy of actionunderstanding what uses
this phrase-type has, what effects it can achieve and how it achieves them, what
kinds of action it can perform, what is at issue when there is ambiguity about
whether the act named has in fact been performed. And we have also been entering
into the areas of metaphysics and epistemologyunderstanding the ways that

Shakespeare anticipates the plight of the peculiarly Cartesian sceptic, for example.
A third aspect is more shadowy, but I hope perceptible once remarked on: the
attempt to attune the appreciation of poetry to the doing of philosophy, instead of
treating them as disconnected, if parallel, means of inquiry. There are occasions
where we must really do literary criticism in doing philosophy, and where we must
really do philosophy in doing literary criticism. We have been observing one such
occasion: where the leading role that Shakespeare gives the Chaucer-type requires a
form of literary criticism that both invokes philosophy and informs it. When
William Empson notes that the Elizabethans were trained to use lines that went
both ways, he encourages a useful method of doubt.17 Indeed, there need be no
great depth of meaning to the devices that allow for this or for any other effect in
the Sonnets. One has to argue case by case. And the combination of literary
criticism and philosophy is particularly useful for doing that, as I hope to show.
It is to practise such attunement that I have chosen to concentrate on well-
known, whole poems from a single sequence by a single poet. Focusing on whole
poems enables us to be attentive to harmony and balance, showing how utterances
of the type that interest usthose naming the act that uttering them performst
into broader patterns and serve developing purposes. Focusing on poems that are
well known and much studied makes it possible to appreciate what is fresh about
the attuned approach, by contrast with alternative readings. Finally, focusing on
poems from a single sequence by a single poet enables us to go sufciently deeply
into both the philosophical and the literary critical issues to enable each to continue
invoking and informing the other over the long stretch.
Martha Nussbaum has laid down three requirements for a philosophical study of
Shakespeare if it is to make any contribution worth caring about.18 We have
already discussed the rst two: that the inquiry must really do philosophy and must
really do literary criticism. The third is that the inquiry must explain why philo-
sophers need literary texts, what they supply that straightforward philosophical
prose does not, why the philosopher must care. I hope that philosophers feel
our reections on the Sonnets reections on scepticism about the self are worth
caring about. There is much here that ordinary philosophical prose nds it difcult
or impossible to conveya sufciently rich sense of what is at stake if we conne
ourselves within the ow of consciousness, for examplewhich the Sonnets
present in a peculiarly rich way. As we continue, we shall reveal other uses: for
example, that there is a real prospect of improving our philosophy of language
analysis of this phrase-type if we use the Sonnets to appreciate what it is for, what
uses it has. This is a crucial issue but almost wholly ignored since Austin drew
attention to the phrase-type as a sub-class of explicit performatives. A limited diet
of articial, unstructured, and context-less examples has condemned debate to the
worst combination: of too fervent a faith in too restricted a set of options. What the
Sonnets offer is a reective study of the astonishing variety of this phrase-type.
17 Seven Types of Ambiguity (1963, p. 73).

18 Stages of thought, The New Republic, May 2008.
That exhausts Nussbaums requirements, but we ought to add a fourth, lest

philosophers be accused of arrogance: assuming that they need not justify them-
selves. A worthwhile study must explain why Shakespeare needs philosophers, what
they supply that straightforward literary criticism does not, why the critic must
care about philosophy. I hope that literary critics will nd our reections on
Shakespeares use of the phrase-type worth caring about. Sometimes we are able
to give a reason to revise a critics view of a sonnetSonnet 79 is not forlorn, and
nor does it deal in chop-logic.19 Sometimes we are able to give a reasoned
explanation for the impression that a critic was only able to register and record
Helen Vendler splendidly sees that Sonnet 30 takes pains to construct a speaker
possessing a multi-layered self, receding through panels of time,20 but she does not
demonstrate how and why this is so. These are isolated cases, dependent on the
context provided by individual sonnets alone. As we continue, we will see how
attunement enables us to revise our view of the sequence as a whole and to give
reasoned explanations for what we already perceive.
For our second pass over the Sonnets, philosophical concerns will direct our
interest in the leading role that Shakespeare gives the Chaucer-type. The principal
philosophical tasks are those we have already named under philosophy of language
and philosophy of action: in summary form, understanding what the Chaucer-
type is and what uses it has. And the principal philosophical method is one we have
already employed: to break these tasks down by considering each in relation to the
four essential and dening features of the Chaucer-type (see Chapter 10):
Doing: In uttering the relevant sentence, the speaker does something (beyond the
uttering).
Phrasing: The sentence uttered contains a sentential clause consisting of a subject
term (the rst-person pronoun in the nominative) concatenated with a verb of
doing (rst-person singular, present tense, indicative mood, active voice) com-
bined with an explicit or implicit hereby or its equivalent.
Naming: The verb in the sentential clause is a word for what the speaker does in
uttering the sentence.
Securing: The act named by the verb in the sentential clause is assuredly
performed in uttering the sentence.
Doing is a general feature and best approached after we have distinguished the
particular features. So we shall begin with Phrasing, Naming, and Securing. They
call for close reading, but it is appropriate to make the coverage broad, demon-
strating the range and variety of the philosophy that is invoked and informed. This
will equip us for deeper literary criticism. Thus when we arrive at Doing, we shall be
able to explore the feature by offering lengthy analyses of two sonnets (Sonnets 49
and 85).
19 Don Paterson calls it forlorn; Reading Shakespeares Sonnets (2010, p. 227). Katherine Duncan-
Jones says it deals in chop-logic; Shakespeares Sonnets (2010a, p. 268).

20 The Art of Shakespeares Sonnets (1997, p. 165).
13
Phrasing
I
Utterances that employ the Chaucer-type in what we may describe as its pure or
austere form do so in conformity with Phrasing:
Phrasing: The sentence uttered contains a sentential clause consisting of a subject term
(the rst-person pronoun in the nominative) concatenated with a verb of doing (rst-
person singular, present tense, indicative mood, active voice) combined with an
explicit or implicit hereby or its equivalent.
But when Shakespeare assembles these materials, he often augments or reduces the
sentential clause so that it shies away from this form. Rather than articulate what
the speaker who utters the clause is doing thereby, he describes or depicts some-
thing else instead, which need not even be particularly closely related.
The effects Shakespeare achieves in abstaining from the Chaucer-type in austere
form, or knowingly compromising it, reveal much about its nature and role. We
will use what we glean to help shed light in turn on particular sonnets and on the
Chaucer-type, what it is and what uses it has. The most striking uses and effects, as
we shall see, concern communicative strategy and its relation to action.
Some of these strategies are simple enough: to prepare for and mark out instances
of the Chaucer-type by using clauses whose quirks of phrasing deprive them of the
austere form; to express delicacy, a recognition that the austere form can seem too
large a gesture.
Some strategies are more complex. Of these, the most notable are associated with
a variety of distancing effects; in particular, the distancing of the act named in a
particular sentence from the act performed in uttering it, and again the distancing
of the act performed in uttering it from the act performed in reecting on it.
Some strategies are artful, perhaps. That same awkwardness in the phrasing,
which deprives a sentence of the austere form, may be used to represent an
awkwardness in the thought itself. This establishes the speakers veracity, or at
least his desire to appear truthful.
Finally, some strategies are darker, more sinister. On occasion, the speaker
compromises Phrasing so as to conceal the acts he does perform, where the intent
is in question.
II
When can be added to any phrase that might otherwise be of austere form
(Chaucers I direct, for example), thus converting it into one whose uttering
need not perform the act named by the verb. (When I direct . . . is not necessarily
to direct anything at all.1) While and whilst are similar.2 Such clauses usually
have a distancing effect, and this seems to be the common intention in the Sonnets:
to open a gap between the action named and the action performed. But the
distancing effect need not be great, since the action named may be very intimately
related to an action that is performed. Certainly the distancing need not undermine
the performance, since the latter may depend on the former.3
When . . . often occurs in partnership with . . . then in the Sonnets. And
then is also a favoured means of augmenting a phrase that might otherwise be
of austere form.4 Here too, what is distancing about the added word may work to
close the gap between the act named and the act performed, making the one
dependent on the other.
Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;
Till then, not show my head where thou mayst prove me.
This nal couplet of Sonnet 26 sits oddly with what has gone before, since it seems
to announce postponement of the very act which the speaker has just performed, in
this very poem: declaring the speakers love for the addressee in a way that it is fully
open for him to perceive (he calls him Lord of my love) and in a manner that
claims for itself the somewhat strutting display essential to a boast (he calls the
poem this written ambassage).5
1 This is one of the more frequent means employed by the Sonnets to augment a sentential clause
that might otherwise be of austere form. For example, Sonnet 12, When I do count the clock that tells
the time; Sonnet 15, When I consider every thing that grows; Sonnet 22, when in thee times
furrows I behold; Sonnet 29, When in disgrace with Fortune and mens eyes | I all alone beweep my
outcast state; Sonnet 30, When to the sessions of sweet silent thought | I summon up remembrance of
things past; Sonnet 43, When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see; Sonnet 51, when from thee
I speed; Sonnet 106, When in the chronicle of wasted time | I see descriptions of the fairest wights.
2 For example, Sonnet 57, Whilst I (my sovereign) watch the clock for you.
3 Sonnet 15 illustrates this, as we have already seen. The phrases When I consider . . . and When
I perceive . . . hold apart the considering and perceiving which are done and the considering and the
perceiving which are named, but the distances thus created are closed by an economy of encompassing
which is made explicit by the austere Chaucer-type at the close: I engraft you new.
4 Sonnet 12 is grounded in this construction, the rst two quatrains set up the antecedent (When
I do count . . . ; When I behold . . . ) and the third introduces the consequent (Then of thy beauty do
I question make), which is carried by conjunction through the nal couplet to the close (And die as
fast . . . ; And nothing gainst Times scythe can make defence). Other examples include Sonnet 26,
Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee; Sonnet 28, How can I then return in happy plight, |
That am debarred the benet of rest; Sonnet 29, then I scorn to change my state with kings; Sonnet
30, Then can I drown an eye (unused to ow); Then can I grieve at grievances fore-gone.
5 On the theme itself, awareness of the nature of love, C. F Williamsons sensible comment guards
against familiar sorts of excess in interpretation of the Sonnets: Here the printed order of individual
sonnets is not of crucial importance. It is possible, even probable, that Shakespeares understanding of
the nature of love did not move steadily forward; what was seen clearly on one occasion may have been
Phrasing 187
This is tact perhaps, of the exquisite sort that nds the means to praise without
arousing discomfort in the subject. The fond trick here lies in this: that the act
named should be exactly the act performed, but performed not in the naming but
in the apparent postponing. The transparency of action of the Chaucer-type in its
austere form would ill-bet such tact; hence another reason to abstain from using it,
whilst coming as close as possible to what it achieves.
Shakespeare sometimes sets a phrase that might otherwise have been of austere
form in a conditional structure.6 Sonnet 30 is an interestingly odd example, a
particular complex of mind which is enlightening about the plight of the peculiarly
Cartesian sceptic, and for which a jumble in the syntax prepares us:
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear times waste;
Then can I drown an eye (unused to ow)
For precious friends hid in deaths dateless night,
And weep afresh loves long-since-cancelled woe,
And moan thexpense of many a vanished sight;
Then can I grieve at grievances fore-gone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell oer
The sad account of fore-bemoand moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee (dear friend)
All losses are restored, and sorrows end.
Critics treat the nal couplet with disdain, but it is quite wrong to do so.7 It plays
an essential role in the economy of the whole poem, which we perceive once
we start reading the Sonnets in a way that is attentive to their play with the
Chaucer-type.
The nal clause But if the while . . . is hard to parse. At rst glance, it is a simple
conditional, the if . . . -antecedent combined with a then . . . -consequent, where
the word then itself is omitted and the idea assumed. If so, we have two sentences,
nicely articulated in relation to each other by the device of a logical connective: If
[I think on thee, dear friend] then [all losses are restored and sorrows end]. But the
addition of the while seems to put paid to this interpretation, rendering the
conditional construction unnecessary, impossible even. Instead of two articulated
sentences, we now have just one: [While I think on thee, dear friend, all losses are
restored and sorrows end]. This alters the nature of the thought. Indeed, the two
possibilities are sufciently differentBut if I think on thee, then . . . ; But while
clouded on another, certainty may have given way to doubt, and doubt again to certainty. Themes
and patterns in Shakespeares Sonnets (1977, pp. 23047).
6 Examples include Sonnet 30, But if the while I think on thee (dear friend); Sonnet 42, If I lose
thee, my loss is my loves gain.

7 Philip Martin is (head-)masterly: the couplet lets the whole sonnet down; there is a drop in
quality of thought; Shakespeares Sonnets: Self, Love and Art (1972, pp. 1056). Don Paterson calls it
tacked on, facile; Reading Shakespeares Sonnets (2010, p. 92).
I think on thee . . . that it is difcult to see how one could even superimpose
them, as the syntax seems to require.
Is there some reason for this discomfort, some complexity in the thought to
match this complexity of logical meaning? In preparing to answer this question, it
helps to recognize that the I think is not of the Chaucer-type, whichever reading
we regard as dominant: If I think . . . , While I think . . . . No question but that
the speakers uttering is a thinking on the dear friend. But the couplet neatly makes
the point without making it its point, a distinction-with-a-difference for which use
of the Chaucer-type would not allow. The distancing effect of the if the while
clause opens up a gap between the poem as a whole, which is a thinking on the
friend, and the nal couplet, which is a reection on that reection, a thinking on
the activity which is a thinking on the friend.
This gap turns out to be quite essential to the integrity of the poem (meaning
here its unity) and to the integrity of the speaker responsible for the utterances
which compose the poem (meaning here his standing by what he says). For the
combination of the nal couplet and the poem as a whole seems to set a ghastly
trap. If the poem is a thinking on the dear friend, it is a very sad thinking; yet how
could this be so if to think in this way is to end sorrows? Either the poem is a sad
thinking on the friend, in which case the nal couplet is false, and this poem its
counter-example; or the poem is not what the speaker is really thinking, in which
case its claim to being so is false. Either way, the poem could not describe a unity,
and the speaker could not be standing by what he saysso both lack integrity.
If this trap may be avoided, it is the gap opened up by the if the while clause
which makes this possible. For we may plausibly interpret the poem as indeed a
thinking on the dear friend. But we may be equally impressed by the idea that this is
only disclosed to the speaker in reecting on his thinking. What he immediately takes
himself to be thinking about are unspecic harms (old woes, grievances fore-
gone) and unspecied goods (things past, the lack of many a thing I sought,
precious friends hid in deaths dateless night, many a vanished sight).
On this interpretation, the fact that it is the dear friend of whom he is thinking is
a recognition that comes to the speaker with reection and a new thought in the
nal couplet, one that he evidently hopes will put equal claims on the attention of
the addressee: that losses are restored and sorrows end the while I think on thee.
This unites the poem, and enables the speaker to stand by the truth of all that
he says.
To accomplish this is quite an achievement. Even better to do it with silent grace,
so that the point, once appreciated, simply clicks into place. There is awkwardness,
though, in the telling of it; hence the discomforting if the while. This does not
matter to the basic aim: whichever construction we put upon the clause (If
I think . . . ; While I think . . . ), the necessary manoeuvre is effected. But it reveals
something of interest which may be more psychologically convincing than any
blank stating of the necessary resolution: that the speaker experiences difculty in
effecting this manoeuvre, and that what tenses his thought cannot but make itself
felt in intensities of expression. This would give, and make good, the reason for
discomfort here. Complexities of thought and logical meaning match.
Phrasing 189
Hence the sonnet sharpens our sense for the austere form by giving further
attention to its limits and limitations. Essential to the speakers manoeuvre is the
fact that what one thinks is not always immediately transparent to one. The if the
while clause allows the poem to portray and exploit this fact. A Chaucer-type
phrase in its austere form could not do so, being restricted to the portrayal and
exploitation of what is immediate and transparent. Had such a phrase been used,
the possibility on which the integrity of poem and speaker depend would not even
have come into view: that of a gap, available to be crossed by acts of recognition,
between the speakers thinking and his reection on his thinking. Such complex
acts of recognition, dependent on awareness of the gap to be crossed, are forms of
action expressible in poetry, expressed indeed in this sonnet, but precisely not by
phrases of the Chaucer-type in its austere form.
III
There are two straightforward ways to place a phrase that might otherwise be of
Chaucer-type so that it must lack the austere form. One is to employ it in an
interrogative construction.8 The other way is to place it in a negative construction.9
But when Shakespeare uses such constructions, there are very often further reasons
to deny that the phrase is in austere form. One reason is that the verb is future.10
Another reason is that the verb is modal.11 A modal construction is sufcient to
deprive a phrase of the austere form: to utter it is not necessarily to act in the way
named, but to record a certain attitude towards that action and the way in which it
stands towards one: as a certain sort of possibility, for example, or as a certain sort of
necessity. Thus to utter, as in Sonnet 44, I must attend times leisure with my
moan is not to act in the way named but to record ones recognition of an
obligation to act in that way.
There are subtler ways to deprive a phrase of the austere form. Sonnet 88 is an
example:
When thou shalt be disposed to set me light,
And place my merit in the eye of scorn,
Upon thy side against myself Ill ght,
And prove thee virtuous, though thou art foresworn.
With mine own weakness being best acquainted,
8 Sonnet 87 is an example: For how do I hold thee but by thy granting, | And for that riches where
is my deserving? Also Sonnet 76: Why write I still all one, ever the same, | And keep invention in a
noted weed . . . ? Invention is a repeated theme in the Sonnets (see Sonnets 38, 59, 76, 103) and is
just one of the points where inquiry into the Chaucer-type intersects with inquiry into Shakespeares
rhetorical techniques; see Quentin Skinner, Forensic Shakespeare (2014, pp. 46; 1316; 347).
9 Sonnet 14: Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck.
10 This holds for Sonnet 18, Shall I compare thee to a summers day?; also Sonnet 21, I will not
praise, that purpose not to sell.

11 Sonnet 14, Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell; Sonnet 36, I may not evermore acknowledge
thee; Sonnet 39, O, how thy worth with manners may I sing, | When thou art all the better part of
me?; Sonnet 40, I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest.
Upon thy part I can set down a story

Of faults concealed, wherein I am attainted,
That thou in losing me shall win much glory.
And I by this will be a gainer too,
For bending all my loving thoughts on thee:
The injuries that to myself I do,
Doing thee vantage, double vantage me.
Such is my love, to thee I so belong,
That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.
There are circumstances in which one might utter To thee I belong and mean it to
be a phrase of the Chaucer-type in its austere form. In uttering it, one might do
something (perform an act of binding himself to another) where the verb itself is, if
not exactly a word for what one does, then closely associated with such a word, and
where what one does is assured, made certain to have been performed, by that
uttering. But the mere addition of the little word so in these lines wrecks that
possibility: to thee I so belong. And what is striking about this, and strikingly
indicative of something perhaps rather sly about the speaker, is that this is a word of
amplication. The act of binding is forestalled, blocked altogether perhaps, but by
an expression of enthusiasm rather than of doubt. Hence the addressee is neatly
deprivedsoboth of the bond and of the grounds for complaint.
This is not just in keeping with the rather nasty mood of the sonnet, but is the
third and nal use of a tactic used twice earlier in the poem, giving the sonnet its
rhetorical shape. In the rst (lines 34), the speaker calls the addressee foresworn
but deprives that person of the grounds for complaint, hiding behind what though
makes possible: that the nal phrase means even if, let us suppose, you were
foresworn rather than even though, in fact, you are foresworn. In the second
(lines 67), the speaker makes a threat but deprives the addressee of the grounds for
complaint, hiding this time behind what upon thy part makes possible: that the
whole means Taking your side, against myself, I can tell of my faults that I have
concealed rather than Take you: I can tell of your faults that you have concealed.
If the analogue for this tactic is the stiletto thrust, a puncturing whose wounding
is simultaneously a concealing, then it is the last occasion, the play with a phrase of
Chaucer-type and its corresponding form of action (now you see it; now you
dont), which most closely approximates to the neatness and efciency of the
ideal. It is also the most successfully self-concealing.
The rst two occasions leave doubt in the mind, evidence of harm done and an
intention to harm, no matter how the speaker may protest. Indeed, it is necessary
that this should be so, for this is precisely how the speaker harms on these occasions:
by leaving sufcient evidence to open the possibility of other interpretations,
encouraging such possibilities in and by acts of concealment. The third occasion
leaves no such doubt in the mind, and it works its harm precisely by withdrawing
any evidence that might lead one to doubt, closing off the possibility of other
interpretations.
This is not the story of an act revoked, where harm is done by allowing evidence
of an act that may or may not have been performed to linger. This is a story of harm
Phrasing 191
done in revealing that there never was an act to revoke. The logic is correspondingly
cold. This is not an act of binding; the realization that it is not such an act does
harm to the addressee; what prevents it being the act it might otherwise have been
iswho can denythe enthusiasm with which the speaker voices it; hence it is
something whose capacity to harm works interdependently with its capacity to
deprive the addressee of grounds for complaint.12
In effect, the addressee is obliged to connive in concealing the harm. And what is
of wider signicance for present purposes: the resources for this trick depend on yet
another way for a sentence to be notnot quiteof austere form.
12 Ruth Garrett Millikan makes such trickiness a point of focus when exposing perceived failures in
P. F. Strawsons account of convention and its role in relation to speech acts: It is perfectly possible for
a person to use an explicit performative in order to request, entreat, order, or demand a thing that she
does not intend the hearer to accomplish, intending only to distract the hearer, or to embarrass the
hearer, or to trick the hearer into failure or into starting into the designated action, Language:
A Biological Model (2006, p. 145).
14
Naming
I
Utterances that employ the Chaucer-type in its pure or austere form do so in
conformity with Naming:
Naming: The verb in the sentential clause is a word for what the speaker does in
Some verbs can name the very act performed in uttering the sentence that contains
them. Shakespeare employs a high proportion of such verbs in the Sonnets. The
rst in the sequence, for example, contains ten verbs:
From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beautys rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feedst thy lights ame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the worlds fresh ornament,
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
And, tender churl, makst waste in niggarding:
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the worlds due, by the grave and thee.
Two of these verbs are irrelevant here because they are not verbs of doing: die and
decease. The remaining eight verbs are desire, bear, contract, feed, make,
bury, pity, eat. Of these, almost half could be employed in Chaucer-type utter-
ances: they name acts that could be performed in uttering themi.e. we can
construct sentences like I bear witness to his faithfulness, I contract to repair
your gate, I make you my heir. Half of these verbs are of the converse sort:
desiring, feeding, burying, and eating are not acts that one can perform
straightforwardly at leastin uttering the words I desire, I feed, I bury, or I
eat. And one verb is a difcult case: depending on context, it may or may not be
that uttering I pity you is to pity the addressee.
Sonnet 1 is, in these respects, excellently representative of the Sonnets as a whole.
Many of the verbs contained in the sequence are not verbs of doing at all, and hence
ruled out. Of those verbs which are verbs of doing, some could be used for
Chaucer-type utterances and some could not. Of those verbs which could be so
used, some are. And in among them are playful instances which cultivate uncer-
tainty, hesitation, instability. Are they being used in this way? Is the named act
being performed here or is it not?
So we are concerned here with the abstaining from, or knowing compromise of,
Naming. This feature is, in part, a matter of self-reference, since an utterance may
be said to refer to itself when it names the very act which its uttering performs.
Hence we are also concerned here with the abstaining from, or knowing com-
promise of, self-reference.
Shakespeares play with Naming in the Sonnets reveals much about that feature,
which we may use in turn to help elucidate both the Sonnets and the Chaucer-type
itselfwhat it is, what uses it has. Of particular interest, as we shall see, are certain
complexities which characterize uttering and its relation to action.
Some of these complexities turn on the success of relations between uttering and
action. The interest here lies in the pairing of two thoughts: how much may be
achieved in utterance, and how little.
Some of these complexities turn on failure. What focuses the attention here is the
relation between two sorts of action: the kind that uttering may perform, and the
kind that uttering may not perform.
On occasion, these complexities unlock a poem, the path to its meaning made
straighter by asking why this is so: that the speaker assembles the features of the
austere form, but employs a verb that represents kinds of act that uttering may not
perform.
Finally, the play with Naming is intimately connected with the Sonnets ways
with the senses of words; uid in some respects, constrained in others. Determining
whether the act named in a sentential clause has been performed often depends on
the sense attributed to the relevant verb. And giving grounds for doubt about these
mattersprompting hesitation about performanceis often a chief desired effect.
II
To begin with more straightforward cases: occasions where acts named are not
performed in the uttering, though Phrasing is in place, and it is meant to be evident
that the acts named are not performed.1
The play with Naming plays a signicant role in Sonnet 112:
Your love and pity doth th impression ll
Which vulgar scandal stamped upon my brow,
For what care I who calls me well or ill,
So you oer-green my bad, my good allow?
1 Examples include Sonnet 27, Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, Sonnet 61, For thee watch
I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere, and Sonnet 112, In so profound abysm I throw all care.
Naming 195
You are my all the world, and I must strive

To know my shames and praises from your tongue.
None else to me, nor I to none alive,
That my steeled sense or changes right or wrong.
In so profound abysm I throw all care
Of others voices, that my adders sense
To critic and to atterer stoppd are:
Mark how with my neglect I do dispense.
You are so strongly in my purpose bred
That all the world besides me thinks y are dead.
Evidently we are to observe something in the uttering of these words, and to take
what we observe as a demonstration of something else. But what we are to take this
as a demonstration of is in some doubt. The syntax gives us too much: at least the
options of a testament of insulation (mark how I neglect, and thus ignore, what
others say and hear), a self-possessed reproach (mark how I ignore your neglect of
me), and a promise of change (mark how I renounce my neglect of you).2
Hence my adders sense | To critic and to atterer stoppd are seems apt twice
over, and may apply simultaneously in converse directions.3 One way depends on
knowledge of what is proverbial: my adders sense implies that the speakers
sensory apparatus is like that of the deaf snake.4 His ears are stopped to what critic
and atterer have to say. The other way depends on appreciation of the superuity
that syntax gives us: my adders sense implies that what the speaker means is
complex, the product of addition. Those who do not attend carefully enough, being
too eager to agree (atterers) or disagree (critics), have no hope of making sense of
what is said; it is as if their ears were stopped.
Attending carefully, we might settle doubts about what this is a demonstration of
by appeal to what is observed. For what is observed may be of such a sort that it
could demonstrate one thing only. But here the doubt is greater still; and, on this
occasion, because we are given too little. Whatever there is to observe in the
uttering of In so profound abysm I throw all care | Of others voices, it is not
the discarding of these cares.
The sentential clause looks promising. As a candidate Chaucer-type, in conformity
with Phrasing, there may be an act to observe here; one whose performance is named,
for the ease of the observer, in the very uttering of the sentence. But the hopes are
false, of course, since the clause does not satisfy Naming. The act represented by the
verb is not of a kind that one can straightforwardly perform in uttering these words.
There is no throwing in the uttering; no such demonstration to be observed.
This play with the Chaucer-type adds to the senses of the adder. The complex
nal sentence presents now as an announcement of a trick, or a confession of a
2 See Shakespeare p. 604; note on Sonnet 112.

3 Empson has a splendid way with the use of sense in Sonnet 35 (For to thy sensual fault I bring in
sense) which seems apposite here also: the subtle confusion of the word is used for a mood of fretted
and exhausting casuistry; The Structure of Complex Words (1995b, p. 273). Commentary on Sonnet
112 might bolster his purpose there: to show why sense becomes a crux of Measure for Measure.
4 See Psalm 58.
fault. Mark how, in saying mark how, I point towards a purported demonstra-
tion that can in fact be no demonstration at all; mark how my utterances deal in,
dole out, such obstruction, or such neglect.
It matters a good deal, of course, whether the sentence aunts a trick or
acknowledges a fault. If the former, then the meaning goes no deeper; the speaker
is using his contempt for others to draw himself closer to the addressee, essentially
reducing the world to one which contains this pair alone.5 But this option sits oddly
with the nal couplet, which so squarely calls on the fact that others exist (there is a
world besides me), and that much can be known about them; indeed, that it is
possible to know the content of their thoughts (they think y are dead).6
So it is worth considering the alternative: that the nal phrase is the confession of
a fault or failing. There would then be in these lines the expression of a desire not to
succeed at what may once have been the project: to be entirely insulated, neglectful
of what others besides the addressee may say and hear. For there would be no point
to such a confession if the speaker really thought himself, or desired to be, insulated
in this way. And this reading is consistent with the nal couplet. Since it is the
existence of others and the knowledge of what is in their minds that, in part,
explain the desire expressed in these lines, it is no wonder that these lines can, and
do, call robustly on that existence and that knowledge.
What might prompt such a desire? Tracking back in search of an answer, the
description of the profound abysm attracts attention. Perhaps we misread that
phrase when we assume that it represents a separate place into which the speaker
hurls away any concern he might have had for what others say and hear. It is also
possible to understand the phrase as a description of the condition that the speaker
recognizes he is constructing for himself in trying to cast away such concern; an
abysm that counts as profound in part because of the neglect in which his
utterances deal. Then the sense of the nal phrase would deepen: beyond confes-
sion of a failing, and the expression of a desire not to succeed in the project of
insulation, to an extended form of the original promise of change. Mark how
I renounce my neglect of you in renouncing my attempt to be insulated, neglectful
of what others may say and hear.
That would string the nal couplet along a line of thought that takes shape with
the rst phrase quoted. Consider this profound abysm, which I create for myself in
neglect of what others say and hear. It is a space in which even you do not really
exist. For you just become the thing my purpose breeds; and when the world is so
reduced to my creation, then everything in it, besides me, realizes that you have
no life, that you are a dead thing.
5 This option is consistent with Helen Vendlers reading; The Art of Shakespeares Sonnets (1997,
pp. 4735). I am more optimistic about the speaker, whose will to overcome his own quasi-solipsistic
desires seems stronger than she gives him credit for. I do not follow Vendlers alterations to the nal line
(That all the world besides methinks thare dead), though this is not why I prefer an alternative reading.
6 C. S. Lewis reections on the use of the word world are useful here; Studies In Words (1960,
chapter 9), particularly the distinction he draws between those senses which have predominantly to do
with time and those senses which have predominantly to do with space (what he calls World A and
World B respectively).
Naming 197
It is nicely to the point that besides is ambiguous, balanced here between

except for and including. The speaker may prefer to believe that everything in
this world except him must think of the addressee as dead. But he remains equally
accountable to the other opened possibility: that everything including him must
think of the addressee in this way.
This thought is reserved to the nal couplet, a position which gives it a decisive
role, and it is now clear why: because it is the speakers strongest reason of all for
what has come to seem most important of all: the desire not to succeed in the
project of insulation. And what springs this interpretation from within these lines,
when we look back, is the play with Naming. It was that choice of a word for an act
which uttering does not perform which unstops the ears to the adders sense.
III
Play with Naming calls attention to the nature of different types of action, and
particularly to the way that different types modulate relations between uttering
and acting. Some types may clearly be performed in the uttering, and these concern
us now.
When the Sonnets conform to Phrasing and name acts that may clearly be
performed in the utteringwhen the Chaucer-type occurs in austere formthe
focus is on the pairing of two thoughts, tending in opposite directions: how much
uttering may achieve, and how little it may achieve.
Sonnet 14 obscures the form, as we have seen, so that it is with difculty one
recognizes the utterance as the act it is. This helps disguise the telling point: that the
one act the speaker feels capable of performingI prognosticate . . . is so meagre
that he can succeed at it no matter how things turn out.
Sonnet 19 beats a path up to and away from its stark phrase in austere formI
forbidwith an invoking and then echoing series of hard f -sounding words, a
single solid pulse to each line from the third through to the ninth, with a return at
the twelfth:
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lions paws,
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood,
Pluck the keen teeth from the erce tigers jaws,
And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood,
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou eetst,
And do whateer thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
To the wide world and all her fading sweets:
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime,
O carve not with thy hours my loves fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen.
Him in thy course untainted do allow
For beautys pattern to succeeding men.
Yet do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,
My love shall in my verse ever live young.
This fricative-backed display of strength, of what it is possible for the speaker to

achieve with the austere form, gives way to the pleading, O carve not . . . in a tone
more appropriate to the kind of act actually achievable in utterance, and by the next
line, the f . . . -pulse disappears, leaving an aftershock in line 12 (For) and a last
distorted echoing in line 14 (verse), an intimation, perhaps, of what the longed-for
longevityMy love shall in my verse ever live youngmight actually be like.
Suppose we allow that the speakers saying I forbid does indeed succeed in
performing the act thus named (to grant this is evidently to stretch, perhaps beyond
the bounds of sense, what it is within the competence of the speaker to achieve in
relation to Time). Nevertheless, this act falls far short of what the speakers pose
implies: the power to prevent, or at least hinder, the work of Time. Again, the
speakers act in uttering these words is so comparatively paltry that how things
turn out makes no difference to the issue of whether he successfully performed
it. So the sting in antique, that it may also mean antic, has a hint of petulance
about it; the speakers attempt to distract from the dispiriting display of his own
lack of power.7
Beyond this point in the sequence, the speakers use of the Chaucer-type in
austere form becomes studied and careful. He chooses verbs which neither imply
nor even hint at an aspiration to pursue actions beyond his competence.8 Towards
the end of the sequence, the speaker carries the meagreness of his uttering powers
with a certain nobility. Sonnet 141 is an example:
In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note,
But tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who in despite of view is pleased to dote.
Nor are mine ears with thy tongues tune delighted,
Nor tender feeling to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone;
But my ve wits nor my ve senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man,
Thy proud hearts slave and vassal wretch to be.
Only my plague thus far I count my gain:
That she that makes me sin awards me pain.
I count stoutly announces the meagreness of the action it represents; there is no
puncturable preening here. But the steely phrase Only my plague uncoils across
the nal couplet, ensuring that the speakers act in uttering the austere form exerts
7 T. S. Eliot makes play with this when he alludes to Sonnet 19 in a letter to John Quinn (12 March
1923): I have not even time to go to a dentist or to have my hair cut, and at the same time I see the
Criterion full of most glaring defects which I could only avoid by having still more time to devour;
The Letters of T. S. Eliot Volume 2: 19231925 (2009b, p. 72).
8 Thus Sonnet 40, I do forgive thy robbry, gentle thief ; Sonnet 66, Tired with all these, for
restful death I cry; Sonnet 79, I grant (sweet love) thy lovely argument; Sonnet 123, This I do vow
and this shall ever be; Sonnet 124, To this I witness call the fools of Time.
Naming 199
a certain force. It represents a last power, residual as it may be, that the speaker
is competent to exercise: the capacity to limit that to which he commits himself
in his utterance. Concerning what he will consider as a gain: this much, and
no more.9
There is in this a ne discrimination, a balanced appreciation of the elements
that raise and diminish the actions that the speaker is competent to take in using the
austere form. This makes it possible for the movement here to be from weakness to
strength, reversing the direction taken in the earliest instances.
IV
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed (Sonnet 27). The sentential clause
conforms to Phrasing, but the verb evidently represents an act that cannot be
performed in the uttering. Indeed, there is tension here, between the uttering
and the acting: to be engaged in the former hinders or prevents the latter.
A similar case occurs later in the sequence, where the same tension is mock-
serious, and playfully calls the sincerity of the speaker into question: O, how I faint
when I of you do write (Sonnet 80). Since he is writing of the addressee at this very
point, and seemingly capable of doing so, despite announcing his loss of conscious-
ness when so engaged, writing the verb as feint would seem closer to the truth.
On these and other occasions, where the Sonnets conform to Phrasing but
choose verbs which represent acts that clearly may not be performed in the uttering,
the play with Naming again calls attention to the nature of different types of action,
and to relations between uttering and acting. But here it is awareness of a gulf that
provides the impulse to internal reection: the gap between what is successfully said
and what is not so successfully done, or not done at all.
Their images I loved I view in thee (Sonnet 31); I love thee in such sort
(Sonnet 36/96); I see a better state to me belongs (Sonnet 92). It is variously sad,
or tragic, or funny, or curious, or fortunate that these actsof viewing, loving,
seeingare not ones which can, straightforwardly, be performed in uttering the
corresponding words in the austere form: I view, I love, I see. And there are
instances of the converse sort: occasions where the speaker protests that something
9 Paula Blank proposes that we see praise in the Sonnets as primarily a matter of appraisal, of
applying due measure, of assessing worth by means of comparison; Shakespeare and the Mismeasure of
Renaissance Man (2006). It would be consistent with this interpretation to emphasize the way in which
likeness in Sonnet 141 gures in relation to I count. It is less clear that the sonnet furthers Blanks
underlying aim, to provide a contrast with Joel Finemans claims concerning the role of mimesis in the
Sonnets (Blank 2006, p. 45, n. 4). For Finemans basic terms of analysis (mimesis; likeness and
difference) must be as apt for understanding Shakespeares poetics as Blanks basic terms of analysis
(measurement; more and less) if it is in virtue of the former that we can operate with the latter, i.e. we
measure by registering likeness and difference. In that sense, Blanks approach seems fundamentally to
coalesce with Finemans rather than to contrast with it. (I emphasize in that sense; sharing Finemans
basic terms of analysis does not oblige her to do with them what he does.)
is not being done, where that act is in fact being performed, not just despite his
protestations, but because of them, and indeed by them. Thus Sonnet 23:
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of loves rite
It is a common thought, which the speaker must be aware of our entertaining, that
the lovers admission of failures in this regard perfects the ceremony of loves rite.
The speaker in the Sonnets is reective about the shortfall between acts that can
be performed with ease in utterance, and acts which cannot be so performed, no
matter how serious the intent, how careful the word-choice, how earnest the
uttering. He sometimes has practical intent: to draw the attention of the addressee
to the need to do something beyond uttering. But he also uses the gap to underline
the weightiness of certain sorts of act: that they are precisely not of the kind that
mere uttering could possibly perform, even if the verb chosen is housed in a
sentential clause of austere form.
This is a design that matures in the course of the Sonnets. The speaker
sometimes seems dazed by the act-performing powers of the Chaucer-type in
austere form, making believe that to compose clauses so that they conform with
Phrasing may, or must, endow them with the same magical-seeming capacities
when uttered; as in Sonnet 61:
For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,
From me far off, with others all too near.
By contrast, the closing couplet of Sonnet 118 exercises due care:

But thence I learn, and nd the lesson true,
Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you.
Thence acknowledges and protects the gap between saying I learn and learning
something, between nding something true and saying one does. The utterance
alone will not sufce; the speaker points to that from which he must draw: the stock
of observations about relations between appetite and sickness which ll out the
preceding body of the poem.
The sequence ends (Sonnet 154) with a similar manoeuvre and a similar intent,
though the tone is heightened and the point made more sharply still:
This brand she quenchd in a cool well by,
Which from loves re took heat perpetual,
Growing a bath and healthful remedy
For men diseased; but I, my mistress thrall,
Came there for cure, and this by that I prove:
Loves re heats water; water cools not love.
The phrase this by that, with its condence-affording concision, ensures that the
strong I prove is not mistaken for a protestation by the speaker: that it really is
possible to perform the act of proving something in uttering the words I prove.
The demonstratives conjoined in the by . . . locution ensure that it is another sort
Naming 201
of act altogether, together with the knowledge gained from the experience of
performing that act, which demonstrates the truth in line 14. The speaker is
under no misapprehension that his condence or earnestness might be sufcient
to close the gap between uttering the sentential clause and performing the act
represented by the verb that clause contains.
V
The repeated qualication is necessary: that certain acts named by verbs in austere
clauses cannot straightforwardly be performed in utterance. For the senses of verbs
can be extended. I cannot eat by saying I eat, in the straightforward sense; but in
saying I eat my words, I admit I was wrong, and thus perform the very act which
the verbal form here represents.
With ingenuity, it may be possible to work similarly on cases that have attracted
our attention: to move beyond the straightforward sense of the verb in the
sentential clause so that it names the act performed in uttering the sentence. If
so, this would open up new possibilities for the austere form, transforming ordinary
rst-personal phrases into instances of the Chaucer-type in austere form. It is
Naming which is at issue here; hence the intimate connection between this feature
and the play that poems may make with the senses of words.
Whether we are permitted or obliged to move beyond the straightforward sense
of a verb will depend on occasion, context, and other interpretative constraints.10
But there are occasions which press for attention. The rst of the epistolatory
sonnets (Sonnet 26) is one:
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,
To thee I send this written ambassage
To witness duty, not to show my wit;
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,
But that I hope some good conceit of thine
In thy souls thought (all naked) will bestow it,
Till whatsoever star that guides my moving
Points on me graciously with fair aspect,
And puts apparel on my tattered loving
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect.
Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;
Till then, not show my head where thou mayst prove me.
The rst quatrain compares neatly with Chaucers envoi to Troilus. To thee I send
and I direct to thee both obey Phrasing, address themselves to someone in the
second person, and use the utterance to refer to the whole of which this utterance is
10 Empsons scolding caution is notoriously apt in relation to the Sonnets: Shakespeare is the writer
upon whom ingenuity has most often been misapplied; Seven Types of Ambiguity (1963, p. 161).
a part. But whereas Chaucer chooses an act, and a corresponding verb, which may
be performed in that very uttering, so that the uttering guarantees the performance
of that act, the speaker in the Sonnets chooses a verb that is ambiguous on this point.
In its straightforward sense, I send names an actof dispatching something
which cannot be performed in the uttering. In this sense, To thee I send this
written ambassage is at best the expression of an intention or of a promise to act in
the way named: what I have written here I shall dispatch to you. But send can be
used to name acts that are performed in the uttering; in saying I send you greeting,
for example, I do not express the intention or promise to greet you, but greet you
(however long it may take for this greeting to reach you). And if To thee I send this
written ambassage means, as it may, I address this written message to you, then
the speaker performs the very act named by the verbal form in uttering these words.
That this is left ambiguous is very much to the point. The sonnet is interested in
the play between distance and directness, both spatial and temporal, to which the
epistolatory form draws attention: the fact that some of what is here and now in the
writing of a letter (the expression of a greeting, for example) may be here and now
in the reading of it, whereas much of what is here and now in the writing
(a description of most events concurrent with the writing, for example) can only
be there and then in the reading of it.11
Sonnet 26 is particularly concerned with the distance between two temporal
points: the now of writing and the longed-for then, where the star that guides
my moving | Points on me graciously with fair aspect. Since this future is one in
which the speaker is shown worthy of the sweet respect of the addressee, a
recognition that the speaker hopes to achieve in the writing and receiving of poems
such as this, the poem anticipates the disappearance of these temporal points in
announcing the distance between them: what is now then will, by the action being
performed now, become now.
But the poem is balanced, down to the nal couplet, between its anticipation of
what is then and not yet (Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee) and its
recognition of what is now and of some future duration (Till then, not show my
head where thou mayst prove me). And it is the ambiguity on I send, the play on
Naming, which invokes these diverging themes and sets the balance between them:
that in one sense of send there is a distance between two temporal points (the
naming of the act and its performance), and in one sense no distance at all (the
naming of the act is its performance).
11 On the relation between Shakespeares works and letter writing, what Erasmus called mutual
conversation between absent friends in his On the writing of letters (1985, pp. 10254; p. 20), see
Lynne Magnusson, Shakespeare and Social Dialogue (1999). The extended application of Erasmus
views is particularly vivid (1999, pp. 6174).
15
Securing
I
conformity with Securing:
Securing: The act named by the verb in the sentential clause is assuredly performed in
But when Shakespeare uses the rst-person term and couples it with a verb of doing
in the present, he often puts the performance at risk. Rather than conrm that the
speaker does what he says, he leaves the situation uncertain, or creates room for
doubt, or actively encourages suspicions and misgivings.
The ending of Sonnet 130 is less subtle than other cases we shall examine, but it
helps raise the issues:
My mistress eyes are nothing like the sun,
Coral is far more red than her lips red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks,
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound,.
I grant I never saw a goddess go:
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
The phrase I think, which might well be taken as of the Chaucer-type (if we
extend the sense of the verb, so that it names an act that can be performed in
the uttering), is unsettling. The whole sentence could be understood (and thus
defended) as a straightforward attempt to conrm or validate that the speaker
straightforwardly believes what he is asserting. But what puts that interpretation in
doubt is precisely the addition of this phrase.1
1 John Kerrigan connects the way that assertions hit a problem for the speaker in this sonnet with
Birons quandary in Loves Labours Lost (Act IV, Scene 3) when he seeks to establish the beauty of
The assertion would certainly have been stronger, more assured, without it. This
is a familiar phenomenon; compare It is raining and I think it is raining. If the
sentence were indeed a straightforward assertion of what the speaker straightfor-
wardly believes, there would be no need to add I think. It would be tacit in the
speakers utterance, something that could be taken for granted.
Suppose we can assume that the speaker is reasonably adept in the language, and
is not attempting to cause unnecessary confusion by adding what he need not say.
Then it is natural to suppose that I think must have another function: to express a
greater or lesser reserve on the part of the speaker, for example that he is not
straightforwardly conrming or validating something, or that what he is conrming
is not itself straightforward, or that both the conrming and what is being
conrmed are compromised in some way.
Qualms, and the sense of a venture made unsafe, cause uncertainty to expand.
The speaker may indeed think my love is as rare as . . . in uttering I think my love
[is] as rare as . . . . But he may equally be distancing himself from the observation.
Uncertainty about whether this is the case, and, if so, how deep and extended is the
distancing, raise further doubts.
Some doubts are of another kind altogether: doubts about whether the speaker is
being sincere.2 The addition of I think may be a straightforward attempt to
acknowledge hesitancy, or puzzlement, or a lack of certainty. But we may also
suspect that it is a matter of pretence: the speaker is giving the impression of
hesitancy about one view because he actually holds its contrary; for example,
whether or not he intends us to be condent that this is the case. In this and
other ways, doubt and uncertainty can give way to misgivings and suspicion.
II
Among the effects which Shakespeare achieves in abstaining from Securing, or
knowingly compromising it, the most signicant concern assurance and its rela-
tions to action. They reveal much about the nature of Securing, which in turn helps
elucidate aspects of the Sonnets.
Rosaline: What can they swear or swear to that will not be discredited? Shakespeares Binding Language
(2016, p. 104). But the difculty Biron faces is (at least ostensibly) how to overcome the doubts of
others, whereas it is the speakers own doubts which seem to be at issue here.
2 Shakespeares dealings with sincerity are helpfully seen against sincerity conditions on speech acts,
for the case of his plays, in Keir Elam, Shakespeares Universe of Discourse (1984, pp. 21516; 2289).
But the tendency to conate sincerity and ethical authenticity (explicit p. 220) threatens to blunt the
analysis, a danger that Brian Cummings also courts in claiming that Shakespeare uses the word
[sincerity] only in a heightened sense of fabricated authenticity; Mortal Thoughts: Religion, Secularity
and Identity in Shakespeare and Early Modern Culture (2013, p. 97). This may or may not be true of the
word, but Shakespeare certainly uses the concept in ways that are at once richer and more distinct. On
the evidence of the Sonnets, and as we are appreciating, he is interested in exploring what he is perfectly
capable of distinguishing: the appearance of sincerity as the manifestation of sincerity and as the
simulation or even fabrication of sincerity.
Securing 205
Assurance is meant in a broad sense, embracing self-assurance (condence,

poise) and reassurance (support, encouragement). We may then consider a corres-
pondingly broad spectrum of ways that Securing may be compromised.
Assurance is not identical to Securing, of course. It is one thing for an acts
performance to be guaranteed in the uttering, and another for those concerned (e.g.
the speaker himself) to feel assured that the act has indeed been performed, or to be
given sufcient reason (e.g. the addressee; the wider intended or envisaged audience
of the Sonnets; ourselves) to feel assured that this is so. There need be no gap
between Securing and assurance, or the gap may be very wide indeed; the Sonnets
expose, and explore, and exploit the options.
Some of the play between Securing and assurance in the Sonnets turns on issues
of performance and non-performance. The interest here lies in two contrasts:
between feeling assured that an act has been performed, and feeling assured that
an act has not been performed; between feeling assured that no act was performed
when the assurance is true, and feeling similarly assured when the assurance is false.
Some of the play turns on modes of assurance and non-assurance. The interest
here lies in two more contrasts: between failing to feel assured that an act is
performed because one feels assured that it is not performed, and because one
feels unsure whether it is performed or not; between feeling unsure in a way that
enables one to perform a relevant act, and feeling unsure in a way that prevents one
from performing that act.
Often these tensions depend on issues made salient in the Sonnets play with
Naming: whether something is achieved in the uttering at all, and if so how much.
Such issues in turn prompt hesitations about performance, with implications for
assurance and Securing. The speaker may make no attempt at acts whose perform-
ance would have been guaranteed in the uttering, for example, because he recog-
nizes such acts would be too meagre. Or the speaker may be unsure whether acts he
has performed will be seen to have been performed by the addressee or the wider
intended audience; he is unsure whether the verb used will be interpreted in the
right sense, the one in which it names an act performable in uttering the sentence
that contains it.
Finally, the play between Securing and assurance is tense with the Sonnets own
ambivalence towards self-reection and self-consciousness. This has a particular
impact on the speakers self-assurance. Being self-conscious may be necessary for
the assurance that one is indeed performing certain acts. If so, it is on self-
consciousness that the relation between action and assurance rests. On the other
hand, self-consciousness may be disastrous to this relation: if being self-conscious
deprives one of the self-assurance necessary to perform the relevant acts, for example.
Since the Sonnets themselves are the product of a heightened reexive sensitivity
to utterance and action, there is an added depth to the issues here. The attentions
the Sonnets pay to relations between Securing and assurance form part of what may
be conceived as an internal inquiry into their own character, functioning, purpose.
The more straightforward cases are the most straitened, those that leave the poet
least room for manoeuvre. These are cases in which both Phrasing and Naming
seem to be in place, and the acts named are ostensibly performed in the uttering, yet
some measure of assurance is lacking.3 What prompts doubts in Sonnet 37, for
example, is a contrast between self-estimation and attempted act. This is a sonnet
which continues to round out the peculiarly Cartesian sceptics plight, the trials
that self-consciousness makes of self-assurance. The speaker describes his power-
lessness at length, before delivering himself in the nal couplet of an utterance that
is, or at least appears to be, of the Chaucer-type in austere form:
As a decrepit father takes delight
To see his active child do deeds of youth,
So I, made lame by Fortunes dearest spite,
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
Or any of these all, or all, or more,
Entitled in thy parts do crownd sit,
I make my love engrafted to this store.
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give
That I in thy abundance am sufced,
And by a part of all thy glory live.
Look what is best, that best I wish in thee;
This wish I have, then ten times happy me.
This is certainly a difcult sonnet, as critics recognize. Helen Vendler confesses to
being stumped: it is hard to know just what Shakespeares principle of composition
is.4 But if we make playfulness with the Chaucer-type a salient principle of
composition, reection on it aids comprehension.
We can start with the fact that the verb to wish is ambiguous. In one sense, the
more common perhaps, it is a device to express a desire, a fancy, a craving: e.g.
I wish I were taller. One can wish for things in this sense without doing anything,
or being prepared to do anything. So the fact that one may be quite powerless to
obtain or achieve what is wished for does not affect the fact that one wishes for it;
ones claim to have wished remains intact. If I wish is being used in this sense, it is
not a verb of doing, so the utterance is not of the Chaucer-type.
In another sense, used by bequeathing formulae like I wish N. N. to have my
second-best bed, to wish may be regarded as a verb of doing. And it is likely that
this is the sense in which the speaker in Sonnet 37 means his Look what is best,
that best I wish in thee. If so, the utterance may well count as of the Chaucer-type.
But this sense implies that the speaker is prepared to do something, that he does not
take himself to be quite powerless to obtain or achieve what he wishes for. Indeed, if
one does take oneself to be powerless in this way, this would undermine ones claim
to having wished. So this interpretation is in evident tension with the speakers
earlier professions of powerlessness: that he is as a decrepit father; made lame by
Fortunes dearest spite; lame, poor . . . despised.
3 There are instances in Sonnet 37, Look what is best, that best I wish in thee; Sonnet 82, I grant
thou wert not married to my Muse; and Sonnet 91, having thee, of all mens pride I boast.
4 Vendler, The Art of Shakespeares Sonnets (1997, p. 195).
Securing 207
Assurance comes to the fore here, beside sincerity and seriousness. For the
principal possibilities are three: (i) that the speaker lacks sufcient assurance of
his own powers and thus actually must mean I wish in the weak rst sense; (ii) that
he actually possesses sufcient assurance to mean I wish in the stronger second
sense, so that his earlier professions of powerlessness are either not meant wholly
seriously or are not altogether truthful; and (iii) that he means I wish in the
stronger sense but lacks sufcient assurance, and is actually pretending to issue an
utterance of the Chaucer-type.
These possibilities balance assurance against sincerity and seriousness. In so far as
the speaker is assured, he is lacking in either sincerity or seriousness. In so far as he is
sincere and serious, he is lacking in assurance. And this balance in turn affects our
interpretation of the poems structure, and in particular the relation between the
body of the poem and its nal couplet. If these parts pursue a consistent line, the
couplet contains no utterance of the Chaucer-type; it does not attempt such an
utterance, or merely pretends to attempt it. So there is no act about whose
performance we need to be assured. If the couplet does contain such an utterance,
the corresponding act would be guaranteed. But then the parts of the poem would
pursue so inconsistent a line, we would stand in need of assurance.
There is a fourth possibilitysuggested by line 8 and the quatrain that follows
which would allow us to dismount from this awkward seesaw: the speakers earlier
professions were sincere and serious, but being now engrafted to this store, powers
have been made available to him, and he has gained sufcient assurance to issue
I wish in the stronger sense, one that makes the whole an utterance of the
Chaucer-type.5 If this is the correct interpretation, the couplet would not be in
tension with the speakers earlier professions. His assurance would be consistent
with his sincerity and seriousness, rather than balanced against them. And this may
well be what is meant.
But assurance is still at issue; our own assurance, on this occasion. For the sonnet
plays with our condence that this can indeed be the case. And what prompts
doubts about the fourth possibility is the very quatrain that is meant to support it.
Lines 912 lead us to ask: does the addressee have those powers on which the
speaker depends to make his wish before that wish is granted? For Whilst that this
shadow doth such substance give . . . might be explained away as a piece of
conventional attery (your virtues are such that even their shadow would give
sufcient substance to me). But this would be forced on the syntax. It is more
natural to suppose that the role assigned to the demonstrative here is that of
characterizing the addressee: this shadow. And this would make good sense of
the nal couplet, which otherwise seems to lack point and purpose. Why issue the
5 The attentions that Shakespeare pays to the wholeness of utterances is the subject of another
application of speech act theory: Sarah Beckwith nds in them evidence of a particular response to the
Reformation, one that reveals anxieties about the bodys capacity to express inner states, particularly its
ability to communicate the desire for forgiveness; see Shakespeare and the Grammar of Forgiveness
(2011).
wish, in the stronger sense, unless the addressee is still somewhat shadow-like, not
yet possessed of those powers that would give him substance?
But if this is so, there is a problem. The speaker would need to, and cannot, pull
himself up by his own boot-straps. For if the addressee lacks the powers that would
give him substance until the speakers wish is granted, he lacks the powers on which
the speaker depends to make his wish. So the speakers wish cannot even be made.
And this rules out the fourth possibility. For if the speaker thinks of the addressee as
not yet possessed of the powers on which he depends, he cannot think that such
powers are made available to him by his association with the addressee. Hence he
must either be insincere about his earlier professions of powerlessness, or he must
now lack the assurance necessary to issue I wish in the stronger sense necessary for
a non-pretend utterance of the Chaucer-type.
So we are back in the balancing act: between the weaker sense of wish, with its
lack of assurance, and the stronger sense of wish, with its lack of sincerity and
seriousness. And this gives particular poignancy to the nal line: This wish I have,
then ten times happy me. It is not, perhapsas we might have thoughtthe jolly
notion that if the one I love ourishes, I am happy ten times over; for the fact that
he ourishes makes me happy, but in addition his ourishing (by the engrafting)
makes me ourish, and this also makes me happy. For this interpretation requires
the fourth possibility. The nal line may mean instead something that is in one
sense more meagre, and in another more impressive. This wish of mine for the one
I love can only be the expression of a desire that things should be best for him,
something I am quite powerless to achieve; indeed the ability to express this desire
may be all I have; but this itself is enough, and so long as I can express this desire,
I am happy ten times over.
Cases become more complex when the speaker is reective about assurance, his
own and that of his audience. Sonnet 131, as we have seen, uses the speakers play
with Securing and utterances of the Chaucer-type to raise the issue of what it is to
be sure, turning failure to his advantage, and achieving what he always had in mind
to achieve. Similar occasions have dissimilar purposes, and quite different effects.
Sonnet 115 is also reective about assurance, but provides useful points of contrast:
Those lines that I before have writ do lie,
Even those that said I could not love you dearer,
Yet then my judgement knew no reason why
My most full ame should afterwards burn clearer.
But reckoning time, whose millioned accidents
Creep in twixt vows, and change decrees of kings,
Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharpst intents,
Diverts strong minds to th course of altring things.
Alas why, fearing of Times tyranny,
Might I not then say Now I love you best,
When I was certain oer incertainty,
Crowning the present, doubting of the rest?
Love is a babe, then might I not say so,
To give full growth to that which still doth grow.
Securing 209
The focus is on line 10. In one sense, as in Sonnet 131, the speaker succeeds in
saying something, where the act of saying it is made to stand as something of an
achievement. Not because he does not dare to do it, on this occasion, but because
saying Now I love you best is only something he might do.
In Sonnet 131, the speaker prevents himself from doing what he tries to do (and
makes a play of this). In Sonnet 115, the speaker achieves what he is not necessarily
even trying to do, while wondering whether it is something he can do, or might do,
or should do. Indeed, he does it in wondering whether he can, or might, or should
do it.
In another sense, where say implies some form of commitment to what is said,
the speaker does not say these words. He does as he would if he were quoting
another.
Whichever option we choose, the use of might and the interrogative construc-
tion spoil the chance of a Chaucer-type utterance. Assurance is the issue here also,
as the rst line attestsThose lines that I before have writ do liebut in reverse
formation. We are to believe this speaker not because he swears to what he has
asserted, but because he denies and rejects what he has asserted.
This is not the quaint paradox it may immediately appear. The one speaker
cannot give assurance because he lacks self-assurance; this is what his repeated
avowals reveal. What the disavowals of the other reveal is that he possesses self-
assurance, for it takes self-assurance to act in this way; and self-assurance gives
assurance.
The speaker in Sonnet 131 could not assure, even in uttering; in Sonnet 115, the
speaker has no need to assure, whether in uttering or not. This helps explain why
utterances of the Chaucer-type are not used in either case. Utterances that assure in
the uttering would not suit what the one could do, or what the other need do.
III
Divergence between Securing and assurance is one gap that the Sonnets explore and
exploit. The rst lines of 115 expose another: between the assurance of the speaker
and the assurance of others concerned:
Those lines that I before have writ do lie,
Even those that said I could not love you dearer,
On the one hand, there is what the speaker feels assured about, concerning what is
said and performed. On the other hand, there is what others are given sufcient
reason to feel assured about: the addressee, the wider intended or envisaged audi-
ence, ourselves. And, as in this case, the speaker often has the advantage over us.
The speaker often gains a certain assurance about what he may achieve in
uttering by moderating what he sets out to achieve. Sometimes this involves certain
sorts of play with what is meant and intended. This tends to undermine any
assurance we might have that we know what is meant or intended. So what the
speaker gains is often at the expense of those concerned: the addressee, the wider
intended audience, ourselves.
An interest in this gap forms a link between Sonnets 115 and 116:
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
The logic here ties uttering to the truth twice over. There is the material condi-
tional: if the speaker utters, then this is true (love does not alter). And there is also
the substantiation of the antecedent: by this very utterance, we are assured that the
speaker does indeed utter. Here, then, the gap between the speaker and those to
whom he speaks is allowed to close.
The gap remains open on other occasions; in sonnets where certain words and
phrases trigger doubts about the speakers sincerity, for example. Sonnet 136, If
thy soul check thee that I come so near, is one instance, and Sonnet 144 another:
And whether that my angel be turned end
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell,
Here it is the use of suspect and the play at doing what the speaker says he does not
do which raises doubts.
When the Sonnets explore this gap, as in these cases, they are exploring the
relationship between the performance of acts of uttering and the truth of what is
said in the uttering. Sometimes, this interest takes its converse form: the relation-
ship between the non-performance of acts of uttering and the falsity of what is said
in the uttering. But it is often a mix of the two forms which is most relevant to
Securing and to assurance.
For example, there is a trick of which the speaker is fond: to assure us that he is
not sure of his own abilities in some respect, or that he is sure he lacks them, all the
while demonstrating that he does indeed possess these abilities, and in the very act
of assuring us he is not sure of them, or that he is sure he lacks them. Sonnet 85 is
much concerned with this theme, pursuing it from its opening line: My tongue-
tied Muse in manners holds her still. The poem is complex and we shall examine it
closely in Chapter 16. It is preceded by another example, in Sonnet 83, which is
somewhat more straightforward:
This silence for my sin you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory, being dumb:
For I impair not beauty, being mute,
When others would give life, and bring a tomb.
What lies at the heart of the trick is the mixture of forms: the falsity of a phrase is
implied in the act which uttering that phrase successfully performs.
Sometimes the trick is more subtle. Sonnet 138, for example, does not imply the
falsity of a phrase in the uttering of it, but it raises apparently irresolvable doubts
about its truth:
When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her though I know she lies,
Securing 211
That she might think me some untutored youth,

Unlearnd in the worlds false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue.
On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed:
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, loves best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love loves not to have years told.
Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we attered be.
The second line sets up a problem: given the logic of the concepts believing,
knowing, and lying, how could it be possible to assert this consistently? Must we
assume some x; for example, I do believe her, as a general rule, but on this point
I know she is lying?
Lie has another sense, of course, which dominates the nal couplet. And it may
seem that, if we hear the line with this sense on the surface, it dissolves the problem;
I believe her, though I know she sleeps around is, after all, perfectly consistent.6
But the respite is short if we assume, as is surely safe, that she is protesting that she
does not lie, in the second sense. For then I know she lies in the second sense
implies I know she lies in the rst sense and we are back with the problem: how
could it be true that the speaker believes her, though he knows she lies?
In Sonnet 17, the mention of lying has a broader purpose, with interesting effects
on what the speaker feels assured about. If he is not at a disadvantage, by contrast
with the addressee and the wider intended or envisaged audience, he is not exactly
at an advantage either; and the reasons for this are curious:
Who will believe my verse in time to come
If it were lled with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say This poet lies:
Such heavenly touches neer touched earthly faces.
So should my papers (yellowed with their age)
Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be termed a poets rage,
And stretchd metre of an antique song.
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice, in it, and in my rhyme.
6 Christopher Ricks thinks, rightly, that someone who would wish to deny this sense wants his
feelings seen to (wants, mark you; not needs); Lies (1984, pp. 36991; p. 380).
The repeated device of almost-repetition, numbers number and touches . . .

touched, with the noun transformed into its corresponding verb (of doing), gives
a trip to the lines, a sense of propulsion, a spurred-on forward movement.7 It may
be, as some commentators think, that there is something more intensely active here:
that write takes its object (the beauty of your eyes) directly, without interposition
of the usual prepositions (e.g. of or about) because the speaker is hereby
declaring a radical ambition: to inscribe beauty.8 If so, this is a moment with
which the Chaucer-type has made us familiar. The speaker utters something, in the
particular mode of writing it, and thereby does something, performs the particular
act named in what is uttered.
So it is relevant to ask why the austere form is not employed. A clue lies in the
conditional construction, which starts an arc of thought that comes to ground again
in the nal couplet. The idea seems to be this: What is done in poetry is vulnerable
in a particular way to the future. Even if I could manage to inscribe your beauty on
the world in this utterance, future people could and would disbelieve it, would deny
that I had succeeded in bringing off this performance. What is done in having
offspring, however, is not vulnerable in this way. If you thus inscribe your beauty
on the world, future people would have to accept that you had succeeded, and your
beauty would live on twice over: once in your child, and once in what I write.
So this is not the declaration of a radical ambition after all, but the sketch of a
justication for lacking (or renouncing) that ambition. And the key here is the
speakers recognition of his own peculiar vulnerability, in relation to the envisaged
audience. The disbelief of future people would ensure that he not succeed at what
he might otherwise attempt to do: to write the beauty of your eyes in such a way
that You should live . . . in it, that very utterance. Thus one form of assurance
(what a future audience will be prepared to believe) robs him of another (what he
needs to perform). And it is because the speaker is not at an advantage, in relation to
the envisaged audience, that he does not attempt an utterance of Chaucer-type.
The speakers recognition that words might fail him, given the role played by an
audience, gives a particular poignancy to the nal line: You should live twice, in it,
and in my rhyme. The idea is presumably this. It is perfectly possible to inscribe
the beauty of the addressee so that he lives on. But the success of this performance is
in the power of the addressee, not the speaker. If the addressee has a child, what the
speaker inscribes may live on. For what the speaker inscribes can survive the
disbelieving scrutiny of future people if it is veried by the existence of the child,
that other inscription of the addressee.
The phrase words fail is a useful indicator of what interests here. It is most at
home in the sentence words fail me, which is usually applied when the opposite is
the case: it is oneself, the speaker, who fails, because of either ignorance (about
7 The metre helps; on this, see Paul Ramsey, The syllables of Shakespeares Sonnets (1976,
pp. 193215). Joel Finemans comment is apt: what counts in the sonnet, and it is made to count
against the young mans praise, is the way the poet numbers his numbers and touches his touches,
Shakespeares Perjured Eye (1986, p. 153). But he leaves unexplored what makes it apt; I think appeal to
Shakespeares play with the Chaucer-type is required for that.
8 See Shakespeare p. 414, note to line 5.
Securing 213
which words to use, or which words are called for) or failure (to use the words one
knows are tting, or suitable). But it also describes occasions where the locus of
failure is not oneself, the speaker, but either the subject-matter (because there is
nothing to be said) or the communicative context (because, through no fault of
ones own, nothing can be achieved in saying anything). Sonnet 17 belongs to this
last category, where it is the disbelief of future people that causes words to fail,
killing off the possibility that what is said may be done.
The speaker does not always lack assurance about his own utterances and their
future. The reasons for this appear somewhat mysterious. The third quatrain of Sonnet
107, for example, confronts essentially the same topic in vitally different mood:
Now with the drops of this most balmy time
My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes,
Since, spite of him, Ill live in this poor rhyme,
While he insults oer dull and speechless tribes.
Whether the dull and speechless tribes are those already dead, or those unable to
make death subscribe to them, being incapable of poetic utterance, it seems that
the speaker fears nothing from his future audience. It is less clear why. Presumably
these future people would be quite as capable of responding This poet lies if the
speaker tried to inscribe himself into the world, thus asserting his continued
existence, as he fears they would if he tried to inscribe the addressee into the
world, with the same intent.
Again, however, there may a clue in this: that the speaker does not employ the
Chaucer-type in austere form. He may lack the condence for that. Ill live in this
poor rhyme is certainly bold and deant, by contrast with the meekness and
compliance of Sonnet 17. But what prompts these diverging responses may be
the same underlying recognition: of powers that future audiences exert over ones
utterances.
IV
If the speaker often has an advantage over his audience, intended or envisaged, we
may now suspect the attention he draws to it: that this may function as a means for
his own reassurance, or a disguise for his own lack of condence, or a distraction from
his own doubts about what essentially concerns us alsowhether his utterances
perform the acts they purport to perform; and if so, how much it is that they achieve.
Sonnet 45 is of interest in this regard. How we interpret the phrase that appears
to be of Chaucer-type in austere form (I send . . . ) depends, in part, on how we
interpret the relation between what is disconcerting at the opening and what is
assurd at the close:
The other two, slight air and purging re,
Are both with thee, wherever I abide:
The rst my thought, the other my desire,
These present-absent with sweet motion slide.
For when these quicker elements are gone
In tender embassy of love to thee,
My life, being made of four, with two alone
Sinks down to death, oppressed with melancholy,
Until lifes composition be recurd
By those swift messengers returned from thee,
Who even but now come back again assurd
Of thy fair health, recounting it to me.
This told, I joy; but then, no longer glad,
I send them back again and straight grow sad.
The opening plays the speakers advantage over the audience, unsettling the latter
in at least two ways. To begin The other two . . . without giving an answer in the
immediate context to the pressing question the other two what? is to break a kind
of contract with the audience. For the phrase The other two . . . is an anaphoric
device, one that depends on a source-phrase (in the sentence I have four children;
the rst two have left home, and the other two are still at school, for example, the
source-phrase on which the other two depends is I have four children). But no
such source-phrase is supplied here. That is why there is no answer in the
immediate context to the pressing question. The speaker knows what he has in
mind, and in depriving us of the necessary resources, he is reminding us that we
lack this advantage.
This opening also puts the audience at a disadvantage by forcing us to cobble
together an ad hoc strategy for interpreting the anaphoric phrase, refusing us the
use of the standard procedure for such cases. That procedure is easily described; if
we are interested in the anaphoric use of his in John loves his aunt, for
example, we rst nd the source-phrase (John), ask what it refers to (John),
and on that basis come to know what the anaphoric phrase (his) must refer
to (John). In Sonnet 45, however, we have to apply guesswork, as the poem
proceeds, to discover the answer to the pressing question (the other two what?)
and hence what the anaphoric phrase must refer to: elements. And it is on this
basis, and this basis alone, that we can come to know what the source-phrase
must be: elements.
The speaker then has a joke at our expense. Once we recognize that elements
must be the missing source-phrase, we are in a position to recognize that this same
term is in fact present, though not in the immediate context, and not in a
sufciently salient way to replace the guesswork needed to interpret The other
two . . . . It is contained in the nal couplet of the preceding sonnet:
I must attend times leisure with my moan,

Receiving naught by elements so slow
But heavy tears, badges of eithers woe.
So the speaker breaks a kind of contract with the audience, forces it into an unduly
complex interpretation procedure, and reveals the key only after the lock has been
forced. Why this elaborate attempt to inconvenience and control?
Securing 215
Part of the explanation may have to do with the fact that the speaker is in trouble,
and in need of the very reassurance of which he deprives his audience, intended and
envisaged. For his conceit threatens his argument, and in such a way as to under-
mine the putative utterance of the Chaucer-type in the nal line (I send . . . ).
Indeed, the poem as a whole is something of a chaos.
The conceit turns on the idea that the slight air of thought and the purging re
of desire are present-absent to the speaker. This is presumably because they are
equally present in two places at one and the same time, shuttling between him and
the addressee in tender embassy of love.9 In their absence, they leave the speaker
with the other two alone (i.e. water and earth), which, being less quick, weigh
him down towards death and melancholy. When thought and desire return, they
bring news of the addressees fair health. This told, I joy.10
There are several problems with this conceit. One is that it does not really work.
We can make sense of the speakers thoughts and desires as being directed towards
another person, the addressee. That is a way of capturing their intentionality, the
fact that they are thoughts about the addressee, desires for that person. But the
conceit requires that those self-same thoughts and desires return to the speaker, and
of this we cannot make sense. For if these thoughts and desires are directed on the
speaker, they must be about or for him, and thus quite different from those he
directs on the addressee. Either they are the thoughts and desires of the addressee
but in that case they are not the speakers thoughts about and desires for the
addresseeor they are the speakers own thoughts and desires; but in that case they
are not thoughts about and desires for the addressee, but about and for himself.
Either way, we cannot make sense of the self-same thoughts and desires as
returning, as the conceit requires. There can be no such present-absent shuttling.
Another problem with this conceit is that it imposes movement where it ought
only to reect or depict it. For example, the conceit requires that there be a
returning movement after This told, I joy, one that keeps the speakers thoughts
and desires in . . . embassy. But this movement seems contrived, oating free of
the relationship being described. For if we ask why the thoughts and desires are
directed out again, then, no longer glad gives us a response only, no answer. There
is nothing in the depiction to explain why the speaker is no longer glad; that he
9 This is quite different, and perhaps pointedly so, from the description of Astrophil at the close of
Sidneys poem, for whom Stella is an absent presence. That would imply that the referent is not really
present in any place at any time. Sir Philip Sidney, Astrophil and Stella, 106.1. Shakespeare (p. 470,
note to line 4) draws attention to the link. The implication seems to be that the ideas denoted by the
phrases present-absent and absent presence are the same. There is a link of another sort, however;
Sidney introduces a Chaucer-type phrase into the proceedings: O absent presence Stella is not here; |
False attering hope, that with so fair a face | Bear me in hand, that in this orphan place, | Stella, I say
my Stella, should appear.
10 Joy is a verb whose peculiar resonance in Shakespeare can be brought out by a chain linking this
sonnet with Sonnet 25, Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, | Unlooked for joy in that
I honour most, with Juliets response to Romeo in the second act of Romeo and Juliet, where what is
acutely temporary about joy is again apparent, Although I joy in thee | I have no joy of this contract
tonight (2.1.589), and with Berownes speech in the introduction to Loves Labours Lost which
makes much of what Juliet may be acknowledging: that joying is in part voluntary, something the
agent can decide against, Why should I joy in any abortive birth? (1.1.104).
must be, so that the shuttling can continue, seems forced on the speaker by the
logic of the conceit. There is, perhaps, an attempt to disguise discomfort in the nal
couplet, with its play on no longer glad and sad. But the causal ordering will not
do. We know why the speaker feels sad after his thoughts and desires have left;
their loss causes him to feel sad. But what of the sadness that caused them to leave?
These problems bear directly on the nal line, with its putative Chaucer-type
utterance, I send them back again. The utterance may satisfy Phrasing and (given
an interpretation of send suitable for thoughts and desires) Naming. But the fact
that we cannot make sense of the self-same thoughts and desires as returning means
that the utterance cannot satisfy Securing. So far from being guaranteed or certain to
have been performed, what the speaker tries to do in uttering the sentence could
not be done. No wonder that the speaker is in need of the very reassurance of which
he is at such pains to deprive his audience.
V
The conceit in Sonnet 45 would work in one, radically altered condition: if the
speakers thoughts and desires were actually about himself, rather than about
another person (the addressee). For in self-referential mode, the speaker is both
subject and object of his thoughts and desires, so the self-same thoughts and desires
are both of a person and about or for that person. Hence we can make sense of a
return of the self-same thoughts and desires. Moreover, in self-referential mode,
thoughts and desires are about and for their subject and, at one and the same time,
about and for their object. Hence we can make sense of a present-absent shuttling.11
One might be hesitant about suggesting that this is the key to Sonnet 45. It
would make certain questions central that we have no independent reason to
suppose the poem even means to raise, let alone address: why the speaker splits
and personies part of himself as the addressee, for example; whether he realizes
that this is what he does; what these desires are that the speaker has for himself; and
so on. On the other hand, it would certainly tidy up the mess we have found if the
poem were really about the speakers relationship to himself. The conceit would
work, as we have seen, and it would be related to the argument in the right way:
reecting and depicting movement rather than imposing it.
Certainly Sonnet 45 is no less concerned than others with the speakers own
reective engagement with what he is uttering. The speaker is generally aware of
and sensitive to what is in the balance here, and sometimes explores the questions
which arise: what brings on this heightened sensibility about his own utterances;
what stimulates anxiety about how much his utterances achieve, and whether they
perform at all; how this heightening affects him, and particularly his ability to form
11 The self-referential mode need not be self-consciously self-referential, of course. One can think
about a person without realizing that this person is oneself. One would still be the subject and object of
the thought.
Securing 217
future utterances; what such sensitivity may prompt him to do, or discourage or
prevent him from doing.
This reective engagement is deeply connected to assurance, and the lack of it.
There are kinds of condence, for example, which the speaker seems to acquire and
develop through self-reection: sometimes as a result of confronting his doubts;
sometimes as a result of reecting on his failures as an agent; sometimes as a result
of discovering what intermediary abilities he needs to acquire to turn a disability
into an ability.
Sonnet 102 has elements of all three, its essential theme enunciated with
condence in the opening lines:
My love is strengthened though more weak in seeming;
I love not less, though less the show appear.
The speaker gains assurance in acknowledging the shortfall between his love and his
ability to perform, through utterance, acknowledgement of that love. The second
line neatly avoids being mistaken for an utterance of the Chaucer-type in austere
form, in recognition of that same shortfall: that to say I love is not to perform the
act named, or even to guarantee what uttering this appears to acknowledge.
Self-reection and modesty give the speaker sufcient self-assurance in the
course of the poem to do without the credit to be derived from stating what is
false about the simile in the nal couplet:
Therefore, like her, I sometime hold my tongue,

Because I would not dull you with my song.
Her refers to Philomel, whose tongue was cut out by her brother-in-law. When
transformed into a nightingale, she sings. But if it is to her earlier, silenced form
that the mention of tongue directs us, what is salient is the difference between her
and the speaker. When he is silent, it is through choice, exercise of self-control. It
takes a particular type of self-control, one based on self-condence perhaps, not to
mention that.
On other occasions, the speaker appears to lose some kinds of condence as a
result of his self-reections and the doubts to which they give rise; doubts about
himself and his abilities to perform; doubts about the addressee, his or her character
and intent. Other kinds of condence he loses in reecting on the preconditions for
such doubts; doubts about his own capacity to discern the character and intent of
the addressee, for example. Others again he seems to lose in reecting on his own
success as an agent in utterance (just as one may lose the ability to perform
complicated bodily movements by reecting too much, or reecting at all, on the
fact that one is performing them).
Sonnet 134 is a complex case which draws on several of these elements and
which also turns on avoidance of the Chaucer-type in austere form:
So now I have confessed that he is thine,
And I myself am mortgaged to thy will;
Myself Ill forfeit, so that other mine
Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still.

But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,
For thou art covetous, and he is kind.
He learned but surety-like to write for me,
Under that bond that him as fast doth bind.
The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,
Thou usurer that putst forth all to use,
And sue a friend came debtor for my sake:
So him I lose through my unkind abuse.
Him have I lost, thou hast both him and me;
He pays the whole, and yet I am not free.
It begins in the brisk, catch-up way of many of the Sonnets. In one sense, the
speaker is confessing in uttering these words. In another, he is merely reporting on
a confessing. It is the latter option which is given salience, and precisely by the
avoidance of the austere form, with the use of the past tense. The suggestion here is
that the speaker has come to some sort of terms with what is the case, at least to the
extent that it is possible to move straight from past to future:
Myself Ill forfeit, so that other mine
Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still.
But the sonnet does not then remain in the future, and never comes to rest in the
present. Indeed, the constant switching between tenses and times gives the impres-
sion of something deeply unsettled about the speaker, who appears capable of
entering into the present only for a moment, and only when there is something
unsettling to say. This happens on each of three occasions, the rst coming at the
present from the future:
But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,
For thou art covetous, and he is kind.
The second also comes from the future:
The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,
Thou usurer that putst forth all to use,
And sue a friend came debtor for my sake:
So him I lose through my unkind abuse.
The third comes at the present from the past:
Him have I lost, thou hast both him and me;
He pays the whole, and yet I am not free.
At the centre of the poem lies the stimulus for this movement: a reection on
utterances and their capacity to bind, to settle:
He learned but surety-like to write for me,
Under that bond that him as fast doth bind.
Such bonds are aptly expressed using the Chaucer-type in austere form, of course.
But utterances of this sort require what the speaker is incapable of, and what the
Securing 219
poem is at such pains to expose him as incapable of: entering into the present with
something settling to say. Hence it has to be another He who took on the bond-
making role, acting surety-like to write for me. And what underlines the contrast is
the device of almost-repetition: bond . . . bind, the noun modulated into its
corresponding verb (of doing).12
The device draws attention to what is almost repeated about the speakers
situation and that of He. They are alike in that both are bound, the speaker as
fast as He. They are unlike in that the speaker is incapable of entering into the
settlement expressed by the austere form and represented by a bond. Indeed, it is
the speakers self-reective awareness of this which seems to drive the poem: the
deepening recognition that what binds him is precisely that which deprives him of
the capacity for such settlement; that he is bound in a different way, by bonds that
render him incapable of the agency required to enter into a bond. What is crucial to
the distinction is registered as what is crucial to the speaker, at the end of his
reections: that he is not free.
12 See discussion of Sonnet 17, above.

16
Doing
I
conformity with Doing:
Doing: In uttering the relevant sentence, the speaker does something (beyond the
uttering).
This is the most general feature of the Chaucer-type, but it is not peculiar to the
type, of course; very many different sorts of utterance satisfy it. This is why we have
begun with the three other features. To appreciate what is peculiar to the Chaucer-
type, it is necessary to keep fully in view the context established by Phrasing,
Naming, and Securing. These three features operate together, as aspects of a single
gure. They are co-dependent, distinctive but not distinct. Hence the necessity we
have been under: of looking to instances of absence or compromise, occasions
where what is peculiar or individuating about each may be made to stand out.
It does not follow, of course, that cases of absence or compromise must put only
a single feature on display. If the ction was useful at times, we have often dropped
it, to notice occasions where one feature of the austere form is compromised,
whileeven, perhaps, becausesome other feature of that form is also in play.
To appreciate dealings with assurance, for example, meant noting possibilities and
complexities in the relations between Naming and Securing. So we have already
begun moving towards that concern for the whole, for the way the three features
together satisfy Doing, that is now our subject.
Managing this deep focuskeeping foremost what is foremost while giving
detail and particularity to the backgroundis difcult for various reasons, but
recognizing the problems proves very useful to attunement. For where difculties
arise, they often direct the attention to the very issues that a poem is itself trying to
confront. Indeed, we may miss the value of a poem if we do not appreciate them.
When poets put the austere form under pressure, the results often depend on this
unity and interplay between the features. So we stand to learn something more
about what the Chaucer-type is and what its uses are from such cases; specically,
about how and to what effect the features can combine and co-depend, as they do
in the austere form. Shakespeares unique capacity for combining heterogeneous
elements in the smallest space makes his Sonnets again a useful source.
Salient among the Sonnets of compromise and interplay are those that reect
explicitly on poetry as a form of action. There are over twenty of these, scattered
through the Sonnets, and at one place forming a block (Sonnets 15 to 21). They
adopt a variety of ways to reect explicitly in this way.
Some reect on poetry as a form of action in a particularly positive and afrming
way, while enacting, or at least appearing to enact, the very acts they name and
reect on.1 Many more sonnets are related to this group though they do not
straightforwardly belong to it.2 Others of these reective sonnets are equally
positive and afrming, but more reserved about their own role. They are content
to give hope of enacting the acts they name and reect on.3 Again, many more
sonnets are related to this group, though they are related only.4
Some of the sonnets reect on poetry as a form of action in ways that are neither
so positive nor so afrming. Thus some name the acts they reect on and (so they
imply) could perform to avoid performing them, or to refuse to perform them, or to
deny that the speaker himself (though another might be) in a position to perform
them.5 Others again name and reect on acts to raise doubts about whether they
could perform them, or to deny that they could perform them.6
All such occasions are, evidently, of particular interest to a critical approach
which turns on action. But they also afford an awaited opportunity: to give greater
denition to the approach. For examining poems that reect on poetry as a form of
action is to draw attention to our means of studying them and to the philosophical
issues that surround this. Hence we may reect on the critical resources we have
begun to devise and develop, through analysis of the austere form and its particular
features. And we may begin to compare this critical approach with approaches
taken by others, taking note of what each is particularly attentive to, and using this
as a means of contrast.
To compensate for broadening the inquiry in these various ways, while keeping
the inquiry in bounds, we have to narrow the focus. This may be acceptable
anyway, since ve of the sonnets just cited have already been examined at some
length. So what follows, in this chapter and the next, looks closely at just two
sonnets. Both belong to the rst group above and are as-yet unexamined: Sonnets
85 and 49.
1 Examples include Sonnet 15, I engraft you new; Sonnet 37, I make my love engrafted to this
store; Sonnet 49, Against that time do I ensconce me here; Sonnet 76, So is my love, still telling what
is told; and Sonnet 85, speaking in effect.
2 In Sonnet 116, for example, the crucial move (If this be error . . . I never writ) is embedded in a
conditional argument and framed in the negative.

3 Examples include Sonnet 18, When in eternal lines to time thou growst; Sonnet 19, My love
shall in my verse ever live young; Sonnet 55, you shall shine more bright in these contents; Sonnet
60, And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand; Sonnet 81, You still shall live (such virtue hath my
pen); and Sonnet 107, Ill live in this poor rhyme.
4 Sonnet 136, for example, is brash but unspecic about the acts it names and hopes to enact (Will
will full the treasure of thy love). Poetry may also be meant.
5 Examples include Sonnet 16, you must live drawn by your own sweet skill; Sonnet 21, I will not
praise, that purpose not to sell; and Sonnet 79, And my sick Muse doth give another place.
6 Examples include Sonnet 17, it is but as a tomb; Sonnet 38, How can my Muse want subject to
invent; and Sonnet 103, And more, much more, than in my verse can sit | Your own glass shows you,
when you look in it.
Doing 223
II
My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,
While comments of your praise, richly compiled,
Reserve their character with golden quill
And precious phrase by all the Muses led.
I think good thoughts, whilst other write good words,
And like unlettered clerk still cry Amen
To every hymn that able spirit affords,
In polished form of well-rend pen.
Hearing you praised, I say Tis so, tis true,
And to the most of praise add something more,
But that is in my thought, whose love to you
(Though words come hindmost) holds his rank before.
Then others for the breath of words respect;
Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.
It is possible, indeed quite common now, to be unimpressed by Sonnet 85. When
Don Paterson describes the poem as patently disingenuous and a little bit dull,7
he is amplifying that for which the commentaries he draws on supply evidence.8 If
it is not necessarily disingenuous, it can certainly seem unsubtly paradoxical, and if
not exactly dull, it can well appear disconcertingly repetitive. But attunement gives
us reason and opportunity to look again.
The First Quarto often confuses thy with their, and some commentators
prefer thy (or your) in line 3.9 To every hymn may be a pun for to every
him. If so, this would be an uncharacteristically but revealingly unsubtle dig. The
lurch in register between hymn and him is somewhat mocking; the bunching of
those with whom he contrasts himself, every him, is contemptuous.
The paradoxI am tongue-tied, but I make the point by speaking; I am
incapable of precious phrase, but in testifying to this I use a precious phrase
can certainly seem over-stated, if we suppose that the business of each quatrain is to
repeat it.
Helen Vendler xes on golden quill and the aureate style of the poem to make
dwindle her keynote. The aureate style dwindles with each successive quatrain; it
turns into a linguistic variable before our eyes, dwindling into moral insignicance.10
7 Paterson, Reading Shakespeares Sonnets (2010, pp. 2435).

8 The appeal here is to Helen Vendler, The Art of Shakespeares Sonnets (1997, pp. 3735) and
Stephen Booth, Shakespeares Sonnets (1977, pp. 2858). Paterson also depends throughout on Colin
Burrow in Shakespeare (pp. 5501) and Katherine Duncan-Jones, Shakespeares Sonnets (2010a,
pp. 2801).
9 Some commentators are content with either: for example, Colin Burrow, Shakespeare
(pp. 5501); some prefer their: for example, Booth, Shakespeares Sonnets (1977, pp. 2858); and
some adduce reasons of assonance for doing so: for example, Don Paterson, Reading Shakespeares
Sonnets (2010, pp. 2435), while some prefer your: for example, Katherine Duncan-Jones,
Shakespeares Sonnets (2010a, pp. 2801), and some do not comment: for example, Vendler, The Art
of Shakespeares Sonnets, who prints their (1997).
The basic thought is familiar from elsewhere in the Sonnets (e.g. Sonnet 32):
that praise may appear more sincere when conventional means of expressing it are
rejected.11 So there may be little more to the poem than something of this sort:
You are much praised by others who use ne phrases; to these I can only add
Amen vocally; but I can add something else, silently: my thoughts, which are of
love for you, and which are of higher rank and worth more respect.
The best that has been done of late, and by Vendler herself, is to imply that the
lack of subtlety and the repetition here are artful, intended, somehow the point: to
demonstrate the moral insignicance of the aureate style itself, perhaps.12 This
requires distinguishing the thematic constants of the poem, which do the dwin-
dling, from the whole structure with respect to the speaker, which is to be regarded
as somehow subtly incremental.
But as Vendlers careful phrase gives warning, the benet would be more to the
speaker than to the poem, and, so we may think, precious little benet at that. Her
idea is that the speaker rises in our esteem as his aureate diction declines because
managing this decline establishes his credentials as sincere. But this strategy seems
too artful to be earnest, and too familiar to attract much interest. Worse, it makes
the speaker seem smug and self-serving.
We may sense that this way with the poem overlooks things of interest. There is
the subtle business with ways and means, for example; the collection of metonym-
ical tongues, quills, pens, and breath seems too complex and arranged to be merely
decorative. There is the pregnant nal phrase, speaking in effect, whose meanings
exceed what the general line would allow for: that my speaking is marked by its
sincerity. There are the humorous touches: for example, that the corners of the rst
quatrain fold onto each other, at Muse and Muses, bringing a tied tongue
perilously close to this bustling group of lers (the cost of being well-rend,
perhaps; Ben Jonson noted that Shakespeare did not, as he did, prefer and practise
poetry that showed the labour of the le).13 There is the subtle inltration of m
and p throughout, which we notice if we quieten the sense for a moment and
allow the sounds to speak: the sharp My . . . Muse . . . man[ners] of the rst line
which lengthens in the second into the soothing omm sounds of comments and
compiled; the light introduction of p in this line and its successors until it takes
the weight, book-ending line 8 (In polished form of well-rend pen) and then
pulsing with the emphasis of the repeated word-part praise (Hearing you praised;
most of praise) which by the echo tunes up the earlier precious phrase. Prepared
by these pointers, we may hear what is otherwise unobtrusive: the neat arrangement
of these sounds in the nal couplet, the chiasmic p-m-m-m-p which, returning
11 The thought is more interesting when dressed; for example in Thomas Mores story of the canny
priest, who tops his competitors in attery of Cardinal Wolsey by keeping silent, as if tongue-tied by
the wonder he is given to experience. A Dialogue of Comfort against Tribulation; cited in Stephen
Greenblatt, Renaissance Self-Fashioning (1980, chapter 1).
12 Vendler, The Art of Shakespeares Sonnets (1997, pp. 374; 375).
13 There are precedents for this painful conjunction: for example, On my tongue I feel a sharp
whetstone; Pindar, Olympian 6 (line 83), The Complete Odes (2007, p. 19).
Doing 225
now from sound to sense, draws particular attention to the plaintive word-string
that contains them, respect-me-my-dumb-speaking.14
If there is repetition here, there is also development, so that if we nd paradox,
we sense it may be deeply felt. The possibility arises that the poem seems dull
because we miss the delicacy, and perhaps the point.
III
An approach that turns on action picks out the one unambiguous phrase of
Chaucer-type in the austere form: I say Tis so, tis true. Also its two more
shadowy partners: I think good thoughts and I . . . cry Amen. Each phrase is
independently signicant, but it is the contrast which gives substance to what we
have sensed: that there is interest in the business with ways and means, in the
ambiguities of the nal phrase, in the words made salient by the orchestration of
sound. What is enigmatic here seems emblematic of the poem itself.
The three phrases combineor at least appear to combinethe rst-person
term with verbs of doing in the present, indicative active (Phrasing), verbs which are
words for what the speaker may be doing in uttering what he utters (Naming),
phrases which may give assurances that what appears to be done is in fact done, and
guaranteed to have been done, in the act of uttering itself (Securing). But questions
arise over each feature, and none is allowed to dominate; each is, by turns and then
in combination, of particular signicance to the developing lines of thought.
These lines of thought draw towards, or are drawn towardsit is part of the idea,
perhaps, that we too, no less than the speaker, are tense with the choice between
active and passivethe possibility of recognizing the utterance which expresses
these thoughts as a performance of the acts named by them. We are made to feel the
particular value of this possibility, for the speaker, by the specic cost to him of his
achieving it, a passage whose distance is measured, whether or not it is successfully
covered, in the sonnet itself: from the opening (tongue-tied . . . ) to the close
(speaking in effect).
This nal phrase inherits what has accumulated in the course of the poem, which
may be a set of doubts, or a conviction. Accumulated doubts will not be dispelled
by the phrase speaking in effect since it is precisely ambiguous. It could mean:
(a) my speaking is marked by its sincerity; what I say is genuine, real, meant
This is what the phrase is generally taken to signify. But it could also mean:
(b) my thoughts really do speak (they are not just breath)
14 Chiasmus is a device whose role is particularly relevant to our concerns in Chapter 17, in relation
to Sonnet 49. Relevant also is the chiasmic play with the rst person (mine eye-my heart-my heart-
mine eye) in Sonnet 46 (Mine eye my heart thy pictures sight would bar; | My heart, mine eye the
freedom of that right) which will become relevant when we look more closely at the rst person and its
role in the Sonnets in relation to the Chaucer-type.
or:
(c) my speaking is active, engaged, it brings about effects
or even:
(d) my thoughts as good as speak, though they do notnot quitebeing, in
some sense, dumb.15
Conviction, on the other hand, will depend on the idea that some one of these
possible ways is correct, or at least dominant, and that the body of the poem gives
us the materials with which to demonstrate this.
I say Tis so, tis true is, so it seems, and in the plainest sense of the phrase, a
speaking in effect. The sentential clause satises Phrasing, Naming, and Securing.
The speaking is active, has effects; what the speaker says, he does, in the saying of it,
and in such a way as to be seen to have done it. So if there is a falling-off in the
poem, a dwindling, there is also an upsurge and a heightening to more than match
it, a straight contrast between what is effete and ineffectual, and what is plain and
performed.
Indeed, this might be seen as a particularly thoroughgoing example of the austere
type. It doubles the structure in question: the correspondence relation which binds
what is said with what is done. For what is said is that something is true, and what is
true corresponds with the facts. So what is said corresponds with what is done, and
what is done is an assertion of correspondence: that what is said (by others)
corresponds with the facts.
This draws attention to three pointswhat is said, what is done, and what is
trueand to the relation of correspondence which connects them.
This relation is evidently symmetrical: if A corresponds with B, then
B corresponds with A. It may also be transitive: if A corresponds with B and
B corresponds with C, then A must correspond with C. But the poem encourages
caution about this, and in registering the cause, we begin to gain entry.
In utterance of a Chaucer-type phrase like I say Tis so, tis true, what is said
and what is done correspond in that what is said names what is done. But this is
clearly not the respect in which what is done and what is true correspond. Preposi-
tions give notice of the difference: we tend to say that what is said corresponds to
what is done, whereas that what is said corresponds with what is true. Put more
formally: if A corresponds with B in some respect R1, and B corresponds with C, it
does not follow that A must correspond with C in respect R1; for it may be in some
15 Helen Vendler restricts the sense to (a): His thoughts speak in effect, in the ex-facio of sincerity;
The Art of Shakespeares Sonnets (1997, p. 375). Katherine Duncan-Jones acknowledges the possibility
of sense (b) and perhaps (c): speak in external action or in truth, rather than in mere breath of words,
which is here treated as insubstantial and suspect; Shakespeares Sonnets (2010a, p. 280). But it is sense
(d) that is perhaps the most important for understanding the movement of the poem. Robert Southwell
thickens the thought in his prose work Mary Magdalens Funeral Tears: the eye supplying the tongues
default, and the heart forcing out the unsyllabled breath; The Prose Works of Robert Southwell (1828,
p. 72).
Doing 227
other respect, R2, that B corresponds with C, and hence it may be in this respect that
A corresponds with C.
The present case may be an instance of this. In the Chaucer-type phrase I say
Tis so, tis true, what is said and what is done correspond in one way: in uttering
the phrase, the speaker names the very thing done and is guaranteed to have done
the very thing named. There is also no question but that what is said is that
something is true, and that what is true corresponds with the facts, since being true
just is to correspond with the facts. But it does not follow, from this alone, that
what is said corresponds with what is true, with the facts. Obviously not; for what is
said to be true may in fact be false, even known to be false.16
The speaker has a particular use for the Chaucer-type when he introduces it. The
clarity of correspondence between what is said and what is done contrasts with the
opacity in the relation between what is said and what is true. This opacity is
dispelled if we substitute that relation for the relation between what is thought
and what is true. Then all the clarity of correspondence returns.
Or may appear to do so. We may doubt this, and wonder whether the speaker
doubts it also. For use of the Chaucer-type does indeed draw attention to what is
done in being said, and hence to what is not done in being said. Hence it serves the
speakers purpose, drawing attention instead to what is done in being thought. Or
rather to what is said to have been thought (the mist, not quite dispelled, makes a
return). For we have only the speakers word for it that thought and speech
correspond, that what he says he thinks he does indeed think, and hence that
what he says is done in thought is indeed done.
So the old relation, the correspondence between what is said and what is true,
still gures here; indeed, it operates at a more fundamental level. And with the old
relation comes the old opacity: that what is said may fail to correspond with what is
true, either because it is false, or because it misses the mark.
We can come at this from a different direction, one from which Sonnet 85
invites us to look, with its constant play on ways and means. The relation between
what is thought and what is true seems in one way more impressive than the
relation between what is said and what is true, at least if a perennial myth is true:
that ones inner conceptual repertoire is richer and more diverse than ones
expressive and linguistic resources, so that what one can think must be capable of
matching the diversity and riches of what is the case more neatly and exactly than
what one can say.
In another sense, though, the relation between thought and truth seems much
less robust, at least if either of a couple of equally persistent thoughts hold good:
that one does not really do anything in thinking something, and that whatever the
thinker might manage to do in thinking (if anything) is not certain to have been
done in that thinking. (The speaker is alive to this possibility elsewhere in the
16 Crucially for the third quatrain, this is not the only sense in which what is said may fail to
correspond with what is true. Perhaps what is said does not meet the truth quite squarely, does not hit
the nail full on the head. It is this possibility to which the speaker alludes, perhaps, when he assents to
what is said but remarks on the something more that he has to add in my thought.
Sonnets, and a keen observer of the thoughts of his addressee, regarding his own life
as dependent on their existence and on knowing of their existence; thus the
despairing, But ah, thought kills me that I am not thought in Sonnet 44.) For
the action we need and the assurance we seek, we naturally look back to what we
can say.
The availability of the Chaucer-type can seem reassuring here. To say what one
thinks is to act; furthermore, in these cases, what one does is guaranteed, made
certain to have been performed, in the saying of it. But the reassurance ebbs as soon
as we recall what made it ow. How are we to feel assured that thought and speech
correspond, that what the speaker says he thinks, he does indeed think? Not the
least of the salient features of Sonnet 85 is that it brings to the fore what in other
sonnets remains in the background, a context in which Securing itself seems less
secure. Use of the Chaucer-type sets up a perpetual oscillation between what
reassures (that what is said is done) and what disquiets (that what is said need
not be what is thought).
IV
I think good thoughts is precisely not, in the plainest sense, a speaking in effect.
And it is a whole set of failures of correspondence that explains this: a mismatch
between what is said and what is true, between what is said and what is thought,
and between what is thought and what is done. The distance between this phrase
and I say Tis so, tis true is not great, however. The latter phrase draws attention
to the fact that what is true and what is said may be brought together, so that they
correspond, or that they may be forced apart, thus to create the very gap into which
the speaker now enters: between what is true and what is merely said to be true.
The clause combines all the elements required for Phrasing: the rst person in the
nominative; the verb of doing in the present, indicative, active. But although there
is a familiar use of the verb think in which it would satisfy Namingit is a word
for what the speaker can be regarded as doing in the uttering of itthis is quite
explicitly not the use employed here.
The speakers utterance is meant to contrast with what others are able to utter,
his think with their words, both written (golden quill, well-rend pen) and
spoken (the breath of words). Not that he is incapable of utterance altogether: he
is after all able to utter I think good thoughts and even to act-in-uttering with the
Chaucer-type phrase I say Tis so, tis true. But he is unable to utter all that he
thinks; there is a surplus to what is thought that goes unuttered.
The speakers remark draws attention to this fundamental contrast with the
Chaucer-type and its basis in Doing: that in uttering something (I think good
thoughts) he does not do something (utter those thoughts). Enjambment makes
the discomfort felt, the slight line-end pause after to the most of praise add
something more, . . . encouraging one to lean in to hear of this more, only to
be rebuffed, cut out, a witness merely, and to the speakers withdrawing, to his
Doing 229
maintaining of what is both private and privative, with his self-silencing, self-sealing
But that is in my thought.
Speaking in effect is ambiguous enough to match I think good thoughts. For it
may mean almost the opposite of the plainest sense (that the speaking is active, has
effects); namely, that the thoughts at issue do not truly count as speaking at all
(they are, after all, dumb), though there is a likeness (as we might say Ratication
of the Federal Constitution in 1867 meant that Bismarck was reigning in effect).
The speaker does something in his uttering: he makes an assertion about his
thoughts. But what he thereby succeeds in doing makes salient what he does not
achieve, cannot achieve, regards himself as incapable of achieving: namely, uttering
those thoughts themselves.
I . . . cry Amen is the third phrase of interest. Looked at in one way, it is like
the rst phrase: an utterance of the Chaucer-type which satises each requirement
of the austere form: Phrasing, Naming, Securing. Looked at in another, it is like the
second phrase, if not still more removed from the Chaucer-type.
There is no doubt that the verb in the sentential clause (cry) is a word for what
the speaker might do in uttering a sentence. The syntax (whilst; still) creates a
difculty: it suggests that this is a phrase whose uttering is being described: it is
something I tend to do, am in the habit of doing, rather than what is hereby being
done. But the word itself (Amen) is presented here and hereby cried, so that if the
uttering is being described, it is not merely being described. It is being performed as
well, and with it the act named by the verb.17
The pen is neatly poisoned, after all. If we respect well-rend words (which the
speaker, perhaps, does not), there is no reason to think that a well-rend pen
would be capable of producing them. Indeed, we are invited by a preceding line (5)
to take the instrument as a metonym for the one who writes, by contrast with (and
precisely not) the one who thinks; hence not the one capable of producing well-
rend words, at least in any enviable sense (beyond mere compiling). If Jonathan
Bate is correct that the very strong reference to the pen here and in Sonnets 789
and 835 is an allusion to the poet-calligrapher John Davies of Hereford, thus to
be identied as the rival poet of the sequence, it is to him that this subtle insulting is
specically directed.18 If the target is more various, as the tone and content of these
17 This assumes, of course, that the phrase is reconstructed correctly, with I as the subject of the
relevant verb (cry). Commentators seem to assume this, and it may indeed be the dominant sense. But
grammatically, the phrase might equally be reconstructed with other as the subject of the verb. And
not just grammatically. This interpretation is quite consistent with the argument at this point. Indeed,
it makes interestingand perhaps bettersense to suppose that the ridicule (like unlettered clerk)
might for a moment not be self-directed but as criticism of others, to x for a moment those who write
good words.
18 Bate, Soul of the Age: The Life, Mind and World of William Shakespeare (2008, pp. 3324). The
range of possessives and adjectives applied to pen in the Sonnets gives it a richer life than the Davies
ascription alone possesses. For one thing, it is often ascribed to the speaker himself: my pupil pen in
Sonnet 16. Sometimes this is in a gesture of prowess: such virtue hath my pen in Sonnet 81. When
ascribed to others, it seems calculated equally to amuse: thine antique pen in Sonnet 19.
sonnets imply, the affront may nevertheless be particularly pointed, and appointed,
for particular individuals.19
Of course, if unlettered clerk matches not with I but with other, the second
and third quatrains turn out not to be a straight repetition of form and content;
they repeat the form only. What in the second is said about others is applied to
and said about the I in the third. And this would contribute considerably in
explaining our sense for the movement, development, and interest of the whole.
But we need not be convinced to explain this sense. It is enough to see the
possibility of ambiguity here and to register the effects on assurance, to feel
something of the speakers condition, tongue-tied and unable to say what is the
case, in part because of doubts about his equipment, his obsessive returning to the
ways and means of re-production. For all that the contrast with other seems stark,
we may doubt that it really succeeds in reassuring him. The ambiguity of the
quatrainswhether they repeat each other in content or form onlymakes it
unclear how much of this really is a straight contrast, and how much it also involves
a turning-in on himself.
It has been said that the point about the unlettered clerk is that he produces
inadequate phrases of assent to the words of others.20 But Amen and Tis so, tis
true are not just perfectly adequate as words of assent; they could hardly be
bettered. What is inadequate is the (lack of) thought behind such words: the fact
that the one using the words may not understand what they are thereby assenting
to. This reawakens the play between thought and speech, of course, and it is
tting that the nal line with its ambiguous phrase may now be made to look
like a reversal of what might have been assumed: that it is speech which bears the
mark of the genuine, the sincere. And it is somewhat odder to interpret the
criticism as self- than as other-directed. The speaker consistently presents himself
in the poem as someone who thinks and understands, but who simply lacks the
polished phrase. Others, as they are here presented, are at least as good candidates
for likeness with the unlettered clerk: they who are capable of the polished
phrase, but not perhaps of the deep thought. For the capacity for deep thought
comes with love of the subject, as the third quatrain makes clear. And this is a
love of which the speaker declares himself possessed, and in such a way as to set
him apart from others. The idea that love aids, or perhaps constitutes, a faculty of
perception occurs elsewhere in the Sonnets; for example, Sonnets 467 and
especially 23:
O learn to read what silent love hath writ:
To hear with eyes belongs to loves ne writ.
19 So Stephen Booths remark about this sonnet, that the topic of pens regularly evokes apparently
studied imprecision from Shakespeare, seems not quite right; Shakespeares Sonnets (1977, p. 286). If
Shakespeare is indeed imprecise here (and that may be only apparent), it is certainly an artful
imprecision.
20 Helen Vendler, The Art of Shakespeares Sonnets (1997, p. 374).
Doing 231
V
Sonnet 85 puts the rst person deeply in question.21 We have just seen one
example: if it is indeed the other (who write good words) who cry Amen,
then this third phrase of interest is not to be regarded as rst-personal, to be
reconstructed as I . . . cry, and hence not to be classied as of the Chaucer-type in
austere form. But this is no isolated instance; it ts a broader patterning.
The most natural, and certainly the most common, way of denoting the referent
of uses of I in the Sonnets is as the speaker. The description has several
advantages, and two in particular. First, it brings sound to the attention and
makes a point subtly enough to be modied without bother: that in approaching
the poem, we should give priority to what it is as a spoken thing. Second, it allows
one to refer condently to what is common to uses of I, both within and between
each sonnet, without raising the question of who is being referred to, or whether it
is actually the same individual being referred to in each case.22
In Sonnet 85, however, and as a side-effect of the business with ways and
meansor is it, perhaps, as its culmination?the description seems markedly
inapposite. The referent of I has dumb thoughts and a tongue-tied Muse. His
rather shadowy form is the product of contrast with those who speak and cry, those
who for the breath of words respect. What he does instead is think (good
thoughts).
The contrast exerts pressures: to give priority to this poem as a thing that is
thought rather than a thing that is spoken, for example. And under this pressure, we
are brought to question what might otherwise seem straightforward and clear: that
21 Fineman, Shakespeares Perjured Eye (1986), is particularly helpful on this topic, though a literary
criticism guided by a speech act approach treats it in a very different way. A. D. Nuttalls view that the
Sonnets are prayer-like poems of self-examination is helpful also in coming to appreciate the rst-
personal aspect of the Chaucer-type; Two Concepts of Allegory (1967, pp. 1267). But Nuttalls
exclusive contrasteither the Sonnets are an objective self-analysis or a dialogue with an invisible
interlocutor; either they are private poetry or contain a certain rhetorical expediency, an eye for
resultsseems to me contrived, unnecessarily forced. It is not helpful to feel obliged to identify the
underlying thesis of the Sonnets, still less to promote the indicative I am I: this is what I am above the
optative Love me.
22 The complications here make inquiry into the Chaucer-type intersect with recent inquiry into
Shakespeares rhetorical techniques, and particularly the notion of circumstance, i.e. the features of a
situationwho, why, when, where, howthat help make human action intelligible as such, whose
role as an indispensable category of Renaissance rhetorical and dialectical invention Lorna Hutson
applies to the discussion of Shakespeares plays; see her Circumstantial Shakespeare (2015, pp. 25;
1219; 5560). Analysis of the Sonnets complicates the issues, however, achieving much of what
Hutson regards as circumstance-dependente.g. arousing emotion, producing motivated uncertainty,
conjecturing unconscious motives, and producing character (see p. 145)without (much) dependence
on circumstance. Pursuing the point would certainly require clarifying the notion of circumstance. For
example, Hutson sets up a contrast between our tendency to think of circumstances as objective material
particulars and Renaissance writers who presented them as topical aids, as if the two were somehow
incompatible with each other. But this is not obvious, given that one tells us about what circumstances
are, and the other tells us about what functions they have, and the answer to either seems perfectly
compatible with the answer to the other.
the one clear example of the Chaucer-type in austere formI say Tis so, tis
trueis indeed an instance of the type.
Hearing you praised, I say Tis so, tis true,
And to the most of praise add something more,
But that is in my thought,
Commentators assume a reading in which what is said, the Tis so, tis true, is set
over and against what is only thought, the something more. But it is possible, and
indeed quite plausible, given the context, to hear, But that is in my thought as
referring not only to the something more but to the I say Tis so, tis true. If so,
then what appears at the beginning of the sentence as a saying-in-speaking has
become by its middle a saying-in-thinking, something essentially indistinguishable
from a straight thinking. Then whether this counts as an instance of the austere
form turns on a nice question: whether say, as it is used here, is meant to contrast
with think.
If it is, so that the sentence silently corrects itself as it proceeds, then the word
say is not being used as a verb of doing. If it is not meant to contrast with think,
so that what the sentence does silently is clarify that by say it means thinka
saying in fore internothen the phrase satises the chief aspect of Naming: it is a
word for what is thereby going on.
But whether it truly satises this feature depends on whether what is thereby
going on counts as a doing. And that, so we may think, is precisely what is being
brought into question. Indeed, it is the question to which we would then interpret
the nal phrase as drawing attention.
Can a thinking after all be regarded as a doing? Can anything be done in
thought? Or is this at best just a speaking in effect, where that phrase is to be heard
in sense (d)? For certain purposes, my thoughts as good as speak; but they do not
really speak; and that is (perhaps) precisely because of this difference between
speech and thought: that to speak is to do, and to think is not.23
In describing and dening the Chaucer-type in austere form, we have used the
term the speaker to denote the one responsible for the sentences being analysed,
the one referred to by uses of the rst person. This has served our purposes well,
essentially for the same two reasons that the description has proved so useful to
commentators on Shakespeares Sonnets: because it gives due priority to sound
while sidelining thorny issues about the identity of the individuals being referred to.
But when we move beyond the present enterprise, this may well be a tool we need
either to sharpen or to discard.
We may read speaking in effect as an endorsement of the idea that poetic
utterance is action. But we may also take the cue from dumb thoughts and
suppose that the phrase makes a much weaker point: that the one referred to as
I feels equal only to the assertion that this is indeed speech. Or weaker still: that
this is not even speech, but simply thought.
23 These issues about a thinking that may also be a doing, fundamental to Sonnet 85, bring it into
convergence with G. M. Hopkins Thou art indeed just; see Chapter 11.
Doing 233
The sense of paradox would then have a distinct basis and a more novel character
than is usually recognized: since the existence of this very poem is evidence that the
one referred to as I is capable of more than that. And if each option can be made to
seem equally plausible, as a summary of this persons position, that is due in part to
forces put in play by the body of the poem. It deprives us of the assurance of which
it depicts this person as deprived.
Commentators think the speaker disingenuous. They may be right, but not
quite for the reasons we assume. I am incapable of precious phrase; but look, here
I am producing a precious phrase. It would be consistent with what we nd that he
genuinely lacks the assurance necessary for this sort of insincerity. There need be,
after all, nothing disingenuous about the person who says I am incapable of doing
this and who nevertheless does itif he does not realize, or recognize, that this is
indeed and in fact what he is actually doing. If there is an attempt to pull wool over
the eyes here, it is perhaps that the speaker does not quite succeed in concealing,
either from himself or from his audience, the extent of his contempt for others. This
contempt is evident, perhaps, in that lurch of register and contemptuous bunching
in the pun on hymn/him. This in turn implies a certain condence in himself, an
assurance that he seeks to conceal, both from himself and from his audience.
17
Doing Time
I
Against that time (if ever that time come)
When I shall see thee frown on my defects,
Whenas thy love hath cast his utmost sum,
Called to that audit by advised respects;
Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass,
And scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye,
When love, converted from the thing it was,
Shall reasons nd of settled gravity;
Against that time do I ensconce me here,
Within the knowledge of mine own desert,
And this my hand against myself uprear
To guard the lawful reasons on thy part.
To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws,
Since why to love I can allege no cause.
Like Sonnet 85, Sonnet 49 reects explicitly on poetry as a form of action, and in
the positive and afrming way characteristic of only some of Shakespeares sonnets.
Twice, the speaker performs the very acts he names and reects on. This is one of
the very few (four) sonnets in which there is multiple use of the Chaucer-type in
austere form. (The form is never used more than twice in a single sonnet.1)
Again like Sonnet 85, Sonnet 49 is not highly thought of. No one ever reads it,
as one commentator remarks.2 Why? Perhaps because the themethe speaker
deals with repudiation by describing itseems obvious and familiar, its treatment
here lacking in complexity, development. Certainly the sonnet reads easily, the
rhythm four-square, the phrasing aerated, dense only rarely and only moderately
then. There is a simplicity to it, as if it were generated out of a few basic elements.
And it is, if anything, more openly repetitive than Sonnet 85, each quatrain marked
at its opening with the use of the same phrase.
For these or similar reasons, the sonnet might well appear to demand little comment,
effort, work. Fair enough if those who deal with it do so quickly or defect to address
other issues (to dwell on whether speculation on numerology in Shakespeare shows
1 The other instances are Sonnets 35, 123, and 130.

2 Don Paterson, Reading Shakespeares Sonnets (2010, p. 143).
good sense, for example).3 But Sonnet 49 bears its own difculties which provide
opportunities for attunement. The problems here and in Sonnet 85 have a similar
cause: that it can be difcult to maintain the prominence of the rst and most general
feature of the Chaucer-type (Doing) whilst remaining fully attentive to the other three
(Phrasing; Naming; Securing). And the opportunities here and in Sonnet 85 have a
similar explanation: that the issues to which these difculties direct us are the very ones
which the poem is trying to confront. So appreciating the value of the poem depends
on attunement.
The very ease we experience in reading this sonnet draws our attention to its halts
and stopping places. There are the compacted phrases advised respects and
strangely pass, the archaism whenas (meaning at the time when, playing on
and off the repeated phrase Against that time), and the addition of allege to the
nal phrase. One might assume that something peculiar is happening at these
points, where the ow has an obstacle to round. Or one may take this as a bluff:
that what is of interest lies in the ow itself, or in what the ow may conceal.
[A]dvised respects might mean respectable advisers.4 But the phrasing pro-
motes its inversion: advised respectables or the respectable advised. We may
wonder whether this adaptabilitythe freedom to treat each word as taking on
either the referring role (singling out the advised, the respectable) or the ascriptive
function (characterizing what is referred to, as advised, as respectable)is possible
only because both words are to be taken as abstract in meaning. In which case, we
might drop appeal to concrete persons and suppose instead that informed delib-
eration or its like must do.
[S]trangely pass is commonly taken to mean pass like a stranger. But com-
mentators divide the dictionary to explain what that in turn must mean. Some opt
for the second sense in the OED (in an unfriendly or unfavourable manner), some
for the eleventh (with estranged or distant demeanour).5 By contrast, the rst
option seems more openly offensive and the second more remote. The latter, but
not the former, is quite compatible with indifference. Both options work with the
succeeding sentiments, as expressed in scarcely greet me, but to different effect:
the former more brutally (there will be hostility, and hence scarcely any warmth, in
this recognition) and the latter more cruelly (there will be unconcern, and hence
scarcely any recognition, in this recognition). Neither option is quite killed off as
the sonnet proceeds, but the rst is perhaps less pungently alive in Shall reasons
nd of settled gravity. That it is to the nding of reasons that love may be
converted, rather than (for example) to loathing or hatred, is perhaps more
suggestive of the remoteness, than the offence, in passing like a stranger.
3 It is odd, no doubt meant to be, that Don Paterson spends half his commentary on this poem
discussing numerology, when his one charge against such speculation is that it takes us further and
further from the poems (Reading Shakespeares Sonnets, 2010, p. 146). Others deal more positively;
Colin Burrow, for example, uses numerological appropriateness to press a point against G. B. Evans
(Shakespeare p. 478).
4 See Shakespeare p. 478.
5 For the rst option, see Shakespeare p. 478. For the second, Stephen Booth, Shakespeares Sonnets
(1977, p. 213) and Katherine Duncan-Jones, Shakespeares Sonnets (2010a, p. 208).

Doing Time 237
The nal phrase, I can allege no cause, is more problematic than it may at rst
appear. Commentators who interpret it as meaning I can present no legally
binding reason repeat rather than resolve what is at issue.6 The speaker might
have said (in effect) that there is no cause, no legally binding reason. What he said
would then have been directed at what is or is not the case. Instead, he adds a word
(allege) that directs what he says at himself, to his relationship with what is, or is
not, the case. Why?
There is often good reason to do this when describing what others say: to note a
deciency, a shortfall between what they take to be the case and what is in fact the
case. And this might be what the speaker intends here: to point out one last
weakness (poor me) in his own position: I can allege no cause, though there
may in fact be a cause. But the negative form allows, and context may prefer, the
speaker to advert to recognition of his own strength, condence resurgent, if
temporary perhaps, at this ending point: I can allege no cause because I admit of
no such shortfall; what I take to be the case is what is the case: there is no cause. If so,
the phrase is not abject but noble, and ties ttingly with Cordelias no cause.7
II
Working a worry more deeply, it is notable that the themethe speaker deals
with repudiation by describing itleaves much to play for.
Consider the repudiation with which the speaker deals, for example. It may be an
expected repudiation which is yet to occur. But it may also be one that is already
being undergone. Or it may be one that has occurred at some time in the past (and
if so, how recently?). The rst option may seem the most likely, but Helen Vendler
has argued plausibly against it. She thinks that the sonnet is so expert a delinea-
tion of what is feared that what is feared must already have occurred.8
Or consider the point and purpose of dealing with repudiation, what the speaker
hopes to gain by describing repudiation. Perhaps to prevent it; perhaps to endure it;
perhaps to understand it. Which?
Finally, consider the description itself, the means by which the speaker tries to
deal with repudiation. It may be supposed to work by a sort of magic: the speaker
invokes an event by describing it, hoping thereby to prevent it occurring. Or it may
be an essentially emotional project: he arouses certain feelings, both about himself
and about the object of his love, to help him cope with the experience of being
repudiated. Or it may be meant to work by process of reasoning: he convinces
himself that repudiation is, or was, or will be inevitable.
These options can be combined in various ways. If the repudiation is expected,
for example, the point of describing it might be to prevent it, but it might also be to
endure or understand what is to come. Again, if the point of describing the
6 For example, Shakespeare p. 478.

7 Vendler reads the phrase as abject, The Art of Shakespeares Sonnets (1997, p. 245).
repudiation is to prevent it, this might be intended to work by magic, but it might
also work by affecting the speakers subsequent behaviour, by arousing certain
feelings that will cause him to act preventatively, or by invoking certain reasons
which will have a similar effect.
It makes a good deal of difference which combination we choose, of course. Very
few permutations are blocked.9 There appears to be a preference, currently: to read
the poem as an attempt to prepare for a repudiation that has not yet occurred,
where reasoning is the key to the speakers approach.10 This line is certainly no less
plausible than the available alternatives, but nor is it obviously more warranted.
And it does face difculties. Suppose the reasoning is as Katherine Duncan-Jones
decodes it: love is irrational, so the future cessation of the youths affection needs
no justication.11 Then the speaker has already arrived at that time described in
the second quatrain, When love . . . | Shall reasons nd of settled gravity. This may
be true, rather horribly. But given that the speaker goes on immediately to enact
measures against that time, we would then be faced with two awkward options.
On one, the speaker is implausibly unaware of what must be foremost in his mind,
being busy, simultaneously, at both setting himself to nd reasons of settled gravity
and preventing himself from being someone so set. On the other option, the
speaker is implausibly cynical, aware (and aware that his audience is aware) that
the time against which he is enacting measures has already come, so that his actions
could be performance only, a ritualized shutting of the barn door.
So, despite a surface ease, there are difculties here. (Not that we were not
warned: advised respects calls us to this audit.) The poem requires work, and
hence may generate more interest than may at rst appear. We certainly need to
nd a way of resolving the issues that arise.
III
Against that time may be an obvious starting-point. But although its repetitions
make it appear (as it may yet turn out to be) a key to the poem, the phrase is of no
immediate help. It awakens the very ambiguities that enliven the variety of
permutations.
For suppose we identify the reference of that time with the event of the
speakers being repudiated. We will then naturally assume that this event must
be future, rather than present or past. But that is compatible with each of the
options described. For the speaker might hope to prevent this event in describing it.
But his purpose might equally be to prepare himself for what he must endure, or to
understand why he must endure it. Again, he might be acting out of a superstitious
9 Vendler reads the sonnet as both a charm to prevent what is feared and a description of what has
already occurred, though she does not explain how both might be true together; The Art of Shakespeares
Sonnets (1997, p. 245).
10 See Katherine Duncan-Jones, Shakespeares Sonnets (2010a, p. 208); Shakespeare p. 478.
11 Katherine Duncan-Jones, Shakespeares Sonnets (2010a, p. 208).
Doing Time 239
belief in preventative charms. But he might equally be engaged in an essentially

emotional project, or in the attempt to reason himself into another state of mind.
(Even if we assume the repudiation is yet to occur, we have yet to decide on the
attitude taken by the speaker towards that event. And the repeated phrase leaves
this open.)
Against that time might mean in fearful anticipation of that event, which is
comparatively weak, and assumes the speaker is uncertain about the course events
will take (uncertain about himself also, perhaps: the attitude he will adopt, with
what reason, or under what pressure). But it might equally mean in expectation of
that event, which is more certain about the course of events. Or it might mean in
preparation for that event, which gives expression to a more robust state of mind.
Or it might even mean guarding against that event, which couples robustness with
the conviction that what might otherwise seem inevitable can in fact be avoided.12
The repetition of the phrase is itself a clue, perhaps: the fact that it is repeated
over a developing context draws attention to the variety of these alternatives.
Perhaps the ambiguity is calculated, pointing at these issues as the ones that are
meant to trouble us. But how are we meant to resolve what is meant to trouble us?
Repetition is not the only clue. It is worth looking into our initial sense that the
poem is generated out of simple elements. When pronouncing the poem aloud, it is
evident that the dominating sounds are the play of s against t. These sounds are
forced hard against each other in the rst word (Against), and several times
subsequently, marking words in a way that makes them salient to sense: the
st-sounds of cast; utmost; against; strangely; against; against; hast;
strength, and the ts-sounds of defects; respects. The pattern is made more
complex by the separation and recombination of these s and t sounds. This
complexity is established in the rst two lines, which split the st of the initial word,
Against, to form the recurring t sounds of that time . . . that time, and the
recurring s sounds of shall see, before recombining these sounds in the nal
word, defects. Here, the initial ordering is reversed, so that the ts sound of the
two syllable defects makes it a mildly distorted mirror-image of the two-syllable
against with its st sound. That defects, with these defects, should gure against
against is rather neat.
The pattern, sprung from the meaning and form of the word Against, and given
its more complex separating-recombining form in the rst couplet, is then repeated,
line by line, to give the sonnet its structure. In line 3, s dominates (Whenas . . .
cast his utmost sum) and in line 4, t dominates (to that audit . . . advised
respects). Lines 5 (Against that time . . . shalt strangely pass) and 6 (scarcely
greet . . . that sun) are balanced, the latter having a chiasmic form. Lines 7 (con-
verted . . . it was) and 8 (reasons . . . settled gravity) are simpler, thus enriching by
contrast the key line 9, with its third and resolving use of the repeated phrase
(Against that time . . . ensconce). Line 10 is strikingly spare, with its single s and t
12 It was just such a worrying away at the notion of event which prompted T. S. Eliot to nd
[himself] in conict with much that Mr Bradley has had to say on the subject of psychology;
Knowledge and Experience in the Philosophy of F. H. Bradley (1964, pp. 76ff).
sounds making salient the word that contains them: desert. Lines 11 to 14 then
repeat the earlier pattern in condensed form. An s-dominated line (this . . . against
myself ) is followed by a t-dominated line (To . . . reasons . . . part). These sounds
are balanced in the closing couplet (To . . . hast . . . strength . . . laws; Since . . . to
. . . cause). These nal lines contain one last recombination (in strength), which,
by contrast with the starting combination (in against), may give us a hint, pointing
the direction in which the speaker is travelling.
The basic rhythm of the poem is similarly set in the rst couplet: by the opening
iambs (Against that time; When I shall see) and the marked caesura which the
rest of the poem repeats. This rhythm lends considerable forcefulness to phrases
where foot- and word-end coincide: Against that time, When I shall see, Whenas
thy love, Against that time, And scarcely greet, Shall reasons nd, Against that
time, And this my hand, To leave poor me, Since why to love. This rhythm also
emphasizes the four occasions, neatly dispersed, where the two iambs which open
each line counter this now-established form by not coinciding with a word-end:
Called to that au(dit); When love, conver(ted); Within the know(ledge); To
guard the law(ful). The nal words in each case sound stretched and broken-
backed. Being racked by the rhythm in this way ts what is given to these four
words to display: four great pressures on the speaker, representing respectively two
forces imposed from outside, as normative constraints (lawful reasons on thy part)
and as apparently unalterable facts (love, converted from the thing it was), and two
forces exerted from the inside, as self-imposed inquiry into self (Called to that audit
by advised respects), and as judgement brought on the self by the self (Within the
knowledge of mine own desert).
The caesura in the rst line is marked, uniquely, by a bracket. This draws
attention to a divide that is echoed more discretely, by rhythm alone, in the
succeeding lines. The divide aids sense since each line thus contains within itself
the image of that Against which launches the poem and re-charges it at measured
intervals, against being a word that not only divides terms but sets them in
opposition to each other, creating new forces. The bracket also draws attention
to what is there enclosedif ever that time comeand hence to a particular kind
of difference. Unlike the events which we might expect to be described, this is one
whose time may not come, and hence may be appropriately segregated, its existence
belonging to another order.
To say the poem aloud, giving attention to these repeated sounds and to the
rhythmic form, is to slip into a frame of mind which may be that of the speaker:
precise, clipped, conscious of ones force in the holding of it in check. It is natural to
speak in this way when rawly conscious of stretched patience. It is the tone of
reserved anger, though an anger that may be reserved even from oneself. This is also
a clue, perhaps. If there is an underlying feeling that the thoughts expressed over the
course of the poem lack development, there is interest in the possible reason for this:
that the speakers energies are caught up in the keeping of himself in check, close-
packed, as knotted as the word Against and as compacted as the rst couplet to
which it gives rise, the line whose rhythm, sounds, and sense are the cell from which
the rest of the poem is generated, by separation and recombination of its elements.
Doing Time 241
IV
So it is notable that the very features of Sonnet 49 which explain why, on familiar
approaches, it tends to receive little attentionthat it is dense only rarely, gener-
ated out of a few basic elements, openly repetitive, on an apparently simple, familiar
themeare those which arouse interest and give reason to look more closely. That
is reason enough to change the approach, perhaps. A stronger reason lies in the
moment for which the word Against prepares.
That moment comes late. Three times the speaker says Against that time . . . ,
creating a sense of expectation: that we are about to be told what it is to which that
time presents as a contrast. On each preceding occasion, the speaker rises with this
utterance, then fails to deliver, falls back on himself, and kills time by describing
instead that timethe time When I shall see thee frown, the time when thou
shalt strangely pass. Pressing off and against that pattern, a time against these times,
the speaker on the third occasion forces the point (or is forced to the point, or forces
himself to the point; it is unclear as yet which holds): Against that time do I ensconce
me here. This is an utterance of the Chaucer-type, it seems. So the longed-for
moment turns out to be one that calls for an approach that turns on action.
In uttering, Against that time do I ensconce me here, the speaker does
something beyond mere uttering (Doing). There is an implicit hereby. What
plays the decisive role is the combination of the rst-person term with a verb of
doing in the present tense, indicative, active (Phrasing). Questions may arise about
whether the verb ensconce is a word for what the speaker might do in uttering the
phrase (Naming). But if we accept as dominant, or at least possible and present, a
sense in which ensconce names an act that uttering can perform, that act is
guaranteed, made certain to have been performed, in that uttering (Securing).
The cause to question Naming is not quite what it may rst appear: the obvious
way in which ensconce is ambiguous. Its sense certainly turns on how one
interprets the metaphor, a sconce being a small stronghold. The speaker may be
settling for a defensive posture: seeking protection, taking shelter, nding refuge.
Then the utterance would be an act of acceptance, of resignation even: that he is
dependent, must rely on what is not himself for protection, shelter, refuge.
Alternatively, the speaker may be adopting a more aggressive posture: establishing
himself rmly, securely. Then the utterance must be an assertive, self-reliant, and
perhaps self-constituting act: he makes himself this fortress.13
The ambiguity is signicant and we shall have to address it. For the moment,
however, it is important to note that the Naming issue arises whichever sense we
choose. For taking shelter is, in the peculiar context of a poem, of this poem, neither
more nor less obviously or straightforwardly achievable in saying I take shelter
than is establishing oneself in saying I establish myself . So it will not resolve the
13 Among commentators, some offer only the rst option (for example, Shakespeare p. 478) and
some offer only the second option (for example, Katherine Duncan-Jones, Shakespeares Sonnets
p. 208).
Naming issue to determine which is the more plausible sense here (always suppos-
ing this is possible, prior to resolving that issue).
Ensconce is ambiguous in another way, which we notice if we give full value to
the whole phrase. I ensconce me here might mean I (hereby) ensconce myself, and
I do so at this place. If so, we are to distinguish carefully between what is done in
the acting (ensconcing) and where the act takes place (here). Alternatively, the
phrase might mean in here I (hereby) sconce myself . (In printing insconce, the
earliest editions, including the 1609 Quarto, make this possibility more salient.) If
so, what is done in the acting (sconcing) cannot be distinguished from that in
which the sconcing takes place, for the acting is essentially an in-acting; what it
takes place in is essential to the act that it is.
These considerations draw attention to the use of here, as it occurs in the
Chaucer-type utterance, I ensconce me here. Context is not, it seems, sufcient to
determine the reference of this use of the indexical. The here in which the speaker
sconces himself, or at which he ensconces himself, may be something outside the
poem whose existence is quite independent of it; or it may be the poem itself; or it
may be something between these options: outside the poem, but nevertheless
related to it. These options subdivide so we need to trace the possibilities to help
resolve the issue.
If here refers to something outside the poem whose existence is quite inde-
pendent of it, that would be consistent with the continuation, Within the
knowledge of mine own desert. For the one clear constraint on this particular
use of the word is that it refer to something within the speakers knowledge of [his]
own desert. And unless we are to conceive of this speaker as the merest abstraction
from the concept of a person, no more and no less than the speaker of this very
poem, the majority of the elements in this set will be neither in nor of this poem.14
But if this is what here refers to, then the sense of ensconce would have to be very
non-literal indeedif the speaker is to perform the act so named (merely) in
uttering the phrase, and thus satisfy Naming. This is true whether it is in this place
that the speaker sconces himself or at this place that the speaker ensconces himself.
If here instead refers to the poem, then we can presumably drop this distinction.
There is no immediate call to think of a poem as something at which a speaker
might ensconce himself. Other distinctions arise, however. If it is in the poem that
the speaker sconces himself, is that in the poem as a whole, or in this particular part
of it, this quatrain, this sentence, this phrase alone? Each of these options would be
consistent with the continuation, Within the knowledge of mine own desert. For
both the poem as a whole and these smaller parts of it record this knowledge, gained
by the self-reections they express. Hence here, so understood, could indeed be
regarded as within this knowledge.
14 This option would also be consistent with what is evidently the most basic sense of here: a word
that refers to the geographical location of the speaker at the time of utterance, or to some complex
including that spatio-temporal location, such as the particular context in which the speaker utters,
where that context may be conceived in as rich or as straitened a fashion as a plausible interpretation
may require.
Doing Time 243
Each of these options progressively narrows an already-circumscribed act: that in

uttering the phrase, the speaker sconces himselfwhether defensively or
assertivelyin this poem, in this quatrain, in this sentence, in this phrase alone.
Thus Naming can be satised, but what is done is modest at best, and becomes
progressively more so.15
If here refers to something outside the poem but related to it, this might most
naturally be either the attitude or state of mind which has produced it, or the
attitude or state of mind which expressing it has helped produce.
Again, we are concerned only with an in-sconcing, since there is no immediate
sense to be made of the idea that an attitude or state of mind is something at which
a speaker might ensconce himself. Again, each of the options would be consistent
with the continuation, for each forms part of what the speaker takes to be
knowledge of mine own desert, and hence each can be regarded as within this
knowledge. And again, it is possible to satisfy Naming; but in very different ways.
If the attitude or state of mind in which the speaker sconces himself is causally
responsible for producing the utterance, then it must be distinct from and probably
prior to the utterance. Hence all that is achievable in the uttering itself is that the
speaker should settle more deeply into an attitude or state of mind that is already
his. This could be interpreted in various ways, but such settling-in behaviour would
seem to t a more defensive posture best.
By contrast, if expression is causally relevant to the attitude or state of mind in
which the speaker sconces himself, it is natural to interpret the line in a particularly
strong way: what is achieved in the uttering is that the speaker enters into and
makes his own this particular attitude or state of mind. Again, this could be
interpreted in various ways, but such self-constituting behaviour would evidently
t an assertive posture best.
V
Despite its apparent simplicity, Sonnet 49 tends towards a moment that is difcult
to grasp. The Chaucer-type utterance, Against that time do I ensconce me here,
may satisfy Naming or it may not, may be meant in a heavily metaphorical way or in
a literal way, may be a very modest act or an act of signicance, may be an
essentially defensive act or an essentially assertive act. It is unclear how we are to
determine among these options. We may wonder whether determining among
them is possible, provided for by the poem.
It would help if the rest of the quatrain claried matters. It certainly seems as if it
should. The speaker continues to act, overturning the inertia of the sonnets rst
half, and produces a second utterance of the Chaucer-type. Moreover, he does so in
a way that binds the second into the rst such utterance, requiring that a crucial
element of the rstits use of Ibe supplied to complete the second: this my
15 The movement might also be described as a gradation, the key phrase in Empsons analysis of
Sonnet 94; Some Versions of Pastoral (1995a, pp. 7785; p. 85).

hand against myself [do I] uprear. So we have reason to assume that the two
utterances are tted to the same end, and hence that we might use the second to
shed light on the rst.16
Unfortunately, this utterance is quite as complex as that into which it is bound.
Moreover, it addsand, initially at least, only addsto the difculties. For the
speaker certainly does something beyond merely uttering with the phrase this my
hand against myself [do I] uprear (Doing). And we may add both hereby and
the rst-person term to the explicit verb of doing in the present tense, indicative
active (Phrasing). But again, we will ask whether the verb in question names an act
of a sort that the speaker might perform in uttering the phrase (Naming). And
again, it is only if we answer in the afrmative that Securing is satised, guaranteeing
in the uttering itself that the act so named is indeed performed.
Here also the same markedly diverging options arise. [T]his my hand against
myself [do I] uprear may satisfy Naming or it may not. It may be meant
metaphorically or literally. It may name a modest or more signicant act. And
prompted by the sustained ambiguity of guardit may be considered as either
essentially defensive (I defend your lawful reasons) or essentially assertive (I afrm
testimony; I give warning of force; perhaps even I threaten to injure).
What adds to the difculties is the fourth and nal use of against. It is the
speaker himself against which the speaker acts, whether defensively or assertively, in
this second utterance. And making sense of this can seem very problematic indeed,
particularly for the use of the rst person.
Presumably we are to suppose that the speakers self is somehow split, so that one
part or aspect is somehow able to act against the other. But which, then, is the
speaker? To whom does the use of I refer? If the answer is both, then have we
really conceived the speaker as split? If the answer is one, not the other, then
which, and how is this decided? And if the answer is neither, then is there anyone
whose predicament we are observing, whose utterance we are deciphering?
Worse, these added difculties infect the rst Chaucer-type utterance. We
assumed the repetition of the rst person in Against that time do I ensconce me
here is straightforwardly co-referring, a merely grammatical requirement in a
grammatically transitive verb that is logically intransitive (x ensconces himself).
This innocence was reasonable, given that we had no cause to doubt it. But the
second utterance now gives us cause. Perhaps the two uses of the rst person do not
straightforwardly co-refer but single out and separate an I who ensconces from a
me who is ensconced. Then the rst utterance, like the second, represents an act of
the self against the self. And making sense of this can seem equally problematic, for
16 Commentators tend to assume that the two utterances have the same prole (though they do not
raise the possibility of the alternative). Thus Burrow, who regards the rst as essentially defensive,
thinks the poets hand is presented as a loyal defender of the friends lawful reasons, or just arguments
(Shakespeare p. 478), and Booth and Duncan-Jones, who both regard the rst as assertive, think the
poets hand is raised, respectively, to swear in court as a witness against myself and perhaps to attack
myself in battle (Booth, Shakespeares Sonnets, 1977, pp. 21314) or to afrm testimony and perhaps
to injure (Duncan-Jones, Shakespeares Sonnets, 2010a, p. 208).
Doing Time 245
we can ask the same questions: Which, then, is the speaker? To whom does the use
of I refer?
Moreover, we must now take account of yet another sense of ensconce, one that
is perhaps closest of all to a literal meaning. For if the verb is to be taken logically as
transitive (x ensconces y), then we must recover a suitable meaning from the
elements. To en-sconce someone would be to en-fortress them, and hence, pre-
sumably, either to besiege them (i.e. in their own fortress) or to imprison them
(i.e. in ones own fortress).
The second Chaucer-type utterance adds to the complexities of the poem, and to
its interest. In particular, it puts the rst person, the reference of I, deeply in
question. This is one point of connection with Sonnet 85. Another is that both
poems reect explicitly on poetry as a form of action.
What makes this the case in Sonnet 49 seems particularly puzzling. But it
remains a problem only if we ignore the resources of an approach that turns on
action. From this perspective, the utterance appears clear enough, and we can use it
to shed light, at last, on the issues that trouble us.
To see what is puzzling here, we need to appreciate what is not. Three features of
the second Chaucer-type utterance (And this my hand against myself [do I]
uprear) are of interest but do not independently make it special.
First, as commentators point out, And this my hand is evidently meant, in part,
as an explicit reference to the speakers own handwriting, and thus, by extension, to
this particular sample of it, the set of utterances which compose this sonnet.17 Since
many utterances refer explicitly to themselves in this way, this feature, on its own,
does not make the utterance particularly puzzling.
Second, as we recognize, the whole phrase represents a Chaucer-type utterance.
In uttering it, the speaker does something beyond the uttering. Again, since many
utterances in the Sonnets and elsewhere are actions in the Chaucer-type way, this
feature is not special.
Finally, the speaker is aware of the act he is performing as he is performing it, and
he refers to his own act in the performing of it. This is an unusual feature, but it is
one with which we have become familiar. Such self-awareness holds for every
Chaucer-type utterance in the austere form, explaining why we may add an implicit
hereby to each.
The puzzle lies in a peculiarity of their combination rather than in any individual
feature, in the particular way in which the utterance congures self-reference with
action and with self-awareness. For what the speaker says amounts to this: This
very utterance, and the whole of which it is a part, I hereby uprear against myself .
And if we tease this apart, we notice the following elements, which together
produce the problem. There is the act of uttering, and the result of that act,
which is the utterance itself. There is the identication (expressed in that utterance)
17 Stephen Booth, Shakespeares Sonnets (1977, p. 214), ascribes the point to Gerald Willen and
Victor B. Reed (eds), A Casebook on Shakespeares Sonnets (1964). See also Katherine Duncan-Jones,
Shakespeares Sonnets (2010a, p. 208).
of the act of uttering with the act of uprearing. There is the act of uprearing, and the
means for that act (i.e. what the speaker uprears), which is the utterance itself.
The puzzle is how this combination could hold, how these features could be true
together. For if (i) what the speaker uprears is the utterance itself, and (ii) this
utterance is the result of the act of uttering, and (iii) the act of uttering is the act of
uprearing, then it seems that (iv) the very same utterance must be both the means
for and the result of the same act. And how can that be? To put this another way:
the utterance must be used in the very act which produced it. And how can a
speaker employ the result of his act as the means for that act?
VI
Time and ow are the chief problem here. For if an act has a result, that result
cannot precede the act. But equally, if an act depends on some means, then those
means must precede the act. So if the very same utterance must be both the means
for and the result of the same act, we are faced with a contradiction in relation to the
ow of time. The same entity both cannot and must precede the same act.
That is the puzzle. But it is also a clue. For if we view the sonnet as mounting a
contradiction in relation to the ow of time, we can begin to discern a purpose and
a place for much of what has mystied us. This view tells us, for example, what the
repeated invocation Against that time signies: a call for the contradiction that is
eventually mounted in the third quatrain. And with recognition of this intent
comes a deepening sense for what is various in the use of against.
Given the contradiction, it is indeed in question whether that time will come or
indeed could come (line 1). Even to conceive of it is to be concerned with strange
passings and conversions (line 5). To achieve the contradiction requires being
settled in a secure position (line 9). And since it would split the agent to employ
the result of an act as its means, mounting the contradiction requires an inward
turn: recognition and acceptance that it cannot but also be a contradiction of the
self, of the agent whose act this is (line 11; against myself ). On this contradiction-
mounting view, the speaker mounts a contradiction to time itself, knowing that this
risks or involves splitting himself. So the mood, and the talk of ensconcing and
uprearing, is assertive (if guarded) rather than defensive.
This view sits well with what we have gathered independently about the poem.
Indeed, better still, the view can explain what we have gathered. For if the speaker is
mounting such a contradiction, that would explain why his energies seem caught
up in the keeping of himself in check, why there is a considerable release in the
third quatrain, why the rhythm is simple and strong, tested only at points which
mark a readiness to enter into self-scrutiny, why the sound-play is similarly strong
and constrained, moving towards strength, why the nal I can allege no cause
expresses condence resurgent.
The contradiction-mounting view tells us that the repeated phrase that time has
no reference. Given the contradiction, there is no such time, and hence the phrase
signies nothing that is either past or present or future. The issue concerning the
Doing Time 247
reference of that time is particularly signicant, of course. For the answer deter-
mines the time at which the repudiation of the speaker by his lover occurs, whether
it is past, present, or future. If that time has no reference, because there is no such
time, then this repudiation is similarly without reference. It is as if the speaker
proposes, or at least pretendsand perhaps only for the moment in which he
mounts his contradictionthat there is no such time as that at which the repudi-
ation occurs. Hence he proposes, or pretends, that there is no such repudiation;
perhaps even that such a repudiation is simply impossible, like the contradiction, so
that it signies nothing that is either past, present, or future.
We might plausibly regard this proposal or pretence as the goal of the contra-
diction, the reason for which the speaker mounts it. Achieving this goal would
certainly be reason enough to do so: a moment of deance in which the speaker
attempts to contradict the ow of time, and hence the course of events, at the cost
of splitting himself. This leaves the issue of whether either Chaucer-type utterance
satises Naming. There is now no particular problem with the rst utterance,
Against that time do I ensconce me here. For on the contradiction-mounting
view, the speaker is situating himself securely before mounting the contradiction.
And this is an act that the verb names (i.e. ensconce) and that the speaker may
perform in uttering the phrase. Hence the utterance satises Naming.
Given the contradiction involved, it may seem that there is no particular
problem with the second utterance either, And this my hand against myself
[do I] uprear. For on the present view the speaker attempts an act that he could
not possibly achieve. Hence, we may assume, the utterance itself must fail to satisfy
Naming. But this assumption misses an important distinction: between the act
which the speaker sets out to achieve and the act named by his utterance. On the
present view, the speaker sets out to contradict time in uttering what he does, and
this he cannot do. But in uttering what he does, he may still achieve something else,
and what he does achieve may still be named by the verb he uses in that utterance.
And this is precisely what occurs, so it seems. For in uttering a sentence which sets
out to achieve something that it cannot achieve, the speaker is most aptly described
as uprearing his hand (i.e. his utterance) against himself. Hence the second
Chaucer-type utterance also satises Naming. The act named by the verb is
performed by the speaker in uttering the phrase containing that verb.
The phrase satises Naming in an unusual way, of course: in spite of the speaker.
For the act performed in uttering what the speaker utters is precisely not the act the
speaker intends, at least ostensibly, to perform. Indeed, that the uttering does
indeed constitute the act it names precisely depends on the fact that the speaker
fails to perform the act he intends, at least ostensibly, to perform. But this is fully in
keeping with the scenario that Sonnet 49 depicts, once we have penetrated its
simple surface. In this situation, the speakers attempt to act not only undermines
the act he attempts to perform, but threatens the very condition which enables his
agency, that unity of the self whose act this is. Sonnet 49 does indeed reect
explicitly on poetry as a form of action, and in the positive and afrming way
characteristic of many of the Sonnets (e.g. Sonnet 85): it contains utterances which
enact the very acts they name and reects on. But the success of this performance
depends on a struggle at the heart, since the attempt to contradict time involves a
contradiction of the self, of the agent whose act this is.
And so to the nal couplet. Denuded, indeed self-denuded by his love (poor
me), what is there for the speaker to allege as cause, as a why to love? This poem
alone perhaps, though the speaker is tactful enough not to say so. Or perhaps this
event of denuding. Or perhaps this demonstration of the love that has led to it.
Reasons of settled gravity for love to nd, if we take an attuned approach.
Conclusion: Weaving New Webs
I
Another poet, another tale.1
During the reign of Elizabeth I, a gentleman by the name of Robert Southwell
wins a certain fame in England as a writer of verse. His father is a courtier, his
mother a maid of honour to the Queen. His short lyrics are distributed, as is
customary for a person of his rank, anonymously and in manuscript form. His
poems are included in commonplace books and are well thought of. When printed
a few years later, the collection goes through fteen editions in fty years,2 equal to
the immense popularity of Shakespeares Venus and Adonis and far outstripping The
Rape of Lucrece.3
There is considerable risk in courting such attention. Under a statute of 1585,
and as a priest ordained since Elizabeths accession, Southwells very presence is an
offence. He need only remain in the realm to commit high treason.4 More than a
quarter of the seminary priests known to have worked in Elizabethan England were
1 There are three main sources for what follows. One knew the subject well: Fr Henry Garnet SJ
was Southwells superior on the mission in England and reported regularly to his own superior, Fr
Claude Acquaviva SJ, in a series of letters often written immediately after the events described (Jesuit
General Archives, Anglia 31). The two other sources were eyewitnesses at Southwells trial. One,
unnamed, wrote at length and with impressive attention to detail, at some point in the month between
the trial (February 1595) and August 1595 (A briefe Discource of the condemnation of Mr Robert
Southwell, Stonyhurst MS Anglia A.iii.1). The other, Fr Thomas Leake, a secular priest, wrote
somewhat later and less accurately (Stonyhurst MS Anglia vi pp. 1258). Pierre Janelle transcribes
these documents; Robert Southwell: The Writer (1935). We may wonder whether these last acts of
Southwells life are indeed reported with graphic accuracy as he claims (1935, p. 74), given that they
are so evidently told from a sympathetic perspective with the aim of edifying. But the attention to
details irrelevant to edication and the recording of different idioms, registers, and patterns in the
speech of the principals lend credibility.
2 Saint Peters Complaint, With other Poemes rst printed in London March 1595 by John Wolfe,
gradually augmented, goes through fteen editions by 1636. For detailed records, see Southwell
pp. lvlxxvii and Janelle Robert Southwell: The Writer (1935) Appendix 1.
3 Venus and Adonis (1593) goes through fteen editions by 1640. By the same date, The Rape of
Lucrece (1594) goes through eight editions. Interest then waned, in Shakespeares narrative poems as in
Southwells poetry. This may be due to growing Puritan inuence or to a major shift in taste from the
conceitist style to a poetics of nature marked by the publication of Miltons poems in 1645. See
Southwell p. lxxvi; F. W. Brownlow, Robert Southwell (1996, p. 125).
4 An Act against Jesuits, seminary priests and such other like disobedient persons (1585: 27
Elizabeth I, c.2) in Geoffrey Elton, The Tudor Constitution: Documents and Commentary (1960,
pp. 4247).
250 Conclusion: Weaving New Webs
executed.5 But his task is to edify and he continues to write, prose as well as poetry.6
He has access to a press and to an expert printers knowledge.7
He also has a talent for this life. Southwell survives six years on the run, some
achievement in the hot years of the Armada and the manhunts that follow. Then
signs that his activities are drawing too much attention. Many carps are expected,
when curious eyes come a-shing.8 The government is seriously disturbed. A plea
that he administer communion at the Bellamy household; a trap by the comprom-
ised daughter of the house;9 a quiet encircling of their place at Uxenden and the
tedious long wait for what dark a midsummer night might bring; and then the
revels and their master, the all-licensed Richard Topcliffe, his private force bursting
through at all points.
Southwell is taken back to London, imprisoned, tortured. This is the high
summer of 1592. Outside, the plague has returned and will rage for two years.
The Privy Council closes down the playhouses in their concern for public health.
Inside, and with apparently the same concern, they order that the most lewd and
dangerous Robert Southwell be kept close prisoner, so as no person be allowed to
have access to him.10 By the autumn, he is lice-ridden, rotten in his own lth.
A year goes by. Two years.
There is a time even for the worm to creep
And suck the dew while all her foes do sleep.11
The seasons turn through another winter. Then an imperative rush. Bustling
ofcials and the production of a warrant. Revived and raked out of oblivion, the
author of this phrase is put on trial for his life.12
Westminster Hall, 20 February 1595, Sir John Popham presiding. Lord Chief
Justice of the Queens Bench and an expert in such cases, he is busy accumulating
5 One hundred and thirty-ve, out of four hundred and seventy-one; Eamon Duffy, William,
Cardinal Allen, 15321594 (1995, p. 276).

6 The main prose works are An Epistle of Comfort (secretly printed in 1587), Mary Magdalens
Funeral Tears (printed in London, by Gabriel Cawood, in 1591; eight editions by 1636), An Humble
Supplication to Her Majestie (secretly printed in Staffordshire, by William Wrench and John Boulter, in
1600). Janelle, Robert Southwell: The Writer (1935); Anne R. Sweeney, Robert Southwell (2006).
7 His immediate superior, Henry Garnet, had for three years been apprenticed to a publisher:
Richard Tottel, of the inuential Miscellany.

8 Southwell, To the reader; Mary Magdalens Funeral Tears in The Prose Works of Robert Southwell
(1828, p. ix).
9 Anne Bellamy, whose story is difcult to recover; she appears to have been captured and raped by
Topcliffe, made pregnant by him and turned into an informer, and then given over to one of his men
(Nicholas Jones) as wife. Southwell will say at his trial that he was brought as a mouse to the trap;
A briefe Discource of the condemnation of Mr Robert Southwell p. 3; Janelle, Robert Southwell: The Writer
(1935, p. 77).
10 Order of the Privy Council to the Lieutenant of the Tower, 25 July 1595. Privy Council Registers,
X, l. 504; Robert Southwell: The Writer (1935, p. 68).

11 Scorn not the least, Southwell pp. 6970; p. 69. When Southwell described the conditions in
which Catholics were imprisoned, he particularly mentioned that some for famine have licked the very
moisture of the walls; An Humble Supplication to her Maiestie (1953, p. 34).
12 Southwell, An Epistle of Comfort in The Prose Works of Robert Southwell, ed. W. J. Walter (1828,
p. 149).
the fortune that will surpass every other member of the bar.13 For the prosecution,
Edward Coke, attorney-general. He is a curious man of different parts. He will later
nd lasting renown among lawyers for his justications of the right to silence.14 But
these are the early, career-building years, and his reputation rests on the pitiless
private interrogations that inform the Tudor system of forced self-accusation. In the
background, perhaps, his own humiliations. He had once and famously burst into
tears when berated by the Queen.15
Not that this case holds any such terrors for Coke. Indeed, it should tax his
powers hardly at all. For the accused is permitted no legal representation and is
evidently, as he admits, decayed in memory with long and close imprisonment.16
Moreover, he confesses readily and from the start to being a priest, as he had always
declared himself to be, once it endangered no one.
Nevertheless, Coke has an audience to impress and broader purposes to achieve.
These have less to do with the charge itself than with Southwells literary activities.
One aim is to deliver a threat: that men would be careful how they read any books
prohibited.17 The utterances in these books stir up sedition and dissension in the
realm; they are not just things that are said, but evils that people do. The accused
is well known as the author of such evils, and Coke is counting on this to make
his point.
Cokes second objective is to withdraw sympathy from the accused. He accuses
him of defending the practice of mental reservation, thus painting him as one who
lies and encourages lies. Coke gets into hot water here and Popham has to rescue
him, distinguishing adeptly between our actions and our mental lives.18 Still, the
court needs little persuading. Even the defendant may be on side. Indeed Coke
13 Popham had prosecuted Edmund Campion in 1581. Brought on by involvement in the Mary
Queen of Scots trial (1586), his success with Southwell and others opened the way to precedence at the
state trials of the next decade: Walter Raleigh, the Gunpowder Plot. He was another whose integrity
John Aubrey questioned, but Aubrey cited cases, including the decision favourable to the owner of
Littlecote, William Darrell accused of murder, which may explain his acquisition of the property on
that owners death; P. W. Hasler, John Popham (1981).
14 This was through a series of judgements on the ex ofcio oath in ecclesiastical courts. For the
radically contrary nature of his career in the law, see Gerald P. Bodet, Sir Edward Coke's Third
Institutes: a primer for treason defendants (1970, pp. 46977). Known in early days for his arrogant
and brutal advocacy of executive power, Coke would nevertheless later nd renown for his challenges
to it. A serious, studious man, Cokes copy of Francis Bacons Novum Organum is nevertheless covered
in puerile insults; see Francis Watt, Lord Coke as a person (1915, p. 252).
15 Allen D. Boyer, Sir Edward Coke and the Elizabethan Age (2003, p. 216).
16 Leakes account; Southwell p. xxxiii.
17 Briefe Discource; Janelle, Robert Southwell: The Writer (1935, p. 81). The penalty is great for those
who do not heed this warning. When Southwells Humble Supplication is eventually secretly published
(in 1600; but falsely dated 1595), it is ruthlessly suppressed. Most of the edition is seized and
destroyed, and Peter Bullock, James Duckett, and John Collins, the three men responsible for
distributing the book in London (it was probably printed in Staffordshire), are all taken and hanged
at Tyburn (1719 April 1602). The backstory is complex and fascinating. Publication had been
delayed by the anxieties of Southwells own Jesuit superiors (Henry Garnet), and was almost certainly
covertly encouraged by the government, who saw in it a means of stimulating and exposing inner
dissensions in the Catholic mission. See R. C. Bald, Introduction in Southwell, An Humble
Supplication to her Maiestie (1953, pp. xiiixiv).
18 Briefe Discource; Janelle, Robert Southwell: The Writer (1935, p. 82).
could simply have quoted Southwell: a poet, a lover and a liar are by many
reckoned but three words of one signication.19
The jury returns the expected verdict; sentence is pronounced. All appears
settled. And then a last-minute urry. How to get the wretched man back to prison
without disturbance? By water perhaps, or through the back streets? Sensible heads
prevail: looking at the prisoner, they all concluded he would go quiet enough. And
they are right. Dragged on a hurdle to Tyburn and put lingeringly to death,
Southwell the poet goes quiet enough.20
II
The issues before the court at Westminster have been with us throughout the book.
What it is for poetry to be serious and to be taken seriously. What it is to treat those
responsible for poetic utterances as doing things in saying what they say. What it is
to perform such actions, bringing about effects, things done. What work poetry sets
itself, and how this determines the way it is to be judged. What poets commit
themselves to, and what they may be (held) responsible for. What role a poet has, or
their audience, or their context, in determining the meaning of a poem, what work it
is able to achieve. And underlying this, the issue of receptivity: what it is to be open
to poetry, exposed to its force, attuned to what it says, and alive to what it does.
The trial of Southwell is as much a dial as that of Clutorius Priscus: we can use it
to point in each of these directions in turn. It stimulates, both in what it makes
overt and in what it hints at, lying just below the surface. Cokes threats about the
reading of books trouble us, for example, but he certainly takes poets and poetry
seriously. Popham rescues Coke, but only by shrinking condence in the overall
proceedings. His distinction between our actions (outer) and our mental lives
(inner) sets the latter profoundly beyond what can be judged.21 This not only
threatens to undermine the Crowns case against Southwell but offers a general
defence to those who ought not to be granted one (as Austin pointed out, in his
comments on Hippolytus notorious remark my tongue swore to, but my heart
19 Southwell, The author to his loving cosen, used as a preface to Saint Peters Complaint, With
other Poemes; Southwell pp. 12; p. 1.

20 Accounts of the execution come from Garnets letters and from eyewitness stories collected by a
Spanish bishop, Diego de Yepes, and published in his Historia Particular de la Persecucion de Inglaterra
of 1599 (Madrid). Bystanders, including Lord Mountjoy, encouraged the executioner to allow
Southwell to die of the hanging alone, and the man pulled him downwards by the legs. But he was
as yet breathing when carried to the table to be castrated and then disembowelled, and it seems his
heart was still beating when it was torn from him (see Janelle, Robert Southwell: The Writer, 1935,
p. 90). The more merciful version is the one standardly given out, conveyed most recently by John
Guy, Elizabeth: The Forgotten Years (2016, ch. 9). That Southwells prose writing is intimate with
thoughts of the likely manner of his death is a theme compellingly developed by Geoffrey Hill in his
The absolute reasonableness of Robert Southwell (2008, pp. 2140).
21 if this doctrine be allowed, it would supplant all justice, for we are men, and no gods, and can
judge but according to their outward actions and speeches, and not according to their secret and inward
intentions. Briefe Discource; Janelle, Robert Southwell: The Writer (1935, p. 82).
did not).22 Southwell is impressively calm and assured, no doubt, and yet we can
respect this while nevertheless feeling bewildered by it, when we consider what
must have been present to his mind. At the trial, and indeed throughout his
working life, he was well aware of what awaited him, having witnessed for himself
the executions of friends, as full of pangs as hanging, drawing and unbowelling us
quick can make them.23 He speaks of the crazed bestiality of those responsible.24
The word was important for him; he puns with it in his poetry:
He that his mirth hath lost,
Whose comfort is to rue,
Whose hope is fallen, whose faith is crazed,
Whose trust is fond untrue25
He also knew of the state of those tortured and held in prison, noting what other
evidence suggests was particularly salient for him personally: the shame being no
less offensive to their mind than the pain, though most excessive to their bodies.26
Moreover, he did not lack the imagination on which fear feeds. His poems reveal a
living and worked-on sense of the varieties and intensities of sufferings:
My death is of the mind
That always yields extremest pangs,
Yet threatens worse behind.27
This is perhaps too strong a way to make the point, but heroism that seems to go
beyond what is human is disconcerting.
There is stimulation also in what is less overt, a discomfort that bids for a more
complex response. Southwells grandfather, another Robert, had been the chief
accuser of another poet at another show trial: that of Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey.
Less heroic than his grandson, he nevertheless had whatever mental resolve was
necessary to betray a relative and childhood friend. His wealth rested on active
participation in the suppression of the monasteries. It is easy to speculate, hard to
know, how all this bore on the poet grandson who wrote:
To rise by others fall
I deem a losing game.28
Another such stimulus is the arrangement of circumstance, if we retain even a
eeting disquiet at the stage-managing of what are overtly legal proceedings. Not
22 Austin pp. 910.

23 Southwell, An Humble Supplication to her Maiestie (1953, pp. 334).
24 Letter of 31 August 1588, quoted in Southwell p. xxviii. Southwell is giving an eyewitness
account of the executions of two priests (Fr Gunter and Fr Leigh) and a layman.
25 Southwell, A fancy turned to a sinners complaint, Southwell pp. 3640; p. 36. The poem
reworks Sir Edward Dyers Fancy; Dyer had whose faith is scorned.
26 Southwell, An Humble Supplication to her Maiestie (1953, p. 34); Southwell describes the tortures
at length (pp. 335).

27 Southwell, A fancy turned to a sinners complaint, Southwell pp. 3640; p. 36. Dyer had keeps
the worst behind.

28 Southwell, Content and rich, Southwell pp. 679; 69.
only is Southwell denied legal representation, but there is only one witness, and this
the one who betrayed him in the rst place. The principal jurors have already been
convinced that Southwell comes in mischief or to kill the Queen29 and Coke has
been allowed to meet with them privately, to instruct them.30 Even the presiding
judge lends a willing hand: Popham starts proceedings with a orid speech about
the dangers of Jesuits and seminary priests. The hanging of a notorious highway-
man has been timed to coincide with the start of the trial: it draws the crowds away
to another part of the city.31 Only Topcliffe threatens to upset the smooth slide
towards an edifying verdict: his crude insulting of the prisoner shows too much of
the underbelly. When his interventions only embarrass the decorous court, he is
not suffered to continue.
Coke enters into debate with Southwell on the practice of mental reservation, or
equivocation, to demonstrate that his treason extends beyond being an ordained
priest.32 Embarrassed by Southwells reply, which sets him a case in which he
would himself be a traitor to the Queen unless he practised mental reservation,
Coke is moved in choler and turns to simple insults: that Southwell is a boy
priest.33 But Coke is not above equivocation himself. Immediately on arrest nearly
three years before, Southwell had been tortured in Topcliffes own house at
Westminster, specially equipped for the hobby and under licence by the
Queen.34 When this failed to break his silence, he had been taken to the Gatehouse
Prison and operated on there by a team of torture specialists with Privy Council
authorization. He was not put on the rack, as Coke would have known, for torture
techniques had moved on. Topcliffe had devised a series of stress positions in which
Southwell was strung up by iron gyves (gauntlets) for hours at a time so that his
internal organs ruptured and he vomited blood.35 At his trial, Southwell remarks
that the tortures he had suffered had been worse than ten executions. Coke
responds that he never knew that ever he was racked. And this while trying
determinedly to paint Southwell as a deceiver.
29 Thomas Leake records a conversation that he held personally with one, in a silk doublet and
other things correspondent, prior to the trial; Anglia vi pp. 1258; Janelle, Robert Southwell: The
Writer (1935, p. 74).
31 Garnet, Letter to Acquaviva of 22 February 1595; Janelle, Robert Southwell: The Writer (1935,
p. 74).
32 For description and commentary on the practice as adopted by Southwell, see Christopher
Devlin, The Life of Robert Southwell, Poet and Martyr (1956, Appendix C); also Philip Caraman, Henry
Garnet 15551606 (1964, Appendix E), who somewhat boldly claims backing for the practice from
Milton, Dr Johnson, and all English philosophers from the time of William Paley (1964, p. 448).
Alexandra Walsham points out that, though associated almost exclusively with Jesuits at the time, it
seems to have been practised regularly by laypeople; Charitable Hatred: Tolerance and Intolerance in
England 15001700 (2006, p. 194).
34 As is evident from a remarkable letter from Topcliffe to the Queen; BM Lansdowne MS 72,
f.113 (Burghley Papers, 1592); Janelle, Robert Southwell: The Writer (1935, p. 65). For context and a
detailed study of the implications, see F. W. Brownlow, Richard Topcliffe: Elizabeths enforcer and
the representation of power in King Lear (2003, pp. 16178).
35 Briefe Discource; Janelle, Robert Southwell: The Writer (1935, p. 66; p. 80. See John Guy,
Elizabeth: The Forgotten Years (2016, ch. 9).

Southwell is clearly on trial for what he does as well as what he is. But though it is
evident from his poetry that he is intensely engaged with language and the power of
utterance, he seems to surrender these on his capture. He had no means to write in
nearly three years in prisonhis breviary, which he was eventually allowed, had
prayers pricked into it with a pin36and yet he never mentions the loss. He was
uncomplaining, certainly, but also highly conscious of injustice, and had been vocal
about its many forms.37 Not here. Little or no trace now remains of the student
who had once made special note of a verse from Psalm 45: My tongue is the pen of
a scrivener that writeth swiftly.38 And there seems something willed, not merely
uncomplaining about this. Others in his position, like Edmund Campion, gained
renown for what they said when confronted. But Southwell is famous for what he
did not say, remaining as dumb as a tree-stump, in the irritated but admiring
words of Sir Robert Cecil.39 Cecil was referring to his silence under torture, but the
remark is more broadly apt. Southwell chose a notable quiet even when his words
would no longer endanger or incriminatein the latter stages of his trial, for
instance, and at his execution. He recognized the choicewe must either speak
or die, seeing so many slights are put in use to bury us quick in all miseriesand
chose the latter.40 Perhaps he was content to relinquish poetry when he could no
longer make it serve a missionary goal. There might still be something odd about
that. Perhaps he took his capacity for poetic utterance somewhat less seriously than
the government did. If so, there is by turns something sensible and something
unsettling here: that it is from a poets own response to his abilities and tempera-
ment that we are taught the lesson of the Priscus case: that poetry, some poetry,
should be taken seriously, but never quite that seriously.
Certainly we should take note of what is well known: that Southwell took a low
view of poets. But this raises further questions, and in more acute form. When he
writes that
Poets, by abusing their talent, and making the follies and feignings of love the
customary subject of their base endeavours, have so discredited this faculty, that a
poet, a lover and a liar, are by many reckoned but three words of one signication41
36 Letter of Garnet to Acquaviva, 7 March 1595; Janelle, Robert Southwell: The Writer (1935,
p. 69).
37 Most effectively in An Humble Supplication to her Maiestie, written before his capture but not
printed until 1600, ve years after his death. See R. C. Bald, Introduction (1953, pp. xixvii).
38 Southwell noted this as a student in Rome; Alexandra Walsham, Catholic Reformation in
Protestant Britain (2014, p. 247).

39 Cecils remark, made in conversation with a certain gentleman, is reported by Henry Garnet to
Acquaviva, 7 March 1595; MS transcript at Farm Street, London; Janelle, Robert Southwell: The Writer
(1935, p. 66). Cecil was a kinsman of Southwell and had made use of the relationship. Six years before
ordering Southwells torture, he had received Southwells assistance. In 1586, Cecils nephew William
needed a guide for his tour of Rome, and Southwell duly obliged. Letter of Southwell to Sir Robert
Cecil, Folger Shakespeare Library MS V.a.421; cited in Southwell p. xix.
40 Southwell, An Humble Supplication to her Maiestie (1953, pp. 256).
41 Southwell, The author to his loving cosen; preface to Saint Peters Complaint, With other Poemes;
Southwell pp. 12; p. 1.

it is not to dissent from that common view but to supply substance to it. And again,
when he writes that
I know that none can express a passion that he feeleth not, neither doth the pen deliver
but what it copieth out of the mind; and therefore the nest wits are now given to write
passionate discourses42
the point he is making is much stronger than the familiar one, that poets merely
feign to feel a passion which, if they really felt it, would be to their credit. South-
wells criticism is that they do really feel itthey must, since none can express a
passion that he feeleth notand that is to their discredit. These are the reasons in
play when Southwell claims that poets abuse their talent, that their fancies are
idle and their endeavours base, that their customary subject is debasing, that
their uttering performs no action but merely demonstrates how unworthy are the
affections with which poets have wedded their wills.43
This is strongly akin to the views of Lepidus and J. L. Austin, of course: that the
dicta of poets are vana, that they are not things that people do. But this was
Southwells position when he was still writing poetry; it does not explain any
subsequent change of mind or heart. Moreover, Southwell puts forward this
position in poetry, as well as in prose, which seems to court charges of self-
defeat.44 Are we not then to treat these very claims, these poetic utterances, as
vana? And most bewildering of all, these claims form part of what is evidently
meant to be a defence of poetry. What, then, is going on?45
It helps to compare Southwells position with that of contemporaries who also
attempted to defend poetry. Sir John Harington (A Brief Apology of Poetry 1591)
and Sir Philip Sidney (The Defence of Poesy 1595) made it their business to defend
poets, to offer them protection against the very charges that Southwell brings against
them, to answer such slanders. And it is possible that Southwell at least knew
Sidneys Defence (or knew of it; though not published until 1595, it had been
circulating in manuscript form ever since it was written, in 1580146). What is
most striking about the contrast, perhaps, is Southwells condence: that there will
remain an audience for poetry and its possibilities once the dicta of poets have been
dismissed as vana, as not things that people do. But exactly how and why this
should be remains as yet unclear.
42 Southwell, Mary Magdalens Funeral Tears in The Prose Works of Robert Southwell (1828, p. vi).
43 Southwell, The author to his loving cosen, Southwell pp. 12; p. 1.
44 See Southwells poem To the reader, Southwell p. 2.
45 The recent and valuable scholarly turn towards Catholic literature of the period has produced
work which sets Southwells poetry and prose in the complex social and religious context in which they
appeared, thus making a start at explaining what previous, more partial studies overlooked or found
difculty accepting: its strong appeal to a Protestant audience. See in particular Alison Shell,
Catholicism, Controversy and the English Literary Imagination 15591660 (1999, ch. 2); Brian
Cummings, The Literary Culture of the Reformation (2002, ch. 8); Anne R. Sweeney, Robert Southwell:
Snow in Arcadia: Redrawing the English Lyric Landscape 158695 (2006) passim.
46 Alison Shell considers the possibility, though she is more keen to stress continuity between
Southwell and Sidney; Catholicism, Controversy and the English Literary Imagination 15591660 (1999,
pp. 6370).
It is also notable that Southwell offers reasons for his dismissals. This distin-
guishes him in one way from Lepidus and Austin. He does not depend on the kind
of comfortable anti-poet prejudice against which Harington and Sidney inveigh.
But what more deeply distinguishes him from Lepidus and Austin goes to the heart
of the matter. Southwells defence of poetry rests on the idea that poetry has to be
justied, and that it is only when poets commit themselves in producing their
poetic utterances that it is justied. More specically, what warranteth the art to be
good, and the use allowable is partly Gods own action, in delivering many parts of
Scripture in verse, and partly St Pauls injunction, that we should exercise our
devotion in hymns and spiritual sonnets.47
This justication makes a general claim (that poetry requires commitment) and
gives it a particular character (the kind of commitment poetry requires is that which
supports and sustains such devotion). Sidney had earlier claimed divine sanction for
poetry, but made it one among many such sources of justication.48 It is essential to
Southwells point that divine sanction is the only such source. Sidney had also
praised poets who employ their talents in singing the praises of the immortal
beauty, but made it one among many such commendable ends.49 Again, South-
wells position is more absolute: the only praiseworthy employment for poets is in
the exercise of spiritual devotion. In so far as poets succeed at this, their dicta are not
vana, and may count as things that people do.
The position is a striking one. Austin had thought to sustain poets by excusing
them from the usual requirements: their efforts are not serious in the sense that
their commitment-apt utterances are not to be taken as making commitments. But
Southwell turns this ready aid on its head. Unless their efforts are serious, and in
this very sense, then poets are abusing their talent, dodging what poetry itself
requires. Sidney had favoured poets in contrast with those who witness outwardly
their contempt of outward things, and identied the latter with philosophers.50
Southwell only favours poets to the extent that they become such witnesses. But
they are not to be akin to Sidneys philosophers either, who come with a sullen
gravity, rudely clothed, speaking against subtlety.51 Southwells poets are to
write works of vigour, intelligence, and clarity, but turned to one end:
License my pen to seek a phere
You heavenly sparks of wit, show native light:
Cloud not with misty loves your orient clear,
Sweet ights you shoot; learn once to level right.52
(to seek a phere: to seek a companion.)
On one point, at least, Sidney and Southwell seem to agree. Whatever the end of
poetry is, we would need to be motivated, stimulated towards attaining it. Sidney

49 Sidney, The Defence of Poesy (2004, pp. 489).
52 Southwell, The author to the reader, Southwell p. 75.
appears somewhat awed by what is required: to be moved to do that which we

know, or to be moved with desire to knowhoc opus, his labor est.53 In the
contrast, it is Southwells condence again that stands out: he is assured enough
to draw attention to what is shared about the burden, the receptivity required of the
one addressed:
Favour my wish, well wishing works no ill:
I move the suite, the grant lies in your will.54
This helps make sense of what must otherwise seem perplexing in Southwells
comments and behaviour. Given what it means for him, there is no failure to take
poetry seriously if circumstances require that he willingly relinquish it. And there is
nothing self-defeating about his using poetry to criticize poets ifas is evidently the
casehe takes his poetic utterances as making commitments.
And this brings us to the most important point, at least in the present context:
that Southwells view makes poetry, justied as such, conformable to an Austinian
speech act approach. For such an approach treats utterances as doing things, but
only if they are of a sort that make commitments, or at least occur in a context in
which commitment-apt utterances can be taken as making commitments. Austin
himself excluded poetry, of course, regarding it as a special case, absolved from the
usual requirements on commitment-apt utterances, and hence restricted his speech
act approach to what is not poetry. But Southwell insists that, if poetry is in any way
special, it is simply that these usual requirements are more urgently in place. Poetry
must be committed to count properly as such; poets must hold themselvesand be
heldresponsible for their utterances. So Southwell offers a particularly direct way
of lifting Austins restriction. Poetic dicta, justied as such, are equally to be
regarded as things that people do, and hence things that a philosophy of speech
acts should attempt to grasp. And lifting this restriction opens the way to a
philosophically attuned critical approach to poetry, one that turns on action and
is particularly receptive to the ways in which uttering things in poetry can count as
doing things.
This is all consistent with what this book has been recommending, of course,
though it has explored other ways of lifting Austins restriction. Where does this
take us? What light might our project and Southwells work shed on each other?
Answering that question requires being more closely conscious of the position we
have reached. So I shall now briey re-state the long series of arguments that bring
us to this point.
III
This is a brief summary of the arguments of the book. To help reference, it
assembles the arguments under the specic chapters in which they occur.

Part I: Sense and Sensitivity

The overall aim of this book has been to nd ways for poetry and philosophy to
enhance each other. To succeed, we should rst understand their tendencies to
mutual antipathy. Examining and correcting mutual misapprehension is part of this
task. To that end, the rst part of the book focused on analytic philosophy, and
particularly the speech act approach in analytic philosophy of language, which is
most notorious for its disdainful treatment of poetry. J. L. Austin and others
regularly describe poetry as a non-serious use of language. Their remarks are
often cited by poets and critics as evidence of antipathy towards poetry. But these
remarks are complex and their purpose obscure, more so than those who take
exception to them usually allow or admit. There is evidence of equal and opposite
hostility in reactions to these responses.
Chapter 1: Austins Remarks

J. L. Austin makes several remarks that seem to reect antipathy towards poetry. He
describes poetic utterances as non-serious and represents poetry itself as a non-
serious use of language. He does not argue for these claims or clarify his meaning.
Negligence in one tempted to pedantry would seem pointed, but there seems to be
something deeper here. Again, though his tone is light, the curiously ineffectual
exertionsthe persistence and the clamour and the peremptorinessmake it most
unlikely that he is simply joking. Austins aim is to exclude poetry from further
consideration in his speech act philosophizing. This ought to be a simple move, but
Austin clearly nds it awkward to perform. The combination of high-handedness
and half-heartedness gives the strong impression that he recognized something
forced about this restriction on his speech act claim, this insistence that poetic
utterances are not to be understood in terms of things that are done.
Chapter 2: Poets and Critics

Austins remarks about poetry elicit responses that seem to reect mutual antipathy
between philosophy and poetry. Poets and critics are quick to rebuke him for
unprincipled levity and to discern symptoms of a deeper malaise in current
philosophizing. This is particularly evident in various remarks of Geoffrey Hill
and Christopher Ricks. They think the offence is the greater because Austin should
have known better; that, unlike others in philosophy, he shows a poets sensibility
for uses of language. But their inclination to depart from the evidence, and to
supply unwarranted interpretations of Austins remarks and his reasons for making
them, reveals a strong distrust of philosophy.
Chapter 3: Philosophers
Philosophers are equally quick but nd Austins remarks innocuous, professing
themselves astonished at the distress they have caused. The implication is that poets
and critics are over-sensitive, and that if they are touchy about poetry, it is with
some reason: there is something not quite impressive about their enterprise. But the
tendency of philosophers to ignore the evidence, to excuse inconsistencies and
overlook reasonable complaints, reveals a marked disdain for poetry. This helps
account for the fact that so much of what is philosophically signicant in poetry is
ignored, and so much in philosophy that is relevant to the appreciation of poetry
goes unrecognized. We might respond by bemoaning a defective communicative
environment that deprives poetry of its full expressive capacity and philosophy of its
full critical potential. But it would be better to try to understand the situation in the
hope of changing it.
When seeking to attune poetry and philosophy, there is a negative reason to
focus on speech act philosophy: it seems the most antipathetic to poetry, and
certainly arouses the greatest animosity among poets and critics. But there is also a
more positive reason, and the rest of Part I was devoted to arguing for it. The speech
act approach is peculiarly helpful for attuning philosophy and poetry, in part
because it makes issues of responsibility and commitment central.
Recognizing this is the rst step towards a resolution: it makes reconciliation
with poetry possible. For what speech act philosophers mean when they call poetry
non-serious, so it turns out, is what poets and critics are keen to endorse: that
poetry is exempt from responsibility and commitment. This defuses all but the
most supercial forms of animosity between philosophy and poetry.
Another reason why the speech act approach is peculiarly helpful for attuning
poetry and philosophy is that it directs attention to action, to the ways that
uttering things counts as doing things. Recognizing this is the second step
towards a resolution: it makes reconciliation with poetry desirable. For poetic
utterances are best appreciated by this kind of action-orientated approach. And a
speech act approach is free to include poetic utterances among those it helps to
elucidate, once we acknowledge that poetry is not in fact exempt from responsi-
bility and commitment. Thus realigned, philosophy can guide and be guided by
criticism of poetry.
Chapter 4: What Matters

When Austin mentions poetry, he is discussing the fact that uttering a
commitment-apt phrase is usually to perform the act of making a commitment.
There are exceptions: when one is speaking non-seriously, for example. Austin
calls poetry non-serious to mark his belief that it is such an exception, that its uses
of language are exempt from issues of commitment and responsibility. Poets
and critics have been happy to endorse this. So there is no real ground to the
apparent antipathy between philosophy and poetry. Austins levity at the expense
of poets and the confused responses of poets and philosophers are relatively trivial
matters. What matters is agreement about the fundamental and signicant issues.
Austin is acknowledging what poets want acknowledged. This makes reconcili-
ation possible.
Chapter 5: Truth
What makes reconciliation desirable is the fact that philosophy has tended to adopt
a truth-orientated approach to poetic utterances. Debate has then organized itself
on a spectrum. At one end, some claim that poetic utterances consist of statements
which can be true. At the other end, some claim that such utterances consist of
statements that tend to be (or systematically must be) false. Towards the middle,
some claim that the statements of which poetry consists are neither true nor false.
But this way of approaching poetry renders essential features of poetry invisible and
distorts literary criticism.
Chapter 6: Action
To become properly aware of essential features of poetry, and to represent its
utterance accurately, we should adopt the action-orientated directedness of a speech
act approach. Debate then organizes itself on a new spectrum. At one end, some
would afrm that those responsible for poetic utterances do things in saying what
they thereby say. At the other end, some would atly deny that those responsible
are capable of this. Towards the middle, some would claim that it is incorrect either
to afrm or deny this. So realigning philosophy towards an action-orientated
approach to poetry faces various objections. But these objectionswhich can be
distinguished into those that relate primarily to the action, the deed, and the
agentcan be answered.
Chapter 7: Responsibility
Taking an action-orientated approach requires denying what unites philosophers
and poets-critics: the idea that poetry is somehow exempt from issues of respon-
sibility and commitment. But it is necessary to correct false assumptions here
anyway; the seriousness of poetry is at stake. Such correction is also illuminating,
since it helps explain familiar forms of anxieties experienced by poets. And,
nally, such correction is hopeful. For if poetry is not exempt from issues of
responsibility, philosophy can lift its restriction and embrace poetry within its
range of inquiries. This opens philosophy to fresh new evidence of the workings
of language and opens poetry and its criticism to the resources of a speech act
approach. In short, it makes the attuning of poetry and philosophy possible.
Part II: Doing Things With Attunement

If we are to attune poetry and philosophy, we need to nd ways of doing
philosophy in appreciating poetry. To that end, the second part of the book focused
on Chaucer-type utterances in poetry, utterances that call particularly sharply for an
attuned approach.
Chapter 8: Chaucer-Type
The form of a Chaucer-type utterance is simple and austere: the rst person
concatenated with a verb in the present indicative active. That it is a form of action
is immediate, transparent, and straightforward. Poets have found an immense
number of uses for it, from dramatic bombast to intense self-awareness. The
form is remarkably exible and accommodating. It enables poets to combine the
reective and self-conscious with the energetic and immediate. A range of poets
illustrate this, including Chaucer, Sidney, Shakespeare, Milton, and Byron. Austin
promoted an analysis of the form that has stimulated much debate, to which John
Searle has been equally signicant as a contributor.
Chapter 9: Elaborating the Type

The combination also proves remarkably resistant to analysis, so that philosophers
have disagreed strenuously about various issues, in particular whether Chaucer-type
utterances belong to the grammatical form of statements, and whether what they
say is evaluable as true or false. These disagreements heighten our awareness of
recurrent features of the use of the form in poetry, so that philosophy enables us to
penetrate more deeply into a range of instances in English versefrom Yeats,
Raine, Gunn, Prynne, Duffy, Hill, and others. Certain questions come to the fore
when we blend philosophy and poetry in this way: what is the Chaucer-type for?
What uses does it have? Our investigations reveal the complexities here: the form
has a remarkably wide and varying range of uses.
Chapter 10: Four Features

The philosophical analysis of Chaucer-type utterances, highly controversial in some
respects, does agree on four common features: (i) Doing, (ii) Phrasing, (iii) Naming,
and (iv) Securing. With these core aspects in mind, it is possible to explore
systematically the variety of ways in whichand the variety of reasons for
whichpoets have diverged from the austere form of the type: keeping the act
present but using the future or past tense; keeping the rst person but making it
implicit; dropping the rst person altogether; naming the act but performing it
with the whole poem; leaving the act unnamed; stretching the relation between
naming and doing. So the blend of poetry and philosophy gives us a deep
appreciation of the resources that poets draw on when deploying the Chaucer-
type and its variants.
Chapter 11: Four Poets

Poets often play with the Chaucer-type form, leaving us in doubt whether its four
various features are indeed exemplied. This gives us another opportunity to blend
poetry and philosophy. The general idea is that literary critical attention may guide
and be guided by philosophical reection on difcult cases. Three examples help
introduce the issues: passages from J. H. Prynne, Thoughts on the Esterhzy Court
Uniform, W. B. Yeats, What was lost, and Geoffrey Hill, The Triumph of Love.
These discussions give us the resources to practise attunement on whole poems,
thus shedding light on the way that phrases of this type t into broader patterns.
The examples here are Gerard Manley Hopkins, Thou art indeed just and
Geoffrey Hill, Ovid in the Third Reich.
The nal six chapters of the book employed the resources made available by
attunement in a full-length, close study of a well-known sequence of poems by a
single poet: Shakespeares Sonnets.
Chapter 12: Shakespeares Sonnets

Shakespeare gives dramatic salience to his use of the Chaucer-type in the Sonnets.
He often plays the type against phrases of similar form but different effect, or of
different form but similar effect, making it difcult to determine whether a phrase
is of this type, and whether the act named is indeed performed in the uttering or
not. Recognizing the dramatic salience of the type has the power to develop and
change the way we see the sequence as a whole, as well as the individual poems of
which it is composed. It recongures elements, sharpens attentiveness, unlocks
principles of composition. This in turn offers us an opportunity to practise the
attunement of philosophy and poetry, to do literary criticism in doing philosophy.
For our ability to appreciate the dramatic signicance of the type both invokes
philosophy and informs it. Specically, it invokes and informs philosophy of
language (understanding what this phrase-type is), philosophy of action (under-
standing its uses), and metaphysics and epistemology (understanding scepticism
about ones own self).
Chapter 13: Phrasing

One essential characteristic of the Chaucer-type is phrasing: the rst-person
pronoun is concatenated with a verb of doing in the present indicative active,
combined with an explicit or implicit hereby. But when Shakespeare assembles
these materials, he often augments or reduces the sentential clause so that it shies
away from this exact form. He does this for a variety of reasons: to express delicacy,
to distance the act performed in uttering from the act performed in reecting, to
hint at an awkwardness that gives evidence of veracity, to conceal acts that are
indeed being performed. The most striking uses and effects here concern commu-
nicative strategy and its relation to action.
Chapter 14: Naming

Naming is another essential feature of the Chaucer-type: the fact that the verb in
the sentential clause is a word for what the speaker does in uttering the sentence.
This feature is, in part, a matter of self-reference, since an utterance may be said to
refer to itself when it names the very act its uttering performs. Here again,
Shakespeare plays with the form. The complexities turn on the success of relations
between uttering and action. The effects he achieves thereby are broad and subtle,
both in showing how much and how little may be achieved in utterance, and in
making salient the distinction between acts that uttering may perform and acts that
uttering may not perform. On occasion, these complexities unlock a poem, the
path to its meaning made straighter by asking why the speaker assembles the
features of the austere form but employs a verb that represents kinds of act that
uttering may not perform.
Chapter 15: Securing

A third essential feature is securing: that the act named by the verb is assuredly
performed in the uttering. But Shakespeare often leaves the situation uncertain,
creating room for doubt, actively encouraging suspicion and misgiving. The
play here is with assurance, in a broad sense, incorporating both self-assurance
(condence, poise) and reassurance (support, encouragement). And this play is
tense with the Sonnets own ambivalence towards self-reection and self-
consciousness, anticipating Cartesian scepticism in its deepest, most characteristic
form: the attempt to provide for the content of the thought of oneself as a
persisting subject when conned within the ow of self-consciousness (the rst-
personal perspective).
The fact that a speaker does something in saying something is true of a variety
of types of utterance, of course, but it is of particular interest to doing, the
fourth and most general feature of the Chaucer-type. To appreciate Shakespeares
play with doing, it is necessary to look very closely at individual poems. Sonnets
85 and 49 offer a good opportunity to demonstrate the overall approach, since
they are little regarded. By adopting an attuned approach, we bring out the
subtle work they do with the Chaucer-type, and thus rediscover their interest
and value.
Chapter 16: Doing

The most general feature of the Chaucer-type is that the speaker does something in
uttering it, beyond the uttering itself. Some of Shakespeares Sonnets reect on
poetry as a form of action while enacting the very acts they name and reect on.
Others name the acts they reect on to avoid performing them, or to deny that the
speaker is in a position to perform them. Sonnet 85, as a deep and subtle study of
speaking in effect, is particularly worth further study. It combines awareness of the
subtle doublings and correspondences between what is said and what is true,
between what is thought and what is done, with a lively and reective sense for
the ways and means by which all this is achieved. The sonnet reects explicitly on
poetry as a form of action. It also puts the rst person deeply in question, which
sharpens our philosophical awareness of this essential component of Chaucer-type
utterances.
Chapter 17: Doing Time

Sonnet 49 is equally subtle in its study of the turn from inertia to determined
action. It reects explicitly on poetry as a form of action. It examines tensions and
contradictions that arise in our experience of the ow of time. It explores the
signicance of philosophical problems about action and identity over time. Iden-
tifying the complexity in this apparently simple poem depends on registering the
difculty in grasping the exact sense of a Chaucer-type utterance. The occurrence of
phrases of this sort leaves it unclear whether the verb-components name acts that
the speaker might perform in uttering the phrases. This puts pressure on the rst-
person components and threatens to split that to which they refer.
Appreciation of the way Shakespeares Sonnets work as a whole depends, in part,
on appreciating the cardinal role played by Chaucer-type utterances. And this
appreciation in turn requires a blend of philosophical study and critical receptivity.
Obtaining a deeper sense of the core features of the type enables us to appreciate
what is peculiar about variants on it. Thus here too, indeed here especially, criticism
of poetry can guide and be guided by philosophy.
It is one thing to accept that the combination of poetry and philosophy provides
insights when we x on small aspects of poems. It is quite another to persuade
ourselves that this combination might enhance appreciation of whole poems and
sequences, that it might be able to shed light on all the issues then arising, of
harmony, balance, overall purpose, and so on. So that was the underlying aim of the
nal chapters of Part II: to try to answer this doubt and resolve the attendant
anxieties.
IV
As the summary makes clear, this book has tried to use the mechanisms that weave
patterns of antipathy between poetry and analytic philosophy to produce patterns
of attunement instead, to weave a new web on an old loom. Robert Southwell
adopted the metaphor to describe his own strategy, Ignatian in spirit,55 when
confronting poets who make erotic love their customary subject:
And because the best course to let them see the error of their works is to weave a new
web in their own loom, I have here laid a few coarse threads together, to invite
skillfuller wits to go forward in the same, or to begin some ner piece, wherein it
may be seen how well verse and virtue suit together.56
So we can now take up the opportunity left in abeyance in the previous section: to
ask what light our project and Southwells work might shed on each other.
55 We may lead others to good by praying or agreeing with them on a certain good point, leaving
aside whatever else may be wrong. Thus after gaining his condence, we shall meet with better success.
In this sense we enter his door with him, but we come out our own. Instructions given by Ignatius to
Frs Brot and Salmern (September 1541): Letters of St. Ignatius of Loyola (1959) Letter 1.
There are signal differences, of course, between the present book and Southwells
enterprise. This book has had little to do with virtue, and the position it takes is
much weaker than Southwells. For him, poetry must be justied, and it is only
when poets commit themselves in producing their poetic utterances that it is
justied. I have said nothing at all about such justication. (I am not sure what it
would be for poetry to achieve it.) And far from insisting that poets must so commit
themselves, I have only tried to show what follows if they do. The aim is modest,
but the possibilities are powerful, even if we have only pursued one: that once we
acknowledge that poetry is not exempt from issues of commitment and responsi-
bility, we can lift Austins restriction and direct a speech act approach towards
elucidating poetic utterances.
But there are several signicant connecting themes between Southwell and the
present enterprise. Seriousness is the obvious one. To acknowledge that poetry is
not exempt from issues of commitment and responsibility is to acknowledge that it
is or can be seriousin the particular sense that Austin and other analytic
philosophers adopted when they denied that poetry is serious. Both Southwell
and the present enterprise make much of this acknowledgement. And this is one
way in which they may shed light on each other. For seriousness plays a deep role in
Southwells poetry itself, not just in his views about what poetry should be. And
deep here does not just have the sense of profound, integral, intense, but also of
something well below the surface, somewhat concealed and perhaps even withheld.
Some hope then that an approach with so much in common might shed light, or at
least develop itself in the attempt. So we shall start with the connecting theme of
seriousness. As we shall see, it takes us through familiar ground, concerning uses of
the Chaucer-type, towards new issues concerning balance, and brings us out at a
connecting point with Shakespeare.
Start with an example of Southwells seriousness: his literal interpretation of the
old loom/new web metaphor. His poem Fancy turned to a sinners complaint does
indeed weave a new web in their own loom. It takes up a popular contemporary
secular love poem, Fancy, by a well-known and well-connected poet, Sir Edward
Dyer, one of the pallbearers at Philip Sidneys funeral, replacing the odd word and
line, cutting the odd stanza, so that it becomes a thoroughly religious and devout
poem.57 The poem has been called a parody, but the word is unfortunate if it
implies imitation, still more if it suggests caricature, burlesque, or spoof.58 Southwell
57 Southwells Content and rich re-works another poem by Dyer (My mind to me a kingdom is),
though the distance and difference here are much greater, an expansion alluded to perhaps when
Southwell writes in the midst of the poem, My mind to me an empire is; Southwell pp. 679; p. 68.
William Byrd intersects here: he set Dyers My mind to music, as he did with Content is rich, a
poem with a similar title to Southwells Content and rich whose point and purpose are also not
dissimilar: that being contented is not to be identied with a life of high degree, or indeed with a life of
low degree, but in having a quiet mind. Still, this borders on unhelpful tautology, of course, and the
comparison serves to bring out ways in which Southwells poem is philosophically superior. It may be
read as a meditation on the advantages and difculties of pursuing a particular way of achieving a quiet
mind: by making the limits of my power | The bonds unto my will; Southwell p. 67.
58 No such problems should arise if parody is used in a technical sense, as by Alison Shell,
Catholicism, Controversy and the English Literary Imagination 15591660 (1999, p. 75). Peter
is in earnest. His title states the relation with the original more exactly: the one is
turned by the other, where this has the sense of a poem re-worked and of a subject
converted, the double purpose of Southwells mission.
One example will give the general idea: where Dyer has
Whom love and fortune advanced
And now hath cast away
Southwells speaker says
Whom grace and virtue once advanced
Now sin hath cast away.59
It might seem prosaic to interpret the loom gure so literally. Seriousness is in
danger of seeming pedantic, at-footed. But there are subtleties here also. South-
wells turning goes deep, cutting out the stale misogyny of Dyers thought and
tightening up what is lazy in his expression. Thus Dyers dividing conceit:
O frail unconstant kind,
And safe in trust to no man!
No woman angels are, yet lo!
My mistress is a woman!
becomes Southwells uniting admonition:
O frail inconstant esh,
Soon rapt in every gin;
Soon wrought thus to betray thy soul,
And plunge thy self in sin.60
Southwell can sometimes be very grave, almost apocalyptic about the love poetry he
is trying to turn:
the devil as he affecteth divinity, and seeketh to have all the complements of divine
honour applied to his service, so hath he among the rest possessed also most poets with
his idle fancies.61
But the note sounds strained, awkward for his voice. This is more his tone:
the nest wits lose themselves in the vainest follies, spilling much art in some idle
fancy, and leaving their own works as witnesses how long they have been in travail, to
be, in ne, delivered of a fable.62
Davidson and Anne Sweeney draw attention to the fact that the poem is a strange artifact, if a
compelling one: it is an almost word-by-word parody or adaptation, St Robert Southwell: Collected
Poems (2007, p. 157). Sweeney elsewhere calls it a rewrite, which seems neither fair nor attering:
Robert Southwell: Snow in Arcadia: Redrawing the English Lyric Landscape 158695 (2006, p. 172).
59 Southwell p. 37. 60 Southwell p. 39.
62 Southwell, To the reader, Mary Magdalens Funeral Tears in The Prose Works of Robert Southwell
(1828, p. vii).
Such work is simply not serious, and what is not serious Southwell simply invites us
to take non-seriously. It is
like a bird in the air, of whose way there remaineth no remembrance; like an arrow that
ieth to the mark, whose track the air suddenly closeth up.63
The metaphor is fruitful for Southwell; he speaks later of the liquid and yielding
air.64
Fancy turned to a sinners complaint contains much use of the rst person, but
in past or negative construction, so that the Chaucer-type instance, when it comes,
is particularly powerful:
I yield me captive to my curse,
My hard fate to full.65
The verb is Dyers, but its signicance alters with the altered context: both the
conversion that Southwell practises on the poem itself, and the sequence into which
he ts this poem.66 There is in Southwells I yield me . . . that particular com-
bination of action and passivity, of something one does that invites something to be
done to onein this case, of willed resignation to divine grace and participation in
its exercisewhich resonates with Southwells understanding of the theological
doctrine of justication.67
Southwell often uses the Chaucer-type, as is natural, given the way it so neatly
adapts itself to the core strand of all his poetry: an inner commentary on the moves
he is making in the making of them. On occasion, this commentary is a straining,
gured in the striving towards an utterance of Chaucer-type, failures at the form
nally giving way to what may be a modest success:
A poor desire I have to mend my ill:
I should, I would, I dare not say, I will.
I dare not say, I will; but wish, I may:
My pride is checked,68
One use of the Chaucer-type is particularly characteristic of Southwell: to moderate
and make subtle his frequent use of alliteration. The rare old-fashioned deploy-
ment, to pound a point:
Then Joseph daunted with a deadly wound69
63 Southwell, An Epistle of Comfort in The Prose Works of Robert Southwell (1828, p. 167).
65 Southwell p. 40.
66 Yield occurs often in Southwells writing: more than thirty times in the poetry alone.
67 Brian Cummings similarly draws attention to how Southwells multiple use of let at a
culminating point in Saint Peters Complaint places the sinner in the way of grace, without
congratulating itself on the achievement; The Literary Culture of the Reformation (2002, p. 362).
Southwell uses the word very frequently; it occurs above sixty times in his poetry alone.
68 Southwell, Saint Peters Complaint, Southwell pp. 75100; p. 99.
69 Southwell, Josephs Amazement, Southwell pp. 213; p. 21.
sounds self-consciously archaic and affected, like Christopher Marlowes Black is

the beauty of the brightest day.70 But it does draw attention to the more supple,
nuanced uses that Southwell nds for alliteration:
Turn me with tigers to the wildest chase71
and
What change of place can change implanted pain?72
and
His mirth, of modest mean a mirror was:
His sadness, tempered with a mild aspect73
are subtler, the sounds modulating with what is depicted, if still obtrusive. But
when Southwell uses alliteration within a phrase of the Chaucer-type, the repeating
of a sound under pressure of modulation can capture what is most elusive: a
thought in the process of its developing:
For breach of plighted truth, this true I try
Ah, that my deed thus gave my word the lie.74
and again:
Then silly I, that solitary moan,
From highest hopes to hardest hap exiled75
This is a variant of the Chaucer-type, of course, I moan being lengthened into I
who moan, and yet the essential feature is present: that the verb is a name for the
very act performed here in the uttering of it.
Southwell also uses alliteration to move the argument within the thought that
expresses it. This poetic device is frequent in his prose, for example:
Who is so mad as to admire his might, who is only mighty to do himself mischief?76
where the movement is like mounting a stairway.
Southwells larger habit with alliteration is to reveal facets of a thing in slowly
revolving around it, coming ever closer but always turning, where that thing may be
a particular crux:
O fond, o faint, o false, o faulty lapse77
70 The Second Part of Tamburlaine the Great Act II, Scene iv, line 1; The Complete Plays (2003,
p. 182). It recalls the kind of use to which, for example, William Dunbar put alliteration: Done is a
battell on the dragon blak, The Oxford Book of English Verse (Ricks, 1999, p. 18).
71 Southwell, Saint Peters Complaint, Southwell p. 94.
72 Southwell, Josephs Amazement, Southwell pp. 213; p. 23.
73 Southwell, Christs Childhood, Southwell p. 11.
74 Southwell, Saint Peters Complaint, Southwell pp. 75100; p. 94.
75 Southwell, Davids Peccavi, Southwell pp. 356; p. 35.
or a specic simile:
Like solest swan, that swims in silent deep,
And never sings but obsequies of death,
Sigh out thy plaints, and soul in secret weep,
In suing pardon spend thy perjured breath.78
Like other poets who use the Chaucer-type regularly, Southwell impresses on us the
ways in which a saying can be a doingas he puts it, how an act of will can be
followed with performing word.79 He does not deny that words can fall short of
other sorts of action: what thy words wanted, thy action supplied, his speaker
notes of Mary Magdalen.80 But it would be wrong to suppose that he thought
deeds in fact outweighed words,81 if this implies either that there are no speech
acts, or that speech acts are always outweighed by other forms of act. He is at great
pains to assert the contraries of both claims, tracing his position back to the notion
of the divine creating word. Again describing Mary Magdalen:
By this single word her senses are restored, her mind enlightened, her heart quickened,
and her soul revived. Yet what wonder that with one word he should raise the sunken
spirits of his poor disciple, since with a word he made the world, and even in this little
word showeth the omnipotence of his power?82
We have learned through exercise of attunement in Part II that it is highly signicant
what verbs a poet chooses for their uses of the Chaucer-type. These verbs name the
particular kinds of act that the poet uses poetry to perform in the peculiarly immediate,
self-reective way essential to this phrase-type. They name the kinds of act a poet
particularly associates, and intends us to associate, with poetic utterance. Southwell is
no exception. The verbs he deploys in his Chaucer-type phrases tell us a good deal
about what he thinks poetry is and can be, what it can do, and what it ought to do.
Some of Southwells verbs for the Chaucer-type issue reminders of his overall
purpose, the character of his defence of poetry, the form that poetry must take to
count as justied:
With David verse to virtue I apply,
Whose measure best with measured words doth sit83
Let grace forgive, let love forget my fall:
With fear I crave, with hope I humbly call.84

79 Southwell, Look home, Southwell p. 57.
80 Southwell, Mary Magdalens Funeral Tears in The Prose Works of Robert Southwell (1828, p. 63).
On Southwells depiction of Mary Magdalen, a subject perhaps consciously chosen to be acceptable to

Protestants as well as Catholics, see Alison Shell, Catholicism, Controversy and the English Literary
Imagination 15591660 (1999, pp. 803).
81 Alexandra Walsham, Church Papists: Catholicism, Conformity and Confessional Polemic in Early
Modern England (1993, p. 31).

83 Southwell, To the reader, Southwell p. 2.
84 Southwell, Saint Peters Complaint, Southwell pp. 2931.
Yet grant I must, sense is not free from sin,

For thief he is that thief admitteth in.85
Other verbs are essential to depicting inner commentary, moments of a mental life
whose depiction requires metaphorical appeal to physical states, bodily movement:
Yet still I tread a maze of doubtful end;
I go, I come, she draws, she drives away86
She is a friend to love, a foe to loth,
And in suspense I hang between them both.87
Others again are essential to the way Southwell makes his turn. He takes verbs that
name the kinds of courting and pleading and longing essential to erotic lovemaking,
and gives them new signicance, a new context:
Let folly praise that fancy loves, I praise and love that child
Whose heart, no thought: whose tongue, no word: whose hand no deed deled.88
Forlorn and left like orphan child
With sighs I feed my grief.89
Left orphan-like in helpless state I rue,
With only sighs and tears I plead my case,
My dying plaints I daily do renew,
And ll with heavy noise a desert place.90
The last line illustrates Southwells fondness for balancing adjectives, evident also in
his prose, where they occur in a rhythm between the serene:
in a little room it shall nd perfect rest
the vigorous:
the bloody tragedy of thy slaughtered Lord
and the heavily accented:
to glut their pitiless eyes and brutish hearts with the unnatural usage of his helpless corse.91
This last gives evidence of the way Southwell thinks naturally in poetry. He is trying
to convey Mary Magdalens thoughts on discovering Jesus body gone from the
85 Southwell, Mary Magdalens blush, Southwell pp. 323.

86 Southwell, Josephs Amazement, Southwell pp. 213.
87 Southwell, Josephs Amazement, Southwell pp. 213.
88 Southwell, A Child My Choice, Southwell p. 13.
89 Southwell, St Peters aficted mind, Southwell p. 31.
90 Southwell, I die without desert, Southwell p. 48.
91 Southwell, Mary Magdalens Funeral Tears in The Prose Works of Robert Southwell (1828, pp. 35,
40, 30). The last is consistent with Southwells encouragement that people make their homes in a
manner a paradise by imagining them as sites of an inner pilgrimage, associating different places with
moments in Christs life and passion (in his Short Rule of Good Life (15967), quoted by Alexandra
Walsham, The Reformation of the Landscape (2011, p. 183)). It would be in keeping had he treated his
imprisonment in this way.
tomb. He describes her wondering whether others have taken it away. The result
does not relinquish its character as strong prose, as is readily appreciable when the
phrase is set within its context:
It was doubtless the spite of some malicious Pharisee, or ill-minded Scribe, who, not
content with these torments he suffered in life, of which every one, to any other, would
have been worse than death, hath now stolen away his dead body, to practice upon it
some savage cruelty, and to glut their pitiless eyes and brutish hearts with the unnatural
usage of his helpless corse.92
Nevertheless, the point to which the sentence moves may also naturally be repre-
sented as three lines of twelve-syllabled poetry:
To practice upon it some savage cruelty,
And to glut their pitiless eyes and brutish hearts
With the unnatural usage of his helpless corse.
The theme recurs in Southwell: the executioners cruelty against Jesus dead
body;93 horror at what is done to a body after death.94 Perhaps what drives the
thought into poetry has to do with its resonance for Southwell, what awaited his
body in the likely event of his capture and execution. But there is measure in this.
The careful attempt to form and balance the line is an attempt to face and balance
the thought.
V
Balance gures interestingly in Southwells writing. It may seem far from his aims.
This is certainly so if we associate being balanced with the attempt to make all
things equal. For in trying to make what he says effective, to exhort and to
encourage, Southwell often pushes some views at the expense of others. Again, he
often courts imbalance, discomforting stress, rhetorical pressure in seeking to be
effective in the way he says things. If being balanced means being impartial, where
that in turn means being distant or detached, then, again, Southwell is not
balanced.
It may seem otherwise. For example, he is known for writing
Passions I allow, and loves I approve; only I would wish that men would alter their
object, and better their intent.95
93 Southwell, Mary Magdalens Funeral Tears in The Prose Works of Robert Southwell (1828, pp. 35;
63). It is not salient in the Gospel narratives (where the piercing with the lance is naturally interpreted
as a means to make certain of death rather than to desecrate a corpse) and seems odd, unless as a means
to draw parallels with contemporary executions.
94 This horror extends in ways that are striking: for example, Southwells attentiveness to the way
that a mother might loath the body of her dead child; Mary Magdalens Funeral Tears in The Prose
Works of Robert Southwell (1828, p. 66).
95 Southwell, Mary Magdalens Funeral Tears in The Prose Works of Robert Southwell (1828, p. iii).
And this may make it look as if Southwell is not only distant and detached but
highly presumptuous in his estimation of loves, assuming to himself a position of
objective authority from which to pronounce weighty judgement. But this is far
from the truth. The mistake lies in the temptation to think of approve in the
modern sense.96 At this date, in this context, it has the sense of demonstratejust
as when Thomas Nashe writes, Long have I desired to approve my wit unto you in
dedicating a work in 15934.97 What Southwells remark means is not only that he
esteems loves, but that his own writing enters actively into demonstrating what he
thereby praises.
There is another sense of balance: moderation, choosing the mean. Southwell
constantly exhorts his readers towards balance in this sense:
he hath cast his account best, that hath brought his sum to the mean98
and
let the mean be still a part in all your music99
and
neither too strong nor too calm a mind giveth virtue the rst course, but a middle
temper between them both, in which the well-ordered passions are wrought to
prosecute, not suffered to pervert, any virtuous endeavour.100
But it may seem that, in his defence of poetry, Southwell falls foul of this sense of
balance, and thus outs his own counsel. For his view does indeed seem extreme:
that it is only when poets commit themselves in producing their poetic utterances
that poetry is justied. However, there is a very clear sense in which Southwell was
indeed pursuing the middle course here. For he still maintains that poetry can,
indeed must, be justied. So if he sails well wide of those who claim that poetry
needs no justication, he sails equally clear of those on the other side who claim that
poetry lacks whatever justication it needs.
Sailing clear of this latter option was, at the time, neither as easy nor as
uncontroversial as one might assume. It was a popular option. Advocates could
count on sufcient background agreement to run it as a consistent theme in
religious debate, from William Tyndale who dismissed the doctrine of Purgatory
in 1536 as a poets fable, through to the 1600s, when Sir Edward Hoby sought to
remind the Jesuit John Floyd of
96 Allow is closer to modern usage perhaps, but if what is allowable is taken to mean something
no more positive than what is tolerable or to be borne with, a passage from Southwells
contemporary Richard Hooker acts as a useful corrective; Of The Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity, Preface
chapter 8.3 (1989, p. 38).
97 Dedicating The Unfortunate Traveller to the Earl of Southampton. Quoted and attributed this
sense in Katherine Duncan-Jones, Shakespeare: An Ungentle Life (2010b, p. 77).

98 Southwell, The Triumphs over Death in The Prose Works of Robert Southwell (1828, p. 90).
99 Southwell, The author to his loving cosen, Southwell p. 2.
100 Southwell, Mary Magdalens Funeral Tears in The Prose Works of Robert Southwell (1828, p. v).
the difference betwixt an Evangelist and a Poet, a Gospel and a Poem, rigid truth, and
gurative speech, Articles of Faith, and poetical fancies.101
On this view, poetry is so far lacking in justication that it is enough to designate
some traditional dogma the product of a poets pen, a poets fable, a poem, to give
sufcient grounds to reject it. Poetry stands out as at the opposite pole to truth, and
specically religious truth, the Gospel. Association with poetry casts belief as mere
myth. The position and the rhetorical strategy herefostering a sense of conviction
about a radical claim by assuming it, not stooping to argumentare familiar from
some analytical philosophers and their dealings with poetry.
And it is against such a background that Southwell follows his own counsel,
bringing his sum to the mean. For on the one hand, he avoids too easy a
justication for poetry, insisting that it support and sustain virtue, according to a
thoroughly religious notion of what this requires, poets being focused on solemn
and devout matter, to which in duty they owe their abilities.102 And on the other
hand, he avoids too ready a dismissal of poetry, the prejudice that it could not be
justied. In this context, it is more readily appreciable that Southwell brings off
something of a coup here. For he nds such justication in the one place where
opponents suppose it could not be found: in that thoroughly religious notion of
what virtue requires, where the well-ordered passions are wrought to prosecute, not
suffered to pervert, any virtuous endeavour.
Yet there is more than one version of the mean. The speeches that Shakespeare
gives to Theseus in Act V of A Midsummer Nights Dream remind us of this. Here
the middle temper of which Southwell speaks takes a gentler course.103 Shake-
speares Theseus is a complex character, of course. But this complexity has much to
do with that for which his author provides the means: teasing out which claims to
accept, which to distrust, which to reject.104
101 William Tyndale, An Answer to Sir Thomas Mores Dialogue; Edward Hoby, A Curry-Combe for a
Coxe-Combe; cited in Stephen Greenblatt, Hamlet in Purgatory (2001, pp. 367). Hoby described the
doctrine as something gathered out of a poem and the product of a poets pen. Greenblatt discusses
these issues at length (2001, pp. 1046), describing Protestants of this colour as having worked out an
account of the poetics of Purgatory. But since they make no attempt to say what poetry is, or what it
does, or indeed to do more than assume a background attitude of contempt towards it, what they offer
seems to be no more a poetics than what J. L. Austin provides.
103 I discuss the possibility that one might be a response to the other below, once we have seen
more clearly where they converge and diverge.

104 Jonathan Bate, speaking about the depiction of Theseus in A Midsummer Nights Dream, argues
that as any half-way educated person in the Renaissance could tell you, he was a notorious rapist . . . [this]
would have predisposed many a listener against any claim made by Theseus; Shakespeare and Ovid (1993,
pp. 1367). Any claim? I doubt this. Theseus would not be half so interesting a character if this were
so. He is clearly, if infrequently, given reasonable views to represent, hence the need to tease through
his claims, distinguishing those we may accept from those we should distrust or reject. We would not
be justied in rejecting all those claims, even if we take ourselves to know, externally, that the Theseus
of legend was a rapist. And do we know this? We ought perhaps to allow ourselves to be unsettled by
the Theseus of the play, who calls this very evidence into question: I never may believe | These antique
fables (5.1.23).
Both Southwell and Theseus describe the poems they reject as toys (Sidney had
used the metaphor to be self-deprecating about his prose: this ink-wasting toy of
mine105). But whereas Theseus is disdainful:
I never may believe
These antique fables, nor these fairy toys106
Southwell is appalled:
Christs thorn is sharp, no head his garland wears:
Still nest wits are stilling Venus rose.
In paynim toys the sweetest veins are spent;
To Christian works, few have their talents lent.107
In Southwells view, as we know,
a poet, a lover and a liar, are by many reckoned but three words of one signication108
where he thinks this reckoning just, as applied to the secular poet. Theseus makes
the same rhetorical gesture:
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet
Are of imagination all compact109
but the different characterthe lunatic rather than the liarchanges the signi-
cance. In part, this is a matter of context. Identication with the liar makes a moral
point about the poet which identication with the lunatic does not. In part, this is a
matter of seriousness. There is meant to be something funny, hyperbolic, about
identifying the poet and lover with the lunatic. Nothing humorous or inexact is
intended when Southwell identies the poet and lover with the liar.
These differences become clearer when we see what Theseus and Southwell do
with their threefold identication. Theseus point is that the poet is someone whose
mind is suborned and who tends to distort reality as a result. This is why he
associates the poet with the lunatic, depicted as someone prone to fear, who sees
more devils than vast hell can hold. Again, this is why he associates the poet with
the lover, depicted as someone prone to exaggeration, who sees Helens beauty in a
brow of Egypt. The poets own vulnerability, as Theseus paints it, is to be prone to
reifying things, dreaming up substances to be the cause of what they experience:
Such tricks hath strong imagination
That if it would but apprehend some joy
It comprehends some bringer of that joy;110

106 A Midsummer Nights Dream 5.1.23.
A mental inclination of this kind is common enough, of course. But poets fall for it
in a deeper way, because their imagination is that much the stronger, their shaping
powers more creative:
as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poets pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.111
Still, Theseus nds the upshot ridiculous rather than threatening. When people
imagine things that do not exist, or imaginatively transform what does exist
in the night, imagining some fear,
How easy is a bush supposed a bear!112
they may be terried, but their situation is inherently ludicrous. For Theseus, the
poet, the lover, and the lunatic are alike in this: they are essentially victims of an
unfortunate mental inclination over which they have little or no real control. And
though we may pity or despise them, according to taste or situation, we will not
blame them.
Southwell does something very different with his threefold identication. His
point is that most poets are given over to the vanity of men, willingly and
intentionally abusing their talent. He associates poets with liars because he
portrays them as dealing in profane conceits and feigning ts, whose lawless
stuff doth lawless speeches t.113 And he associates poets with lovers who
busy themselves in expressing such passions as only serve for testimonies to how
unworthy affections they have wedded their wills.114
The poet, the lover, and the liar are alike in this: what they do manifests a
debilitating spiritual inclination for which they are partly responsible and over
which they have signicant control. The blame is so much the worse, given that the
imagination of poets is so much the stronger, their shaping powers more creative:
And sure it is a thing greatly to be lamented, that men of so high conceit should so
much abase their abilities, that when they have racked them to the uttermost endeavor,
all the praise that they reap of their employment consisteth in this, that they have
wisely told a foolish tale, and carried a long lie very smoothly to the end.115
That is itself, of course, and consciously, a very smooth piece of writing. There is in
this a reminder that Southwells worry is not with the artistry itself, but with the
uses to which it is putwith poets, as we might put it, not with poetry. Racked

113 Southwell, To the reader p. 2.
115 Southwell, To the reader, Mary Magdalens Funeral Tears in The Prose Works of Robert
Southwell (1828, p. vii).

resonates in context, and gives weight to the comment by opening a contrast: on

one side, those who are genuinely tortured and say nothing; on the other, those
who posture about the torture of writing who do come out with a tale, but one that
is foolish and a lie.
These reections on Southwell and Shakespeares Theseus do not assume that
one is a response to the other.116 That we bring them into conjunction with each
other, for comparison and contrast, is sufcient for the points I make. Still, the
possibility of something more does exist. Most scholars agree, from evidence of
the unusual quantity and kind of mis-lineation in the rst edition, that the text at
the start of Act V scene 1 of A Midsummer Nights Dream was revised, with new
material written in the margins.117 The original spoke of the madman and the
lover only. The whole point of the addition is to add the poet, to set this addition
within a similar threefold identication to that adopted by Southwell, and then to
pursue that device for the same reasons that Southwell pursues it: to clarify what it
is to be a poet. Furthermore, and as we have seen, there is a deeper matter here,
ideas in one that are only given full value when brought into conjunction with ideas
in the other. So, though this is speculation merely, it is not obviously unreasonable
to suppose that these additions to A Midsummer Nights Dream were made after the
play was rst performed, when the success of publication had made Southwells
poetry and its preface, with the threefold identication, increasingly well known.
Perhaps the additions were intended partly as a response to Southwell. Perhaps
they were made in the condence that at least part of the audience would
recognize that this was the intent. If one was indeed a response to the other,
I do not think it is likely to have been the other way roundSouthwell respond-
ing to Shakespeares Theseus. The play is rst mentioned in 1598 (by Francis
Meres in his Palladis Tamia) and was rst printed in 1600, when it was described
as having been sundry times publicly acted, but scholars date it to 15945
(stylistic variation in verse measures and rhyme schemes and rhetorical patterning
in the prose suggest it is contemporary with Loves Labours Lost118). Southwell
was then in prison, where there is no evidence that he had access to contemporary
playwriting, and no evidence that he had the means to write (indeed, some
116 There are other possible connections, but again nothing of what I say rests on their being actual.
It may be, for example, that Southwell had Shakespeares Venus and Adonis in mind when he writes,
Still nest wits are stilling Venus rose (Saint Peters Complaint, Southwell p. 75). Conversely, it may
be that Shakespeare had Southwells The Burning Babe in mind when he has Macbeth describe pity
by appeal to the gure of a naked new-born babe, | Striding the blast, Macbeth Act 1, Scene 7, lines
212. There is a more direct possibility, though it would not of itself offer insight into the literary work
of either, even if actual: in the 1616 edition of Saint Peters Complaint, printed in St Omer, the
original heading of the prose preface, To my worthy good cosen, becomes To my worthy good cosen
Maister W. S., where some speculate that the addition incorporates a note on an earlier manuscript
which the typesetter used as copy-text, and where the initials may refer to Shakespeare who was indeed
a cousin (they had a common ancestor, through their mothers, in Sir Robert Belnap). For a recent
account of these and kindred matters, careful and balanced, see Alison Shell, Shakespeare and Religion
(2010, pp. 889).
117 The Oxford Shakespeare: The Complete Works (2005, p. 422).
118 See Peter Holland, Introduction and Appendix, A Midsummer Nights Dream (1994).
evidence that he did not).119 But suppose the play were rst performed in
15945, and then revised in the light of the published Southwell, going steadily
through its editions from 1595 onwards. Sense could be made of that.
Certainly something more reective, more self-referential seems to have been
stirred in Shakespeare at the time of revision. Where he originally had Theseus say:
Come now, what masques, what dances shall we have
To ease the anguish of a torturing hour?120
he adds lines that make the speech seem pointed:
Is there no play
To ease the anguish of a torturing hour?121
so that it is now natural to feel invited to ask, given that we hear this line within a
play, whether this very play supplies the aid for which Theseus calls. Could it be?
Should it be? What then are the ends for which the poet writes? These are the very
questions we would expect to be stirred up in Shakespeare, and which he might
wish to stir up in his audience, if he is indeed thinking here of Southwell and
Southwells preface. It is certainly a possibility, this reach beyond the grave: that
when Shakespeare has Theseus chart a middle course, less extreme than that of
Southwell, he is nevertheless, and in his own manner, adhering to Southwells
direction, let the mean be still a part in all your music.122
VI
Good enough as a place to rest. Between the two tales of Priscus and Southwell,
quite a distance travelled. And with this pause, the surfacing of what underlies the
whole effort.
The idea that certain kinds of uttering can count as particular forms of action, as
speech acts, raises difculties. Some of these are philosophical difculties and of a
sort that any analysis of speech acts faces quite generally. For example, what is an
action if these utterings are to be accounted actions? Some of these are literary
critical difculties and of a sort that is particular to the case of poetry. For example,
how many actions are there, given that a poem can be performed and re-performed?
Where and when do they take place, and who is responsible for them on any such
occasion?
119 The fact that his breviary had very brief prayers pricked into it with a pin suggests this. Alison
Shells comments on prison conditions and the likelihood of external relations are a useful guide;
Shakespeare on Religion (2010, p. 89). But see Richard Wilson, who evidently sees the response being
the other way round; Secret Shakespeare: Studies in Theatre, Religion, and Resistance (2004, p. 128).
120 A Midsummer Nights Dream in The Oxford Shakespeare: The Complete Works (2005, p. 423).
121 A Midsummer Nights Dream 5.1.367 in The Oxford Shakespeare: The Complete Works (2005,
p. 418).
122 Southwell, The author to his loving cosen, Southwell p. 2.
These are difcult questions and answering them requires both critical sensitivity
and philosophical ingenuity. But they direct the attention to the very issues that
poets and philosophers themselves, separately or together, are trying to raise. So
these questions are no distraction. And the agenda they set is for the philosophically
informed interpretation of specic poems and for the poetically informed treatment
of a variety of philosophical issues. They call, in other words, for a mutually shaping
approach, doing something that a literary critic will recognize as literary criticism in
doing something that a philosopher will recognize as philosophy. They call for
attunement.
There are any number of ways of effecting such an attunement. We have done so
using a speech act approach. Again, there are any number of ways to deploy such an
approach. We have focused on Chaucer-type utterances in poetry. If we look up
from this one topic and scan the horizon of inquiry, we will see countless other ways
to serve attunement with a speech act approach, and we will notice plentiful
resources for the task, as yet under-used or not used at all.
For example, we could focus on features of language-use that are peculiar to
poetry, like enjambment or the use of metre, thus extending what a speech act
approach can philosophize about. Or we could focus on occasions where performa-
tive uses of language are subject to criticism as unhappy (misres, abuses,
breaches, infractions), thus extending what a literary critical approach can be critical
about. Or we could blend philosophical analysis with critical receptivity so as to
improve our sense of what illocutionary forces are and how they are deployed in
poetry. Or we could reect on time and reference, attuning a speech act approach
with critical sensitivity to poetry so as to help think about who or what performs the
acts associated with poems, and when. These are just some of the routes open to us.
The paths are inviting, the prospects hopeful.
One last word. It will be obvious to you who have come this far that the present
effort lays only a few coarse threads together. If attunement follows a spiral shape,
I have achieved only a couple of turnsenough to apply poetry and philosophy to
each other perhaps, but not yet enough to bind them securely. My interpretations
may well be wrongheaded and my attempts at criticism inadequate. My philoso-
phizing may fail to convince. Though this is the best of me, I have doubtless made a
mess of many things. If so, I trust you will not assume that the entire effort must be
hopeless. The idea may be sound, though its execution is awed. May skilfuller wits
go forward in the same, or begin some ner piece.
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Index
abuse (Austin) 37, 7781, 113, 279 binding 2930, 7182, 92, 10715, 131, 137,
Ackroyd, Peter 18 1901, 2089, 21819, 226, 252
Acquaviva, Claude 24952, 255 Blackburn, Simon 24
Act against Jesuits etc (1585) 249 Blake, William 131, 152
action 25, 69, 28, 634, 8391, 945, Blank, Paula 174, 199
97106, 11415, 1219, 1313, 1356, Bloom, Harold 180
138, 1434, 1456, 150, 1526, 1623, Bodet, Gerald 251
1668, 16971, 1824, 185, 187, 188, bodily movement 1024, 126, 271
1979, 2002, 2035, 22133, 23548, Boisvert, Daniel 128, 136, 140
252, 256, 2612, 268, 278 Booth, Stephen 22, 174, 223, 230, 236,
adders sense (Shakespeare) 1947 244, 245
against that time (Shakespeare) 23848 Boyer, Allen D. 251
Agamben, Giorgio 98, 101 Bradley, A. C. 15, 845
Alston, William P. 99, 128, 131, 140, 147, 151 Bradley, F. H. 18, 239
ambiguity 648, 924, 11112, 15963, Bridges, Robert 89, 170
1767, 183, 197, 202, 20319, 230, 239 Bromwich, David 168
analytic philosophy 633, 5969, 92, 98, 121, Brooks, Cleanth 15, 156
182, 25961, 274 Brown, S. A. 168
anaphora 21316 Brownlow, F. W. 249, 254
anxiety 11215, 180 Bunting, Basil 111, 153
Aquinas, Thomas 99 Burrow, Colin 223, 236, 238, 241, 244
Aristotle 20, 545, 834, 978 But if the while (Shakespeare) 1879
Arnold, Matthew 845 Butler, Judith 22, 289
assurance 93, 1312, 1778, 1812, 20319, Buttereld, Ardis 119
2278, 230, 233, 264 Byrd, William 266
Attridge, Derek 10 Byron, Lord 132, 262
attunement 833, 97100, 112, 11415, 121,
141, 1434, 1578, 165, 168, 1712, Camp, Elisabeth 26
1824, 223, 236, 248, 252, 258, 25965, Campion, Edmund 251, 255
270, 279 Caraman, Philip 254
Aubrey, John 251 Cavell, Stanley 212, 49, 178
Austin, J. L. 69, 12, 16, 213, 279, 31, Cecil, Sir Robert 255
3747, 4958, 5969, 7182, 83, 91, 99, Celan, Paul 98
102, 10910, 11415, 1257, 1302, Chaucer, Geoffrey 33, 901, 101, 104, 108,
1356, 13841, 1457, 151, 159, 183, 11921, 123, 130, 141, 143, 145, 14850,
252, 2568, 25962, 266, 274 201, 262
Ayer, A. J. 878, 98 Chaucer-type 8, 23, 25, 2932, 901, 945,
99, 1012, 1036, 108, 110, 11314,
Bach, Kent 128, 1356 11933, 13544, 14558, 15972,
Bacon, Francis 867 17384, 18591, 193202, 20319,
Bacon, Roger 99 22133, 23548, 2615, 26672, 279;
balance 1824, 202, 2078, 21617, 23940, see also I
265, 2667, 2728 Doing 1456, 1578, 1613, 184, 22133,
Bald, R. C. 251, 255 23548, 2625, 270
Bate, Jonathan 22930, 274 Naming 145, 1489, 1578, 1613, 1756,
Bauer, Nancy 9, 115, 151 184, 193202, 205, 216, 2212, 2256,
Baz, Avner 21 2289, 232, 2356, 2413, 247, 2625
Beardsley, Monroe 28 Phrasing 1458, 1578, 184, 18591,
Beckett, Samuel 37 199201, 205, 216, 2212, 2256, 2289,
Beckwith, Sarah 207 236, 2413, 2625
Bellow, Saul 20 Securing 145, 14950, 1578, 1613, 184,
Bentham, J. 867 20319, 2212, 2256, 2289, 236,
bidding 170 2413, 2625
294 Index
Clarke, Austin 1545 1735, 178, 203, 225, 22930, 2313,
Cohen, G. A. 16 242, 2436, 2625, 268
Cohen, L. Jonathan 127, 147 Fisher, Roy 11314
Coke, Sir Edward 2505 Ford, Andrew 22, 54
Coleridge, S. T. 20, 878, 1645 Frege, Gottlob 25, 556, 878, 98
Collingwood, R. G. 55
commitment 2, 79, 29, 7182, 102, 10715, Garnet, Henry 24952, 2545
131, 137, 2089, 21819, 226, 252, Geuss, Raymond 22, 29, 84, 98
2578, 2601, 266, 273 Gibson, John 256
confession 578, 1967, 218 Ginet, Carl 128
condence 233, 258 Glynn, Stephen T. 169
Conrad, Joseph 163 Gorman, David 28
Cornish, F. 161 Greenblatt, Stephen 22, 174, 176, 224, 274
Cowley, Abraham 7, 10910 Grifths, Eric 28, 41
Cranmer, Thomas 79 Gubar, Susan 169
Crawford, Robert 168 Gunn, Thom 1378, 262
Crisp, Roger 53 Guy, John 252, 254
Critchley, Simon 22
Cummings, Brian 28, 50, 174, 204, 256, 268 Hamburger, Michael 845
Hardy, Thomas 86
Dante 170 Harington, John 2567
Dauber, Kenneth 21 Harnish, Robert 128, 1356
Davidson, Donald 128, 1356, 140, 147 Hasler, P. W. 251
Davidson, Peter 267 hawking metaphor 176
De Man, Paul 27 Heal, Jane 128, 1356, 147
Derrida, Jacques 10, 19, 27, 41, 4950, 53, 60 Heaney, Seamus 73, 112
Descartes, Ren 1718, 178, 183, 187, 206 Hegel, G. W. 74
descriptions 301, 8391, 98100, 1302, 141 Heidegger, Martin 26, 29, 98
Devlin, Christopher 254 Henryson, Robert 123
Diffey, T. J. 85 Herbert, George 166
doing see under Chaucer-type here 2423
Donne, John 45, 50, 924, 156, 169 hereby 734, 141, 1469, 159, 167, 1734,
Dryden, John 122, 153 241, 244, 263
Duffy, Carol Ann 1423, 262 Hill, Geoffrey 23, 4952, 567, 734, 77, 79,
Duffy, Eamon 250 104, 108, 111, 121, 1423, 152, 1635,
Dunbar, William 269 16871, 178, 252, 25963
Duncan-Jones, Katherine 174, 179, 184, 223, Hippolytus (Euripides) 789, 252
226, 236, 238, 241, 244, 245, 273 Hirsch, James 177
Dunn, Douglas 101, 147 historicism 323
Dyer, Sir Edward 253, 2668 Hoby, Sir Edward 2734
Holland, Peter 277
Edmondson, Paul 174 hollow (Austin) 379, 41, 634, 7781,
Elam, Keir 174, 204 109, 113
Eliot, T. S. 2, 14, 18, 20, 26, 40, 44, 178, Homer 97
198, 239 Honan, Park 174
Empson, William 17, 23, 39, 51, 57, 924, 111, Hood, Thomas 138
120, 169, 174, 176, 183, 195, 201, 243 Hooker, Richard 15, 273
enjambment 101, 138, 228, 279 Hopkins, G. M. 8990, 121, 133, 1523,
ensconce (Shakespeare) 177, 2418 1658, 16970, 232, 263
epistolatory form 2012 Horace 152
Erasmus 176, 202 Hornsby, Jennifer 128, 131, 136, 140, 151
etiolation (Austin) 39, 413, 4954, 58, 61, 77 Hurnard, Naomi 77
Evans, G. B. 236 Hutson, Lorna 21, 231
falsity 8391, 1302 I

Felman, Shoshana 22, 28, 115 I believe (Shakespeare) 21011
Fineman, Joel 22, 174, 199, 212, 231 I belong (Shakespeare) 18991
rst person 105, 11920, 1223, 125, 12930, I can allege (Shakespeare) 23548
1413, 1469, 1526, 162, 166, 16971, I consider (Shakespeare) 1756
Index 295
I could write (Shakespeare) 21113 Lemmon, E. J. 127, 146, 149
I count (Shakespeare) 1989 Lepidus, Marcus Aemilius 19, 2568
I cry (Shakespeare) 22333 Lepore, E. 26
I dispense (Shakespeare) 1947 let (Southwell) 268
I engraft (Shakespeare) 1757, 2067 Lewis, C. S. 24, 196
I ensconce (Shakespeare) 23548 Lewis, David 127, 1356, 13940, 150
I forbid (Shakespeare) 1978 literary criticism 833, 112, 126, 141, 1712,
I grant (Shakespeare) 17881 1834, 263, 2789
I have confessed (Shakespeare) 21719 Locke, John 43, 867
I joy (Shakespeare) 125, 21416 loom / web metaphor (Southwell) 9, 26579
I lie (Shakespeare) 21011 Lowell, Robert 1056
I love (Shakespeare) 217 Ludwig, Kirk 128, 136, 140
I prognosticate (Shakespeare) 1734, 197
I say (Shakespeare) 2089 McCawley, James D. 128
I say Tis so, tis true (Shakespeare) 223, McCoy, Richard 174
2258, 230, 2323 MacCulloch, Diarmaid 79
I send (Shakespeare) 2012, 21416 McDonald, Peter 29, 111
I swear (Shakespeare) 1812 McGinn, Colin 128
I think (Shakespeare) 1879, 2034, 22333 MacKenzie, Norman H. 166
I throw (Shakespeare) 1947 Magnusson, Lynne 174, 202
I uprear (Shakespeare) 23548 Marlowe, Christopher 170, 269
I wish (Shakespeare) 2068; see also rst person Martin, Philip 187
Ignatius of Loyola 265 Menand, Louis 223, 92
imperialism 19 mental reservation (equivocation) 2512, 254
infelicity (Austin) 379, 467, 634, 801, Middleton, David 169
279; see also abuse, misre Mill, J. S. 20, 845
integrity 4, 13, 179, 1889 Miller, J. Hillis 22, 27
interdisciplinary research 14 Millikan, Ruth Garrett 128, 191
inverted commas 52, 568 Milosz, Czeslaw 73
Milton, John 40, 42, 129, 249, 254, 262
Janelle, Pierre 24952, 2545 misre (Austin) 37, 7781, 113, 279
Jarvis, Simon 22, 41, 86 Moi, Toril 11, 212
John, Eileen 26 Mole, Christopher 73, 163
Johnson, Samuel 7, 86, 10910, 254 Moody, A. David 16
Jollimore, Troy 26 Moore, Adrian 6, 19, 92
Jones, Peter 174 More, Thomas 224
Jonson, Ben 73 Mulhall, Stephen 21, 54
Jost, Walter 21 Murdoch, Iris 55, 845
Kant, Immanuel 178 naming see under Chaucer-type

Kaplan, David 120 Nashe, Thomas 273
Kastan, David Scott 174 Nehamas, Alexander 22, 55
Keats, John 65 Nibelungenlied 170
Kermode, Frank 17 Nussbaum, Martha 22, 27, 1834
Kerrigan, John 22, 29, 92, 174, 203 Nuttall, A. D. 152, 231
Kilwardby, Robert 99
Kirsch, Adam 169 ODriscoll, Dennis 112
Kivy, Peter 25, 845 Olsen, Stein Haugom 84
Knottenbelt, E. M. 169 ordinary language philosophy 214
Koethe, John 26, 83 Ovid 170
Lacoue-Labarthe, Philippe 98 parasitic (Austin) 39, 413, 456, 4954, 58, 61

Lamarque, Peter 25, 834 Paterson, Don 179, 184, 187, 223, 235, 236
Landry, Hilton 174 Pequigney, Joseph 174
Langton, Rae 151 perform 69, 28, 301, 53, 62, 64, 724,
Larkin, Peter 22, 168 7582, 1012, 11933, 1356, 13841,
Leake, Thomas 249, 254 1456, 174, 180, 185, 187, 191, 2002,
Leavis, F. R. 1415, 17, 846 2035, 20910, 217, 2256, 238, 242,
Leibniz, G. W. 17 2436, 2478, 252, 256, 2789
296 Index
Perloff, Marjorie 22 Shakespeare, William 25, 2931, 42, 59, 73, 92,
Phare, E. E. 166 97, 1246, 130, 152, 168, 173248, 249,
Phillips, Catherine 168 2625, 266, 2748
phrasing see under Chaucer-type As You Like It 30, 789, 174
Pindar 1212, 224 Comedy of Errors, The 30
Plato 4, 50, 545, 83, 867 Loves Labours Lost 30, 174, 203, 215, 277
playfulness 177, 198 Macbeth 277
poetic utterances 19, 32, 53, 64, 714, 8391, Measure for Measure 195
97106, 11415, 162, 266, 270, 273 Merchant of Venice, The 29, 174
poet, liar and lover (Southwell) 252, 255, 2758 Merry Wives of Windsor 30, 175
poet, lunatic and lover (Shakespeare) 2758 Midsummer Nights Dream, A 30, 174, 2748
Pope, Alexander 1534 Rape of Lucrece, The 249
Popham, Sir John 2505 Romeo and Juliet 215
Pound, Ezra 16, 57, 73, 74, 97, 111 Sonnets, The 25, 2931, 59, 92, 121, 1246,
Pratt, Mary Louise 22, 27 168, 173248, 2635
Price, Huw 83, 128 Sonnet 1 1934
Priscus, Clutorius 19, 110, 252, 255, 278 Sonnet 4 168
promising 7182, 2089 Sonnet 12 186
Prynne, J. H. 121, 141, 15961, 2623 Sonnet 14 124, 1735, 177, 189, 197
Sonnet 15 1757, 186, 222
Raine, Kathleen 113, 137, 262 Sonnet 16 222, 229
Ramsey, Paul 212 Sonnet 17 21113, 219, 222
receptivity 2, 11, 32, 51, 945, 100, 108, 252, Sonnet 18 189, 222
258, 279 Sonnet 19 175, 1978, 222, 229
Redpath, Theodore 92 Sonnet 21 189, 222
reection 129, 143, 1623, 1658, 176, 178, Sonnet 22 186
181, 1889, 199, 203, 2089, 21618, Sonnet 23 200
22133, 2423, 2456, 264, 26872, 278 Sonnet 25 125, 215
repudiation 23748 Sonnet 26 1867, 2012
research assessment 14 Sonnet 27 194, 199
responsibility 2, 9, 102, 10715, 252, 2601, Sonnet 28 186
266, 276, 2789 Sonnet 29 186
Ribeiro, Anna Christina 7, 26 Sonnet 30 184, 186, 1879
Richards, I. A. 867 Sonnet 31 199
Ricks, Christopher 17, 23, 4953, 568, 65, Sonnet 32 224
72, 76, 1635, 16970, 176, 178, 211, Sonnet 35 195, 235
25960 Sonnet 36 189, 190
rift 12, 20, 33 Sonnet 37 2068, 222
Robinson, Jenefer 85 Sonnet 38 189, 222
Robinson, Peter 22, 29 Sonnet 39 189
Rosen, Stanley 50 Sonnet 40 125, 175, 189, 198
Rosier-Catach, Irne 100 Sonnet 42 187
Ryle, Gilbert 37 Sonnet 43 186
Sonnet 44 189, 228
scepticism 178, 181, 183, 187, 206 Sonnet 45 125, 21317
Schalkwyk, David 301, 126, 174 Sonnet 46 225, 230
Schiffer, James 174 Sonnet 47 230
Schiffer, Stephen 128, 136 Sonnet 49 177, 184, 222, 225,
scholastic philosophy 99100, 127 23548, 2645
Scruton, Roger 26, 83, 98 Sonnet 51 186
Searle, John 7, 28, 38, 53, 60, 74, 99, 1258, Sonnet 55 152, 222
1312, 1356, 140, 149, 262 Sonnet 57 186
securing see under Chaucer-type Sonnet 59 189
self-consciousness 28, 60, 114, 143, 178, 183, Sonnet 60 222
2059, 21618, 2456, 264, 26872 Sonnet 61 194, 200
serious 24, 69, 13, 32, 3847, 4958, 5969, Sonnet 66 198
72, 75, 76, 7980, 978, 109, 112, Sonnet 76 189, 222
11415, 179, 2078, 252, 255, 2578, Sonnet 78 229
25962, 2668, 275 Sonnet 79 124, 17881, 184, 198, 222, 229
Index 297
Sonnet 80 199 standard 609, 801, 103
Sonnet 81 229 statements 301, 60, 8391, 98100, 108,
Sonnet 82 124, 175, 206 1302, 1356, 13841, 152
Sonnet 83 210, 229 Stevenson, Robert Louis 1323
Sonnet 84 229 Strawson, P. F. 7, 60, 127, 151, 191
Sonnet 85 184, 210, 22233, 2356, 245, Summary 25965
247, 2645 Suppes, Patrick 26
Sonnet 86 177 Sweeney, Anne 250, 256, 267
Sonnet 87 179, 189 Swift, Jonathan 154
Sonnet 88 18991 Syme, Ronald 1
Sonnet 91 206
Sonnet 92 199 Tacitus 19, 110
Sonnet 94 243 Tennyson, Alfred 12, 33, 101, 103, 1556
Sonnet 96 199 Theseus (Shakespeare) 2748
Sonnet 102 217 time 1979, 21113, 21819, 23548,
Sonnet 103 189, 222 265, 279
Sonnet 106 186 Topcliffe, Richard 250, 254
Sonnet 107 213, 222 Tottel, Richard 250
Sonnet 111 125 Travis, Charles 128
Sonnet 112 175, 1947 trenching 42
Sonnet 115 20810 truth 8395, 99100, 1302, 1356, 13841,
Sonnet 116 210, 222 210, 2267, 2612
Sonnet 118 200 Tyndale, William 2734
Sonnet 123 125, 175, 198, 235
Sonnet 124 125, 175, 198 uptake (Austin) 151
Sonnet 130 124, 2034, 235 Usk, Thomas 121
Sonnet 131 1812, 2089
Sonnet 134 21719 Van Brenda, R. P. 12
Sonnet 136 210, 222 Vanderveken, Daniel 99, 128
Sonnet 138 21011 Vendler, Helen 22, 302, 174, 184, 196, 206,
Sonnet 141 1989 2234, 226, 230, 2378
Sonnet 144 210 veracity 185
Sonnet 149 168 Virgil 104, 122
Sonnet 152 92 void (Austin) 379, 40, 634, 7781,
Sonnet 154 2001 109, 113
Taming of the Shrew, The 30, 175
Twelfth Night 30, 174 Wain, John 15, 169
Two Gentlemen of Verona 59 Wainwright, Jeffrey 164, 16970
Venus and Adonis 249, 277 Walsham, Alexandra 170, 2545, 2701
Shell, Alison 174, 256, 266, 2778 Walton, Kendall 25, 60, 845
Shelley, P. B. 87 Warnock, Geoffrey 74, 127, 130, 1356
Sheridan, R. B. 154 Watt, Francis 251
Sherry, Vincent 52, 56, 169 Wells, Stanley 174
Sidney, Philip 4950, 55, 84, 86, 1289, 131, Wheale, Nigel 159
215, 2567, 262, 266, 275 White, Norman 166
sincere 37, 62, 66, 856, 179, 204, 2078, 210, Whitman, Walt 456, 50
22430, 233 Wiggins, David 127
Sisson, C. H. 97 Williams, Bernard 26, 53
Skinner, Quentin 189 Williamson, C. F. 186
Smart, Christopher 104, 107, 1512 Wilson, Richard 278
Smith, Bruce 175 Wittgenstein, Ludwig 22, 98
Southwell, Robert 9, 33, 59, 1234, 1767, Wood, Michael 22, 38
226, 24958, 26578 Wordsworth, William 20, 846, 168
speaking in effect (Shakespeare) 22333
speech act approach 69, 12, 21, 25, 2732, 49, Yeats, W. B. 104, 111, 121, 1367, 139, 143,
52, 609, 7282, 83, 945, 97100, 103, 1613, 171, 2623
11415, 1258, 1303, 1356, 13841, Yepes, Diego de 252
204, 258, 25966, 2789
Spiller, Michael 156 Zamir, Tzachi 27

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T H E R I F T IN T H E L U T E

The Rift in the Lute

Introduction: What is Attunement? 1

I. SENSE A ND SENSITIV ITY

II. DOING THINGS WITH A TTUNEMENT

for which he includes extended direct reporting of the defence speech.

18 Tacitus IV.34; verba mea arguuntur: adeo factorum innocens sum.

have received news of the decision.

proceed, and in the only way possible: by practising attunement in relation to

ignore analytic philosophy or reduce it to a crude assemblage of intellectual

experiencessounds, images, thoughts, emotionsthrough which we pass when we are reading as

Of course, antipathy between poetry and philosophy is something of a luxury

ceremony of June 1938, during the summer of appeasement, the Orator of

T. S. Eliot, The Varieties of Metaphysical Poetry (1993, pp. 301).

Called For: A Defense of Ordinary Language Philosophy (2012).

more appropriately read as imaginative reections on philosophical themes, grounded in subject

description occurs on p. 18.

The main cause of under-exploration here is the antipathy between philosophy

90 Butler, Excitable Speech (1997, p. 18; my emphasis).

criticism (1999, pp. 93119).

It is vital then to address the antipathy, and in its worst manifestationsin

in Shakespeares Sonnets and Plays (2002).

propositional statements and descriptions play an essential and deeply signicant

hence his subsequent focus on the locutionary-illocutionary-perlocutionary distinction.

simply that, being part-trained as a historian, I am vividly aware of how know-

Chaucers Troilus and Criseyde are:

SENSE AND SENSITIVITY

1 Beckett, Proust (1965, p. 123).

3 Austin pp. 14; 16; 1617; 17. 4 Austin p. 16.

(f) If we issue an utterance of any kind whatsoever in writing a poem, it

14 Austin, Performative utterances, p. 241. 15 Austin, Performative utterances, p. 241.

29 Austin pp. 212.

31 Austin p. 9. 32 Austin p. 122.

jokingthe words must be spoken seriously . . . I must not be joking, for

35 Austin p. 9. 36 John Locke, Some Thoughts Concerning Education, section 174.

40 Austin, Performative utterances, p. 241. 41 Austin p. 104. 42 Austin p. 104.

43 Austin, Performative-constative, pp. 1322; p. 15.

disordered to be vigorous or properly intelligible; formulations that are weakened at

pp. 14669; p. 157).

Selected Renaissance Literary Criticism (2004, pp. 354).

5 Sidney, The Defence of Poesy (2004, p. 53).

Cambridge History of Literary Criticism, vol. 8 (1995, pp. 34774; p. 347).

Platos concerns centre on two inter-linked claims: that tragic poetry is as

translation in Logical Investigations (1977, pp. 130; p. 8).

Philosophical Writings of Gottlob Frege (1960, pp. 5678; p. 63).

48 Hill, Our word is our bond (2008, p. 151).

Indeed, Austin is happy to describe philosophizing disdainfully, as a low or inferior

(1) Austin excluded poetry from his considerations (preliminary investigations of

8 Austin pp. 212. 9 Austin p. 122.

11 Austin, Performative utterances (1979, p. 241).

66 Sense and Sensitivity

(vii) (a) Sincere

(viii) (a) Pretentious

Second, that serious has meaning on an occasion of use depends on its

17 Austin, Sense and Sensibilia (1962, p. 69).

much that is philosophically signicant in poetry is ignored, and so much in

1 Austin pp. 910.

this remark is commentary on Blacksmith shop by Czeslaw Milosz.

limits of poetry (2013, pp. 5570).

modern poetry, we may suggest . . . (2008, p. 163).

performative utterance (1973, p. 83).

ways we do things with words. If we hold that language-use in poetry is non-

15 Austin, Performative utterances (1979, p. 252).