Floating in a web of inter-textuality

This is more question-begging than question answering, and I hope someone out there (with a strong nod in Will’s direction, probably…!) can help me out with this.

I have come under the impression that the common view is that the idea of bioterrorism first occurs explicitly in literature with the publication of War of the Worlds in 1898, and I was wondering whether there is any truth in this claim at all? I have a very strong hunch that there is a reference to an early form of biological terrorism (as opposed to biological *warfare*) in a text written prior to this, and I want to be certain just how significant that might be before I dive in, shouting “I’ve found out something important, new and ground-breaking!” with all the air in my lungs. If someone with more expertise in this area than I have could give me some indication as to the use of biological warfare/terrorism in literature in this period, that would be fantastic.

I await the flood of responses! Hope that the lucky ones amongst you are having a fabulous time at Event III.

I have a particular interest in the representations of disease amongst different social groups. My research is currently focussing on how anthrax and woolsorters’ disease were understood by the general public around the turn of the twentieth century. As a result, it only seemed natural to choose an object which reflected this. At this point, however, I should post a short disclaimer:

DISCLAIMER: I did not see this object in its physical form, and therefore many people would consider that I am cheating slightly. However, it is the first result on the Wellcome Images site brought up by the search term “disinfectant”, and I consider that to be a permissible level of proximity to our activities on Event Two.

END OF DISCLAIMER.

This image, dating from c.1910, shows an ecclectic group of people — the gentlemen universally sporting fine moustaches — banishing various germs by using “L’Anios” disinfectant. Although there is only a limited amount of information on the website about this image, its size (191.5cm x 133cm) strongly suggests that this was an advertising poster for L’Anios designed for prominent public display. The colourful and bold poster projects the image of triumph over the germs which caused some of the most prominent diseases of the age, such as “Charbon” (anthrax), “Peste” (plague) and Cholera.

The value of this particular image for my own research lies not in the fact that this is an advert, nor the details of the individuals who are neutralising the germs, but the representations of the germs themselves. Ghoulish and twisted, they bear a remarkable similarity to far more recent and even contemporary representations of microbes. The duck-footed “Charbon”, for example, has a skull as its head, and this mirrors very closely depictions which were afforded to that particular disease in Britain.

The contrast between the public understanding of what germs were: effectively little critters (as demonstrated by the visual constructions of them in this poster), and how bacteriologists understood them is also brought into perspective by this image. For bacteriologists, germs were tiny rods or spheres, which were observed using microscopes within a laboratory setting. For the general public, germs had far more agency; they were deliberate invaders of the home and the workplace, which needed removing through the use of products from the newly-emerging disinfectant industry. Companies such as the Jeyes Sanitary Compounds Company had been established in the late-nineteenth century, and L’Anios is a firm which is still in existence today. Other trademark substances in use at this time included names such as “Germaphoid” and “Sanitas”.

The idea that microbes represented an army against which an everyday war of disinfection should be waged is reinforced by the line at the top of this particular poster: “The microbe: here is the enemy”.

This image offers a wonderful supplement and enhancement to the textual sources of this period. They suggest that microbes were regarded as minute animals (or plants) by the majority of the public, many of whom would not have had the opportunity to see reproductions of microscope slides. They were viewed with fear, and chemicals designed to remove or destroy them were seen as having the power to cleanse the home or workplace. These themes are nowhere better experienced than through a visual medium, and the poster advertising L’Anios captures the way in which the public viewed the ideas of sanitation, cleanliness and germs.

Although I have always been informed that getting up early on a regular basis is a sure-fire way by which to make the process easier, I have to present bone fide empirical evidence to the contrary. My suitcase had been packed with meticulous attention to detail prior to departing for St. Deiniol’s, but for the return journey there was a far more haphazard motif on offer. Nevertheless, a few at breakfast had wide-eyed excitement at the prospect of being let out for the day, even if we did have to leave the slightly rotund but charming GladCat behind. It was amazing how we had become institutionalised even after such a short period of time; leaving Hawarden behind it felt rather odd that there was a Real World out there which had continued to operate pretty much as normal despite our absence.

Riding with Louise and Rachael rather than in the coach suggested to me that there would be ample time upon arrival at MOSI for the consumption of coffees and cakes, whilst languidly anticipating the stragglers. However, the shoe was firmly on the other foot, and I was quite surprised to receive a call from Sharon whilst still on the M60 asking for our whereabouts. It turned out that TomTom had led us right into the middle of heavy traffic, whilst the coach had coasted to Manchester by another way. Still, we arrived mostly intact and stomped through the snow to the rather chilly surroundings of the learning centre. I was somewhat taken aback at hearing the admission that MOSI usually runs these sessions for those of primary and secondary age, but not those further on in education. Much can be learned from the relationship between material objects and text, and these artefacts – when properly contextualised – can teach us a great deal about practices in particular historical periods (the theme of a division between theory and practice, especially in the history of medicine, had been an important one).

I was fascinated by the material in the communications gallery, especially the various historical “representations of the future”, where video clips from the 1930s, 1970s and 1990s imagined what the world would look in thirty years time. The printing presses were intricate and beautiful objects in their own right, and showed a definite narrative of change, despite the obvious difficulty of adequately placing such unwieldy objects next to one another. Seeing them in action during one of the demonstrations run by volunteers would have been a real treat.

From there it was a difficult, snowy trudge along Deansgate up to the imposing and awe-inspiring John Rylands. This remarkable legacy of the cotton magnate of the same name was funded by his widow (the third Mrs Rylands) and the architecture belies its far more recent construction, with the building being completed in 1899. The harmony between the original, red-brick edifice and the new extension is marvellous, and neither detracts from the other. After seeing some of the treasures from the collection which were on display, including the oldest extant fragment of New Testament and a first edition of Newton’s Principia, we were treated to an exposition of medical and scientific texts of particular local significance. Rachael was particularly excited to find that a local “cholera casebook” from 1832 had been selected for the session; it is on these chance encounters with material which is otherwise hidden away that the historian thrives. There were hugs of farewell at the conclusion of the session in the lobby, and a few of us decamped to the Cornerhouse for a drink (which turned into a few) afterwards. The return train journey back to Leeds was lengthy, but, fuelled with interest and inspiration after a hard week, the overall feeling is both a childish excitement at the possibilities afforded by collaboration between those working in LitSciMed.

After a week of such nourishing intellectual sustenance, it was without a single trace of guilt that I dined in style on McDonald’s following my arrival home. The friendly chef has also ensured that I now have an insatiable appetite for at least five different kinds of salad at lunch…

The final day at St. Deiniol’s brought the enforced cancellation of two sessions due to the snowy and icy conditions on the roads of Britain. On the plus side, though, I was able to return to a Weetabix breakfast with Earl Grey (the only tea on offer which I had not yet sampled), and the morning soak was supplemented by the addition of some bubble bath which I pilfered from another bathroom further along the corridor. With psychoanalysis off the menu for the 9am session, the final five intrepid explorers delivered their presentations, thus tactically allowing more time in the evening to go to the pub.

We heard about nausea and vomiting in the nineteenth century, using the Turing test as a thought experiment for generating and exploring poetry, marriage in Thomas Hardy and George Eliot, the use of and variation within nineteenth century medical periodicals and David Hartley’s observations on Man.

As Gowan Dawson was unable to make it over before lunch, we had an additional discussion session on the readings relating to literary Darwinism in groups of five. The team of which I was a part decamped to the Common Room in front of the (unlit) fire and reclined, lobbing in the odd observation, punctuated with active hostility. The general consensus was that literary Darwinism presented both the historian and the critic with a significant challenge, and led on to some spirited consideration of the cultural turn and just how important it was for our respective disciplines.

After lunch I thoroughly enjoyed Gowan’s plenary address on Richard Owen. His argument, which I found engaging and very convincing, was centred around Owen’s reading of Dickens’ serial novels, and this heavily influenced Owen’s own style of approaching scientific problems. The anticipation of the next instalment and the linking together of disparate nuggets of a single narrative were instrumental in informing Owen’s extrapolation from one scientific domain to another. I found the lecture to be exceptional scholarship, and thoroughly enjoyed the session.

For the final session at St. Deiniol’s everyone came together to discuss literary Darwinism, led by David Amigoni. I was relieved to hear that everyone seemed to recognise the challenges which this particular mode of thought posed for our disciplines (or, perhaps, discipline?), and it was a lively and entertaining discussion with which to round off our time in the glorious surroundings of Hawarden.

Clearly, then, some sort of celebration was in order, and what better way to finish off than with some charades, chess tuition and a trip to the local boozer. The Fox & Grapes was a great place to pass mobile phones round (although many were beyond my comprehension), and it just showed how comfortable everyone had become over our short time together.

Returning to the library with a few others, we were mightily relieved to find a slightly dis-chuffed gentleman about to lock the door. We did worry for the well-being of those still firmly ensconced in the pub (would we ever see them again outside of the morgue?), but it turned out that there was a secret back door to St. Deiniol’s – no doubt built for illicit activity on the part of those studying theological subjects – through which our comrades were able to sneak.

Eying the prospect of an even earlier rise with some distaste, I had planned on packing that evening, but the sandman’s soft, lilting lullaby got the better of me as I switched on sudoku and switched off my brain.

By this stage the early morning bath had become close to second nature, and in an acutely self-aware effort to explore diversity – seemingly the buzzword for those present at St. Deiniol’s – cornflakes graced my breakfast bowl on this occasion.

As Sharon was incapacitated through the Curse of Gladstone (a condition as yet unknown to Western medicine), Jerome valiantly took on the responsibility of guiding us through a session on manuscripts. We explored the importance of non-textual evidence, and the illuminating work involved devising some transcription conventions for some of Davy’s letters. Having had experience of this area whilst working on the John Tyndall Correspondence Project, I took a lot away from the session, particular as this workshop involved the use of the mercurial interactive whiteboard, which seems to have endless applications. Blogging live on our progress as individual groups was a stimulating enterprise, and I learnt far more about paratext from this feature than I did using my own musings.

Martin Willis ran a more structured session exploring five key texts in the development of “Literature and Science” (or should that be “Science and Literature”, “Science within Literature”, “Literature as Science” or another combination?), from Darwin’s Plots through to more recent developments identified by Gowan Dawson and someone called Sharon Ruston, who I hadn’t come across before (he says with tongue firmly planted in cheek). The analysis of these in three groups illuminated the complex relationships between science and literature, and gave a fascinating perspective on how they interact (and why).

The afternoon gave everyone some free-time. A group chose to take the opportunity to meander through the village and up to Hawarden Castle, frolicking in the snow and enjoying the spectacular scenery, which had been recommended earlier in the week by some of the regular readers at St. Deiniol’s. For my part, it was time to compile some ideas for presenting my own research that evening. It was challenging to make my work accessible to those from outside of my discipline (which I had by this stage identified as being “history of medicine), and I felt again that the range of talks on offer highlighted in very stark terms the diversity of students who were taking part. The nature of the soul in the Enlightenment, Humphrey Davy as poet, bibliotherapy (the treatment of medical conditions through group reading and exploration of texts) and another dose of science fiction.

Once again many were feeling the effects of a an intensive schedule, and I spent some of the evening fine-tuning my line up for the weekend’s Fantasy Football fixtures. Having dispensed with the services of Robin Van Persie, I was able to bring in Wayne Rooney, and I felt that this change would bolster my attacking options significantly. After much deliberation, this was the only alteration which I felt necessary, and this positive move helped me to the land of slumber.

It is quite startling how acquainted one becomes with new habits, and the early-morning bath – an institution and practice I had long thought to be obsolete – was revived with aplomb. The speed with which the recently-installed boiler burbled out hot water was impressive in itself, and the small number of bleary-eyed people at breakfast pondered on two main themes: (a) the day’s session ahead and (b) how to render the porridge more flavoursome. One or two crafty individuals had sought out the syrup, whilst others were contented to administer sugar at regular intervals throughout consumption. I circumnavigated this thorny problem with Weetabix.

Discussion of the nature of mono-, inter- and multi-disciplinarity followed, and we were challenged to define these occasionally problematic terms. Identifying the key features of “history of science”, “history of medicine” or “literature” also posed some interesting questions, and the key methodologies of these were cashed out in pictorial form. I was particularly disappointed to be told that “history and philosophy of science” was two disciplines, as I had always regarded HPS as being necessarily shaped together. The very fact that there are departments dedicated to the pursuit of this field leads me to still think of it as one entity, but perhaps I have been provoked into questioning this more rigorously.

Stephanie Snow gave the most comprehensive and thorough digest of the history of medicine from the 1500 to the present day that I have had the pleasure of hearing, and recapturing something of the big picture enabled me to put my narrow period of 1880-1920 into a much wider context. Several others were similarly impressed by this session, and found it equally helpful. After lunch Stephanie led us through a more discussion-oriented session, teasing out parallels between the development of Harvey’s model for the circulation of the blood and the use of sedatives, such as chloroform and ether, in the mid-nineteenth century. It surprised me to hear that many of the students more closely associated with literature regarded Harvey’s work as being “revolutionary”, a concept which I am deliberately and consciously trying to get away from in my own research through a revisionist understanding of the “Bacteriological Revolution”.

Katy Price (the jokes have all been made before, trust me) then introduced us to representation of the physical sciences in literature during the early-twentieth century. I found the piece from the Yellow Magazine a very entertaining read, and it was interesting to learn of the difficultly in classifying it in terms of literary genre.

The evening presentations gave us intriguing insights into the cultural history of HIV/AIDS, representations and understandings of volcanoes in the seventeenth century, the scientific work of Samuel Butler, constructions of race in contemporary British fiction and the idea of the “normal childhood” in the first half of the twentieth century. This varied programme provided stimulating material for another evening’s discussion, and there were also admirable efforts to recreate Gladstone’s imposing statue out of snow by certain members. In the process there may have been some snowballs flung, and significant hits sustained. Sadly some ne’er-do-wells vaulted the gate later that night and razed Gladsnow (geddit?) to the ground. Thankfully photographic evidence of the snow-sculpture’s magnificence has been preserved, so his glory can be witnessed by the rest of the technologically-savvy world. I can’t for the life of me remember what was for dinner, but I’m sure it was delicious. I may have licked the lid of the yoghurt pot at the dinner table…in the words of the Cookie Monster: “om nom nom nom!”.

My intuitive thought when making the journey down to St. Deiniol’s residential library went something like this: “if it gets any colder, my hands will be unable to take down any notes”. I was so determined to avoid the not insignificant wind-chill factor at Chester station that WHSmith was clogged up for a good few minutes by my cumbersome suitcase and burgeoning waistline. Having managed to establish, following the briefest of conversations with a bus driver, that I was unable to pronounce “Hawarden” correctly (it should be “HOR-den”, not “ha-WAR-den”), the journey to the library itself was over swiftly, despite the numerous signs shouting incomprehensible words at you: “ARAF!”, “MOCH DAEAR!”. The latter is Welsh for “badgers”, which clearly constitute a major hazard for road users in Cymru.

Upon arrival, I was housed in a room simply entitled “Renaissance”, and hoped that this would provoke a re-birth in my own thinking about Literature, Science & Medicine. Da Vinci occupied a good foot of the bookshelf space, and the Madonna (no…not that one) glowered at me from around the walls. Introductory remarks and lunch dispensed with, it became clear that we were most definitely housed in St. Deiniol’s for serious purposes, with the initial aim of the week outlined as being to “establish the blueprint for a new discipline”. Anyone thinking that this was a mere bagatelle following such a statement was in for something of a shock.

Nevertheless, Charlotte Sleigh’s plenary session on “Empiricism and the Novel” provided an accessible and interesting perspective on the birth of empiricism and the modern novel, demonstrating parallels between the two. Discussion of the relationship between the Royal Society’s founding in 1660 (although the Royal Charter was not granted until two years later) and these new modes of thought and expression was particularly informative.

The fortunate delegates were then introduced to your friend and mine, the GladCat, as well as having a tour of the library itself and a few choice morsels from the collection. Sophie was lucky enough to have a few volumes dug out relating to her work on Hartley, and although the inevitable search results for “anthrax” yet again showed a complete absence of material, the insight into the mind of Gladstone and his collecting and reading habits was of tremendous interest.

The evening presentations (post-dinner, and having met the friendly chef) gave a good indication of the broad spectrum across which our research interests ranged, with talks on midwifery instruments in the nineteenth century, science fiction as the saviour of humanity, exhibiting and interpreting asylum art, the poetics of transplant and the construction of psychopaths in literature.

Unwinding took the form of relaxed chatter by the fireside, lounging on sofas of cracked leather. Tomorrow’s lure of an early start proved irresistible and the call of the fresh sheets finally won the day.