"The art of the people": how comics got political

"I think ideas are the real villains in politics and the world generally."

It was fitting that the strand of events centered on comics at the Edinburgh Book Festival opened with a political statement. Speaking on his worries as comics moved further into the realm of literary accolades and academic study, the critically acclaimed Chris Ware told his audience that comics are “a working class art form”, and the “art of the people”, with the caveat that he didn’t intend to sound strident.

One of the historical roots of modern comics is of course the political cartooning of the early newspapers; the mechanical reproduction of images finally allowing art to be consumed by the masses rather than the privileged few, with cartoonists leaping at the chance to communicate complex political situations via their deceptively simple form. 

The idea of comics as a political tool is not without its controversies, from grumbles amongst novelists to riots over religious icon portrayals. Any fan of superhero comics can tell you that comics don’t have to be overtly political, but the recent insistence by creator Todd McFarlane that historically no comic book that has worked has been “trying to get across a message” was largely met by the rolling of eyes.

As Stripped celebrates comics and graphic novels in all their forms, I wondered what a few of the guests had to say about how they incorporate their own politics into their work, and how the medium of comics helps or hinders their message.

Stephen Collins, winner of the 2010 Observer/Cape/Comica Graphic short story prize and creator of The Gigantic Beard That Was Evil (Jonathan Cape, 2013), is well known for his comic strips that appear in both the Guardian and Prospect, frequently tackling topical issues.

“In terms of newspaper cartoons,” Collins says, “I tend to go for something that makes me laugh first, rather than a political angle. And even when that does turn out to be political, I try not to draw politicians too much. Partly because it dates the comic quickly, partly because it’s so much a ‘part of the game’ that politicians will just ask to buy the cartoons for their toilet wall as an ego-boost, which is annoying.

“But also I am more interested in political ideas, and how they get used and abused by politicians and the rest of us, than in specific politicians. I think ideas are the real villains in politics and the world generally, so I try to get at that for 'satire' if I can, rather than draw Michael Gove every week. 

“Technology-driven individualism is a good source of jokes for instance, and it’s a very political idea which is underneath a lot of modern life, but I just think it turns out better if I do a sketch about somebody using a smartphone rather than criticizing a specific government policy.”

It’s interesting to note that in our media savvy times, politicians are clearly as aware of satirical cartoons as the intended audience – Collins is surely not alone in wincing at the idea of his artwork adorning the lavatory walls of The Man.

So is Collins’ cartooning done as commentary alone or is he trying to win hearts and minds? “Commentary, really,” he answers. “I think it’s a bit weird when people claim they’re trying to change people’s minds with political cartoons. I think longer, more subtle comics can do that – Joe Sacco or Rutu Modan for instance – because they give you a proper insight into someone else’s experience of a political issue. But I think if you’re doing a short gag you can forget about changing minds. You’re there to make a joke first and foremost, which can be perspective-changing within limits… but I’m not likely to blow open a Daily Mail reader’s mindset by doing a comic strip in the Guardian. The moral high ground some satirists assume can be a right turn-off for me sometimes if I'm honest.”

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Sacco, creator of Palestine, Safe Area Goražde, and Journalism amongst others, is highly acclaimed for his documentary journalism in the comics medium. The cartoonist was keen to stress to his audience at the second Stripped event the differences between his subjective journalism and so-called objective journalism, saying that the former was far more honest – all reporters and journalists have their own preconceived notions that dictate how and what they report. While journalists reporting only the cold hard facts left gaps in the story, Sacco mused that, “I don’t know if there should be more outrage for the sake of outrage,” and pointed out that their choice of story was often telling enough.

“My sympathies are clear at least by what I’m reporting on,” he said, adding that by portraying himself within his stories he was indicating that this work was filtered through his own viewpoint. Sacco also spoke of the tension between the idea of journalism, representing the facts and the truth, and drawing, which he said was subjective by its very nature, filtered by the artist and the choices they make on the page.

But does his work record history or does it actually influence people? Sacco personally went from the US media created illusion that all Palestinians were terrorists to being able to show the bigger picture. “For whatever it’s worth,” he said, “this is when I can do something about that situation. This is when their voices can have some agency.”

Sacco, like Chris Ware, has won numerous literary awards as well as the more traditional comics prizes, and his upcoming panoramic wordless take on the first day of the Battle of the Somme, The Great War (Jonathan Cape, 2013), is sure to be a huge success. While graphic novels have a steadily soaring audience size, one can’t discount the superheroes and other monthly publications that dominate our popular culture.

One writer who openly embraces political issues in his mainstream work is Paul Cornell, writer for DC, Marvel and Doctor Who, as well as numerous novels including London Falling (Tor, 2013). Cornell is known not only for including great women characters in his comics, but also for spotlighting issues including LGBT and immigration as almost a byproduct of his plots.

Cornell caused a storm of controversy last year by directly addressing the lack of women guests at many comics conventions. "Panel Parity" was his vow that he would not appear on panels that were not fairly balanced, thus keeping the issue at the forefront of convention organisers (and fans) minds.

I wondered whether Cornell had experienced difficulties due to wearing his politics so openly on his sleeve.

“I think there's a lot more resistance from certain elements in the fandoms than there is inside the companies,” Cornell answered. “Certainly, Marvel have got behind Panel Parity, putting my wonderful Wolverine editor, Jeanine Schaefer, on their Comic Con panel (editors appearing on panels is a surprisingly rare thing), and emphasising their female-led books and female talent. 

“In the past, comics companies have tended to suggest diversity should 'happen naturally', as if when you leave a comic book open overnight gay men might grow in the pages like mustard and cress, so it's great that Marvel are now championing it, doing it deliberately. Because that's the only way it can be done. Jeanine's a force for change. And there are a number of prominent female editors now who are altering the face of pro comics culture pretty swiftly. 

“Online comics fandom, meanwhile, if you judge solely by the comics message boards, remains conservative and behind the times. The action is to be found on Tumblr, where the Carol Corps lives."

Tumblr is indeed the place to be for many younger comics fans who have been horrified at those same conservative internet forums. Here burgeoning communities of like-minded souls can be found, with a sense of real enthusiasm in the air. 

I ask if Cornell’s stance on panel parity, which he began with the acknowledgement that it was most likely a rod for his own back, has caused him trouble.

“It's horrified various convention organisers,” Cornell says, “who find themselves having to jump through hoops. I don't mind that negative reaction so much, they're having to deal with the results of patriarchy, it's not their fault it exists. I've been quietly dropped from a few conventions I'd previously been invited to. The worst thing is when it's treated as something laughable.

“One World Science Fiction Convention actually tried to lessen the number of female panelists on one panel I was on, joking that they were trying to create 'parity' across the board. For them, and for some great big chunks of SF fandom in general, it'll always be 1974. But various others events (such as the wonderful CONvergence in Minnesota) found that they had a woman on every panel I was on anyway. (My rule these days has been reduced to 'I don't do all male panels' rather than a need for 50/50, because I wanted to speed up the rate of change.)

“It's bashing at the wrong end of the problem, but it's created some good outcomes. The women who get to appear on panels when they formerly wouldn't have have universally been great, never a token, because there's a huge untapped resource of women panelists sitting in front rows at every convention.  Women set themselves harder standards of expertise before they'll think of themselves as panelist material, while men tend to think 'I'll have a go' whether or not they know anything about the subject.“ 

But for some creators it’s not so easy to put your politics out there, particularly if you are prone to reinventing yourself, changing your stance, or not visibly engaged with the online world. Cornell’s stance is hugely admirable, as is his willingness to speak out on issues that have caused problems for many fans. As a woman who has experienced her fair share of abuse for speaking out about issues around sexism in comics, I’d like to think I’d do the same. 

The beauty of comics as a medium though, and following on directly from that shared heritage with political cartooning, is that you can let your work do the speaking for you. What Cornell does quite wonderfully is have his politics intertwined in the story in a way that doesn’t slap the reader in the face.

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One writer in particular has often found himself portrayed as an unwilling spokesperson after sharing his own opinions. Grant Morrison has been heralded as the dispenser of justice and penance on all manner of subjects, from the treatment of early comic creators (Supergods, Vintage, 2012), and his pedestal as a counter culture icon, to his acceptance of an MBE (or interpretation of an Alan Moore comic!). Is it easier just to stay quiet and put your own thoughts out more subtly in comic form?

“As a writer, I think comics, stories, metaphors and symbols are much better vehicles for my personal opinions than interviews, certainly,” Morrison says. “In a story, characters can adopt various viewpoints and present a given issue from multiple, seemingly contradictory, or 'Cubist' angles. In a live interview, unless it’s a subject I’m interested in, I’m working off zero research and vague feelings of outrage or conviction inspired by the last article I read on a given topic, the last knee-jerk response I experienced. I’m wary of anyone who advocates big simple solutions to complex and elaborate problems and personally, I prefer to work out my thoughts on the page and to challenge my own certainties by creating characters who disagree with me.  

“That’s not to say that stories can’t or shouldn’t be vehicles for personal convictions and beliefs but readers can usually smell a tract coming down the hall and are rightly suspicious of work that pushes a singular agenda.”

Morrison’s rejection of “isms” has led to some Wonder Woman fans worrying how the writer will tackle their favourite superhero in his upcoming Wonder Woman: The Trial of Diana Prince. However, in a recent interview with USA Today, Morrison revealed that his research into the history of feminism had resulted in him getting angry and “a little bit militant”, retuning him to his alternative roots. With anything Morrison says on the subject of the holy trinity (Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman) making headlines across the world, does he feel the need to be guarded during interviews when things get into political territory?

“Pretty much,” he replies. “I feel I have to be guarded because my opinions can shift radically from day to day and moment to moment and I’d hate for any impressionable young person who likes what I have to say about Batman or Chaos Magic to take seriously my disinterested and ill-considered thoughts on the subject of, say, New Tory, UKIP, Scottish Independence, Europe or apish party politics in general.

“To ally myself to political movements or causes would seem as absurd and reductive to me as supporting a football team or attending a church. I don’t believe one single 'ism' can hope to explain things, represent everyone or correct all of society’s faults so I wouldn’t be comfortable presenting myself as a spokesperson for any of them. I’m against coercion and for creativity. I think we should all try as hard as we can to be kinder to ourselves, other people and other living things. Beyond that, I’m unwilling to wear anyone’s flag.

“Fiction allows me to take politics out for a walk without me or anyone else being bitten to death by them; which is to say I prefer to see ideas arguing on the page rather than fighting in the streets.”

Showing ideas and issues dueling it out on the page is something that all these artists and writers strive to create, their well-read sandboxes where ideas can be tested and stretched. The earliest cartoonists could perhaps never have imagined the caped crusaders and documentary journalists of today, not least the literary accolades and acclaim, but it’s heartening to see that comics, at their heart, are still capable of being the art of the people.

The Edinburgh Book Festival has long made sure it always has at least one guest from the world of comics, but with the new Stripped programme boasting 41 events, as well as a two day mini comics fair with over 30 exhibitors, comics have rarely felt seen such respect at a literary event. Many events are yet to come, with tickets available via the Festival website.

Captain America #175, 1974. Photograph: Marvel Comics

Laura Sneddon is a freelance journalist. Find more of her work at comicbookgrrrl.com

MATT MURPHY FOR NEW STATESMAN
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Measure for pleasure: sex, money and Shakespeare

Like sex, money is something that a lot of people spend a lot of time thinking about (and wanting more of). Shakespeare was no exception.

A hundred years ago this month, preparations for the Battle of the Somme were no impediment to national remembrance of the tercentenary of William Shakespeare’s death. He had been buried on 25 April 1616, but it was generally agreed that he had died two days earlier, on what may well have been his 52nd birthday (we can be sure about the date of his baptism in 1564, but not that of his birth). So, on 23 April 1916, St George’s Day, celebrations were staged in Stratford-upon-Avon and London. Also in Prague and Madrid, New York and Copenhagen. And, with special fervour, in Berlin. Back in the 18th century Goethe and Schiller had claimed Shakespeare as Germany’s national poet. In their adopted town of Weimar, as Germany geared up for war in 1914, the president of the Deutsche Shakespeare-Gesellschaft (German Shakespeare Society) had aligned Shakespeare to the spiritual rearmament of the German people. “O God of battles!” he had declaimed from Henry V, “steel my soldiers’ hearts;/Possess them not with fear”.

The two most notable Shakespearean publications of that tercentenary year were both published by Oxford University Press. First there was a stout, two-volume set called Shakespeare’s England: an Account of the Life and Manners of His Age. It began with an
“Ode on the Tercentenary Commemoration of Shakespeare” by Robert Bridges, the poet laureate. “And in thy book Great-Britain’s rule readeth her right,” Bridges wrote. “Her chains are chains of Freedom, and her bright arms/Honour, Justice and Truth and Love to man.” Thanks to Shakespeare – the poem proposed – the Union Jack has been hailed around the world as “the ensign of Liberty”. Shakespeare was lauded as the vessel of a kind of benign gunboat diplomacy: “And the boom of her guns went round the earth in salvos of peace.”

The book proceeded with a paean to “The Age of Elizabeth” by the aptly named Sir Walter Raleigh, Merton professor of English literature at Oxford, and then with an array of essays on almost every aspect of the culture of Shakespeare’s age, from religion, the military, education, travel and agriculture to law and medicine, commerce and coinage, heraldry and costume, city and town life, homes and gardens, sports and pastimes, rogues and vagabonds, and ghosts and witches. A century later, Shakespeare’s England remains a valuable compendium of historical lore, though it does not have much to say about the subjects that most 21st-century academic Shakespeareans focus on – women and gender, race and ethnicity, questions of cultural ecology and social anthropology.

The other OUP volume of 1916 was ­entitled A Book of Homage to Shakespeare. It contained over 160 tributes to the Bard, in more than 20 languages, contributed by scholars and writers from every corner of the globe. As Andrew Dickson reveals in his wonderful Shakespearean travelogue, Worlds Elsewhere, published last autumn, there is even an essay (written anonymously) by Sol Plaatje, the founding general secretary of what became the African National Congress, arguing that William “Tsikinya-Chaka” (that’s “Shake-the-Sword”, translated into Setswana) would one day belong to all South Africans, not just white men.

In contrast to the impassioned celeb­rations and the hyperbole of the claims about Shakespeare in 1916, the marking of the 400th anniversary of his birth in 1964 was fairly low-key. There was a set of Royal Mail stamps, a spike in academic publications, a ramping up of the annual Stratford-upon-Avon birthday jamboree, and not much more.

The two most notable books on Shakespeare published that year were modest in scale compared to the hefty tomes of a half-century earlier – though not modest in ambition. One was a bestselling biography by the historian A L Rowse, in which he announced that he had “shed light upon problems hitherto intractable [and] produced results which might seem incredible” by solving, “for the first time and definitely”, the riddles of the sonnets, as well as effecting “an unhoped-for enrichment of the contemporary content and experience that went into a number of the plays” – claims that Rowse pushed ever further in subsequent books on Shakespeare, each more hubristic and less scholarly than the last. Alas, poor Rowse: his credibility on the subject of Shakespeare’s sonnets disintegrated when another scholar noted that his case for the poet Aemilia Bassano as “Shakespeare’s Dark Lady” was based primarily on a misreading of a manuscript. He had thought it said she was “very brown” in her youth, but the actual wording was “very brave”.

The second bestseller from 1964 has stood up rather better. Anthony Burgess’s Nothing Like the Sun is by some distance the best contribution (save perhaps for the wonderfully comic No Bed for Bacon by Caryl Brahms and S J Simon, published in 1941) to the never-ending genre of novels about Shakespeare. Burgess the wordsmith had a terrific feel for the verbal pyrotechnics of the young Shakespeare, but also for his rootedness in the Warwickshire countryside. Fragmentary biographical gems – such as the weirdness of Shakespeare’s brother Gilbert – are interwoven with phrases and psychological insights drawn from the plays. And there is lots of very good Elizabethan sex.

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Sex – now there’s a subject dear to Shakespeare’s heart, but one on which 1916’s Shakespeare’s England was unsurprisingly silent. Those two hefty volumes end with a rich subject index, but “sex” is not to be found between “setting-dog” and “shadow, in muster-roll”, nor “pox” between “powdering tub” and “praemunire”. Actually, the “powdering tub of infamy” was the sweating cure for syphilis, to which Shakespeare alludes in his final two sonnets as well as in several plays, but the author of the chapter on medicine in Shakespeare’s England (Alban H G Doran, consulting surgeon to the Samaritan Free Hospital) couldn’t bring himself to use any phrase for the pox other than “contagious disease”.

Sex is an area where Shakespearean scholarship has advanced immensely in recent decades. In 1994, Gordon Williams of the University of Wales at Lampeter published an astonishingly well-researched, three-volume Dictionary of Sexual Language and Imagery in Shakespearean and Stuart Literature, which enumerated the sexual double entendre of about 2,000 words and phrases in the plays and poems of Shakespeare and his contemporaries. Williams also produced a spin-off in 1997 providing a comprehensive glossary of Shakespeare’s sexual language. It was never far from our hands when we were compiling the glosses for the Royal Shakespeare Company’s 2007 Complete Works, which one reviewer described as “the filthiest edition of Shakespeare ever produced”.

Never mind the gunboat diplomacy – a Shakespeare who is honest, funny, messy and, above all, unashamed about sex might just be a useful 400th-anniversary present to those parts of the world where ­homosexuality remains illegal (as it was in Shakespeare’s England, though that didn’t stop him celebrating homoerotic passion) or where people live in fear of the modern-day, Islamist equivalents of the Puritans in Elizabethan and Jacobean London who excoriated plays, the theatre, sexual puns, female pleasure and cross-dressed boys.

For this reason, I predict that one of the two books published in this 400th year that will spark great debate and make a difference is Jillian Keenan’s Sex With Shakespeare: Here’s Much to Do With Pain, But More With Love. Simultaneously a memoir, a work of literary criticism and a love song (to Shakespeare much more than to the other men who pass through its pages), it is an extreme example of the genre of “self-discovery through literature” that was pioneered in such books as Alice Kaplan’s French Lessons and Azar Nafisi’s Reading Lolita in Tehran.

It is the kind of book about Shakespeare that would have been inconceivable, in the full sense, in 1964, let alone in 1916. We have feminism – from its first shoots in the essays of Virginia Woolf through the full flowering of écriture feminine in the late 20th century – to thank for the eruption of the personal voice and self-conscious reflection on sexual identity into Shakespearean criticism. I know of few straight men who would dare to write a book as brave as this one.

What’s it about? Shakespeare and spanking. My first reaction was quizzical, but Keenan swiftly won me over, with her brisk prose, her playful self-flagellation and, above all, her perceptive attention to the nuances of Shakespeare’s language.

Think about it: if our claim about Shakespeare is that he speaks for all of us, that he addresses every dimension of human ­experience, is it surprising that a reader preoccupied with the symbiosis of desire and pain should find things in the plays with which to identify? Keenan’s heroine is Helena in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which she rightly describes as “a play about sexual awakening and sexual exploration . . . at its core, a play that grapples with questions about sexual freedom, self-determination and consent”. When Demetrius tells Hel­ena that he can in no circumstances love her, she replies:

And even for that do I love you the more:

I am your spaniel; and, Demetrius,

The more you beat me, I will fawn on you.

Use me but as your spaniel; spurn me, strike me . . .

This rather turns Demetrius on. When all the story of the night is told, he and Helena are a couple.

Speaking for myself, I don’t “get” the whole BDSM thing. I suppose I’ve always assumed that it comes from childhood trauma: the Victorian poet Swinburne was a masochist because he was constantly whipped at Eton, that sort of argument. But great art – and good criticism – can teach you that choices unimaginable to you may be embraced by other people. Shakespeare’s greatness lies precisely in his capacity to enter into other minds, to show spectators and readers what it might be like to be a person with very different emotions, experiences and desires from our own.

Thus, Keenan offers a powerful reading of The Taming of the Shrew, proposing that the “taming” (which involves physical as well as verbal abuse) is a game in which the woman is complicit from the start. After all, the first sexual spark jumps between Kate and Petruchio in their opening encounter when they share a joke about cunnilingus. As Keenan puts it, “To Petruchio, Kate comes first (in every sense of the phrase).” The play itself takes place within a frame (the Christopher Sly plot) which is there to remind the audience that the whole thing is a fantasy, a piece of wish-fulfilment. Most of us are uncomfortable with the taming narrative because it seems to involve beating a witty and independent woman into physical submission and marital subservience. For Keenan, by contrast, Kate isn’t “broken” at the end of the play, she is broken at the beginning (by her father, by the patriarchy). She is liberated at the end: “If she and I be pleased,” says Petruchio, “what’s that to you?” Keenan (who is just occasionally a little too glib) adds, “I couldn’t put it better myself.”

The discourse of command and obedience, the sound and tingle of the slap, the hand beneath the foot: it’s all a game, and one that both parties enjoy to the full. In readings such as this one, the critic works with the dramatist to loosen the stays of the vanilla spectator and the middle-aged, heterosexual male scholar.

Shakespeare uses the word “beat” or “beaten” nearly 300 times. Of course the context is often that of military defeat and equally often of wanton cruelty. But sometimes it is comic knockabout and just occasionally there’s a dynamic whereby pain is pleasure, as when Cleopatra says: “The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch,/Which hurts, and is desired.” Such lines are true to a dimension of human experience and it is cause for celebration when a writer as original, witty and self-deprecating as Keenan takes them seriously.

***

Like sex, money is something that a lot of people spend a lot of time thinking about (and wanting more of). Shakespeare, it seems, was no exception. My second pick from the plethora of quatercentenary publications could hardly be more different in tone or style from Sex With Shakespeare, but it will without doubt prove indispensable to future scholars and biographers. While Jillian Keenan has been spanking her way around Spain and Oman, Robert Bearman, a sometime archivist at the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust, has been closeted in Stratford-upon-Avon examining tithe-holdings, tax assessments of the value of moveable goods, notes on the storage of malt, property conveyances and monographs with such titles as Warwickshire Hearth Tax Returns: Michaelmas 1670. The results, in his book Shakespeare’s Money, are as rewarding, in their way, as Keenan’s frisky textual entanglements.

In many respects, Bearman’s scrupulous and comprehensive trawl through the archives confirms the familiar story. John Shakespeare, the playwright’s father, rose to a position of some prominence as a tradesman in Stratford-upon-Avon but then fell into financial difficulty. William went to London to try to improve the family fortunes, as well as to earn money to support the wife he had got prematurely pregnant and his three young children. After a slow start as a bit-part player, he found his niche as the rewrite man, patching, improving and eventually displacing old plays in the repertoire. In 1594, he and his fellow actors became sharers in a joint stock company, the Lord Chamberlain’s Men.

The combination of aristocratic patronage and business acumen – a share in the profits as opposed to the piecework payments on which other dramatists relied – allowed Shakespeare to purchase the title of “gentleman” and to buy a large house back in his own town (at a knockdown price) by the late 1590s. In the early 1600s, when the theatres were struggling through closures prompted by the plague, Shakespeare spent more and more time in Stratford-upon-Avon. The pace of his writing slowed as his property portfolio grew. When he died in 1616, his status was such that he could be buried inside the parish church, and a monument was raised in his honour some time after.

Bearman is especially illuminating on the intricacies of the transaction that marked the high point of Shakespeare’s financial fortune: his purchase in the summer of 1605 of a half-share in the lease of a portion of the Stratford tithes. Bearman explains how, following the Reformation, the tenth part of agricultural produce traditionally due to the parish rector became a commodity that could be bought and sold (a modern analogy might be the futures market). Shakespeare paid the very considerable sum of £440 for his entitlement. Bearman never tries to translate early-modern values into present-day equivalents, which is an impediment for the lay reader, but I would say that this equates to about £100,000.

At this point, though, the author questions the usual narrative. He notes that after 1605 Shakespeare made no other significant capital investments of this kind. A prosperous man would have kept on growing his property and investment portfolio. Furthermore, the marriages of Shakespeare’s two daughters in later years were not to wealthy or well-connected men, as they would have been if he had achieved unquestionably prominent status in his community. And, by comparing the bequests in Shakespeare’s will to those of the other lesser gentry in Stratford at the time, Bearman shows that he was by no means a rich man when he died.

Though wealth is always relative, and the dying Shakespeare still had the big house and the best and second-best beds, Bearman’s careful weighing of the evidence does suggest a trajectory of decline, as opposed to continuing prosperity in the last decade of the playwright’s life. He also points out that the notion of Shakespeare’s voluntary “retirement” to Stratford is anachronistic. Puzzles remain: why did he sell his lucrative shares in the playhouses and the acting company? What exactly were his intentions in purchasing a property in London in 1613, never having done so while he was living and working there? Above all, why did the pace of his writing slow, and why was it that, from 1612 to 1614, his only works were partial contributions to plays in which the younger dramatist John Fletcher increasingly took the upper hand?

One possible answer might connect money back to sex. From 1603 onwards, a deep vein of sexual disgust runs through several of Shakespeare’s plays – notably Measure for Measure, Troilus and Cressida and parts of King Lear and Pericles. Again and again, there are images of sexually transmitted disease. Furthermore, there are fragments of biographical evidence from this period suggesting a whiff of scandal around Shakespeare’s name. He stopped acting with his company early in the reign of King James. And then there is the hair loss. And those references to the sweating or powdering tub in the sonnets. People with marks of the pox were kept out of the royal presence. Could it be that when King Lear – with its startling images of female genitalia as a sulphurous pit – was performed before the king at Whitehall on Boxing Night 1606, a syphilitic Shakespeare was in exile out in the country, on a path of bodily decline to that premature death on his 52nd birthday, 400 years ago?

Jonathan Bate’s “The Genius of Shakespeare” is newly republished as a Picador Classic

Sex With Shakespeare: Here’s Much to Do With Pain, But More With Love by Jillian Keenan is published by William Morrow (352pp, $25.99). Shakespeare’s Money: How Much Did He Make and What Did This Mean? by Robert Bearman is published by Oxford University Press (196pp, £30)

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism