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Muted all with Hawkes.

Publius's Hawks

IN HIS ESSAY, "Harry Hunks, Superstar," Terry Hawkes quotes one of John Davies's wonderfully witty and satirical epigrams from the mid-to-late 1590s. In the poem, a law student named Publius puts down his books and finds himself deep in the muck of Southwark, "down among the bears and dogs":
   Publius, student of the common law,
   Oft leaves his books, and for his recreation,
   To Paris Garden doth himself withdraw,
   Where he is ravished with such delectation,
   As down among the bears and dogs he goes;
   Where, whilst he skipping cries, 'To head! To head!',
   His satin doublet and his velvet hose
   Are all with spittle from above bespread:
   When he is like his father's country hall,
   Stinking with dogs and muted all with hawks;
   And rightly on him too this filth doth fall,
   With such filthy sports his books forsakes;
   Leaving old Ployden, Dyer, Brooke alone,
   To see old Harry Hunks and Sacarson. (1)


Publius exchanges one set of proper names for another: "Ployden" for Harry Hunks; books for bears. In scholarly work, assigning a proper name to a piece of writing is everything, whether that is Ployden [sic], Plowden, or Hawkes. Careers and reputations are made and lost; ideas are exchanged and circulated, or squandered and wasted, with the proper name as the unit of currency. Or, as Karen Newman writes, "The proper name is the commodity fetish of individualism, presumed indexical and historical." (2) In putting to one side his law books, fetishized as cultural capital through the names of their authors and acting as the signifier of marketable knowledge ("Ployden, Dyer, Brooke"), Publius instead meets up with two well-known bears, "Harry Hunks and Sacarson." The poem's final couplet stages a confrontation between the world of academia and the world of entertainment. If the cultural capital of legal knowledge is stored up in the names of "Ployden" et al., then an incipient marketplace for celebrity is discernible in the naming of the two famous bears.

However, the other name in Davies's epigram renders its purported owner apparently anonymous. "Harry Hunks" and "Ployden" are famous and Davies trades on their differing reputations in the witty juxtaposition that closes the poem; Publius, however, is lost to us. Richard McCabe suggests that, in the satirical writings of the 1590s, "The use of fictitious names, whether Latin or Italian, gave no guarantee that a real person was not intended, or that the name itself was not a clue to the subject's identity." (3) In that febrile political world, such naming ensured that satire was treated with particular suspicion by the authorities. The fictional names invented by satirists may have provided them with a cover, but this cover was only likely to exacerbate the paranoia of the authorities, all too prepared to project their own fantasies of who might be a potential victim. However, as McCabe's awkward double negatives seem to indicate, even if the targets of this kind of satire might have been identifiable by their contemporaries, their identity is obliterated for us through a severing of the ties between the proper name and person. Structuring Davies's epigram is a subtext concerned with the relationship between authority and the proper name. Who gets to be called by their right name, by any name? What does it mean, within culture, to be assigned a name? What if we imagine that the different kinds of name present in the poem--"Ployden," "Publius," "Harry Hunks," "hawks"--are not as distinct from each other as the satirical intent of the epigram (to criticize Publius for slumming it with the bears) snobbishly seems to suggest? (4) Proper names are, of course, a persistent theme in Hawkes's work, not least in "Harry Hunks, Superstar" and the subsequent essay from Shakespeare in the Present, "Hank Cinq." In the wider context of the book within which this Davies epigraph is first published, this concern with names can be seen to have still broader ramifications.

Making use of the typical methods of satire, Davies uses generic rather than specific names for each of the targets of his cuttingly satirical epigrams: "Rufus the Courtier," "Quintus the Dancer," "Titus the brave and gallant gentleman." He also reminds his readers, in the first epigram of the printed collection, that an epigram, "taxeth under a particular name, / A general vice that warrants public blame" (sig A3r). The aliases that he deploys both identify individuals and subsume them under a general attack that excuses any personal assault. These verses had circulated widely in manuscript, chiefly among fellow Inns of Court men, as part of their culture of carnivalesque reveling and gulling, particularly associated with Christmastime, before their print publication in late 1598 or early 1599. Susannah Hop discerns in their printed form, oddly anthologized alongside the first printed version of Marlowe's translations of Ovid's Elegies, a reflection of "the structure, texture, and nature of the Middle Temple Revels." (5) By the time that they make their way into print, however, Davies does not put his own full name to the sequence, but uses just his initials. Hop speculates that Davies's overenthusiastic enjoyment of the Inns of Court's reveling culture, an enthusiasm that had led to him being expelled from the Middle Temple, lies behind the thinly veiled anonymity of the publication. He goes into print, she suggests, with, "the double purpose of getting his revenge, and regaining his dignity." (6) In June (1599), following the Bishops' Ban, the book is ordered to be destroyed. Both Hop and McCabe surmise that this is as much due to the satirical intent of Davies's poems as it is to the overt eroticism of Ovid in translation. Davies is named in the list for the Bishops' Ban, as is Marlowe. (7) Their advertised anonymity had fooled nobody.

Within this cultural set-up that links fame, authority, notoriety, and cultural capital to the proper name, to what does the name Publius refer then, if it is something different from either a famous bear or the author of a legal textbook? Who is this law student who skives off and takes a short boat trip across the Thames--from Middle Temple to Paris Garden--to watch some bear baiting, only to be reminded once he gets there of the squalor of his ancestral home? I assume he is a second or third son, sent off to the city so that he could train in a profession. The dilapidated country estate in which he grew up, "Stinking with dogs and muted all with hawks," has proven unable to sustain an extended family. Now that he is in London, he finds himself caught between the need to forge a professional career and a desire to make the most of the city's opportunities. His taste for low-brow entertainment, a distraction from his law books, could find a faint echo in the name that Davies gives him. "Publius" might refer to Ovid's full name, Publius Ovidius Naso, especially in a book that also contains some scurrilously entertaining verse from the Latin poet in the form of Marlowe's translations. Elizabethan students had an affection for Ovidian erotica. In the St John's College entertainment, The Return to Parnassus, one character, a gull named Gullio, sleeps with a copy of Shakespeare's distinctly Ovidian Venus and Adonis in his bed: "I'll worship sweet Master Shakespeare," he says, "and to know him will lay his Venus and Adonis under my pillow." (8) The Return is the middle play in a trilogy, staged over a number of years, which in part dramatizes the difficulties of maintaining a scholarly career and the pitfalls that might await a student if he were distracted from his studies.

Davies himself falters at this moment of his legal and literary careers but later goes on to become a highly visible member of the political elite, whose portfolio includes working as Attorney General in Ireland under James VI and I. (9) By the end of his life, the youthful indiscretions of the Epigrammes were behind him. Hawkes's work, on the other hand, got bolder and more scurrilous as his career went on. And here, in this essay from his last single-authored collection, he briefly entertains a pun on his name that links his critical approach to the scatological satire of Davies. At the end of "Harry Hunks, Superstar," he reminds us of one of the constant refrains in his criticism: that in working with Shakespeare, we should pay attention to the sounds of words. We are dealing, he writes, with a "preliterate age" that "deepens and sophisticates its communication by means of the activity of punning, something that a literate society judges to be the lowest form of wit." (10) This allows him to bring together the seemingly opposed entertainments of the playhouse and the bear garden by means of a pun on "baiting" / "bating." Both activities stage scenes of torment and persecution ("baiting") as well as provide an opportunity for rest and relaxation ("bating"). Acknowledging that this link might appear scandalous, Hawkes writes, "It may be that, in making such a suggestion, this essay, like one of Publius's hawks, merely 'mutes' (i.e., defecates over) the pantheon of timeless masterpieces." (11)

Because of the impact of animal studies on early modern studies, recently the ideational, as well as physical and geographical, links between the bear garden and the playhouse have become more widely understood. Erica Fudge's work on bearbaiting, in particular, has traced the ambiguities of the spectacle, seeing it as both confirming and undermining man's apparent superiority over the animals that were forced to participate in the cruel sports. Apparent mastery ultimately manifests itself as an uncomfortably shared animality: "To watch a baiting," she writes, "is to reveal, not the stability of species status but the animal that lurks beneath the surface." (12) Hawkes's focus on the spectacle of bearbaiting, equally attuned to the cruelty of the practice, produces a slightly different picture. His concern is not so much to situate the bearbaiting within an emergent anthropocentrism as to use the similarity between the two practices--baiting and playing--to reveal the shared contingencies of both. He claims that, in the Davies epigram, we see that "the smell and the savagery" of the bear garden becomes "most fully and fruitfully meaningful in terms of an opposition" to the apparently rational world of Publius's law books. (13) Earlier in the essay, he writes that the two events share a sense of "play":
   at the centre of both spectacles, the focus of attention, there
   throbs a 'live', unpredictable quality of immediacy in the sense
   that both seem to frame, manage, and work with contingency, with
   unshaped, actual, 'here and now' experience, making that a
   fundamental part of what they have to offer. In this sense both
   events seem categorisable as 'games'--bear baiting's
   unpredictability makes it possible to 'play' or bet on the
   outcome--and that expanded sense of the concept must in turn be
   part of what is hinted at by the early modern term 'play.' (14)


This is a familiar theme from Hawkes's earlier work, particularly Shakespeare's Talking Animals, which, through an insistence on the emergence of Shakespeare's drama within a preliterate culture, sees it as resistant to integration within a literate, literary world. The improvised entertainments, the "play" of the bear garden, reveal their mirror image of the playhouse as nothing like a "pantheon of timeless masterpieces." (15) As the pun on hawks / Hawkes briefly swoops down and across the final paragraph of "Harry Hunks, Superstar," Hawkes aligns himself not only with the hawk that mutes Publius's ancestral home, but also the bears and dogs who make the poor student filthy during his visit to Paris Garden, and declares his affinity with Davies himself, through the scatological work of satire, and in the squandering of the cultural capital of the proper name that is entertained by the Publius epigram. The translation of Jesus Christ into a baited bear, in his title's echo of the Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice musical, Jesus Christ, Superstar, is another measure of the extent to which Hawkes is pre pared to denigrate proper names as sites that might accumulate authority.

The King is Dead, Long Live the Pun

Karen Newman, writing about the growing cultures of memorialization in early modern London, points out Thomas Browne's wittily playful attitude towards his subject matter in Urn-Burial, where he substitutes the proper names of people and places with witty puns:
   Though we might expect proper names, linked as rigid designators to
   historical places and persons, ... Browne's names are notoriously
   errant. Cremation urns are found--guess where--in the Burnham
   villages; an authority on burial sites and remains in Norway and
   Denmark is named Wormius. (16)


Commenting on this, she writes that, "Puns corrode, like death itself, the power of the name to mark and specify; they empty it of pathos." (17) Hawkes acknowledges, by implication, this corrosive work of the pun when he argues that the act of naming "offers to weld language to the world and the world to language and to use that impacted link as an instrument of control." (18) In the essay that follows "Harry Hunks, Superstar"--"Hank Cinq"--Hawkes extends his handling of puns further to "corrode" "the power of the name," bringing names to bear on kingship and sovereignty. Newman's argument that punning about death removes the possibility of pathos is pertinent. No figures have been treated with more pathos in their critical history than some of Shakespeare's kings and, in "Hank Cinq," it is the king to end all kings--Henry V--who comes under punning attack. Hawkes points out from the beginning that, "Of all Shakespeare's plays, Henry Vis the one that most clearly explores and manipulates the early modern theatre's crucial duality." (19) Like Publius, it is a play that is self-consciously caught between the literary ambitions involved in memorializing the great king and the often-dirty exigencies of the playhouse. And, of course, his essay proceeds to take us deep into the mire in which Henry V's control over both his name and his country is lost to the improvisatory play of punning, playing, and animality.

In that, it picks up from "Bryn Glas," an earlier essay in the Shakespeare in the Present volume that uses Welshness as a means to undermine claims that Henry V might be read only as a celebration of national triumph via the unifying force of the English monarchy. Here, although Hawkes agrees that the putatively "Welsh" character of Fluellen is a "demeaning confection" (20) that mainly serves to underwrite a colonizing position in which the English monarchy insists that "To be 'English,' and a participant in that world, is ... simply to be human," (21) he also offers a potential way to read the play against this project. Again, he does this by means of an animalistic change affected on a proper name. When Fluellen compares his king to "Alexander the Pig"--the supposedly comic substitution of "p" for "b" that is a feature of Robert Armin's stage-Welsh--then Hawkes argues that naming "once more bursts the boundaries of straightforward reference." (22) The Welshness that Hawkes sees at work in Henry V, and that brings the "beastly transformations" at Bryn Glas (mentioned in Henry IV, Part One) to bear on the supposed triumphs of Agincourt, is one that can be linked to the improvisatory quality of performance to which his critical practice always returns. Welshness and improvisation are linked through the word "throb." In linking the playhouse to the bear garden, he argues that "there throbs a 'live', unpredictable quality of immediacy" that they share. (23) Hawkes argues that Wales, and Welshness, should be brought into play against the militaristic Anglo-centrism of the history plays, just as much as Ireland and Irishness has been in the criticism of the later twentieth century, and in the wake of the ongoing devolution of the "United Kingdom":
   For what must surely be sensed, in our own post-devolution present,
   is that Welshness and its concerns throbs with a no less powerful,
   if occluded, pulse in the vasty deep of these plays. And
   periodically, its muffled bear invades and disrupts the step by
   which they march. (24)


Hawkes advocates for, and demonstrates, a critical practice that pays attention to this throbbing rhythm, a rhythm discernible in the pun, and seeks to destabilize conservative claims on the name of "Shakespeare" for literary elitism.

"Hank Cinq" is a bravura display of that practice, improvising connections between Henry, Prince Hal, Harry Hunks the bear, and Duke Ellington. The key critical move occurs in a passage in which "Harry England," as the French king calls him, is translated into Harry Hunks, the bear from the previous chapter. Already, dislocating the naming of Henry V, giving control of it to the French, starts to corrode the hold the king has on his name. By the time Hawkes has finished muting him, he has become something else altogether:
   if we look closely at the blood-stained figure who confronts us
   here, and if we link with 'Harry England' the emblem of the
   'warlike Harry' that the Chorus describes at the beginning of the
   play, with his three snarling dogs, named Famine, Sword and Fire
   who 'Crouch for employment' at his side, we begin to discern a
   familiar animal figure. It forces us to confront a serious
   question. If to give a bear the name 'Harry' undoubtedly lends it a
   disturbing power in the bear-baiting arena, what happens in the
   theatre next door, when you give the same name to a King? (25)


To answer that question is to discern, along with Hawkes, the outlines of a politics in Shakespeare's Henry V that refuses the sovereignty of the proper name as it is invested in the English monarchy, and in a version of "Shakespeare" that is allowed to underwrite that sovereignty.

Not content with turning Hal/Henry/Harry into a bear, Hawkes turns to jazz in order to mute Henry in a different sense. Duke Ellington's "Sonnet to Hank Cinq," from which Hawkes derives his title, is without words. Ellington's Such Sweet Thunder, from which "Hank Cinq" comes, is (as Stephen Buhler describes it) a suite of "twelve jazz instrumentals, ranging in length from about one-and-a-half minutes to just over four, each linked by its title and by the programmatic commentary supplied on the album sleeve of its first recording to various Shakespearean characters and works." (26) Hawkes foregrounds both the non-Englishness (American in origin; part-French in title) and the playfulness of Ellington's response to Shakespeare's king: a "racy irreverence in the face of the serried ranks of British monarchy" that "marks it as firmly republican." (27) Hawkes advocates a jazz-inspired approach to Shakespeare criticism in That Shakespeherian Rag, where he turns that archconservative monarchist, T. S. Eliot, into the inspiration for a playful engagement with the plays' anti-authoritarian playfulness, by means of what Hawkes sees as Eliot's jazz-like vocalizations in the poetry. Hawkes's translation of Shakespeare, via Eliot and Ellington, into an American republican with an ear for communal music making was already affected by Ellington himself, who wrote, "Somehow, I suspect that if Shakespeare were alive today, he might be a jazz fan himself--he'd appreciate the combination of team spirit and informality, of academic knowledge and humor, of all the elements that go into a great jazz performance." (28) By the close of "Hank Cinq," Henry/Hal/Hank has come to figure that "throb" to which Hawkes's critical practice always attends, and that might variously be imagined through the pun, through turning animal, or turning Welsh and/or French and/or American. What he is turning his attention to is the potential for a scandalously noisy future in "English" literary criticism, what he calls "that 'rough beast', currently slouching towards the academy." (29)

Noisy Futures

Amidst the puns, the jazz, and all the beastly transformations and translations that Hawkes's criticism seeks to enact, one of the critical tropes that punctuates his work is the repetition of words that verge on the nonsensical. They burst through his prose, like puns, and instantiate the preliterate and communal nature of Shakespearean playing. From the reverse spelling of Hamlet in "Telmah," through the celebration of the phrase "Swisser swatter" as an orgasmic version of Sir Walter Raleigh, and the cheeky "willy nilly" in his account of Derrida's Glas in "Bryn Glas," these nonsense phrases present themselves as obdurately non-literate. (30) Looking at the pages in Shakespeare in the Present, as your eye moves from the end of "Harry Hunks, Superstar," with its concluding suggestion that the essay has been just so much satirical defecation (muting "the pantheon of timeless masterpieces)," (31) it should probably come as no surprise that the opening subheading for "Hank Cinq" is the equally scatological, "Poop-poop!" (32) What follows, however, is a different model for critical practice: not a Davies-like muting on the pretensions of those who would pretend to rescue Shakespeare studies for the world of the purely literate, but rather the "Poop! poop!" of Toad's joyous exclamation from The Wind in the Willows, as he sits in the middle of the road and dreams about driving his beloved motor car, propelling himself beyond the "material limits of the world," breaking "the bounds of humanity itself." (33) If Mole calls Toad an ass at this point, thus allowing Hawkes to see Toad as an avatar of Shakespeare's Bottom, then perhaps we are still on a scatological trajectory. But elsewhere in the essay, Hawkes continues to make a call for a propulsive jazz-like improvisatory critical practice that, like Toad's motorcar, can noisily usher in the future. This culminates in a breath-taking description of a possible future:
   What will it [the future of Shakespeare criticism] look like? Of
   course, it won't be a bear, and its name won't be Harry. It'll be
   shadowy no doubt, but perhaps less compelling than shifty and
   inconclusive. Its arguments won't really seem to hang together. The
   connections it proposes will seem arch, tenuous, linked, if at all,
   in some rhapsodic, jazzy way that owes scandalously little to the
   procedures of traditional text-based scholarship. (34)


It sounds great. I can't wait. But I have a lingering doubt about the usefulness of Hawkes's work in the twenty-first century. The monuments against which his work has always tilted have already been dismantled. What Hawkes works against is, for the most part, that version of "English" as a scholarly discipline and associated pedagogy that Bill Readings describes:
   Shakespearean drama ... became for England what Greek philosophy
   was for Germany: the lost origin of authentic community to be
   rebuilt by means of rational communication between national
   subjects--a rational communication mediated through the institutions
   of the state. (35)


All of Hawkes's irrationalities (puns, etc.) work towards interrupting that state-sponsored communication. But, as Readings goes on to argue, with the dismantling of the nation-state, then we get a dismantling of the institutions of the state that support this self-actuating "rational communication," including the English department as a supporting pillar of the national university. As Karen Steigman elucidates, "the political purpose of the university--serving to effectuate the idea of a national culture--has become irrelevant in a techno-bureaucratic, and primarily economically driven, global moment." The corollary of this for literary studies, she continues, is a "loss of literary studies' own originary mission." (36) There is a sense in which, incubated through the political contexts of the 1970s and 1980s, Hawkes's brand of cultural materialism, even his later presentism, might be seen as ill-equipped to deal with a situation in which the national institutions of the "literary" have already been dismantled. Tied to the "cultural turn" in literary studies in which we are still caught, his critical practices might not be attuned to the possibilities of a future literary criticism where what constitutes "culture" is no longer linked either to the "literary" or to state institutions, such as the university.

But "Hank Cinq" hints at other possibilities for a noisy future, in which he seems to retune his critical ear to the "throb" at the heart of a new century:
   the challenge from the left for any post-capitalist criticism will
   surely lie in the proposal that, at work underneath that surface,
   there was always--and there remains--a just-discernible,
   non-textual, perhaps non-discursive and even non-human dimension,
   which requires fully to be confronted in the twenty-first
   century. (37)


The critical practice that Hawkes barely imagines here seems to have something in common with more positive critical responses to Bill Readings's influential depiction of the English department as the first casualty of a "ruined" national university. Diane Elam argues that, after Readings, we should now abandon a fruitless pursuit of the "literary thing," by which she means literature as a rarefied object, and instead pursue "the continuation of questioning, of thinking, that literature makes possible amongst the ruins of the university." (38) Steigman further elaborates what forms this thinking might take. In place of the citizen, contained within the institutions of the University, institutions still haunted by their idealist histories, Steigman would see "a citizen who gets articulated by and performs himself or herself as a linguistic, language-based subject, ... a new concept of citizenship in language." (39) Literary study construed as a field of study that "expressly raises the question of language" and is "founded on a particular conception of language as cultural" (40) might have the Toad-like motility and the jazz-like improvisational skills to blast its way into the future. And Hawkes's criticism is, as I have suggested, everywhere concerned with this uncooperative relationship between language and culture: the irreducibly preliterate pun that corrodes any claim to sovereign presence and, of course, the muting of law students. The pun that he offers on his own name (hawks/Hawkes) hints at the kind of critical practice that he can barely see at the end of "Hank Cinq": "shadowy," "shifty and inconclusive." (41) If, in an era of research metrics, we can ill-afford to disavow ownership of our own proper names, we might still try to tune our ears to the "throb" of Hawkes's "rough beast," "slouching towards the academy." (42)

Notes

(1.) Quoted in Terence Hawkes, Shakespeare in the Present (London: Routledge, 2002): 91-92.

(2.) Karen Newman, Cultural Capitals: Early Modern London and Paris (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2007), 132.

(3.) Richard McCabe, "Elizabethan Satire and the Bishops' Ban of 1599," The Yearbook of English Studies 11 (1981): 192.

(4.) Other examples from Davies's Epigrammes include "Rufus the Courtier" who is hypocritically fussy about slumming it with the hordes at the theater, but is quite happy to go to brothels, "Though all the world in troupes do thither runne" (sig A4r). "Severus the puritan" advocates a strong line against "vaine speeche" because "That thing defiles a man that doth proceed / From out the mouth, not that which enters in." This dictum, of course, does not prevent Severus from devouring, "more capons in a yeare / Then would suffise a hundredth protestants." (Sir John Davies, Epigrammes and Elegies, by I.D and C.M. [London, 1599], sig B2r).

(5.) Susanna Hop, "'What Fame is This?': John Davies' Epigrammes in Late Elizabethan Culture," Renaissance Journal 2, no. 3 (January 2005): 40.

(6.) Ibid., 40.

(7.) McCabe, "Elizabethan Satire," 188.

(8.) Anonymous, The Returne from Parnassus, or The Scourge of Simony in The Parnassus Plays, ed. J. Leishman (Nicholson and Watson: London, 1949), III.i.1223-25.

(9.) See his entry in the Dictionary of National Biography for a condensed version of a very full literary and political career.

(10.) Hawkes, Shakespeare in the Present, 105.

(11.) Ibid., 106.

(12.) Erica Fudge, Perceiving Animals: Humans and Beasts in Early Modern English Culture (Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2002), 15.

(13.) Hawkes, Shakespeare in the Present, 91.

(14.) Ibid., 89.

(15.) Ibid., 106.

(16.) Newman, Cultural Capitals, 131.

(17.) Ibid., 132.

(18.) Terence Hawkes, That Shakespeherian Rag: Essays on a Critical Process (London: Methuen, 1986), 47.

(19.) Hawkes, Shakespeare in the Present, 113.

(20.) Ibid., 45.

(21.) Ibid., 37.

(22.) Ibid., 42. Robert Armin would have played Fluellen, and this comic actor developed this accent into a bit of a trademark. See my chapter on "Listening to Welsh in Shakespeare and Armin" for an assessment of the cultural politics of Armin's comic performances of Welshness: Huw Griffiths, " 'O I am ignorance itself in this': Listening to Welsh in Shakespeare and Armin," in Shakespeare and Wales: From the Marches to the Assembly, eds. Willy Maley and Philip Schwyzer, (Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2010), 111-26.

(23.) Ibid., 89; my italics.

(24.) Ibid., 44; my italics.

(25.) Ibid., 115-16.

(26.) Stephen Buhler, "Form and Character in Duke Ellington's and Billy Strayhorn's Such Sweet Thunder," Borrowers and Lenders: The Journal of Shakespeare and Appropriation 1, no.1 (Spring / Summer 2005): http://www.borrowers.uga .edu/781406/show. Buhler's essay is in a collection, introduced by Hawkes, for an online journal issue dedicated to Duke Ellington's adaptations from Shakespeare. The collection was instigated by the panel on Ellington, jazz, and Shakespeare at the 2004 SAA meeting in New Orleans. Buhler's essay contains sound clips of the twelve pieces.

(27.) Hawkes, Shakespeare in the Present, 125.

(28.) Quoted in Brent Hayes Edwards, "The Literary Ellington," Representations 77, no. 1 (Winter 2002): 6.

(29.) Hawkes, Shakespeare in the Present, 126.

(30.) In a gloriously extended pun throughout "Bryn Glas," Hawkes picks "willy" up again at the end. Having used it illustratively within his paraphrase of Derrida's argument regarding the proper name in Glas ("A proper name ought indeed to involve pure reference, but since it is part of language, it works like language, and always retains, willy-nilly, the capacity to signify" [Ibid., 131]), Hawkes closes the essay with an account of Wilde's Willy Hughes, as muse for the sonnets. Another Welsh presence making itself felt in the Shakespearean extended text, Hawkes offers him as a counterpoint to the anti-Welsh sentiment of the descriptions of Welsh women inserting penises into the mouths of their dead opponents in Henry IV, Part One: "a story which began with willies could also," he writes, "be said to end with one" (Ibid.,138).

(31.) Ibid., 106.

(32.) Ibid., 107.

(33.) Ibid., 108.

(34.) Ibid., 126.

(35.) Bill Readings, The University in Ruins (Harvard, MA: Harvard University Press, 1996), 79.

(36.) Karen Steigman, " 'The Student is a Far Stranger Figure': Managing Literary Studies' Anxiety in the Global University," The Journal of the Midwest Modern Language Association 37, no. 1 (Spring 2004): 24.

(37.) Hawkes, Shakespeare in the Present, 126.

(38.) Diane Elam, "Literary Remains," Oxford Literary Review 17 (1995): 154.

(39.) Steigman, " 'The Student is a Far Stranger Figure,'" 29.

(40.) Ibid., 27.

(41.) Hawkes, Shakespeare in the Present, 126.

(42.) Ibid., 126.
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