Thursday, September 30th, 2010
Interview with Robert Hanning, author of “Serious Play”
Robert W. Hanning was interviewed, on the publication of his book, Serious Play. Desire and Authority in the Poetry of Ovid, Chaucer, and Ariosto, by Pocahontas Perelstein, feminist critic and talk show host. A partial transcript follows:
Q: How did this book come about? Why did you choose to write about comic poets, and these three in particular?
Robert W. Hanning: As I indicate in my introduction, I’ve always been attracted to comic writing, and, more fundamentally, to laughter as an important response to the insanities, though not the injustices, of human life. When I encounter a writer who sees humor as a necessary part of his or her engagement with personal and political realities, I am immediately sympathetic to what he or she is attempting, whether it be a contemporary or a premodern author. I called my book, and the lectures on which it’s based, Serious Play because I firmly believe that comedy is, among other things, an extremely profound medium for commenting effectively on important issues without resorting to mind-numbing solemnity. A perfect example of serious play in near-contemporary American writing is Edward Rivera’s superb fictionalized memoir of Puerto Rican immigrant hardship and tragedy, Family Installments. But given my training as a medievalist, specializing in the poetry of Chaucer, it was ultimately easier for me to enter the mindset of, and write about, his comic vision, and then to extend my reach to the Roman Ovid and the Italian Renaissance Ariosto.
Q: You make a distinction between satire and the kind of comedy embraced by Ovid, Chaucer, and Ariosto. How do you do so, and how defensible a contrast do you really think it is?
RWH: As to the latter point, I’m not at all sure theorists of genre will agree on distinguishing as I do between satire and the kind of comic writing “my” three poets practiced. The argument I make is that a satirist adopts the pose of someone explicitly or implicitly superior to the people and the foibles singled out for (usually exaggerated) critique. By contrast, Ovid, Chaucer, and Ariosto, each in his own way, make a point of recognizing that they are very much a part of the human errancy on which their poetry battens. Ovid’s supposed Professor of Erotic Studies—both getting in and getting out—is forced to confess that his susceptibility to amorous passion has frequently prevented him from following his own prescriptions for calculated, unecumbered seduction—”I was one sick love doctor,” he admits of one such occasion Chaucer repeatedly casts himself as one who writes about love without being able to experience it, and Ariosto, in a famous passage at the exact midpoint of the Orlando Furioso, defends himself in these words against another’s accusation that he is as pixilated by desire as all those (beginning with his hero) whom love has driven mad: “I tell you that I know exactly what’s going on—as long as my mind enjoys a lucid interval” (OF 24.3.3-4). That is, what separates the comic poet from the objects of his exposure and ridicule is not his innate superiority to them, but his ability (represented by the Italian poet as a “lucido intervallo”) to recognize—and thus to laugh at, if not necessarily to avoid—the same mistakes and follies.
Robert W. Hanning was interviewed, on the publication of his book, Serious Play. Desire and Authority in the Poetry of Ovid, Chaucer, and Ariosto, by Pocahontas Perelstein, feminist critic and talk show host. A partial transcript follows:
Q: How did this book come about? Why did you choose to write about comic poets, and these three in particular?
Robert W. Hanning: As I indicate in my introduction, I’ve always been attracted to comic writing, and, more fundamentally, to laughter as an important response to the insanities, though not the injustices, of human life. When I encounter a writer who sees humor as a necessary part of his or her engagement with personal and political realities, I am immediately sympathetic to what he or she is attempting, whether it be a contemporary or a premodern author. I called my book, and the lectures on which it’s based, Serious Play because I firmly believe that comedy is, among other things, an extremely profound medium for commenting effectively on important issues without resorting to mind-numbing solemnity. A perfect example of serious play in near-contemporary American writing is Edward Rivera’s superb fictionalized memoir of Puerto Rican immigrant hardship and tragedy, Family Installments. But given my training as a medievalist, specializing in the poetry of Chaucer, it was ultimately easier for me to enter the mindset of, and write about, his comic vision, and then to extend my reach to the Roman Ovid and the Italian Renaissance Ariosto.
Q: You make a distinction between satire and the kind of comedy embraced by Ovid, Chaucer, and Ariosto. How do you do so, and how defensible a contrast do you really think it is?
RWH: As to the latter point, I’m not at all sure theorists of genre will agree on distinguishing as I do between satire and the kind of comic writing “my” three poets practiced. The argument I make is that a satirist adopts the pose of someone explicitly or implicitly superior to the people and the foibles singled out for (usually exaggerated) critique. By contrast, Ovid, Chaucer, and Ariosto, each in his own way, make a point of recognizing that they are very much a part of the human errancy on which their poetry battens. Ovid’s supposed Professor of Erotic Studies—both getting in and getting out—is forced to confess that his susceptibility to amorous passion has frequently prevented him from following his own prescriptions for calculated, unecumbered seduction—”I was one sick love doctor,” he admits of one such occasion Chaucer repeatedly casts himself as one who writes about love without being able to experience it, and Ariosto, in a famous passage at the exact midpoint of the Orlando Furioso, defends himself in these words against another’s accusation that he is as pixilated by desire as all those (beginning with his hero) whom love has driven mad: “I tell you that I know exactly what’s going on—as long as my mind enjoys a lucid interval” (OF 24.3.3-4). That is, what separates the comic poet from the objects of his exposure and ridicule is not his innate superiority to them, but his ability (represented by the Italian poet as a “lucido intervallo”) to recognize—and thus to laugh at, if not necessarily to avoid—the same mistakes and follies.













