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Paulina's paint and the dialectic of masculine desire in the Metamorphoses, Pandosto, and The Winter's Tale.

Midway through the tragic action of The Winter's Tale, just after the jealous king Leontes has arrested his queen, Hermione, on apparently baseless charges of adultery and treason, the counselors of the realm try to bring their king to his senses. * Should Hermione prove unfaithful, an astounded Antigonus vows, "I'll keep my stables where / I lodge my wife; I'll go in couples with her; / Than when I feel and see her no farther trust her" (2.1.133-36) (1)--that is, he will from this moment on ensure his own wife's fidelity by never allowing her outside the field of his vision or beyond the reach of his hands. The king's most trusted advisor thus suggests that Leontes's drive to know Hermione's sexual behavior is really a drive to possess her physically. In fact, Leontes is jealous because he has eroticized the courtly touches--"paddling palms, and pinching fingers" (1.2.115)--he has seen exchanged between Hermione and his friend Polixenes, the king of Bohemia. But, as Hermione points out, Leontes had entreated the queen to persuade Polixenes to remain in Sicilia and had watched her perform this persuasion. The king is the cause of his own jealousy because he is a voyeur, at once aroused and made jealous by watching the object of his desire perform an act of (courtly) seduction at his bidding. Antigonus points out that, were Leontes to satisfy his desire to possess Hermione physically, he would short-circuit the logic of voyeurism that makes Hermione desirable in the first place.

This essay traces how the interplay between visual and tactile knowledge both stimulates and constitutes masculine desire in The Winter's Tale and in some of its more important sources and analogues. Book 10 of Ovid's Metamorphoses, Robert Greene's popular 1588 romance, Pandosto, and The Winter's Tale itself all generate masculine desire through visual and tactile language. All of these texts are also inhabited by versions of two intimately related mythological figures, Orpheus and Pygmalion. (2) These figures, who lose and gain a wife respectively, are the focal point of book 10 of Ovid's Metamorphoses. Their stories express the voyeuristic logic that, in turn, governs the intrusion of jealousy into the marriages in The Winter's Tale and Pandosto.

The female bodies these three works portray and the sensuousness with which they portray them argue that sexuality is the basis on which to understand beauty and power. In Ovid and his Renaissance proteges, sexuality is often understood as the superfluity that cannot be contained in power relations or accounted for in paradigms of beauty, and students of Renaissance literature speak of sexuality in terms of fluidity and resistance to hypostatizing systems. In Rabelais and His World, M. M. Bakhtin invokes a dialectical pair particularly useful for understanding this Ovidian literary tradition: "classical" and "grotesque" bodily representation. Bakhtin traces a tradition of portraying bodies as open, fluid, changing, procreative, unfinished, and part of a continuous cycle of living and dying that reveres death, decay, dirt, and excrement as fundamental to life, growth, order, and beauty (23-30). "The last thing one can say of the real grotesque," Bakhtin writes, "is that it is static; on the contrary it seeks to grasp in its imagery the very act of becoming and growth, the eternal incomplete unfinished nature of being" (52). He finds, as the Renaissance progresses, an increasing tension between this "grotesque" tradition of literary representations of the body and another, "classical" tradition of literary representations of the body, in which the body is presented as closed, completed, static, and separate from the world--a tradition which likewise distinguishes absolutely between dirt and excrement, on one hand, and life and order, on the other, as unrelated things of completely different orders. Bakhtin's distinction between "classical" and "grotesque" sharpens our understanding of the erotic and aesthetic play of power, and these terms from Rabelais and His World, rather than its version of literary history, help us understand the Ovidian aesthetic in Renaissance literature.

The "classical" model for representing the body is fundamental to any voyeuristic aesthetic, in which pleasure derives from seeing what is forbidden, from the visual stimulation of desire that may not be gratified by tactile pleasures. But does the voyeuristic aesthetic imply the authoritarian imposition of a stasis, as Bakhtin claims (29-30)? As an examination of The Winter's Tale, Pandosto, and Ovid's Metamorphoses demonstrates, voyeurism and repression are not linked as straightforwardly nor are they as historically localized in the Renaissance as Bakhtin would suggest. In the first place, the tension between "classical" and "grotesque" representations of the body can be found in classical as easily as in Renaissance literature, and book 10 of the Metamorphoses is a perfect example. Moreover, although Rabelais and His World cites Ovid's Fasti and Tristia, it ignores the better-known Metamorphoses. In the second place, The Winter's Tale reveals the Ovidian voyeuristic aesthetic as a powerful fiction rather than an immutable principle, thus at once underscoring and subverting its power over subjects. The Metamorphoses, then, is the place to begin.


Ovid's Metamorphoses interweaves the myths of Orpheus and Pygmalion suggestively, as sight and touch evoke and frustrate masculine desire. Metamorphoses book 10 opens with the wedding of Orpheus and Eurydice--a union cut short suddenly when a poisonous snake bites the bride's ankle as she and her bridesmaids play in a field. Orpheus retrieves Eurydice from the underworld on the condition that he not look back at her shade until both have emerged from the vale of Avernus. Ovid concentrates pathos on the moment that Orpheus, in violation of his agreement with Pluto, looks back to Eurydice and loses her to a second death. Fearing that he might leave her behind, and desiring to see her, the "loving" Orpheus turns his eyes to Eurydice (Flexit amans oculos) (10.56-7), (3) violating the prohibition against looking back at his wife. Eurydice immediately slips back (protinus illa relapsa est) (10.57), leading to the chiasmus that marks the emotional climax of the tale, "Stretching both arms to be held and to hold, trying / Nothing except yielding air did the unfortunate one grasp" (Bracchiaque intendens prendique et prendere certans / Nil nisi cedentes infelix adripit auras) (10.58). Ovid's chiasmus is a rhetorical picture of the lovers being pulled apart. At the center of the chiasmus, the infinitive verb changes from passive to active voice (prendique et prendere), which temporarily suggests that both Orpheus and Eurydice are agents--until we read the subject, infelix, which can only refer to Orpheus. (4) Moreover, the participles intendens and certans (stretching and trying) bracket the infinitives. Both participles connote intention, and the effect is visually to place the "intentions" on either side of the verbs at the center of the chiasmus. Thus we see on the page the frustration of Orpheus's intentions to touch Eurydice: the urge to see and then to touch and possess is the urge that Ovid pulls apart in this chiasmus, and the pathos of the passage derives from this separation.

The language and even the setting that evoke Orpheus's frustrated desire also constitute Eurydice's body as an object of desire--an object made desirable by the interplay between accessibility and inaccessibility. The moment of Eurydice's second death is poised in a liminal space, at the edge of Avernus, the border between life and death. Orpheus wants to cross that threshold not alone, but with his wife. The scene enacts the dialectical tension between classical and grotesque representations of the body in Bakhtinian theory. Both the setting and the image of Orpheus stretching his arms evoke the Bakhtinian grotesque, as does the chiasmus in which the lovers are pulled apart--a scene that anticipates Orpheus's body being ripped apart in the beginning of book 11 by the enraged Maenads. Ovid presents in this scene the denial of life's continuity--the interrelated contingency of birth, sexual union, and death--because Eurydice's death has nothing to do with a larger cycle of life. Orpheus and Eurydice become "closed individualit[ies] that [do] not merge with other bodies and the world" (Bakhtin 320); Eurydice's demise, unlike most in the Metamorphoses, results in no new form for nature. In this episode, life and death are constituted as separate categories rather than parts of a continuous process. The absolute difference that makes possible the Bakhtinian "classical"--the "completed, strictly limited body, which is shown from the outside as something individual" (320)--comes into being in Ovid's chiasmus. The interplay between the grotesque and the classical in this scene constitutes both the masculine desire of Orpheus and the desirability of Eurydice. It is also this interplay that underwrites the voyeuristic poetics of the scene: the sight of Eurydice is forbidden Orpheus, which only makes it imperative that he look at her. And the forbidden sight itself prevents Orpheus from realizing his desire to hold and to be held by Eurydice--to violate the classical principles that are the conditions of her desirability.

This second death of Eurydice--or, as Ovid puts it, her double death (gemina nece, 10.64)--ultimately produces the song of Orpheus, which fills the rest of book 10. Orpheus's grief expresses itself as a rejection of heterosexual desire in favor of other sexualities: he renounces women, teaches pederasty to the Thracians, and, in his tales, redirects his desire toward everything but female objects. Orpheus's first songs focus on Ganymede (the boy Jove seized and made his cupbearer) and the fetishized love of the boy Cyparissus for his pet deer. In this context, it becomes apparent that Orpheus's next tale, the story of Pygmalion, which is typically understood as a wish-fulfillment of masculine heterosexual desire (Brooks 24), instead unfolds as the rejection of masculine heterosexual desire. Pygmalion sculpts his statue as he rejects the women of Amathus, whom Venus has made into prostitutes and then turned to stone because of their failure to honor her. Just as Orpheus turns to poetry as a way to reject masculine heterosexual desire, so the object of his poetry, Pygmalion, turns to sculpture. Orpheus renders Pygmalion's statue in opposition, likewise, to the grotesque, for Pygmalion gives her "such beauty that no woman born could have" (formamque dedit, qua femina nasci/ Nulla potest) (248-49). Orpheus repeats three times that the statue is made of ivory and reports that it has the form of a virgin (Virginis est verae facies) (250). Thus, the "classical" statue is conjured out of language that rejects masculine heterosexual desire and that seeks other forms to express desire.

Whereas Ovid tells the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice from an objective point of view, Orpheus invites his listeners to participate in Pygmalion's fantasies. The statue's face is so realistic that "you might believe her to be alive" (quam vivere credas) (10.250). (5) The second person conjugation of credas brings the reader into the poem. Insofar as Orpheus's listeners occupy with Pygmalion the position of spectator, we identify with Pygmalion: all behold the statue as an erotic object (Elsner 160). In fact, the shared fantasy extends volition to the statue, suggesting that "you" also might believe the statue "to wish to move/be moved" (velle moveri) (10.251). The invitation to share Pygmalion's fantasy coincides with an increasing emphasis on tactile verbs in the tale: indeed, the bulk of Pygmalion's fantasy consists of speculations whether the statue is really ivory or flesh. Pygmalion believes that he feels his fingers sink into flesh rather than ivory, and he "fears that bruising may appear on the pressed limbs" of the statue (10.258). (6) For twenty lines (10.249-269) Pygmalion woos the statue as if it were a girl, adorning it with clothes and jewels, laying it on a soft couch, all of which is rendered in sensuous tactile and visual detail.

The fantasy of the impenetrable statue becoming pliant flesh reiterates the interplay between classical and grotesque forms seen earlier in book 10. The classical form can be properly the object of the gaze, because the gaze takes in nothing other than the opaque surface. But the desire to touch the statue, and the experience of feeling it yield as would flesh, evoke the Bakhtinian grotesque. By creating the statue as an object to be seen but not touched, and by then bringing readers into Pygmalion's imaginary tactile experiences, Ovid evokes desire.

Ovid uses this desire to mask an ontological sleight of hand, as well. At the feast of Venus Pygmalion sees his opportunity and prays that he might have a wife who resembles the statue. On arriving home, Pygmalion immediately "seeks the image of his girl" (simulacra suae petit ille puellae) (10.280). But the essence that differentiates Pygmalion's statue from ordinary statues is that it represents no real girl. In representing only itself, it has a kind of presence that another work of art cannot: indeed, it has a kind of presence that even a real person cannot, for it can hide no secrets. The poet here would violate the condition under which Pygmalion finds his statue sexually arousing--the fact that it represents what, in Pygmalion's mind, women can never be--much as Leontes's desire to "go in couples" with Hermione would violate the voyeuristic principles by which he finds her attractive. But Venus has not yet brought Pygmalion's statue to life, so the text of Orpheus's song introduces the girl before she exists (Sharrock, "Womanufacture" 46). This ontologically preposterous account of Pygmalion seeking "the image of his girl" deceives readers in the same way that the statue deceives Pygmalion: we fall into the trap of imagining a girl who does not exist because Pygmalion has already fallen into the same trap, and we experience the scene from his psychological perspective. Finally, when the statue/girl does open her eyes under an intense regimen of kisses and touches (no less than six tactile verbs in ll. 281-88), "she sees her lover at the same moment as the sky": Pygmalion is her whole world, and so he possesses her utterly (Sharrock, "Womanufacture" 49). But more important, Pygmalion knows all there is to know about her, because she is his creation. This wife can have no secrets from Pygmalion, and she will not cause him to be jealous. She is the culmination of the dialectic between classical and grotesque, visual and tactile, real and impossible, an object for the gaze alone but also an object to hold--in fact, one that will hold its creator. Masculine desire is evoked and temporarily satisfied in this interchange, but that desire is directed at a fetish rather than a woman--albeit a fetish that takes on human female characteristics precisely to the degree that it is rendered with tactile (and grotesque), rather than visual (and classical), imagery.


Robert Greene's prose romance, Pandosto, is not part of the canon of Renaissance Ovidianism, yet it, too, catches its reader in an aesthetic of eroticized knowledge and frustration; Shakespeare's The Winter's Tale makes Greene's aesthetic explicit and links it to Ovid. The Winter's Tale borrows so much of the plot, characters, and language from Pandosto that J. H. P. Pafford, editor of the Arden Shakespeare The Winter's Tale, imagines Shakespeare composing with "Pandosto at his elbow" (xxxi). Its most important borrowings are the two romance motifs that shape Robert Greene's book, the trial scene in the middle of the book and the recognition scene that wraps up the plot. These motifs sexualize knowledge, and they rely on the play between visual and tactile senses to construct masculine desire.

The plot of Pandosto would no doubt have been familiar to many spectators of The Winter's Tale because Greene's romance had gone through at least five editions by the time the play was staged. Pandosto, king of Bohemia, entertains his friend and ally, Egistus, king of Sicilia. Pandosto suspects his wife, queen Bellaria, of adultery with Egistus. He arrests his wife and plots to kill Egistus, who flees the country. Bellaria, meanwhile, is pregnant and gives birth to a daughter, Fawnia, in prison, whom Pandosto takes to be Egistus's and not his own. Pandosto seizes the infant Fawnia, casts her adrift in an open boat, and tries Bellaria for adultery and treason.

Although the trial scene reveals the truth of Bellaria's fidelity, Pandosto conceives of the trial not as an investigation of Bellaria's adultery but rather as revenge for her supposed adultery. The trial is a response to the frustration of Pandosto's desire to know his wife's sexual behavior. Pandosto neither searches for the truth of the matter nor takes revenge on Bellaria's purported lover, Egistus, because of Egistus's power and alliances; instead he chooses to exact all his vengeance on Bellaria (191). (7) Thus the trial is a process of concealment rather than revelation: it depends on the suppression of the fact that nothing but Pandosto's own suspicions support the allegations against Bellaria. This is the counterpoint to Pandosto's inability to know Bellaria's sexual behavior completely, for as Pandosto fills that gap in his knowledge with suspicion and fear, he must attempt to conceal his suspicion and fear behind the show of a trial. Greene emphasizes the concealment of knowledge: first Bellaria asks that her accusers "be brought before her face," and next the jury of noblemen ask to examine them in open court (195), which Pandosto must of course refuse. The trial succeeds for Pandosto for the same reason that his jealousy is unshakable. Bellaria cannot prove her faithfulness because it exists in what she has not done.

The accused queen contrasts the unverifiability of her virtue with the speedy spread of the rumor of its demise in an important apostrophe: "report is plumed with Time's feathers, and envy oftentimes soundeth Fame's trumpet: thy suspected adultery shall fly in the air and thy known virtues shall lie hid in the earth" (192). Indeed, Greene himself may prevent Bellaria's virtues from lying hid beneath the text only by advertising them in Bellaria's apostrophe. Because Bellaria's virtue is threatened by improper verbal intercourse in much the same way as by improper sexual intercourse, the apostrophe is the only appropriate form in which she may speak of her fidelity (Parker, Literary Fat Ladies 106). To put it another way, because the logic of the law in this romance presupposes that, guilty or innocent, Bellaria will protest her innocence in court, the only form in which she can defend her own credibility is an apostrophe--precisely because the apostrophe is supposed to be spoken to no one. Because of the logic governing women's speech in this fiction, the trial crowns Pandosto's campaign to avenge himself by slandering Bellaria. (8)

The outcome of Bellaria's trial is generally, and incorrectly, I think, taken to be the reversal of the first part of Pandosto. Bellaria, whose pleas are of course ineffectual, appeals to the oracle of Apollo, "who by his divine essence knew all secrets," to testify to her innocence (195). The oracle declares the queen chaste and Pandosto a jealous fool, which seems to reverse the course of Pandosto's jealousy. But the real reversal is Bellaria's final gambit, her appeal to the oracle of Apollo, because it shifts the voice of truth from Pandosto to Apollo and therefore reconstructs the queen. Because Apollo knows all secrets and his oracle tells them, Bellaria rids herself of the interiority that provides a happy hunting ground for Pandosto's fears and suspicions and therefore vexes him. The pronouncement that Bellaria is chaste constitutes all that can be known about her sexual behavior and reveals exactly the thing that Bellaria herself could not make evident to Pandosto's suspicious gaze. The question is, how does Pandosto downplay Bellaria's gambit so effectively that we hardly notice it?

Pandosto achieves this sleight of hand because Bellaria's gambit answers the anxiety that drove the king to seek revenge on her in the first place. The oracle in Pandosto performs a kind of wish-fulfillment for the sexually anxious patriarch, offering Pandosto certain knowledge about Bellaria's fidelity, filling the gap in his knowledge that jealousy had entered. No Pygmalionesque comedic end awaits Pandosto, however. The moment Pandosto hears the oracle, he repents and asks forgiveness, but immediately a messenger announces that his son, Garinter, has died, and Bellaria dies of grief on hearing this news. Bellaria's death obeys the principle brought out in Ovid, that the fulfillment of the wish to know the object of desire only circumvents the logic of desire and destroys the object itself. Worse yet, Pandosto fails to learn from his experience, for when Fawnia finally is "found" in the end, Pandosto wants his (as yet unrecognized) daughter sexually. His reaction to Fawnia mirrors the jealous desire inspired by his wife, for although he desires her, he mistrusts her. He tells himself that she is "beautiful, but not therefore chaste; comely in body, but perhaps crooked in mind" (219); once again, he fears what he cannot know. Pandosto finds himself facing a familiar paradox: "We know privacy by way of its invasion, just as we know innocence by its loss, and indeed could not know it otherwise" (Brooks 37-38). Pandosto's attraction to Fawnia is based on his hope that she is both beautiful and chaste--in other words, it is based on a mental representation of the girl that Bakhtin would call "classical." But to verify Fawnia's chastity, as Brooks points out, entails a violation, and that violation would render her body open and accessible, violating the "classical" aesthetic that makes Fawnia attractive to Pandosto in the first place. Pandosto's fears are misdirected but deadly: as he learns Fawnia's identity, he understands his own desire to have been incestuous and therefore kills himself in a final "tragical strategem" (Greene 225). (9) The recognition of Fawnia illuminates Pandosto's fault in assigning erotic significance to his experience with her, just as the certain knowledge of Bellaria's fidelity revealed to Pandosto his folly in eroticizing her relationship to Egistus.

Pandosto's incestuous desire for his daughter is illuminating for us, as well. It is a Pygmalionesque desire to possess one's own creation, which not even the oracle could satisfy. Whereas Bellaria is always irreducibly other to Pandosto, Fawnia is, as Pandosto's legitimate daughter, a version of Pandosto himself. She resembles Pygmalion's statue in being a version of the lover himself, and yet Pandosto must reckon with the problem that Pygmalion never faces: Fawnia has her own will, and so Pandosto always faces a limit to what he can know about her, whereas Pygmalion's statue is entirely knowable because she is a creature of her creator's will and so has neither a will nor a past to hide from Pygmalion. In every sense, then, Pandosto is about the limits of a man's knowledge of the women in his life. Desire and jealousy flourish at the margin of what is knowable, just beyond the limits of what Pandosto can see.


Perhaps it is too much to claim that Shakespeare had Pandosto at one elbow and the Metamorphoses at the other as he wrote The Winter's Tale, but the differences between the treatments of jealousy and recognition in The Winter's Tale and in Pandosto suggest that the playwright teased out the Ovidian resonances from Greene's plot for his own purposes--in particular, the linking of sight and touch to the complex of knowledge, desire, and jealousy. In the first three acts, Leontes's jealousy renders everything in grotesque terms: it seeks to penetrate facades, and it obsessively conjures up images of bodies opening and joining, giving birth (to bastards) and dying. The power of the statue scene comes from its evocation of the classical, in contrast to the first three acts: speech is regulated carefully, bodies are closed from the world, and the act of touching is meticulously staged.

One crucial Ovidian theme that subtends Pandosto, and on which The Winter's Tale dwells in grotesque terms, is male fear of female desire. The well-known crux at 1.2.138-146 of The Winter's Tale develops from Leontes's ruminations on Hermione's sexual desires; while the passage is generally understood to portray jealousy, it is significant that it follows both Leontes's observations of Hermione and Polixenes touching each other and his contemplation of his son. Leontes sees, on one hand, his wife and best friend "paddling palms, and pinching fingers, / ... and making practis'd smiles / As in a looking-glass" (1.2.115-17). He eroticizes the significance of their touching and their looks, and his resulting jealousy mirrors the desire he discovers between Hermione and Polixenes. On the other hand, Leontes sees the face of his son, Mamillius, and its likeness to his own sinks him into an abyss of doubt and self-doubt, for he lacks certainty that Mamillius really is his own son and not a bastard by Polixenes. After all, Leontes and Polixenes "were as twinn'd lambs that did frisk i' th' sun" (1.2.66): the kings are almost identical in appearance, and so a son that resembles Leontes likewise resembles Polixenes. Who (except perhaps Hermione) can tell which father's face is stamped in the son's? And so Leontes looks at Mamillius, pronounces him "sweet villain," and launches into a passage that has been called Shakespeare's most obscure:
   Affection! thy intention stabs the centre:
   Thou dost make possible things not so held,
   Communicat'st with dreams;--how can this be?--
   With what's unreal thou coactive art,
   And fellow'st nothing: then 'tis very credent
   Thou may'st co-join with something. (1.2.138-143)

This notoriously difficult passage arises from a jealous Leontes meditating on the apparent certainty of sexual desire between Hermione and Polixenes and the uncertainty of Mamillius's paternity. Leontes touches the impossibility of certain knowledge and links emotion to this uncertain kind of knowing, so that "Affection" influences his dreams. But affection's scope of action, the "unreal," opens the possibility that Leontes's emotions might fix on "something" real--even if by mistake. Leontes's jealousy may be irrational and groundless given the limitations on what he can know, but it may be correct nevertheless. At the same time, the metaphor by which Leontes describes "affection" is the body rendered in grotesque terms: affection "stabs" and penetrates; it also may "co-join" with something. The redundant formulation, "co-join," emphasizes the Latin prefix, co-, that denotes the coming together in the words "communicat'st" and "coactive." Here Leontes imagines the sexual act in an almost Nietzschean sense of "no 'being' behind doing, effecting, becoming": he imagines his own thoughts fluidly coming together with insubstantial things and substantial things, and thus imagines a way of being with no discrete, sealed off "beings" that have substance in anything but becoming (45). If Leontes's nightmare of communication, co-action, and co-joining anticipates Nietzche's emphasis on becoming, it also recalls closely Bakhtin's insistence that the grotesque "seeks to grasp in its imagery the very act of becoming" (52).

Moreover, "coactive" resonates with the Latin coacto, to compel, and so this difficult passage is strewn with verbal cues that emphasize, on one hand, the irrational and irresistible force that drives Leontes to imagine Hermione in grotesque terms, and on the other, forcible sexual violation: rape. Irrational imagination here abuts irrational will, and the difficult-to-maintain distinction between the two is all that separates irrational jealousy from rape. Shakespeare elsewhere represents rape as a crime of force--primarily the force of desire or will overcoming reason or conscience. Think of Tarquin in The Rape of Lucrece: "Thus graceless holds he disputation / 'Tween frozen conscience and hot-burning will" (246-47). Both Leontes's jealousy and Tarquin's "hot-burning will" are forces foreign to the (reasoning) masculine subject, and both forces overcome him. And both forces are directed toward possessing and knowing. Just as Othello explains that the curse of marriage is that "we can call these delicate creatures ours / And not their appetites" (3.3.272-4), so Leontes plumbs his own jealousy within the same framework of the limits of a husband's knowledge and control over his wife. Leontes cannot know whether he is irrationally jealous without knowing whether Hermione desires Polixenes sexually; in his terms, he cannot know whether his imagination merely has joined nothing with something or whether, in Jacobean slang, Hermione and Polixenes have joined nothing to something.

Leontes's introspection leads him, only fifty lines later, to implicate the men in his audience in his own dilemma--darkly reminiscent of Orpheus inviting his listeners to share Pygmalion's fantasy. As the audience enjoys the spectacle of a jealous Leontes, his self-referential Sir Smile speech quickly turns the tables. Having doubted the paternity of his son, Mamillius, he histrionically urges him to play, since "thy mother plays, and I / Play too" (1.2.187-88). And then he turns with a malevolent cunning on his audience, pointing out the man "even at this present, / Now while I speak this" who does not know that his wife "has been sluic'd in his absence / And his pond fished by his next neighbor, by / Sir Smile, his neighbor" (1.2.192-96). Leontes dramatizes the spectator's circumstances here, and the humor arises at least in part from the discomfort of the situation. (10) His rather unsubtle point is threefold: what he cannot know, no man may know; at least some of the laughter in the theater comes at the expense of some of the men in the audience; and no married man present may be certain that he is not the butt of the joke. Here Leontes's jealousy--nothing, incorporeal--has indeed cojoined with something: namely, his audience.

The sexual implications of what Leontes does not know snowball, of course, under the influence of his jealousy. After Leontes reflects on the nature of his jealousy and insinuates that the wives of theatergoers are being "sluic'd" behind their husbands' backs, the jealous king returns with more force to pursue something he calls "slippery" and "nothing": the sexual desires of his own wife. He badgers his servant, Camillo, about Hermione, and the terms in which he speaks clearly impose an Ovidian framework on the jealousy plot that Shakespeare has borrowed from Greene's Pandosto. In Pandosto, Bellaria's courteous entertainment of Egistus extends to "oftentimes coming herself into his bed chamber to see that nothing should be amiss to mislike him" (186, my emphasis). More than one critic has pointed out that "nothing" connotes female genitalia in early modern English, and that Pandosto seems to have a stronger basis for his jealousy than Leontes. (11) But in The Winter's Tale, "nothing" is the topic of a tirade by a sexually fixated Leontes. He prefaces his rant, however, with an interrogation of the relation of knowledge to the senses that culminates in a verbal echo of the Metamorphoses. He asks his servant, Camillo,
   Ha' you not seen, Camillo?
   (But that's past doubt: you have, or your eye-glass
   Is thicker than a cuckold's horn) or heard?
   (For to a vision so apparent rumour
   cannot be mute) or thought? (for cogitation
   Resides not in that man that does not think)
   My wife is slippery? (1.2.268-73)

For the suspicious Leontes, seeing, hearing, and thinking are tantamount to knowing, and yet his choice of words betrays the gap in his knowledge that goads him: "slippery" may be only a metaphor for Hermione's suspected behavior, but its tactile sense is disjoined from the visual and aural senses by which Leontes proposes to detect his wife's slipperiness. In fact, his verbal quibble is not entirely unjustified, for Hermione has told Polixenes rather equivocally,
   Th' offences we have made you do, we'll answer,
   If first you sinn'd with us, and that with us
   You did continue fault, and that you slipp'd not
   With any but us. (1.2.83-86, my emphasis)

Certainly her diction itself suffers from the linguistic slippage between the sexual and courtly senses of wooing by which she flatters Polixenes. (12) At the same time, Leontes's struggle to catch his wife echoes Arthur Golding's 1567 rendition of Orpheus losing Eurydice. As the couple near the world of the living, Orphye did begin
   Too dowt him lest shee followed not, and through an eager love
   Desyrous for too see her, his eyes did backward move,
   Immediately shee slipped backe. He retching out his hands,
   Desyrous too bee caught and for to ketch her grasping stands.
   But nothing save slippery aire (unhappy man) he caught. (Golding 10.58-63)

Like the unhappy Orpheus, Leontes catches nothing; he has tried to see and touch something he cannot, Hermione's chastity. But Leontes's nothing is at the same time very much sexualized, not merely in the sense of Greene's pun but also in the sense of a full-fledged adulterous affair, as the rest of Leontes's conversation with Camillo reveals:
   Is whispering nothing?
   Is leaning cheek to cheek? Is meeting noses?

   Skulking in corners? Wishing clocks more swift

   Is this nothing?
   Why then the world and all that's in't is nothing,
   The covering sky is nothing, Bohemia nothing,
   My wife is nothing, nor nothing have these nothings,
   If this be nothing. (1.2.284-96)

The "slippery" and "nothing" of Leontes's charges figure Hermione as both sexually aroused and hard to "catch," where the primary significance of "catch" has to do with knowing. Again, Leontes's fantasies render Hermione in grotesque terms, here moving from the touching of bodies "cheek to cheek" and "meeting noses" to a figure for Leontes's inability to imagine anything in terms other than the grotesque: "Why then the world and all that's in't is nothing," he rants, swallowing everything in a pun on Hermione's vagina. All the world is indeed subject to Leontes's "affection," and Leontes is compelled to penetrate everything he sees as if it were a facade--all because Leontes thinks Hermione is difficult to catch in the act of adultery. Much like Orpheus, Leontes tries to see what he cannot see.

Leontes's jealousy leads to a trial of his wife similar to Pandosto's trial, but the trial scene of The Winter's Tale plays out the pulling apart of the royal family within a series of references to the play itself and to the alternate title of Greene's work. These references emphasize the difference between dramatic and textual representation. Hermione, answering the charge of adultery, reminds Leontes,
   You, my lord, best know
   (Who least will seem to do so) my past life
   Hath been as continent, as chaste, as true,
   As I am now unhappy; which is more
   Than history can pattern, though devis'd
   And played to take spectators. (3.2.32-37)

Because The Winter's Tale cribs so openly from Pandosto, the comparison that Hermione invites between a printed history and one "devis'd / And played to take spectators" (3.2.35-36) suggests in particular Pandosto's alternate title, The History of Dorastus and Fawnia. Likewise, Hermione's trial is being "played to take spectators" in the Jacobean theater. Her gesture resonates with Leontes's self-referential Sir Smile speech in the first act, in which Leontes insinuates that no man in the audience could be sure of his wife's fidelity. The same spectators who entertain, however fleetingly, some suspicion of their own wives hear from Hermione that they cannot "see" her fidelity, either. In this way Hermione's opening statement links itself to Leontes's own representation of his jealousy. As she makes her theatrical reference, Hermione also compares how well her fidelity may be represented textually, in a "history," to how it may be represented on stage. Moreover, Hermione reinforces her objection to being made a theatrical spectacle with a complaint against having an audience. She protests being forced "to prate and talk for life and honour 'fore / Who please to come and hear" (3.2.41-42), recalling Leontes's interrogation of Camillo, "Ha' you not seen ... or heard ... or thought ... My wife is slippery?". Rather than appealing to the judgment of her spectators and auditors, who cannot know her virtue, Hermione appeals to Leontes's "own conscience" (3.2.44-45).

Although the trials of The Winter's Tale and Pandosto both portray the short-circuiting of voyeuristic desire as the destruction of the royal family, The Winter's Tale announces this theme in a stoic but also pathetic speech with no analogue in Pandosto. Hermione's closing speech repeats Bellaria's constant incantation of death before dishonor but adds reasons why, as she puts it, "to me can life be no commodity" (3.2.93). Her list of reasons is less a catalogue than a kind of grotesque blazon of the royal family being torn apart: first, each of Hermione's relationships to her family members is severed; next, she is cast out of the royal family; and finally, she is denied the privileges of motherhood. Here, too, the emphasis is on corporeal contacts between family members being broken. She laments,
   The crown and comfort of my life, your favor,
   I do give lost,

   My second joy,
   And first-fruits of my body, from his presence
   I am barr'd, like one infectious. My third comfort
   (Starr'd most unluckily) is from my breast
   (The innocent milk in it most innocent mouth)
   Hal'd out to murder; myself on every post
   Proclaim'd a strumpet, with immodest hatred
   The child-bed privilege denied, which 'longs
   To women of all fashion, lastly, hurried
   Here, to this place, i' th' open air, before
   I have got strength of limit. Now, my liege,
   Tell me what blessings I have here alive,
   That I should fear to die? (3.2.93-108)

Hermione's speech distinguishes between what we might call appropriate and inappropriate images of the body in the grotesque mode. She refers to her contact with her children, Mamillius and Perdita, to her own breast milk, and to the bed in which she gave birth--all part of the grotesque whose power as the continuous cycle of life Bakhtin finds celebrated before the close of the sixteenth century. But all of these bodily contacts, and in particular the act of giving birth, have been violated by the jealous Leontes, who, in seeking to penetrate the secrets of his wife, harbors the fantasy of having a wife who has no secrets--a wife like Pygmalion's statue. Thus Hermione is subject to the grotesque imagination inappropriately because she has been torn from her children, forced from her child-bed without the customary month's bedrest, and now must defend herself publicly against Leontes's fantastic accusations. The queen's speech evokes pity because it shows that Leontes has completely violated and isolated her. Suddenly, the object of excessive voyeuristic desire becomes a speaking subject, because her speech now has nothing to do with gratifying Leontes's desire or flattering him. The visual and tactile language of voyeurism tear Hermione apart from everyone and everything that gives value to her life. In a sense, the Ovidian voyeuristic poetic is still functioning here. The Maenads's dismemberment of Orpheus is a loose analogue, but with the difference that Ovid's scene revels in the violence without evoking pathos. The other analogue, of course, is the second death of Eurydice, but that, like the death of Orpheus, is a highly aestheticized scene in which no one speaks. Hermione's speech marks an important transformation of Ovidian aesthetics in The Winter's Tale. It evokes pity, not desire, and it breaks the relationship between bodily contact and sexual possession. (13) Thus pity is offered as a substitute for the desire and jealousy that flourish in the gaps in Leontes's knowledge. That Leontes rejects Hermione's defense crowns his characterization as a tyrant.


Just as the tale of Pygmalion arises dialectically from the tensions generated by the second death of Eurydice, so the statue scene of The Winter's Tale arises dialectically from the tensions of the first half of the play that culminate in the trial scene. Because The Winter's Tale borrows from and refers to Pandosto explicitly, the statue scene produces a singular effect on the whole complex of texts that precede it. It is as if the classical subtext of Metamorphoses book 10 erupts from within the closing scene to engulf and reinterpret not only the first half of The Winter's Tale but also Pandosto. (14) The Winter's Tale displaces the recognition between Leontes and his lost daughter, Perdita, offstage, to be narrated by two gentlemen, which completely subordinates the sudden tragic climax of the Pandosto plot. In its stead, as a clown explains in the penultimate scene, we will see "the queen's picture" (5.2.173-74).

It is in the picture of the queen, rather than in the queen herself, that the gap of uncertainty plaguing Leontes and his analogues in Pygmalion and Pandosto may seem to be filled. Antigonus's wife Paulina, who defends Hermoine and chastises Leontes in the first half of the play, has invented the statue, given it a history, and even a maker--Julio Romano, the Italian architect and painter. (15) Part of the attraction of Paulina's statue, like that of Pygmalion, is that there is nothing more to know about it than what has been said: to know the statue superficially is to know it entirely. Paulina has literally and figuratively "painted" the statue with her rhetoric, as Leontes and his rediscovered daughter, Perdita (the analogue to Pandosto's Fawnia), learn when they ask to kiss it. Once she has revealed the statue, Paulina offers three times to conceal it again behind the curtain. She entreats first Perdita and then Leontes not to touch the statue, indicating that it exists as an object for the gaze but not the touch. Perdita wants to kiss the statue's hand and Leontes its lips, but Paulina denies them, explaining to Perdita "The statue is but newly fix'd; the color's / Not dry," (5.3.48-49). To Leontes she says, "The ruddiness on her lip is wet; / You'll mar it if you kiss it; stain your own / With oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain?" (81-83). The question is really a taunt.

Indeed, Paulina's paint is a transformative medium. It presents the appearance of ruddiness on Hermione's lip that represents her sexuality and makes the statue both lifelike and desirable. In Paulina's fiction, the paint transcends the traditional paradox of representation, for it really is the cosmetics on Hermione's face that it is supposed to represent. It is the only aspect of the statue that is what it seems to be. And because, as Paulina says, the ruddiness on Hermoine's lips is only wet paint on an inanimate statue, Hermione's sexuality disappears, having been displaced by the painted statue. The paint encloses the statue, displaces Hermione's sexuality, and therefore allows a Hermione both sexualized and sexually inaccessible to stand at the center of a spectacle--desirable but not desiring, precisely the inverse of the Hermione that Leontes's suspicions produced in the trial scene.

Paulina's paint creates a disjunction between visual and tactile knowledge because it constitutes the statue as an object for the gaze alone. This disjunction is the necessary condition for the classical image of the body, for if no one can touch the statue, then all there is to know about it is what can be seen. Thus Paulina's paint recalls Antigonus's parodic assertion in act two that unless Leontes were to "go in couples" with his queen, he could never be sure of her fidelity. So long as Paulina maintains the disjunction between visual and tactile knowledge by means of her paint, Hermione herself is effaced and her statue can be an unthreatening object of intense voyeuristic desire.

The paradoxes that maintain the illusion of a safely sexual Hermione cannot last, however, and the wonder of the statue scene comes at the cost of dispelling its illusion just when Leontes and Perdita have said they would stand transfixed, gazing at the statue, for twenty years (5.3.84). Paulina presents her spectators a choice:
   Either forbear,
   Quit presently the chapel, or resolve you
   For more amazement. If you can behold it,
   I'll make the statue move ...
   ... but then you'll think
   (Which I protest against) I am assisted
   By wicked powers. (85-91)

Leontes really has no choice. A captive of his desire--really a reformed version of the desire that spurred his jealousy initially--he plainly cannot turn away any more than Orpheus could resist turning his eyes to Eurydice. Paulina forces Leontes to consent to the "spell" that will itself dispel the statue of Hermione and replace it with the queen herself. As he was in the "Affection!" speech, so here Leontes is again compelled by his desire, but this time Paulina manipulates Leontes's desire. This time there is a "being" behind the "doing" and "becoming" of Leontes's desire, and the "becoming" in the statue scene is, rather than Leontes's nightmare, his fantasy: the statue of Hermione becoming flesh once again.

The crucial utterance of Paulina's spell is directed at the statue: "I'll fill your grave up" (5.3.101). By undoing the illusion that constitutes Hermione as a classical body, Paulina invokes the power of the grotesque to represent birth, life, and death as conditions that arise from one another. Paulina fills Hermione's grave in the sense that, as Polixenes says, she has "stol'n [Hermione] from the dead" (115). She has fulfilled the quest that Orpheus failed. In the first place, Orpheus's plea to Pluto and Proserpine figures the entire underworld as the grave. He addresses them: "o gods of the world placed under the earth, into which we fall back, whoever is created mortal" (o positi sub terra numina mundi, / in quem reccidimus, quidquid mortale creamur) (Metamorphoses 10.17-18). (16) In the second place, the activity of stealing operates in the Orpheus myth, where Orpheus alludes to Pluto's rape of Proserpine in the sense of stealing her from her mother: he takes the rape as a sign that Eros binds even these gods, and asks, as a fellow lover, for their sympathy. In the third place, the Hermione whom Paulina has "stol'n from the dead" remains vulnerable to a second death reminiscent of the "double death" of Eurydice (gemina nece, Metamorphoses 10.64; Golding translates it "double dying"). (17) Paulina warns Leontes, "Do not shun her [Hermione] / Until you see her die again; for then / You kill her double" (TWT 5.3.105-07). By invoking the double death of Eurydice, Paulina compares Leontes's initial jealousy to the grief of Orpheus on Eurydice's death and Pygmalion's initial policy of avoiding women. She recalls the Ovidian tension, between the urge to know or possess the female and the prohibitions against seeing or touching, that excites masculine desire. Thus she names the framework within which to interpret the statue scene that she has staged both for Leontes and the play's spectators.

The statue scene, then, does not merely reenact a version of Pygmalion in order to construct a surprise comedic ending (although it does have that effect); rather, it stitches together narrative remnants of Orpheus's failed quest to recover Eurydice. Moreover, the statue scene reverses the imperative that Orpheus not look at Eurydice as he tries to bring her back from the dead: by rhetorically "painting" Hermione with the story that she is a statue, Paulina has made it "lawful" for Leontes to look at Hermione and desire her. At the same time, Paulina's paint exposes as fiction the classical ideal, in which desire takes as its object the female body and thus constitutes the masculine subject.

The moment of fulfillment Paulina creates is as ephemeral as her fabulous paint, of course, for no sooner does she reveal Hermione than Polixenes demands an explanation for what has just occurred. Paulina delivers not answers but a further mystification: "That she were living, / Were it but told you, should be hooted at / Like an old tale, but it appears she lives" (5.3.115-17). Leontes, too, has questions. Despite his apology for suspecting Hermione and Polixenes, he specifies, as the play closes, that
   we may leisurely
   Each one demand, and answer to his part
   Perform'd in this wide gap of time, since first
   We were dissever'd. (5.3.152-55)

The Winter's Tale thus seems to begin again, probing the wide gap of time that Leontes can never fully know under the same logic of desire and prohibition, seeing and seeking illicitly to touch, that "dissever'd" Leontes from Hermione, Perdita, and Polixenes in the beginning. The fictive basis of masculine heterosexual desire--that the female body is to be possessed and known fully--arises again with all of its disruptive power, almost as if Paulina had never transformed it into the paint on Hermione's statue in the first place.

I want to thank Bonnie Roos, George Rowe, Michael Ward, Denise Tillery, and Roland Greene for their help and encouragement with this essay.

(1) All quotations of The Winter's Tale refer to the New Arden edition, edited by J.H.P. Pafford.

(2) Peter Stallybrass explains the early modern definition of "woman" in the category of property and explores the desirability of the early modern woman as partially a function of her accessibility to men ("Patriarchal Territories: The Body Enclosed." Rewriting the Renaissance: The Discourse of Sexual Difference. Ed. Margaret Ferguson, Maureen Quilligan, and Nancy Vickers. Chicago: Chicago UP, 1986. 123-42.). Lawrence Danson extends Stallybrass's argument and shows that Leontes's desire to discover Hermione's "crime" is based in an impossible masculine desire to possess female sexuality. Patricia Parker's "Shakespeare and Rhetoric: 'dilation' and 'delation' in Othello" and her Literary Fat Ladies develop the notion of a gendered rhetoric of sexuality and the law that underpins my analyses of both Ovid and Shakespeare. Howard Felperin explores the outlines of Leontes's epistemological dilemma in language, around which I build my own discussion of how he knows what he thinks he knows. David Schalkwyk links the epistemological problem that Felperin delineates to the notions of female sexuality and sexual desirability that Stallybrass and Parker develop.

(3) All translations are my own unless otherwise noted.

(4) The agency in the passage is not impossible to determine, but merely initially ambiguous. William S. Anderson notes that "the gestures of [line] 58 could fit either" Orpheus or Eurydice, but that line 59, nil nisi cedentes infelix arripit auras (nothing except receding air the unfortunate one grasps) can only point to Orpheus, since grasping vainly at the air is part of the formulaic rendering of one in the throes of a vision of a dead lover. Most translators (Arthur Golding, for one, as well as Rolph Humphries, A. D. Melville, and F. J. Miller) agree with Anderson and give the actions of line 58 to Orpheus. Nevertheless, as Anderson notes, "it is not immediately clear whether the husband or wife acts in 58-59" (479-80, n.56-59).

(5) Throughout the analysis of the Pygmalion episode, I rely on the translation of the Metamorphoses 10.243-97 in Elsner and Sharrock, "Re-Viewing Pygmalion," unless otherwise noted.

(6) The word for bruise, livor, is a homonym for Envy (Livor): a hint, perhaps, at the subtext of jealousy that governs the story Pygmalion (Sharrock, "Womanufacture" 43).

(7) This and all subsequent citations of Pandosto refer to the edition included as Appendix IV of the Arden Shakespeare The Winter's Tale, ed. J. H. P. Pafford.

(8) Stallybrass (note 2 above) also traces the early modern homology between female silence and chastity and conceives of it usefully in Bakhtinan terms of the "female grotesque"; by forcing Bellaria to defend herself publicly in his court, Pandosto in one sense makes Bellaria the unchaste wife that he accuses.

(9) For more on the function of the incest motif in Pandosto, see Brenda Cantar, 21-28, 33-34. Additionally, Martin Mueller notes that incest also plays a prominent role in Pygmalion's progeny, between Cinyras and his daughter Myrrha, as a kind of revelation of sexual wishes that Pygmalion himself had kept hidden (233-34). Mueller contends that The Winter's Tale only alludes to the incest motif, which of course is much more prominent in Pandosto.

(10) See also Schalkwyk for an exploration of the epistemological implications of the speech (246). Danson similarly compares the fluidity of Leontes's imagery to the elusiveness that female sexuality presents control-hungry husband (78). In Robert Weimann's terminology, Leontes has entered the downstage figurenposition as he addresses the audience directly and implicates them in his own drama. See especially pp. 77, 110, 200-03, 224-30.

(11) See Cantar, 25. Felperin emphasizes the epistemological uncertainties that Leontes faces and finds these expressed in his harangue on "nothing." In fact, he credits the realism of The Winter's Tale to its linguistic indeterminacy (8).

(12) See Gillian West, who lists several such incidents ("Fuelling the Flames: Inadvertent Double Entendre in The Winter's Tale, Act I Scene ii." English Studies 74 [1993]: 520-23). Felperin listed three of the seven that West lists in her note. Catherine Bates, in The Rhetoric of Courtship in Elizabethan Language and Literature (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1992), traces in some detail the slippage in meaning between the political and sexual senses of courtship and courtly language, which sharpens the point: Leontes's knowledge is limited by a language that is slippery in exactly the manner he imagines Hermione to be slippery.

(13) At the same time, as Patricia Parker writes, "the relation between a potentially uncontrollable female sexuality, a woman speaking in public, and a woman usurping her proper place is made ... explicit ... in the complex of misogynist double entendres surrounding the figure of a woman who takes upon herself the traditional male role of the public orator pleading a 'cause' or 'case' in court" (Fat Ladies 106).

(14) Perhaps the most suggestive general formulation of this relationship is made in an elaborate analogy by Gordon Teskey. Seeking to explain the relationship of the classical to the romantic in Shakespeare's romances, Teskey writes,
      In his essay 'The Medusa and the Snail,' Lewis Thomas [The Medusa and
   the Snail] describes the symbiotic relation between a jellyfish, the
   medusa, and a common sea snail that in its mature state has a tiny, round,
   vestigial medusa attached to the skin near its mouth. This vestigial
   jellyfish produces a full-sized offspring that will capture inside it a
   small snail of the same species as the large one on which its parent is
   anchored. Remaining undigested by the medusa, the small snail will devour
   its host from within, growing larger as its host is correspondingly
   diminished in size. Finally, as the cycle is completed, the snail grows so
   large, and the jellyfish it devours so small, that its host is reduced to a
   tiny, round parasite clinging to the skin near its mouth.

      The application of this cycle to the relation between the classical and
   the romantic is easily seen. We are used to thinking of The Tempest, for
   example, as a play in which Shakespeare imposes a rigorously classical form
   on the romantic experiments of The Winter's Tale. ... [But] it is Prospero
   who, like a classical author, governs the distribution of events in the
   play so that, like a wizard, he can capture the powers to be released when
   the previous age has completed its course in the stars. The classical
   perfection of The Tempest seems not to have been imposed from without the
   romantic materials but to have emerged from within to engulf them. (9-10)

By the same analogy, I think, the classical locus of Pygmalion and Metamorphoses book 10, which subtend The Winter's Tale and Pandosto, emerges in the statue scene to engulf and reinterpret the play and its main source.

(15) Romano was also known for his explicit illustrations of Pietro Aretino's pornographic sonnets.

(16) I translate this literally because Golding's rendering of reccidimus, "repayre," is not literal and does not have an echo in The Winter's Tale. Reccidimus comes from recido, or re/cado, I fall back.

(17) David Armitage also argues that Shakespeare makes use of the same line in Ovid: stupuit gemina nece coniugis Orpheus, or "The double dying of his wife set Orphye in a stound" (Golding's translation). Armitage points out that only in Shakespeare's late romances do the early modern English cognates to stupuit, "stupid" and "stupefied," appear (127-28). They appear in The Winter's Tale at 2.1.165-67, where Leontes declares his advisors "stupefied" because they do not assent to the allegations he has made against Hermione, and at 4.4.399-400, where Polixenes, arguing with his son, asks whether he thinks his father "stupid / with age and alt'ring rheums."

Works Cited

Anderson, William S., ed. Ovid's Metamorphoses Books 6-10. Norman: U of Oklahoma P, 1972.

Armitage, David. "The Dismemberment of Orpheus: Mythic Elements in Shakespeare's Romances." Shakespeare Survey 39 (1987): 123-33.

Bakhtin, Mikhail. Rabelais and His World. Trans. Helene Iswolsky. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1984.

Brooks, Peter. Body Work: Objects of Desire in Modern Narrative. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1993.

Cantar, Brenda. "'Silenced but for the Word': The Discourse of Incest in Greene's Pandosto and Menaphon." English Studies in Canada 23.1 (1997): 21-36.

Danson, Lawrence. "'The Catastrophe is a Nuptial': The Space of Masculine Desire in Othello, Cymbeline, and The Winter's Tale." Shakespeare Survey 46 (1994): 69-79.

Elsner, John. "Visual Mimesis and the Myth of the Real: Pygmalion as Viewer." Ramus 20 (1991): 154-168.

--, and Alison Sharrock. "Re-Viewing Pygmalion." Ramus 20 (1991): 149-53.

Felperin, Howard. "'Tongue-tied Our Queen?': The Deconstruction of Presence in The Winter's Tale." Shakespeare and the Question of Theory. Ed. Patricia Parker and Geoffrey Hartman. New York: Metheun, 1985. 3-18.

Golding, Arthur. Shakespeare's Ovid: Arthur Golding's Translation of the Metamorphoses. Ed. W.H.D. Rouse. New York: Norton, 1961.

Mueller, Martin. "Hermione's Wrinkles, or, Ovid Transformed: An Essay on The Winter's Tale." Comparative Drama 5.3 (1971): 226-39.

Nietzsche, Friederich. On the Genealogy of Morals. Trans. Walter Kaufmann New York: Vintage, 1989.

Parker, Patricia. "Shakespeare and Rhetoric: 'dilation' and 'delation' in Othello." Shakespeare and the Question of Theory. Ed. Patricia Parker and Geoffrey Hartman. New York: Metheun, 1985. 54-74.

--. Literary Fat Ladies: Rhetoric, Gender, Property. London: Methuen, 1987.

Schalkwyk, David. "'A Lady's "Verily" is as Potent as a Lord's': Women, Words, and Witchcraft in The Winter's Tale." English Literary Renaissance 22 (1992): 242-72.

Shakespeare, William. The Rape of Lucrece. The Norton Shakespeare. Ed. Stephen Greenblatt et al. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1997. 635-82.

--. The Tragedy of Othello the Moor of Venice. The Norton Shakespeare. Ed. Stephen Greenblatt et al. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1997. 2091-2173.

--. The Winter's Tale. Ed. J.H.P. Pafford. New York: Routledge, 1963. Sharrock, Alison R. "The Love of Creation." Ramus 20 (1991): 169-82.

--. "Womanufacture." Journal of Roman Studies 81 (1991): 36-49.

Teskey, Gordon. Introduction. Unfolded Tales: Essays on Renaissance Romance. Ithaca, NY: Cornell UP, 1989. 1-10.

Weimann, Robert. Shakespeare and the Popular Tradition in the Theater: Studies in the Social Dimension of Dramatic Form and Function. Ed. Robert Schwartz. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 1978.

JOEL DAVIS is an Assistant Professor in English at Stetson University. He has published articles on the publication history of Philip Sidney's New Arcadia and Fulke Greville's A Letter to an Honorable Lady, and currently is working on a book about the literary politics of the "Sidney Circle."
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