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Bitter Milk: The Vasa Menstrualis and the Cannibal(ized) Virgin.

In a series of strangely compelling photographs first shown in New York in 1990, artist-photographer Cindy Sherman appropriates early modern portraiture by posing in mimetic tableau, including in her work several depictions of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Whether resplendent in tiara and brocade, coifed and beaded, or homespun and humble, Mary's primary incarnation in these simulacra is that of the Maria lactans, either breastfeeding the infant Christ or expressing the milk of mercy to the starving Christian soul of the viewer. Her clothing is decorously parted and a single breast is revealed, indicating the pure source of the first nourishment to pass the lips of the savior (Sherman 1991).

However, Sherman's photographs make visible a phenomenon easy to accept in painting and sculpture, but made strange in its importation into a contemporary and naturalistic medium. In each, she wears a prosthetic breast that juts from below her collarbone, or is disproportionately cylindrical, or abnormally spherical in shape and presentation. With this anatomical peculiarity Sherman is not distorting traditional Marian iconography, but rather adhering to its conventions. For in most late medieval and early modern images of the lactating Virgin, her breasts follow a convention of non-realism--most commonly, a single small but perfectly spherical breast seems to protrude from the collarbone or the shoulder, with no suggestion of a second breast beneath the clothing. It is tempting to attribute Mary's peculiarities to an innocence of the female anatomy, I but contemporary classical or Old Testament nudes suffer no such distortion--even those which appear in the same frame as the lactating Virgin, such as in the Italian altarpiece Madonna of Humility with the Temptation of Eve. In this work, now in the Cleveland Museum of Art, and attributed to Carlo da Camarino, c. 1400, a semi-naked Eve reclines in profile at the bottom of the image, contemplating the sight of the Virgin nursing her child. Eve's right breast is full, taut, and naturalistic. The madonna's right breast is a tiny round protuberance precariously attached to the breastbone.

The unusual physiology of the lactating Virgin has been largely overlooked, however, by cultural historians. In her important essay on the iconography of the lactating Virgin Mary in fourteenth-century Tuscany, "The Virgin with One Bare Breast," in which Margaret Miles concludes by identifying the recurrence of the breastfeeding motif as a symbolic expression of community anxiety over an unstable food supply, she skims over the appendage-like nature of the breasts (Miles 1986). Her only brief comment is the suggestion that such artificiality functions to increase affective piety while detracting from an assumed erotic content, arguing with Anne Hollander, and perhaps ahistorically, that nudity in art is necessarily sexual (203). [2] The threat represented by a womanly breast, then, is, for Miles, merely a sexual one, and Mary's unusual breasts are an attempt to erase sexuality m conformity with her perceived asexual nature.

But while the normal young adult female breast does seem to have a limited sexual function in late medieval and early modern iconography, making an appearance in order to be torn off in violently sexualized descriptions of virgin martyrs, for instance, as in the stories of Barbara, Agnes, Reparata, and Agatha, the most significant contrast to Mary's virginal protobreasts does not appear as an eroticized breast, but rather as a radically Other signifier of the abject--the pendulous, withered, experienced breast which marks the passage of time and which appears as a characteristic of the wild woman, of the witch, and of the damned. The strongest recent work on such iconography is Bernadette Bucher's (1981) structural analysis of Theodore De Bry's sixteenth-century engravings depicting the adventures of the early colonists of the New World. [3] His engravings of the German Hans Staden's experiences among the allegedly cannibalistic Tupinamba of Brazil are distinctive for the primary role they allot to naked wom en, some of whom are sumptuous Rubenesque nudes, while others are withered and elderly crones. In her analysis of the significance of the sagging breasts of these women, Bucher focuses, rightly, I think, on a concern with nature, culture, and physiological decay.

While compelling, Bucher's argument passes quickly over some of the traditional European iconographic associations of the sagging breast. Peter Mason, however, links the elderly New World cannibal to European representations of the figure of the wild woman: uncivilized, libidinous, voracious, and often represented with pendulous breasts (1990, 48). Closely related to the figure of the wild woman, of course, is that of the witch, also represented, iconographically and textually, as a lascivious, anthropophagous hag. It is worth noting here a particularly telling meeting of folklore and imperialism. When Amerigo Vespucci landed in the New World, the spurious Soderini letter represented his consternation at the discovery that the women he encountered there, whom he had already characterized as predatory, both sexually and gastronomically, should not possess sagging bosoms: "[I]t was to us a matter of astonishment that none was to be seen among them who had a flabby breast" (Northup 1916, 5) [4] It is plausible that Vespucci's astonishment is due to the fixed association between wildness, danger, and pendulous breasts. It seems likely, then, that among the perceived threats which motivated an iconographic convention of erasing the breast of the Virgin was an association of a postpubescent, post-partum breast with not merely sexuality, but also an abject female power. [5]

Moreover, theories of lactation extant since Soranus, and still considered accurate during the period of the lactating madonna's popularity, further buttress this association. Like the embryo or fetus thought to be nourished in the womb by the blood of its mother, otherwise shed during menstruation, breastfeeding babes were thought to feed upon their nurses' blood, which was channeled from the womb to the breast by means of a lacteal duct known as the vasa menstrualis. John Trevisa's translation of the thirteenth-century De Proprietatibus Return, by the Franciscan Bartolomaeus Anglicus, describes "an holough veyne" [6] which transported blood to the breasts, citing classical sources from Isidore of Seville and Constantine to Hippocrates and Galen: "For aftir the burthe of a childe yif blood is not iwastid with fedinge, it cometh by a kynde wey into the pappis and waxith by vertu of ham and taketh the qualite of melk ..." (1975, 5, 34).

"Vertu" seems to indicate here both quality and virtuousness: it is by means of the properties of the breasts that the impure menstrual blood [7] "waxith . . . and takith the qualite of melk," but it is also their purity that achieves such a merciful translation, a divine favor which avoided the repugnant sight of a child with its lips stained with human blood. The purported existence of the vasa menstrualis accounts plausibly for the mild contraceptive effects of lactation, as well as for the expectation that a lactating woman who had resumed menstruation would no longer be able to provide adequate nourishment for her infant. [8] Clearly, then, there was an understanding of an equivalence between blood and milk that was more than the symbolic equivalence of exuded body fluids.

Such an equivalence underlines the eucharistic importance of the Maria lactans, made more explicit in images that foreground the association between the redemptive blood of the sacrificed Christ and the purified blood of the Virgin, such as Hemessen's Virgin and Child in a Landscape, which places the nursing scene within a grape arbor, or Jan van Eyck's Lucca Madonna, which Caroline Bynum has described as "replete with eucharistic connotations" (Bynum 1987, plate 24). [9] Also illustrating this parallel are images of what is known as the Double Intercession, in which Jesus and Mary plead for souls before God's judgment, the son exposing the spear wound high on his side, the mother exposing her breast in an effort to evoke divine pity. Moreover, Mary's milk itself had redemptive power: a popular subject in fourteenth-and fifteenth-century art was the vision of St. Bernard of Clairvaux, who saw his especial devotion to the Virgin rewarded by receiving on his lips a stream of Mary's milk, expressed directly fro m her breast.

Since the whitening of the blood during its transmutation into milk via passage through the vasa menstrualis was both a sign of divine mercy and an assumed anatomical fact throughout the late medieval and early modern period, it follows that those women thought to be witches must have been considered to be anatomically awry, or perhaps merely lacking in the requisite divine grace, since they allegedly exuded for nourishment not mercifully-whitened breastmilk, but unrepentantly crimson blood. In so doing, they not only transgressed taboos on cannibalism, but also parodied eucharistic consumption of the body and blood of Christ. The services provided for the witch by her demonic imps or familiars were usually exchanged for food, sometimes the kind of foods which were likely to be handfed to infants when they were being weaned, or when breastfeeding was unacceptable or unavailable, such as beer, animal milk, or shredded pieces of bread or meat (Fildes 1986). Most frequently, however, services were said to be pe rformed in return for the witch's blood, sucked from a supernumerary nipple, or from any protuberance on her body which could vaguely resemble a teat. These could in theory be found anywhere on the body, but tended to be located around the armpits, anus, and genitals, perhaps because skin tags, hemorrhoids, and prolapses were ripe for misdiagnosis. As Lyndal Roper points out, this proliferation of nipples indicates a disorganized diabolic body in which bodily orifices and their functions have become confused and interchangeable (1994, 25).

The witch, then, is a diabolically-lactating mother who feeds only the demonic from her body, who causes other nursing mothers to transmit poison to their infants through their bodies, and who actually feeds from the bodies of infants rather than vice versa, either in orgiastic and cannibalistic sabbat feasts or in surreptitious vampire bloodsucking. Roper describes sixteenth-century cases in Augsburg in which babies appeared to have been diabolically forced to lactate, producing milk from their nipples, or suddenly exhibiting a proliferation of teats. She suggests that "[t]hese beliefs rested on a whole economy of body fluids"--an economy within which a woman past childbearing age was assumed to be not just bereft of her own fluids, but craving the liquid vitality of others (1994, 207).This included, in addition to blood and milk, the seminal fluid of young men, which she would suck greedily from their bodies, whether orally or vaginally.

The image of the witch as diabolically lactating mother can be observed in operation in the specific attacks on the breast peculiar to some continental witchcraft tortures and executions. A seventeenth-century torture manual notes the sensitivity of the female breasts, but mentions mastectomy only as a historical curiosity exhibited during the torture of Christian virgins in the early centuries of the Christian faith (Dopler 1693; Kunze 1987, 407). During the late sixteenth-century public execution of the Pappenheimer family, however, who had the misfortune to be Lutheran peasants in Catholic Bavaria under Duke Maximilian, the victims were stripped naked and their flesh torn by red-hot pincers. Fifty-nine year old Anna Pappenheimer was singled out for particularly violent attention; her breasts were cut off, and the ragged nipples forced first into her mouth and then into the mouths of her two adult sons in a bloody parody of breastfeeding (Kunze 1987, 407). While this execution was a singular as well as a p articularly ugly occurrence, breast removal being the exception rather than the rule, searing and mutilating the witch's naked breast with hot tongs was a much more standard continental practice, perhaps an attack on, if not the source, at least the manifestation of both the witch's power and her vulnerability (Barstow 1994, 150). Ironically, the violent mastectomy of the stake is evocative of the lurid tortures of female saints, with the popular martyr saints perpetually suffering gladly the explicit and sadistic mutilation of their naked bosoms.

Evidently, then, the image of the lactating Virgin Mary is heavily charged. She is, as Beth Williamson (1998) has pointed out, co-redemptrix, physically linked to her divine son as the source of the sacrificial blood which runs through both of their veins, consumption of which confers salvation, but she is at the same time expressing what is essentially human blood into the mouth of Jesus, the child who will be killed and ultimately devoured, over and over, in a compulsively repetitive theophagic cycle of consumption. [10]

Such ambivalence toward the breasts is familiar in psychoanalytic terms, emerging in the work of Melanie Klein, who posited the existence of an oral-sadistic or cannibalistic phase of infant development, marked by the psychological splitting of the mother's breast into "good" (feeding) and "bad" (withholding, and therefore, ultimately, devouring). The impossibility of resolving this duality leads to lifelong anxiety-ridden ambivalence toward the female body. In Kleinian terms, the bad breast is the empty breast, no longer of use, perhaps because the bearer has passed her reproductive years. In her History of the Breast, Marilyn Yalom discusses such ambivalence on a social rather than a personal level: "When the 'good' breast is in the ascendance, the accent falls on its power to nourish infants, or allegorically, an entire religious or political community....When the 'bad' vision dominates, the breast is an agent of enticement and even aggression" (1997, 4).

In identifying the complexities of this dichotomy, Yalom also cites an early modern identification of the "good" desirable breast with young women and the "bad," devouring breast with the elderly, noting that, then as now, "[m]en projected onto women's bodies not only their erotic longings, but also their fears of old age, decay and death," citing in particular "the contrast between the highperched breasts of youth and the hanging dugs of old age" (1997, 55). Excellent period examples of such splitting are Clement Marot's apostrophes "Le Blazon du Tetin" (1535) and "Le Contreblazon du Tetin" (1536), which contrast "A little ball of ivory/ In the middle of which sits / A strawberry or cherry" with "Breast, that is nothing but skin, / Flaccid breast, flaglike breast.... / Breast with a big ugly black tip / Like that of a funnel.... / Breast that's good for nursing / Lucifer's children in Hell."

Marot's distinction here is obviously one drawn between youth and age, but the bad breast here is not only post-partum, but also post-maternal. [11] It is empty of milk and erotic promise, and good only for nursing the demonic; it is metonymic, then, for the esthetically unappealing female principle, empty of womb and vagina, and therefore dangerously greedy to have the stomach filled--not the nurturing pre-Oedipal mother, but the castrating, devouring genital archetype.

Such a possibility of lack is where Miles's discussion of the chronic food anxiety of fourteenth-century Tuscany becomes most useful. She points out that contained in each artistic celebration of maternal bounty is the possibility of failure--each image is "a closely-woven mixture of danger and delight ... [t]he 'bad mother,' either the natural mother who did not choose to nurse her child or the irresponsible or incapable wet-nurse, was a source of continuous cultural and personal anxiety, as popular sermons and child-rearing manuals demonstrate" (1986, 204).

If the bad breast is the withholding, empty breast, then it makes eminent sense that the Virgin Mary should be the bearer of the good breast, albeit the desexualized, dehumanized, and almost unrecognizable breast. In response to the vast numbers of European churches which claimed to possess a vial of her breastmilk, John Calvin is popularly supposed to have remarked that her milk production must have rivaled that of a dairy cow Our predisposition to think in binaries suggests that scriptural history should offer us an example of the bad mother, and some have suggested that Eve fulfills this role. However, Christian fable conveniently provides an archetypal female figure who parallels the Virgin much more closely than does Eve--a Jewish woman named Mary, living in the first century C.E., and who has an infant son whom she is breastfeeding. This figure appears for the first time in Josephus's Jewish Wars, where she is an inhabitant of the besieged city of Jerusalem in 70 C.E. Trapped between the current violen ce of the Jewish rebel forces and the expectation of worse with the inevitable fall of the city to the Roman troops, and desperate for food, she kills, roasts, and eats her own son:

The partisans appeared at once, attracted by the unholy odor, and threatened that unless she produced what she prepared, she would be killed on the spot. She retorted that she had saved as fine a helping for them and disclosed the remnants of her child. Overcome with instant horror and stupefaction, they stood immobile at the sight. (Cornfield 1982, 201ff)

When news of this atrocity spreads to the Romans, their general resolves that he will devastate the city.

After her initial appearance in Josephus, the figure of Mary reappears in sermons, histories, exempla, homilies, encyclopedias, and treatises, including an account written by the future Innocent III. By the late thirteenth-century, she emerges in popular vernacular writing, and Dante's reference to her in Purgatoric is casual enough to imply knowledge of the tale on the part of his readers: he compares the gluttons to "the people who lost Jerusalem, when Mary struck her beak into her son" (23.29-30). [12] Boccaccio also writes about her, and it seems that Chaucer was also familiar with the story. In English, she appears in the poetic and prose Siege of Jerusalem texts, in the fourteenth-century romance Titus and Vespasian, and in the work of Trevisa and Lydgate, and also assumes disproportionate importance in the Vindicta Salvatoris sequence of texts from the twelfth century on. However, the story of the devouring mother may have been disseminated most widely in the form of drama, featured in plays performed in at least five languages from the fourteenth- to the seventeenth-centuries (Wright 1989, 1). The archetypal quality of the Mary of Jerusalem motif has been identified by Shulamith Shahar, who describes her as "deeply entrenched in the European collective consciousness" (1990, 138). She goes on to add that this Mary represents "the opposite pole to the Holy Mother. The cruelty of the former highlights the maternal compassion displayed by the latter." Shahar is correct in pointing out the oppositional resonances between the two figures: Mary the mother of Jesus, Blessed Virgin and protector of little children seems very different from the cannibal Mary of Jerusalem.

Yet the medieval church also taught the Virgin's active complicity in the death of her son. Despite her grief and agony, her submission to God's will entailed the acceptance of the desirability of his sacrifice to the extent that she would have driven the nails into his own body personally if she had been required to do so (Warner 1976, 220). Female power comes at a price in the Middle Ages: both Marina Warner and Michael P. Carroll, among others, have identified the Virgin Mary as belonging to the tradition of devouring mother goddesses, and she is traditionally associated with some rather nasty miracles involving violent deaths and gruesome mutilations (1976, 221). Surely then the other, too-literal Mary--the one condemned rather than redeemed by the body of her son--functions to absorb anxieties about the Holy Mother's role, allowing her to remain firmly on the side of the Christian, the civilized, the "cooked."

This provocative connection is perhaps most clearly illustrated where the iconography of Mary of Jerusalem seems deliberately to invoke that of the Maria lactans. The ninth-century Sacra Parallela includes a manuscript illustration of Mary first breastfeeding her child, then dismembering him, eating a limb, and finally displaying the remains on a platter. In the breastfeeding image, she cups a single exposed breast, and the child's face is oriented toward the viewer, as is already beginning to become standard in contemporary illustrations of the madonna and child. Even more strikingly, several tableaux from a dramatic production of the Vengeance drama survive from Reims in 1531, one of which represents the grisly results of starvation during the siege--the besieged inhabitants are seen threatening one another, flaying a horse and catching and eating both pets and vermin, while to the right the episodes of the killing and roasting of the child, as well as the displaying of the remnants to the appalled rebels, occur in concurrent representation. The tableau of the killing of the child is particularly interesting: the naked child does not have his throat cut, as in most other sources, but is pierced in the side by a large knife while cradled to its mother's breast in a nursing posture, as the mother smiles beatifically. The similarity to the conventional representation of the lactating madonna and her child is quite remarkable, especially given the piercing of the side of the sacrificial child, and the displaying of the dismembered body on a platter. The linkage of Mary's act to contemporary eucharistic practices, under particular pressure in early sixteenth-century France, is thereby made more overt.

The development of such an elaborate psychological buffer to re-sanctify the problematic image of the lactating Virgin is not only indicative of its polysemous power, but also functions to confine her to a specifically beneficent, domestic, and maternal sphere. The same is true of the convention of iconographic denial of a normative female physiology to the Virgin; as Kathryn Schwarz has argued, "whether exposed for the sake of nursing or of fashion, the breast threatens always to signify an excess of female control.... [E]ven if it was used to reify social convention, it signified the anxieties of excess" (1997, 154-57). Mary's unusual anatomy, then, seems less about the suppression of erotic possibilities than about the containment of perceived maternal power.

Cindy Sherman's twentieth-century American simulacra carry, of course, very different resonances from those I have identified underlying late medieval and early modern manifestations of the Maria lactans. Her appropriation of the conventions of the Marian portraiture of a different era speaks primarily to contemporary cultural fascination with and exploitation of the female form, but her marriage of early modern convention and contemporary photography is, in its revelation of constructedness, a new and disruptive reading of a powerful cultural and corporeal signifier. The iconography of a bleeding, feeding mother cannot simply be read as a symbol of accessibility, immediacy, and emotion, or as a crystallization of communal food anxiety, although it may represent both of these things, but it is also a battleground for discursive meaning, and must also be interpreted in terms of how we understand maternal power and the patriarchal response to it.

Price is Assistant Profes sor of English at the University of Alabama, Huntsville. She is coeditor of a forthcoming collection of essays on domestic violence in the Middle Ages.


(1.) As Sherman herself did in an interview with Glenn Collins for The New York Times (1991, 12).

(2.) See Hollander (1993, passim). Miles briefly addresses the Maria Lactans again in Carnal Knowing, specifically in reference to the Camarino altarpiece, but her assumption of its significance remains sexual in nature: "Eve's realistic breast, so different from the Virgin's breast above...signals her sinfulness, just as the Virgin's lack of body reveals her goodness" (1989,141).

(3.) Published in French as La sauvage aux seins pendants.

(4.) For a fascinating account of linguistic slippage inspired by this association, see Castro-Klaren (n.d., 40).

(5.) Even contemporary critics cannot be counted upon to be sensible here: Michael Palencia-Roth refers to older women with pendulous breasts as "deformed" (1985, 20).

(6.) Latin "concavam venam" (Trevisa 1975, 5, 34). Note that I have normalized Middle English orthography here and elsewhere.

(7.) On impurity, Trevisa's translation of Bartolomaeus adds elsewhere, after Isidore, that "by the touch of the blood menstrualis fruyt growith noght but drieth and beth ibrent, and dyeth herbes, and treen leseth here fruyt, irne is frete with roust, bras and metal wexith blake. If houndes etith thereof he waxith wood" (Trevisa 1975, 154).

(8.) When an interruption of the menstrual flow is desired, according to Galen, "thou schalt sette a coppe to the pappe to the veynes that cometh fro the modir ..." (Trevisa 1975, 234).

(9.) Bynum also includes some useful depictions of the Double Intercession, as well as of the vision of Bernard.

(10.) Williamson's article is useful, but her attempt to account for the lack of realism in conventional depictions of Mary's breast is a weak one. She argues that the artists did the best they could, given the difficulty of combining anatomical naturalism with the necessity of orienting the Christ-Child toward the viewer.

(11.) Gail Kern Paster has argued that, in an age which mandated wetnursing for those who could afford it, the unblemished breast may signify class as well as age--"a specifically gendered form of social and bodily inferiority" (1993, 204-05).

(12.) "Ecco/ la gente die perde Ierusalemne, / quando Maria nel figolio die di becco."

Works Cited

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Bartolomaeus Anglicus. 1964. Dr Proprietatibus Rerum. 1601. Reprint. Frankfurt a. M.: Minerva.

Bucher, Bernadette. 1981. Icon and Conquest: A Structural Analysis of the illustrations of de Bry's Great Voyages. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Bynum, Caroline Walker. 1987. Holy Feast and Holy Fast: The Religious Significance of Food to Medieval Women. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Carroll, Michael P. 1992. Madonnas that Maim: Popular Catholicism in Italy since the Fifteenth Century. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press.

_____.1996. Veiled Threats: The Logic of Popular Catholicism in Italy. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press.

Castro-Klaren, Sara. n.d. "'What Does Cannibalism Speak?' Jean de Lery and the Tupinamba Lesson." In Carnal Knowledge: Essays on the Flesh, Sex, and Sexuality in Hispanic Letters and Film, ed. Pamela Bacarisse. Pittsburgh: Ediciones Tres Rios.

Cornfield, Gallya, ed. and trans. 1982. Josephus: the Jewish Wars, Grand Rapids: Zondervan.

Dante Alighieri. 1961. The Divine Comedy of Dante Alighieri. Trans. and ed. John D. Sinclair. Rev. Ed. New York: Oxford University Press.

Dopler, J. 1693. Theatrum Poenarum. Vol. I. Sondershausen: Dopler.

Fildes, Valerie A. 1986. Breasts, Bottles, and Babies: A History of Infant Feeding. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press.

Hollander, Anne. 1993. Seeing Through Clothes. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Kunze, Michael. 1987. Highroad to the Stake. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

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Miles, Margaret R. 1986. "The Virgin With One Bare Breast." In The Female Body in Western Culture: Contemporary Perspectives, ed. Susan Rubin Suleiman. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.

_____. 1989. Carnal Knowing: Female Nakedness and Religious Meaning in the Christian West. Boston: Beacon.

Northup, George Tyler, ed. 1916. Letter to Piero Soderini, Gonfaloniere. The year 1504. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

Palencia-Roth, Michael. 1985. "Cannibalism and the New Man of Latin America in the Fifteenth- and Sixteenth-century European Imagination." Comparative Civilizations Review 12: (Spring): 1-27.

Paster, Gail Kern. 1993. The Body Embarrassed: Drama and the Disciplines of Shame in Early Modern England. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.

Roper, Lyndal. 1994. Oedipus and the Devil: Witchcraft, Sexuality and Religion in Early Modern Europe. London: Routledge.

Shahar, Shulamith. 1990. Childhood in the Middle Ages. London: Routledge.

Sherman, Cindy 1991. History Portraits. New York: Rizzoli.

Schwarz, Kathryn. 1997. "Missing the Breast: Desire, Disease, and the Singular Effect of Amazons." In The Body in Parts: Fantasies of Corporeality in Early Modern Europe, ed. David Hillman and Carla Mazzio. New York: Routledge.

Trevisa, John. 1975. On the Properties of Things: John Trevisa's Translation of Bartolomaeus Anglicus' De Proprietatibus Rerum. A Critical Text. Ed. N.C. Seymour, et al. Oxford: Clarendon.

Warner, Marina. 1976. Alone of All Her Sex: The Myth and the Cult of the Virgin Mary. New York: Knopf.

Williamson. Beth. 1998. "The Virgin Lactans as Second Eve: Image of the Salvation." Studies in Iconography, 19: 105-38.

Wright, Stephen K. 1989. The Vengeance of Our Lord: Medieval Dramatizations of the Destruction of Jerusalem. Toronto: Pontifical Institute.

Yalom, Marilyn. 1997. A History of the Breast. New York: Knopf.
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Author:Price, Merrall Llewelyn
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Date:Jan 1, 2001
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