A physics professor from the University of Cambridge has objected to a sexually-explicit passage from Ovid’s Amores that was set as part of this year’s Cambridge OCR Board AS-level paper (the candidates sitting the exam will therefore mostly have been 16 or 17). Apparently, he thinks that the piece was unsuitable for students of this age, because the examination rubric states that ‘candidates should be able to … produce personal responses to Latin literature, showing an understanding of the Latin text’.
As an aside, I’d be prepared to hazard a guess that at least some of the examinees were not as innocent as the professor supposes. However, I do not need to speculate on how knowledgeable they may have been on the subject of the piece – an adulterous liaison between the poet and a married woman – because that is not the issue. If it were, then examinations would also have to exclude literary works that refer to all crimes, including murder, and all works set either in the past or in foreign countries unknown to the candidates. That would rule out the whole of Shakespeare, the whole of Jane Austen and most modern masterpieces. Surely the point of great literature is that it has the power to evoke an imaginative response in the reader that transcends his or her actual experiences. It achieves a fusion between art and life that yet maintains intact the distinction between the two. As Orhan Pamuk puts it so eloquently in The Naïve and Sentimental Novelist, “We dream assuming dreams to be real; such is the definition of dreams. And so we read novels assuming them to be real – but somewhere in our mind we also know very well that our assumption is false.”
What is depressing about the good professor’s comments, however, is not their patent absurdity (he is a professor of Physics, after all, not of Literature), but the fact that they signal a deadening retrogressive trend that is in danger of spreading beyond the confines of the classroom. I was a schoolgirl during the tail end of a period when some school texts still in circulation were described as ‘abridged’ or even ‘expurgated’: for example, my rather old-fashioned grammar school still had many sets of the Warwick Shakespeares. They had been relieved of all scenes of a sexual nature and any words that could be construed as ‘blasphemous’. However, by then, these texts were still in use for reasons of economy, rather than to preserve the pupils’ innocence. When we came to the examinations, we were expected to have read the full-fat versions. Teachers advised us to refer to these in the Collected Works, or sometimes reproduced the excised passages on separate cyclostyled sheets of paper.
To my knowledge, the Latin texts that we studied had never been subjected to the same cleansing process: my Latin ‘A’ Level syllabus included the original works by Juvenal and Catullus – much racier than Ovid – as well as Ovid himself. I cannot remember having had any difficulty in understanding them or of their having caused offence or difficulty in the classroom. What I do recall is how fresh and original they still seemed, two millennia after they were first published, and the brilliance of the teacher who helped us to appreciate them.
I’m delighted that Mary Beard, Professor of Classics at Cambridge, has robustly defended the choice of excerpt in the Latin exam paper, because I’d hate us to slide backwards into a kind of dark age of political correctness in literature. Today we are scornful of Nahum Tate’s version of King Lear, in which Cordelia marries Edgar and all the ‘good’ characters live happily ever after. We are positively amused by the efforts of Thomas Bowdler, who not only supervised the production of a ‘family edition’ of Shakespeare, but also considered that Edward Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire was too risqué for polite society, and ‘improved’ it accordingly. More recently, my generation was exasperated by Mary Whitehouse’s well-meaning but narrow-minded attempts to clean up television.
We flatter ourselves that we live in a more sophisticated age than Tate or Bowdler. Many of their contemporaries, in fact, looked askance at what they were trying to achieve, just as my generation ridiculed Mary Whitehouse. Yet fashions in morality and what is ‘acceptable’ often don’t progress in linear fashion, making the next more discerning than its predecessor. In the nineteenth century, English literature was propelled at first slowly, then ever more rapidly, from the exceptionally daring creativity of the Regency era to a decades-long period that celebrated anodyne writings in which sexuality had to be conveyed in the strange telegraphese of young girls’ blushes and young gentlemen riding hard to hounds to quell their natural yearnings. Alternatively, these characters just faded away, blissful in the knowledge that their virtue had not been compromised. Woe betide the ‘fallen woman’, whose plight was not recognised until the end of the century, when Thomas Hardy wrote Tess of the d’Ubervilles.
When I was at school, it was a commonly-held belief that Physics was a finite subject: that mankind had ‘cracked’ it and had discovered all that there was to it. I know very little indeed about science, but I have read that today Physics is an incredibly exciting as well as very complex subject, one which attracts the finest minds as scientists push back the boundaries of knowledge all the time. I both respect and am in awe of them. I would suggest that they have at least one thing in common with those who choose to make literature their life’s work: they build on the creativity of the generations that preceded them. As far as I know, there is no expurgated version of Newton or Einstein: the only limitations placed on their students concern the latters’ capacity for understanding. The same restriction, and this restriction only, should apply to those who study Shakespeare, Catullus, Juvenal – and Ovid.
9 thoughts on “Warning, this post is not for the prudish…”
Hear hear! I agree one hundred percent, and to add to what you have said here, Christina, practically all great literature is partly great because of the rich, fresh and robust way in which such matters were dealt with. It is wonderful to read the wealth of wit with which these two discuss what nowadays would be referred to rather plainly as brewer’s droop. I hope too that the ‘holier than thou’ attitude will not prevail. What a loss to young people’s education that would be.
Thank you, Valerie, for that resounding endorsement! May I add that I’ve always suspected prudes of a very unhealthy and unbalanced interest in sex. I wonder if they will queue up here to tell me otherwise! 😉
I am now reminded of a Chaucer tutorial that my husband attended, during which one student suggested that the branding iron in ‘The Miller’s Tale’ might be construed as phallic. (He was winding the elderly spinster tutor up!) She responded, “Young man, that may not be without the scope of Chaucer, but it is CERTAINLY without the scope of this tutorial!”
Precious! And you could be right. The more obsessive the objection, the more obsessive the interest…interesting thought!
I also agree whole-heartedly with all that you say.
I do, however, have problems with the sex scenes in my fledgling novel, too explicit and I think “People will wonder how I know that”, too coy and I feel like an elderly maiden aunt, the kind who would cover the legs of her piano to avoid arousing unwanted passions.
PS Mary Beard is a wonderful lady!
It is very difficult to write good sex scenes, which is why we should celebrate the Latin poets, who seemed to get it just right! 🙂
That Victorian covering of furniture legs with frills was, frankly, absurd! I loved your comment, however!
Indeed, and yes!
I solved the problem of the piano legs by buying an upright! 🙂
Oh, the devastating loss of an elegant and well-turned leg! 😉
My feeling is that we should write what we are comfortable with ourselves in our books. I could no more write a sex scene than I could write about playing snooker. It’s not that I don’t have the experience of either 🙂 and I am no prude – nor am I ignorant of snooker (!) it’s just not me to write about it. In fact, I don’t write that kind of book anyway so I don’t believe it is something that’s missing in my stories. Allusion is all I find necessary – taking the easy way out as always 🙂 However…as Christina says, the Victorian covering up of sex in every area of life was ridiculous. But it is a difficult balance to find, I agree.
A sincere and rational comment, beautifully and humorously put! 🙂