Animal Bodies, Renaissance Culture

By Karen Raber

Animal Bodies, Renaissance Culture examines how the shared embodied existence of early modern human and nonhuman animals challenged the establishment of species distinctions. The material conditions of the early modern world brought humans and animals into complex interspecies relationships that have not been fully accounted for in critical readings of the period's philosophical, scientific, or literary representations of animals. Where such prior readings have focused on the role of reason in debates about human exceptionalism, this book turns instead to a series of cultural sites in which we find animal and human bodies sharing environments, mutually transforming and defining one another's lives.

To uncover the animal body's role in anatomy, eroticism, architecture, labor, and consumption, Karen Raber analyzes canonical works including More's Utopia, Shakespeare's Hamlet and Romeo and Juliet, and Sidney's poetry, situating them among readings of human and equine anatomical texts, medical recipes, theories of architecture and urban design, husbandry manuals, and horsemanship treatises. Raber reconsiders interactions between environment, body, and consciousness that we find in early modern human-animal relations. Scholars of the Renaissance period recognized animals' fundamental role in fashioning what we call "culture," she demonstrates, providing historical narratives about embodiment and the cultural constructions of species difference that are often overlooked in ecocritical and posthumanist theory that attempts to address the "question of the animal."

• Language: English
• Publisher: University of Pennsylvania Press
• Release date: Sep 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9780812208597

Book preview

Animal Bodies, Renaissance Culture

HANEY FOUNDATION SERIES

A volume in the Haney Foundation Series,

established in 1961 with the generous support

of Dr. John Louis Haney

Animal Bodies,

Renaissance Culture

KAREN RABER

Copyright © 2013 university of Pennsylvania Press

All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations used for

purposes of review or scholarly citation, none of this book

may be reproduced in any form by any means without

written permission from the publisher.

Published by

University of Pennsylvania Press

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19104-4112

www.upenn.edu/pennpress

Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Raber, Karen, 1961–

Animal bodies, Renaissance culture / Karen Raber. —

1st ed.

p. cm. — (Haney Foundation series)

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 978-0-8122-4536-3 (hardcover : alk. paper)

1. Animals (Philosophy)—Europe—History—16th

century. 2. Animals (Philosophy)—Europe—History—

17th century. 3. Animal intelligence—Philosophy—

History—16th century. 4. Animal intelligence—

Philosophy—History—17th century. 5. Human-animal

relationships—Europe—History—16th century.

6. Human-animal relationships—Europe—History—

17th century. 7. Human beings—Animal nature—

History—16th century. 8. Human beings—Animal

nature—History—17th century. I. Title. II. Series: Haney

Foundation series.

B105.A55R33 2013

113′.8—dc23

2013004238

Contents

Introduction: Absent Bodies

Chapter 1. Resisting Bodies: Renaissance Animal Anatomies

Chapter 2. Erotic Bodies: Loving Horses

Chapter 3. Mutual Consumption: The Animal Within

Chapter 4. Animal Architectures: Urban Beasts

Chapter 5. Working Bodies: Laboring Moles and Cannibal Sheep

Conclusion: Knowing Animals

Notes

Bibliography

Index

Acknowledgments

Animal Bodies, Renaissance Culture

Introduction

Absent Bodies

Giovanni Battista Gelli’s Circe of 1549 recounts Ulysses’ efforts to convince a variety of beasts, transformed from men by Circe, that they should return to their human form and leave her island with him. Ulysses begins with the humblest of creatures, the oyster and the mole (also the simplest and humblest of humans, a fisherman and a ploughman respectively), but upon being soundly rejected, decides to move on to other creatures more likely to understand his appeal to reason: Thou shalt find some [men] of such knowledge and wit, he remarks to Circe, that they are almost lyke unto the goddes, and some others of so grosse wytte, and small knowledge, that they seme almost bestes. Assuming he has met only men who were dull witted in their human forms, or whiles they were men, never knew themselves, nor never knewe their own nature, but they attended onely to the bodye,¹ Ulysses keeps trying new tacks with new interlocutors. Moving through his own version of a great chain of being to a snake, a hare, a lion, a horse, a goat, a hind, a dog, a calf, and an elephant, Ulysses proposes different arguments in support of human superiority. But in each debate, the famous orator’s persuasion returns again and again to the idea that reason is the basis of human excellence; so he tells the lion that animals cannot claim true virtues because amongst beastes there is no fortitude at all, but onle amonge menne, since fortitude is a meane, determined with reasonne, betwene boldenes and feare … because you have not the discourse of reason, whereby you might eyther knowe the good or the honest, and by occasion thereof, onely you put your selves in daungers; but you do it eyther for profyte or for pleasure, or to revenge some injurie. And this is not fortitude (sig. l4r). Again, he tells the horse, temperance is an elective habit, made with a right discourse of reason; howe can you then have this virtue in you? (sig. n4r). However, each and every animal rejects Ulysses’ proposed gift of humanity, arguing that its beastly condition is superior. Not until he debates with the elephant, once a human philosopher, does he find someone who shares his philosophical language, and whom he is able to convince that humans are the most noble, the most virtuous creatures because they are rational, and are not limited by the sensory memory, experience, and instinct that is all animals possess. Transformed, the elephant, now restored to human identity as Aglafemos, cries out, Oh what a marveylous thing it is to be a man! (sig. t2r).

Of course, having found his convert, Ulysses must then warn him that there are some things that even human beings cannot know, such as the first cause of life, because they are hampered by their bodies and the shortness of their lives. Although he has categorically rejected the claims of all his targets to a better life in animal form by privileging reason and discounting the body, it turns out that the body is a limiting factor even for humans. Indeed, this conclusion of the Circe sends us back to reevaluate the positions of even the very simplest of the animals, each of whom makes a strong case that human bodies are, in fact, far inferior to beastly ones. The oyster, for instance, argues that unlike humans animals do not have to labor to create their food and clothing, and goes on: I have reason, consideringe besides this that nature hath set so litle store by you, for besides the bringing forth of you naked, she also hath not made you any hose or habitation of your own, wher[e] you mought defend you from th’injuries of the wether, as she has made to us, which is a plaine toke that you are as rebelles and banished of this world, having no place here of your owne (sig. B4r). Likewise, the mole answers the charge that his condition is defined by lack, particularly of sight, by pointing out that humans come into the world weeping because they are embarking on a life of misery and suffering. And why for syns it [seeing] is not necessarye to my nature, it is sufficient to me, to be perfit in myne owne kynde, concludes the mole, and reiterates, for that I am perfecte in thys my kynd (sig. c3r). Even the oyster and the mole, the lowest of low creatures, see themselves as physically and therefore morally perfect in contrast to humans, and assert that it would defy reason—their perfect reason, which accepts their god-given condition in life—for them to return to their human forms.

Gelli’s dialogue derives its premise from Plutarch’s Whether the Beasts Have the Use of Reason, also titled Gryllus, in the Moralia. Where Plutarch offers only one recalcitrant pig, however, Gelli explores additional dimensions of animal and human reason and embodiment, as well as issues of class and economic privilege, through his additional animal characters. Gelli’s text was popular, enjoying numerous reprints by the end of the century. Its first English translator, Henry Iden, justifies his efforts by recommending the dialogue for those who know no other language than their owne, to see herein how lyke the brute beast, and farre from his perfection man is, without the understanding and folowinge of dyvyne thynges (sig. a2r). And indeed, Ulysses’ ostensibly rational positions are again and again ignored, inverted, or countered with narrow examples of animal contentment. However, the conversion of Aglafemos hardly counterbalances the influence of the other animals’ often compelling positions, nor does it fully vindicate the self-blind and blithely self-congratulatory Ulysses. Where the text underscores human frailty, the tone shifts to pathos, suggesting (perhaps despite its apparent goals) that human reason is small compensation for the evils of existence in a weaker human body, subject to social, political, and economic forces that make life harder, not more rewarding. In this, Gelli expands on elements of Plutarch’s original dialogue, in which Gryllus does a pretty good job of defending animal intelligence and impugning human virtues.

As I’ve noted, Gelli’s Ulysses insists on the perfection of the human based on the exclusive property humans presumably have in reason. Yet the text’s debates offer a more complex set of propositions about types of reason, focusing especially on the razor-thin line between sensory knowledge combined with experience and what he calls understanding, or cognition, the ability to think beyond the body’s inputs, to construct scenarios and options that might not exist in reality unconstrained by quantity, or place, time, or variety, and such like appertaining to ye matter (sig. r8v). But despite every angle Ulysses covers, arguments about reason and soul, it turns out, cannot be extricated from the condition of the body. The oyster and the mole, being the simplest of creatures, have the simplest connection to their embodiment, and so might be expected to have the most limited perspective on themselves—something Ulysses keeps asserting in defense of his failure to convert them to humanity. Yet the rest of the animals also argue with increasing complexity their superiority to human beings based on the virtues, knowledge, and perfections that derive from their particular physical relationships to the world and its challenges. The snake, for instance, who was once a physician, details the miseries of human suffering, while celebrating the fact that animals never fall prey to excessive appetites or other vices; the hind was once a woman, and so cannot be persuaded to return to her life of servitude and submission; the dog points out that humans have to borrow animals’ natural skills or imitate animal appendages to make many of their inventions work.² Gelli’s creatures are all convinced that they are happier, are more secure, and have more pleasurable lives than do any and all humans precisely because they don’t have the type of reason Ulysses keeps trying to establish as exclusively human, since it is attended by imbalanced appetites, dissatisfaction, oppression by their fellows, and so on.

Gelli’s creatures assert that they do have reason, and that deriving that faculty from their sensory, experiential interpretation of themselves in the world they inhabit is preferable to whatever understanding is. Although Ulysses keeps reaching for examples of how human reason differs, he is in the end unable to call up any of the imaginative cognition that he celebrates as peculiarly human to defend against the charge that understanding is essentially error-driven misinterpretation of sensory phenomena, except to assert that the understanding resolves the problem of deception by the senses. In fact, the most imaginative argument Ulysses does offer is a kind of precursor to Schroedinger’s thought experiment with his cat: that the mere observation of a thing (in Ulysses’ case, claiming any natural object must be variable, in motion, as it were, so never the same at any moment) necessarily changes the condition of the object observed—and so, he asserts, there is no such thing as certainty. Yet this is the one proposition that Ulysses cannot apply to himself: whatever the content or direction of debate, he remains utterly, absolutely persuaded that he alone has the truth about human nobility. Further, Ulysses concludes that humans are exceptional in that they can, through will, come to knowledge of the divine. Of course, the will exerted to remain in their brute forms of the creatures he has accosted does not occur to him as a corollary. Nor does he see a contradiction in the fact that he describes human will arising directly from the body’s ability to discern: "for that the will is so marvelously united and knyt unto the senses" (sig. t1r, my italics).

Anatomical and physiological sameness is at the root of many modern assaults on the supposedly firm boundary between human and animal, and has historically troubled contrasting efforts to establish human exceptionalism. If, after all, we sleep, eat, breathe, procreate, communicate with others of all species, avoid dangers, and pursue pleasures through the same instrument, the body, how is it that these activities come to mean different things if they are performed by a human, rather than an animal? As Ulysses eventually has to concede, we are like animals in that we perceive the world through sensory data and construct knowledge out of it; how then do we establish that the way we understand the world is appreciably better than the way animals do, especially when our senses are so often clearly inferior? If we share with animals so many crucial aspects of our physiology, how can we be sure that we are in some invisible, undetectable fashion more perfect than animals?

Modern and postmodern upholders of animal rights and those in the various subfields of animal studies have long argued that humans and animals are not categorically different even in the things that we assume comprise reason, like logic, extrapolation, language use, and so on. Philosophers and critical theorists challenging the ideological uses of humanism have demonstrated its implication in systems ranging from sexism to colonialism; decentering the category of the human has made possible a reevaluation of the animal as a necessary or viable category in creating distinctions that can be so exploited. After a long period of resistance to anthropomorphizing animals, various fields of science have begun to make similar moves—brain studies and tests of intelligence being performed right now grant many animals far, far greater capacity for what humans call reason, or thoughtfulness, than was once evident. The source for this shift is, I would suggest, grounded in the increasing tendency for moderns and postmoderns to locate what once seemed abstract functions, unrelated to the body, in biology, especially in the structures of the brain and nervous system (so the reason that is a kind of soul in Ulysses’ usage becomes, for us, a byproduct of the physical processes and changes in the brain). Because the inception of humanism in the Renaissance requires interrogation of the category of the animal, early modern writers and thinkers encountered similarly important obstacles to establishing human difference in the sheer fact, as well as the various nuances, of shared embodiment despite their very different religious, cultural, and scientific frameworks for interpreting these terms. In a sense, then, we have come full circle with a difference.

This book begins to chart the questions and issues raised by early modern animal embodiment for both early modern and modern theories of the human. How did early moderns perceive the consequences of shared embodiment? How do animals contribute to human culture? Indeed, how human is culture, and how and why have we come to discount animals’ roles in constructing it? Given our greater distance in many instances from real animals, our alienation from parts of our environment that once were familiar territory (wild animals, of course, fit this description, but so do many domestic animals), what kinds of interpenetration of the human and the animal do we tend to overlook? Can early modern representations of animal bodies alert us to ways in which we might move forward out of the depressingly deterministic side of biological explanations for emotions, thoughts, attitudes? Despite having begun with a text that thinks it is all about reason, I am particularly concerned to provide an account of animal and human embodiment that does not automatically privilege that faculty as if it were somehow free-floating and independent of the bodies that produce it. I hope, that is, to be less a Ulysses, and more an oyster, a mole, a horse, or a hind during this journey through Renaissance culture.

Gelli’s dialogue summarizes a larger debate in the Renaissance over the relative felicity, morality, and physical superiority of animals versus humans. From Plutarch’s Gryllus Gelli would have had available the argument that animals were potentially more rational and more virtuous than humans, an argument that stemmed from the materiality of the soul in some ancient thought. Erica Fudge explores the lineage of this idea: it derives from Plato rather than Aristotle, the Renaissance’s go-to ancient source, but was nonetheless widely influential in Renaissance literature. Reason, Plato believed, inhered in a bodily organ, the divinest part, the brain; thus, where Aristotle saw a tripartite form of soul—the nutritive, sensitive, and rational, only the last of which belonged to humans—Plato offered a schema in which animals and humans might share not only the fact of having a brain, but the rational capacity the brain generated.³ In turn, Plutarch suggests that unlike animals, who act merely to satisfy needs and uncomplicated desires, humans are bound by irrational customs, habits, and social imperatives. In many cases these influences determine whether or not they may achieve happiness.

Where Fudge elaborates this conflict in early modern thought between theriophiles and those who would diminish animals based on their unequal access to self-awareness and reason, I want to reframe it through a lesson that Gelli’s Circe could teach us if we resist obsessing over the validity of human reason—that is, the lesson that only animals’ and humans’ shared embodiment makes the dispute possible at all. For Ulysses to assert a rational soul that is distinct from the sensitive, he must himself understand the sensitive soul—and he must be able to answer the creatures’ descriptions of their felicity. Indeed, when Ulysses tries to blame animals for overindulging their bodies, his arguments fail most miserably; it is humans who are most likely to fall into that trap, not animals.

Even the work’s English translator falls into logical paradoxes in dealing with the question of reason versus bodies. When Iden justifies his translation by claiming he wants to promote a better appreciation of divine things among humans who wish to avoid resembling beasts, he is being unintentionally ironic on several levels: first, the idea that language is a barrier needing someone to translate (as Iden does) grants Circe, not Ulysses, supreme authority since it is she who enables the beasts to talk. Next, Iden seems to miss the point that if humans can so easily devolve into beasts, they share something rather compelling with animals. And finally, Iden apparently doesn’t recognize that Ulysses’ own command of language—his ability to translate his ideas so that they raise the animals’ attention to divine things—fails utterly. His oratory clearly has no impact on the first ten animals, while the elephant, who presumably commands a level of discourse that the other lower animals don’t, ends up actually speaking and arguing the least of all of them. As dialogists, then, the more embodied, less (by Ulysses’ definition) rational animals have the most to say.

Renaissance works of medicine and natural philosophy often attempt to provide answers to questions about human superiority, specifically those raised by the relative sameness combined with the observable differences in human and animal bodies—and as often fail to do so satisfactorily. Perhaps the most comprehensive and elegant summary of the position that humans are easily and absolutely distinguishable physiologically from animals appears in Helkiah Crooke’s Microcosmographia. Crooke is aware of the views expressed in works like Gelli’s, that humans are somehow deficient:

Their unbrideled insolencie is also to bee restrained, that call Nature a cruell Stepmother, because shee casts foorth Man into the world altogether naked and unarmed … and therefore holde him to bee of all Creatures the most imperfect…. Other Creatures (say they) do perceyve and understand their owne Nature; some betake themselves to the swiftnesse of their feete, some trust to the loftinesse of their flight…. Man knoweth nothing, neyther how to speak, nor how to goe, nor how to feede: and in a word, that Creature which is borne to rule and governe all the rest, is enclined by Nature to nothing else but mourning and lamentation.⁴

Gelli’s mole couldn’t have put it better. Crooke also notes the physical attributes of animals missing in humans: Nature hath given other creature divers coverings, shelles, rindes, haire, bristles, feathers … whereby they are able both to defend themselves, and offend others; onely Man she hath prostituted in his very nativitie, altogether unarmed, naked, and unable to helpe himselfe (9). But Crooke answers these doubters and naysayers with a description of human excellencie, which he argues far outstrips the supposed beauties or advantages of animals: The frame and composition which is upright and mounting toward heaven, the moderate temper, the equal and just proportion of the parts … Man onely is of an upright frame and proportion because only man is infused with soul directly from heaven; human bipedal stature allows mankind to exercise the faculties of speech and reason, lets him gaze upward to heaven, and frees his hands to work his will on the world (4–5).

But when Crooke begins to catalogue the differences between animal and human bodies, his ability to draw a bright line of division wavers. For each case it turns out there is an exception: human eyes are multicolored of various hues, while animals’ eyes (the horse excepted) are all in their kind always alike (so all oxen have brown eyes, all sheep watry eyes, et cetera). Humans have eyelashes on top and bottom lids, while animals do not—except the ostrich, which does. Human ears are fixed and immovable, while those of animals are not—except in the apes, which most resemble humans (11). Furthermore, of all creatures (excepting birds) that live upon the land, Man alone is two-footed (12). In one thing humans and animals are indeed absolutely different, namely the human need to sit, which Crooke tries to turn from a weakness into a sign of human contemplation and a necessity if the hands are to be freed for practicing the arts (12). Gelli’s text may or may not be meant as a laughable rehearsal of human superiority discounted by animal narcissism and obtuseness, but Crooke’s very serious celebration of human excellency dangerously tends to refute rather than validate the idea that all humans are bodily different from and superior to all animals.

Thomas Browne’s Religio Medici of 1643 runs into a related problem when he too addresses human physical defenselessness: Thus have we no just quarrel with Nature for leaving us naked; or to envy the Horns, Hoofs, Skins and Furs of other Creatures, being provided with Reason that can supply them all.⁵ Like Crooke, Browne takes stock of human deficiencies, but he is not dismayed by them, because, as Crooke puts it, Reason doth more availe man, then any naturall gift doth the dumbe creature (10). With reason, human beings can create substitutes for everything that they lack, and so extend their domination over creation (an argument Ulysses uses in Gelli’s Circe). Indeed, having particular strengths might encroach on this supremacy of reason by limiting the need for ingenuity. Yet Browne’s establishment of reason’s compensatory and consolatory role is complicated by the mind’s dependence on the information nature provides it. And it turns out, much of what the mind should learn comes from animals: Indeed, writes Browne, what Reason may not go to school to the wisdom of Bees, Ants and Spiders? (336). Browne confesses admiration for Pythagoras, who believed in metempsychosis (the transfer of souls from one animal to another and from animal to human or vice versa). In such a schema, the body that houses the soul does not define or delimit it; instead, all kinds of bodies are capable of housing all kinds of souls. This rejection of distinction inflects Browne’s positioning of human intellect as the student of animal behavior (what we humans can learn from animals applies to us, so we are not substantially different), even if Browne concludes that humans have a greater potential to comprehend at once and in conjunction the many specific examples of animal wisdom. Browne, like Crooke, wants to establish human exceptionalism but finds that shared embodiment complicates his agenda.

This book investigates a select few examples of Renaissance culture grappling with the many kinds of problems posed by shared embodiment. It joins a growing body of critical and historical work on animals, and the animal in the period. In the decades since Keith Thomas made an early foray into the field with his chapter on animals in Man and the Natural World (1983)—still an important reference for anyone thinking about Renaissance animals—scholars like Erica Fudge, Bruce Boehrer, Laurie Shannon, Simon Estok, Virginia DeJohn Anderson, and Juliana Schiesari (to name just a few) have transformed the study of animals in the Renaissance from hobby history to serious academic subject.⁶ At the same time, theories that inform critical animal studies have made consideration of the animal an integral part of current debate about the human. Cary Wolfe’s influential Animal Rites begins with the proposition that speciesism is prior to and a necessary basis for all forms of discrimination and oppression: "It is this pervasiveness of the discourse of species that has made the institution of speciesism fundamental … to the formation of Western subjectivity and sociality as such, an institution that relies on the tacit agreement that the full transcendence of the ‘human’ requires the sacrifice of the ‘anima’ and the animalistic, which in turn makes possible a symbolic economy in which we can engage in what Derrida will call a ‘noncriminal putting to death’ of other humans as well by marking them as animal.⁷ Wolfe’s tour de force among the theory giants of the last century makes it clear that the category of the animal" is a lynchpin in Western philosophical and political thought.

In fact, I think it’s fair to say that nearly every academic currently working on the subject of animals is in some way influenced by a version of Wolfe’s argument that speciesism is the first principle from which all other forms of oppression and exploitation grow. For those whose field is Renaissance culture, however, the fact that the boundary that divides human from animal is neither fixed nor stable in this period, but is in the process of being established, makes it an especially fruitful field—not only can such scholars demonstrate that human is a constructed category, manufactured at a specific historical moment, but they also seem to glimpse something beyond conceptual historicity, some possible alternative version of the human-animal relationship that is important to resurrect.

However, the authors I’ve cited above, like others working on early modern animals, have so far barely broached the subject of animal embodiment, though all agree it would be a useful turn in the debate over the historical roots of animals’ status. For most critics concerned with animals, for example, the influence of Cartesian thought on subsequent constructions of the distinction between human and animal is a crucial historical juncture. Descartes’ description of the beast-machine is a transformative concept responsible for banishing animals from their prior, problematic, intimate equivalency with humans. Human bodies and animal bodies, Descartes argues, are the same in that they are composed of a collection of parts that operate in unison to produce observable actions. But only the human is endowed with language and with the ability to adjust actions situationally, inspired by knowledge based on reason: for while reason is a universal instrument that is alike available on every occasion, these organs, on the contrary, need a particular arrangement for each particular action; whence it must be morally impossible that there should exist in any machine a diversity of organs sufficient to enable it to act in all the occurrences of life, in the way in which our reason enables us to act.⁸ To achieve this certainty, Descartes discards