5. This chapter focuses on Foes ending, a book designed to confront with the limits of the novel form. It explores in new detail the evolution of this work from Coetzees drafts.

On the Ides of March 44 BC, a momentous occasion took place in the history of Rome: Julius Caesar was assassinated in a crowded meeting of the senate.1 Almost immediately the scramble to define, legitimize, and record the act was set in motion. Marcus Junius Brutus, we are told, raised his dagger in the air and called on Cicero, presumably hoping he would be the ideal advocate for their deed; after all, Cicero had spoken out vigorously against tyranny in his published works, and this is the line they wanted to take now: that Caesar was a tyrant justly slain. For the same reason, the assassins took control over their image by rebranding themselves as ‘Liberators’ – that is, as the men who had freed Rome from Caesar’s rule. On the afternoon of the Ides, Brutus and Cassius attempted to address the people of Rome in a contio – a public meeting hastily convened in the forum. But there was little public support either then or in the meetings that followed.

In the last two centuries BC, with the Republic limping towards its end, the cultivated ruling elite began to lose its moral and political authority.1 Its members not only held themselves responsible for the so-called crisis of tradition, but at the same time also conveyed the impression of a loss of memory, as if all Romans were suffering from some kind of amnesia or identity crisis.2 In particular, institutional figures such as pontiffs and augurs, who had preserved Rome’s memory throughout its history, were accused of neglecting their duties and, by extension, of allowing ancient practices and values to slowly disappear.3 Accordingly, Cicero and Varro, both perfect representatives of this elite, employed recurrent terms such as neglect (neglegentia/neglegere), involuntary abandon (amittere), oblivion (oblivio), vanishing of institutions (evanescere), and ignorance (ignoratio/ignorare) to describe this critical loss of information; they depicted the citizenry of Rome (civitas) as disoriented and estranged, incapable of sharing any common knowledge or values.

What was literary theory in the Middle Ages? What was literary criticism? How did medieval scholars record their interpretations of texts? What forms did those interpretations take? And how do the forms of medieval literary criticism contribute to the shape of medieval literary theory? By teasing out answers to these questions from a series of examples of medieval (chiefly twelfth-century) commentary on classical literature, this chapter offers an introduction to the study of literary texts, its norms, assumptions, sources and priorities in the Latin Middle Ages. It concludes with an overview of the volume as a whole, focusing on how the various chapters relate to three overarching concepts: interpretation, invention and imagination.

The chapter looks at Virgil’s Aeneid and the American Western The Outlaw Josey Wales to identify a Roman and American shared founding narrative of a community of Strangers dislocated from history and place. What emerges from Virgil, and gives us insight into America’s founding experience, is that the connection between past and future hinges on a paradox. The community is defined neither by a lineage of a people nor by a place, but is forged by the experience of dislocation. The sense of a future, which for both Rome and America lie in the promise of a new age, does not rest on a continuity with the past but on the experience of discontinuity. The power of these narratives is that they provide a basis for the incorporation of new peoples and new territory. But the myth haunts the Roman imagination like it does the American. If there is nothing natural, fixed, or visible about who is included as Roman or American, then it is not clear what constitutes a We rather than a They.

Vita Sackville-West’s book-length blank verse poems The Land (1926) and The Garden (1946) are unique in English poetry as the twentieth century’s sole exemplars of Virgilian formal georgic. This chapter discusses both poems in their historical context, reading them as distinguished receptions of classical as well as English literary models. The chapter focuses on Sackville-West’s recalibrations of Virgil, and assesses the implications of her work on conceptions of the georgic genre with regard to didacticism, linguistic experiment, aesthetic achievement and ideas about empire and national identity.

This chapter studies the relationship between two of the foremost examples of georgic poetry in English – James Thomson’s The Seasons and Vita Sackville-West’s The Land, and the tradition’s primary ancient model, Virgil’s Georgics. It argues that georgic poetry is deeply implicated in the politics of empire in Roman no less than in British contexts, using themes of geography, travel and patriotism to showcase and celebrate imperial power. Simultaneously, georgic poetry can be read as a kind of archive, celebrating the artisanal practices of rural communities under threat from profit-driven economic models, marrying intense appreciation of the natural world with an equally intense awareness of that world’s fragility. As such, georgic poetry can be usefully read as dramatizing certain contradictions and challenges which remain relevant in global politics in the twenty-first century.

The origins of modern georgic writing lie in the ancient Mediterranean, in the literature of ancient Greece and Rome. On the Greek side the genre begins with the poetry of Hesiod, embraces dozens of treatise in poetry and prose written during the Hellenistic era, and comes to an end in Byzantine times with the massive compilation of farming lore known as the Geoponica. Latin georgic starts with Cato’s essay on agriculture, culminates in Vergil’s Georgics – the poem that defined the genre for later European authors – and persists in the Latin prose of Columella, Pliny, and Palladius. The diversity of the genre evades definition. Its popularity is unsurprising in the context of a world where wealth meant ownership of land and most people tilled the soil.

Virgil promises a calendar of times and tasks in his Georgics, yet the temporal leaps in his poem take us far from steady calendrical form. This essay asks how his English inheritors have evoked repeated annual cycles while also expressing idiosyncratic understandings of time and local particularities of work. The first section argues that the medieval iconography of the ‘labours of the months’ provides an important and neglected context for study of georgic writing, and enquires into the parallel influence of another iconographic tradition: that of illustrations to Virgil. Subsequent sections focus on writers (including Thomas Tusser, Mary Collier, William Cowper and Ford Madox Ford) who develop literary forms for their calendrical material and in doing so question the very shape and meaning of rural life. Where are the year’s pivots and culminations, does it take different form for men and women, does it begin or end?

This chapter positions Thomas Hardy, and to a lesser extent his Wiltshire-born contemporary, Richard Jefferies, as case studies by which to assess broader environmental crises in the final decades of the nineteenth century. My central concern is with how the georgic sensibility, far from a passé or patrician enthusiasm in late-Victorian literature, has, in Hardy’s view, great analytical power and relevance. It allows him – especially in The Mayor of Casterbridge and The Woodlanders – to probe moral attitudes towards, and economic theories about, manual toil in an age of capitalist accumulation. In these novels Hardy interprets georgic motifs, values and sources through his portrayal of the pugnacious ‘corn king’ Henchard and the introverted yeoman Winterborne, respectively. In both texts, I contend, Hardy documents an indigenous land-worker’s increasingly fraught dispute with, and gradual supplanting by, a more ruthlessly hard-headed arriviste.

This chapter explores georgic writing that appeared during the second half of the seventeenth century, with special attention to engagements with civil war and its aftermaths. The discussion also attends closely to Virgilian strains in English georgic writing and to the significances of literary imitation and translation. Authors covered include Andrew Marvell, John Evelyn, Abraham Cowley, John Milton, Joseph Addison and John Dryden, as well as the ancient writers Hesiod and Virgil.

Is there room for weaklings in Darwin’s theory of evolution? The “survival of the fittest”—that muscular phrase taken from Herbert Spencer—would seem to suggest not. A more nuanced and counterintuitive picture emerges, however, when fitness is remapped: as a form of mutuality between the human and the nonhuman, rather than an exclusively human attribute vested in a single individual. I explore that possibility in the contemporary novel, a genre evolving steadily away from its Victorian antecedents, and circling back to the epic to reclaim an elemental realism, alert to the reparative as well as destructive forces of the nonhuman world. In Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible and Richard Powers’s The Overstory, these nonhuman forces turn the novel into a shelter for disabled characters, granting them a testing ground and a future all the more vital for being uncertain.

In Chapter 17, “Cultivating Nature,” Shiuhhuah Serena Chou analyzes the development of farming literature from Virgil’s ancient didactic poem The Georgics to the contemporary writing of authors like Wendell Berry. The chapter begins with a timely analysis of the agricultural origins of the novel coronavirus pandemic and of the pandemic’s xenophobic representations in the media and political discourse. Chou connects the pandemic to modern industrial agriculture and turns to farming literature for alternative imaginings of humanity’s relationship to the land and food production. Chou illuminates how farm writing in the Anthropocene moves beyond the pastoral-georgic binary that structures earlier examples of the genre, analyzing the works of David Mas Masumoto, his wife Marcy, and his daughter Nikiko as paradigmatic examples.