William Blake and Liminography

The Canadian literary critic Northrop Frye claimed in 1951 that among the most ‘foolish’ ideas that had emerged about the visionary poet and artist William Blake, ‘The notion that he was an automatic writer is perhaps the most absurd.’ This imposition resulted, he argued, from literary students reading Blake’s words stripped from their original home, shorn of their artistic grounding. The dynamic between word and image, Frye believed, told a greater story, one closer to the intention of their creator. The association with occult technique apparently represented an ill-informed denigration of Blake’s creative integrity for the critic.

In some respects, Frye is right about automatic writing. The term itself was not in use during Blake’s time, emerging in the mid-nineteenth century in response to the practices of Modern Spiritualists. I also imagine that if Blake had been accused of being an automatic writer, he would have rejected it outright, the implication that he was simply an automaton unpalatable to him. Divine discourse, after all, was centred on spiritual empowerment, and Blake’s work was in part the fruit of his spirituality. By brushing it aside, Frye missed a powerful trick in understanding Blake’s work, however, one that places his creativity in a deeply ritual light.

Blake was an important practitioner in a trajectory of people who undertook mark-making in a ritual context; a liminography in which a chasm is temporarily created by rupturing the functions of writer and author. By relinquishing authorship, writers and artists used a ritual mechanism through which to manifest and articulate an individualised spiritual authority. In other words, this ritual paradox of authorship and authority facilitated an ability to democratise access to a power usually tied up in the hierarchies of Church and State. The creative work of practitioners was a personal sacrament to the divine communication.

Blake may not have been down with the discourse of automatism, but as will be shown he intimately understood the spiritual practice of writing and drawing, and would have recognised it in spiritualists and occultists, whatever terminology was employed. Indeed, liminography stretched from the late eighteenth century right through to the automatic writers  of the fin de siècle, and beyond, and Blake’s role in this emergent tradition was vital. Placing him in this tradition is the intention here.

Emanuel Swedenborg (1688-1772)

The scientist Emanuel Swedenborg (1688-1772) had several encounters with Jesus Christ, including one when JC gave some unsolicited dietary advice to him in a pub in Clerkenwell. Thereafter he dedicated his life to elucidating the spiritual meaning of the Bible and paving the way for the New Jerusalem Church of Revelations, peppered of course with regular visits to the spiritual spheres to chinwag with their inhabitants. While he preferred to write up with a straight and rational head, he observed several forms of spiritual writing when journeying through the spheres, and experimented with relinquishing authorship.

Occasionally writings simply manifested, ‘There have sometimes been sent to me papers covered in writing; some of which are exactly like papers written by hand, and others like papers that had been printed in the world.’ Modern Spiritualists call this ‘psychography’. He also noted in his Spiritual Diary that spirits of the dead ‘could communicate their thoughts by words through another man, and even by letters […] and if they were permitted, they could write in their own peculiar style’. Ever the empiricist, he gave it a whirl:

I was ignorant of the series of things until after they were written; but this only in very rare instances, and only for the sake of informing us that revelations are made in this manner. Those paper [thus written] were therefore destroyed, because God Messiah was unwilling that it should be so done.

What emerged from his writings was a spiritual worldview that included the dispensation of a divine discourse inaugurating a new spiritual age, but which was centred around the question of permission and authority. His experiences became a blueprint for liminographers.

In the years after the mystic’s death, Swedenborgianism began to take shape in the religious landscape of Britain. On the one hand, there was those like Robert Hindmarsh (1759-1835) who took the mystic’s pronouncement of a New Church literally, and established a sect. For them, Swedenborg’s spiritual authority lay in his writings and the litany of the sect. On the other, however, were the mystically-inclined readers of his works. They believed the New Church would emerge from individuals and gradually transform existing institutions. Divine discourse, exemplified by Swedenborg’s experiences, was evidence of this progression. As such, they saw themselves as the medium of spiritual authority, not any sect or church.

John Clowes (1734-1831)

Among the latter group was John Clowes (1734-1831), the Anglican rector of St John’s Church, Manchester, who was first introduced to Swedenborg’s work in 1773. According to his biographer, several days after reading True Christian Religion (1771) he was ‘powerfully drawn into a state of inward recollection’ and, ‘whilst he lay musing on this strange, and to him most delightful harmony in the interiors of his mind, instantly there was made manifest, in the same recesses of his spirit, what he can call by no other name than a divine glory. He thereafter took up Swedenborgianism, but remained an Anglican.

Clowes argued vehemently against the establishment of the sect. After all, his own experience apparently proved the progressive nature of the mystic’s New Church, with himself an example of how the old Church would be transformed. He existed in a liminal space between the sect and Church, inferring both but being neither. In 1799, he wrote a letter to Robert Hindmarsh:

there was observed during almost the whole time of writing a sensible dictate from Spirits at my first waking in the morning, attended with inexpressible delight, and exciting by their presence such a holy awe […] This I have frequently expressed in the writing of sermons, many of which have thus been dictated throughout by spirits.

One of the first recorded examples of Swedenborgian liminography, Clowes’s ritual was attuned to the progressive New Church, so far as through the writing of sermons he was inaugurating an inner transformation within the Anglican church itself. As such, it subverted the institutional medium of spiritual authority, in favour of the power of direct Authorship.

Blake’s relationship with Swedenborgianism has been a continuing debate. A couple of points, however, are clear. Firstly, he owned and annotated several of Swedenborg’s works. Secondly, he and his wife Catherine attended the inaugural conference of the New Church sect. He later told his friend Henry Crabb Robinson (1775-1867) that he regarded Swedenborg as a ‘divine teacher’, but as his first biographer noted, ‘he hardly became a proselyte or “Swedenborgian” proper. At the very least though, he apparently did agree with Clowes. A clue to his feelings about the sect can be gleaned from an annotation in Divine Love of Angels, ‘the Whole of the New Church is in the Active Life & not in Ceremonies at all,’ and elsewhere he disapprovingly underlined a person who ‘adheres to a sect.’

One aspect that Blake and Swedenborg did share was divine discourse. Robinson recorded a conversation in which the poet stated that he wrote, ‘when commanded by the spirits, and the moment I have written I see the words fly about the room in all directions. It is then published and the spirits can read. My MS. is of no further use.’ In a letter sent in 1803 to Thomas Butts about Milton:

I have written this poem from immediate Dictation, twelve or sometimes twenty or thirty lines at a time, without Premeditation & even against my Will; the Time it has taken in writing was thus render’d Non Existent, & an immense Poem Exists which seems to be the Labour of a long Life, all produc’d without Labour or Study.

It’s a remarkably similar description of the practice when compared to Clowes and Swedenborg. For Blake, it simultaneously lent a spiritual authority to his work, and in doing so subverted the traditional avenues of established churches, with their litanies and ceremonies. Relinquishing authorship underscored his own personal spiritual heterodoxy.

Swedenborg, Clowes and Blake all utilized the idea of ritual writing as a way of deterritorializing spiritual authority. As Kathleen Lundeen has noted, ‘Spiritualism, for Blake, is more than a metaphor for verbal mediumship, however; it is a prerequisite for writing with a freer tongue.’ Indeed, it was no metaphor, it was ritual. As liminography, writing and drawing was a process of authorizing spirituality, and with its emphasis on individual praxis and creative output, it subverted the orthodoxy of social and institutional religious hierarchy.

Interestingly, it was precisely in non-sect Swedenborgian circles that Blake was cherished after his death, particularly by the politician Charles Augustus Tulk (1786-1849). Unsurprisingly, therefore, when Modern Spiritualism began to emerge in Britain during the 1850s, it is precisely in these circles that it had the largest impact. Early writing mediums Garth and William Wilkinson, for instance, had reissued Blake’s Songs of Innocence and of Experience in 1839, and were friends with Tulk. Over time, a variety of terms proliferated to describe the practice, including ‘automatic writing’, ‘passive writing’, and ‘writing by impression’. Yet the ritual of relinquishing authorship and establishing personal spiritual authority remained its defining feature, and continued to subvert the religious landscape well into the twentieth century—through occultism, spiritualism, mind sciences and of course art.

Digesting Blake

 

 

Following up Cannibalising Blake, which discusses Blakean references in the Hannibal Lecter novel series and the respective filmic adaptations, I would like to add the NBC series Hannibal (2013-2015) which is based on characters stemming from Thomas Harris’ novel Red Dragon (1982). The novel was named after the eponymous Blake painting and features a man who becomes so possessed by the painting that it turns him into a serial killer. The series, in turn,  does not disappoint when it comes to the Dragon and his menacing influence. If you have ever wanted to see a Blakean character walk around on screen, it is Hannibal you go for. The Dragon appears as an animated character on screen. But the series has more to offer than an animated Blake character.

William Blake, The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with Sun, ca. 1803-1805, Brooklyn Museum, no known copyright restrictions, Wikimedia Commons

The novel Red Dragon is centred on serial killer Francis Dolarhyde, a creature tortured by physical deformity and childhood trauma. Unable to speak properly, his appearance more or less an insult to eyesight, and neglected by all of his kin, one might be inclined to feel sympathy for Dolarhyde were it not for the fact that he kills entire families. Dolarhyde has an epiphany which will change his life: he sees the Dragon for the first time, as depicted in The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with Sun (ca. 1803-05). Drawn to an article about a Blake exhibition Dolarhyde encounters the creature which will rule his entire life (which means that PR managers and journalists should be very careful at the moment not to create the next serial killer by accident). The following plot-line which is devoted to Dolarhyde’s gradual change into the Dragon seems to be a case of schizophrenia. The Dragon has a will of his own and must thus be seen as an own persona. At one point Dolarhyde and the Dragon disagree about the choice of victim and start fighting. In contrast to Dolarhyde who is unable to pronounce “s” phonemes, however, the Dragon can speak properly and loudly, indicated by capital letters and confused people asking who was in the room with Dolarhyde. This is an odd and somewhat supernatural element as Dolarhyde’s language error is partly caused by his deformations and these physical limitations have obviously no effect on the Dragon. The Dragon can thus be seen as a real creature that can posses Dolarhyde, depending on how one wants to interpret this phenomenon. Dolarhyde’s solution to their argument, eating the painting, only results in a stronger bond between the two. Dolarhyde can now digest the Dragon; he has internalised him. I personally find the idea of a Blake painting having a life of its own as a demonic creature very charming. This turns the idea behind “The Ghost of a Flea” (ca. 1819) on its head; banning a chimera on canvas becomes now the release of a chimera from canvas.

The more was I charmed by Hannibal which does indeed release the chimera from the canvas. The series more or less narrates the events which precede the plot-line of the novel, so that the narrative of the novel takes up the last half of the last season, albeit in a changed form. This is not a faithful word-to-screen adaptation and as far as I see it, it was never intended to be one.

As mentioned before, the Dragon appears within the series as an animated character who can physically fight with Dolarhyde (Richard Armitage). A cut reveals that Dolarhyde is in fact beating his fist into his own face. But the merging of vision and reality is a narrative strategy frequently used in Hannibal. The recipient is often deceived as to what is real and what is illusionary. Both main characters, Will Graham (Hugh Dancy) and Hannibal Lecter (Mads Mikkelsen) are prone to visions. Graham suffers from a mental condition which enables him to reconstruct how a crime happened when visiting a crime scene, a talent so gruesome that it brings him at the brink of losing his mind, causing loss of memory and hallucinations. Lecter, in turn, has an extensive memory palace. Lecter is often shown wearing a suit in his favourite church or his office while it is clear that he is already imprisoned in his cell. A sudden cut will often reveal this truth: Lecter has never left his cell, yet imagines himself to be in his memory palace when talking to others. Sometimes Lecter and Graham meet in this memory palace. I argue that this merging of vision and reality makes the series more Blakean than any animated red monster ever could. Especially when the merging becomes so confusing that the recipient cannot tell vision and reality apart anymore. All characters, Graham, Lecter, and Dolarhyde have minds which are somehow extraordinary and prone to leave the “normal,” Urizenic realm. This makes for a perfect paving of way to introduce Blake later on.

Another strategy to pave the way for Blake is the extensive use of art within the series, be it paintings, classical music or poetry. Lecter, evil genius that he is, is constantly surrounded by art. Most prominent here is his role as a serial killer who recreates mostly Botticelli paintings with dead bodies. Yet Lecter is not alone with this combination of art and murder. The series features another serial killer who creates a gigantic picture of an eye with dead bodies and a musician who uses human vocal chords for a cello. Bodies become the necessary tools to create art. This recurring motif precedes the introduction of the Blake painting which makes a man a murderer. Art has become deadly.

The second preoccupation of the series is, as is well-known, cannibalism. Lecter is a chef who uses exotic and exquisite recipes for his dishes. But this eating and being eaten is not only about exquisite cuisine, it is also explicitly linked to Darwinism. When Mason Verger plans on eating Lecter, he plans on being at the top of the food chain. I am just mentioning this because Dolarhyde’s eating of Blake’s painting is a very logical consequence and climax in this context. Eating the Dragon should definitely put Dolarhyde at the top of the food chain. What is more, Dolarhyde hopes that the destruction of the painting avoids more dead bodies, echoing the former murderers who in turn need bodies to create art. When bodies are needed to create art, the destruction of art may avoid dead bodies. Art, bodies, and eating are three topics intertwining and constantly mirroring each other.

In a last twist of the Blakean references, the screenwriters have introduced a new opponent for the Dragon, the Lamb. The antagonistic pair of Lamb and Tyger has been exchanged for Lamb and Dragon. When Lecter sees the Dragon for the first time while talking to Dolarhyde on the phone, he only comments “Did he who made the Lamb make thee,” describing the Dragon with a line which originally refers to the Tyger. As Lecter later reveals that he sees Graham as the Lamb, misused and manipulated by him and the police force alike, Lecter probably refers to himself as the creator figure. Lecter is constantly influencing others, mostly turning them into murderers, and he has played a part in the creation of the Lamb and the Dragon respectively. Lecter has created two murderers who are Blakean characters; he has found a new way to create art with dead bodies. As for Lecter, his business is less to reason and compare, as it should be for a psychiatrist, it is to create.

As a side-note, introducing the Lamb as well as the revenge of the Lamb also harks back to the most famous title of the series The Silence of the Lambs (1988). Now that Lecter speaks of the revenge of the Lamb, and considering that the Lamb defeats the Dragon, the Lamb is not silent any more.

In my eyes, the series embeds the Blake painting better into its respective storyline than the novel does. Now the Dragon is much more than a creature from an arbitrary painting. The Dragon is the first embodiment of imagination to appear on screen. Whereas all other hallucinations are still rooted in the real world, mirroring, repeating and twisting it, the Dragon is a fully imaginary construct, a mere product of the human mind (be it Blake’s, Dolarhyde’s or Lecter’s – they all share the Dragon somehow). And it is more than befitting that the physical embodiment of a creature born of the human imagination should be a Blake character.

Blakespotting: The Divine Essence of Things – Nick Cave and William Blake

In a response to a question on his fan site, The Red Hand Files, earlier this year, Nick Cave listed Blake as one of his favourite poets – alongside Stevie Smith, W. B. Yeats, Emily Dickinson and a dozen others, describing them as the “poets whose company I consistently enjoy” (a phrase that may, either consciously or unconsciously, echo Blake’s comment in the album of the antiquary William Upcott as “one who is very much delighted with being in good Company”).

The connection between the two visionaries is hardly a new one. Indeed, by the early 2000s comparisons between Cave and Blake had become something of a stereotype. The Guardian called him “Ted Bundy with a William Blake obsession” (not, as it transpires, intended as a compliment in a fairly snippy review of the album Nocturama – admittedly not his best work), while Eric Carr, writing for Pitchfork, could throw away a smart jibe that until 1997 “the Nick Cave Songbook read like a set of William Blake Mad Libs filled in by undertakers, jilted lovers and John Wayne Gacy, with a few American folk covers thrown in for variety”. The psycho Blake/Cave comparison was a lazy, edgy meme for journalists who wished to portray themselves as literate without too much effort, although there were others who realised that the front man of the Bad Seeds was becoming a very different kind of person to the heroin-addicted figure who had destroyed his relationship with P. J. Harvey in the 90s. In a very good article for Salon in 2004, Thomas Bartlett only invoked Blake tangentially – to portray Cave as “A true poet and of the Devil’s party without knowing it” – but the article overall treated the singer’s religious beliefs with much greater respect than was usually the case. A thoughtful tone was likewise struck by Russell Porter in The Beat Happening magazine (2008), who described Cave as writing with “a lyrical tone that owes as much to the visions of William Blake as it does to the street savvy tempo of William Chandler and Dashiel Hammet”.

Bartlett had made an astute observation that very few music journalists commented on Cave and religion. Almost certainly, this was due to supposedly secular reputation of pop music, which was commonly assumed to be fully of the devil’s party despite the well-known beliefs of figures as diverse as Prince, Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen. As well as regularly invoking biblical motifs in his songs and his 1989 novel And the Ass Saw the Angel, Cave spoke explicitly about his relationship to Christianity in a programme for BBC 3 Religious Services in 1996. Entitled “The Flesh Made Word”, the transcript and Cave’s recording is available at NickCave.it.

The piece, lasting some seventeen minutes, provides a fairly detailed, autobiographical account of Cave’s relationship not merely with his Anglican upbringing but, more pointedly, how his father’s desire to inculcate a love of literature in his son was also a kind of spiritual ecstasy, an elevation from the mundane to the “divine essence of things”: “although he would have laughed at this notion, what my father was finding in his beloved literature was God.” Unlike his father, this pursuit of God was something that Cave began to pursue explicitly, taking an interest in relgious art against the desires of his instructors who thought he should be interested in more contemporary forms. The deity that first appealed to the young singer was the retributive creator and destroyer of the Old Testament, making him “a conduit for a God that spoke in a language written in bile and puke.” While he was happy with this for a while, it was eventually through the gospels – lovingly evoked by Cave as “four wonderful prose poems” – that Cave returned to the Jesus of his childhood. This was around the period that, in Berlin, he began to write And the Ass Saw the Angel: Jesus still spoke all too often in the language of the father to the singer at this point, but Cave also began to recognise the importance of an imagination that was explicitly Christian:

What Christ shows us here is that the creative imagination has the power to combat all enemies, that we are protected by the flow of our own inspiration. Clearly what Jesus most despised, what he really railed against time and time again, were the forces that represented the established order of things, symbolized by the scribes and Pharisees, those dull, small-minded scholars of religious law who dogged his every move. Christ saw them as enemies of the imagination, who actively blocked the spiritual flight of the people, and kept them bogged down with theological nitpicking, intellectualism, and law. What was Christ’s great bugbear, and what has sat like dung in the doorway of the Christian church ever since, was the Pharisees’ preoccupation with the law in preference to the logos. Said St. Paul to the Corinthians: “The letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life.” So how can one be elevated spiritually, if they are loaded up with the chains of religious jurisprudence? How can the imagination be told how to behave? How can inspiration, or for that matter God, be moral?

Cave only invokes Blake once in this piece: “To loosely paraphrase William Blake: I myself did nothing; I just pointed a damning finger and let the Holy Spirit do the rest.” This is, indeed, a very loose paraphrase, taking its inspiration from plate 3 of Jerusalem the Emanation of the Giant Albion: “We who dwell on Earth can do nothing of ourselves, every thing is conducted by Spirits, no less than Digestion or Sleep.” (E145) Cave invokes Shakespeare, Nabokov and Dostoevsky, but aside from the Bible it is only Blake he cites, and his chosen source is, frankly, astonishing: while various critics have noted the singer’s allusions to Blake’s lyrics – entirely understandable in a song writer – none have, to my knowledge, drawn attention to his familiarity with the difficult, late prophetic books. For me, the fact that Cave does not merely invoke Jerusalem but does so playfully suggests a possible familiarity that goes far beyond that of almost any other popular musician.

It is in the later prophetic books, I would argue, that Cave would discover ideas from Blake, most notably around the rejection of the Moral Law, that seem to have shaped his attitudes to the creative imagination. For Blake, “The Imagination is not a State: it is the Human Existence itself” (E132), and against this very existence itself the poet placed the dead letter of the law, which Albion recognises in his fallen state:

O Human Imagination O Divine Body I have Crucified
I have turned my back upon thee into the Wastes of Moral Law:
There Babylon is builded in the Waste, founded in Human desolation. (E169)

Zoe Alderton has written about this programme in “Nick Cave: A Journey from the Anglican God to the Creative Christ“, observing the profoundly literary route through which the singer approaches spirituality. While noting the paraphrase of Blake, she fails to recognise the significance of it however: that Cave appears to believe so profoundly that faith is bound up with imagination owes much, I would argue, to the earlier poet who wrote in All Religions are One that spirituality is itself the Poetic Genius. What is more, as the author of The Marriage of Heaven and Hell and a Bible of hell that retold an infernal account of Genesis via The Book of Urizen, Blake is a profoundly appealing artist to anyone seeking to understand a post-secular world while also avoiding the gins and traps of religion. Blake was a prophet and, like most prophets, he was without honour in his own country which worshipped instead the God of this world.

Of those writers who have noted Cave’s lyric indebtedness to Blake, Karen Welberry in an essay “Nick Cave and the Australian Language of Laughter” (in the collection Cultural Seeds, edited by Tanya Dalziell and Karen Welberry) pointed out that “The Hammer Song” emulates Blake’s “Infant Sorrow” from Songs of Experience, echoing the line “My mother groand! My father wept / Into the dangerous world I leapt” in the opening stanza which ends: “My father raged and raged / And my mother wept”. She also observed that Blake read the poem on a BBC TV programme, Poetry Nation, in 1994 (p.54). John H. Baker offers some excellent insights into the use of Blake in Cave’s verse, whether echoes in the Bad Seeds’ debut album, From Her to Eternity, to the revelation that Christ was an artist which was Blake’s vision of Jesus (in his edited collection, The Art of Nick Cave). The most profound lyrical connection to the earlier poet is to be found in the 1990 track, “A Weeping Song”. It was David Fallon, in his “Blakean Notes in 1990s Pop Music”, who first pointed out that the song, included on the album The Good Son, was a contrary from Songs of Experience to match “Laughing Song” in Innocence, going on to repeat Wellberry’s observations on “The Hammer Song” and adding further allusions in Murder Ballads. Certainly in the 1990s, William Blake seems to have been very much on Nick Cave’s mind. (In Blake 2.0, edited by Steve Clark, Tristanne Connolly and Jason Whittaker, p.250.)

I would go further than Fallon to consider just how important the connection between “A Weeping Song” and Blake is. Cave does not merely allude to the earlier Romantic – which, as has been demonstrated here, is a repeated feature of the singer’s work. No: nearly 200 years after the publication of the original, Nick Cave decided to write another song of experience. This, for me, represents one of the most astonishing acts of imagination in the field of musical reception of Blake. Again and again the poet is set to music or even adapted more allusively by various performers, but to extend one of Blake’s most popular collections demonstrates a level of love and admiration that goes far beyond anything else encountered musically. The connection is also one that demonstrates Cave’s understanding of the deceptive simplicity of the earlier writer, whereby simple repetitions operate both musically and thematically to create a doorway to eternity via the simplest language of children.

Where Blake writes:

When the painted birds laugh in the shade
Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread
Come live & be merry and join with me,
To sing the sweet chorus of Ha, Ha, He. (E11)

Cave responds:

This is a weeping song
A song in which to weep
While all the men and women sleep
This is a weeping song
But I won’t be weeping long

As with Blake’s Songs, the spare economy of these words is allusive rather than diminutive, part of two different worlds – innocence and experience – where the simplicity of childhood vision sees a world beyond everyday normality. This is one of the means by which poetry can elevate us into visions of eternity.

Which leads, ultimately, to Cave’s most recent album, Ghosteen. I am fully aware that, like a witchfinder general, I am often keen to sniff out Blake wherever I can find him. This article is not intended as a review of Ghosteen, which I am still very much slowly coming to understand, but as I have demonstrated the singer-songwriter’s interest in William Blake is both very longstanding and far from superficial. At least one reviewer, Elizabeth Aubrey for the NME, has drawn attention to the echoes of William Blake in lines such as “It isn’t any fun to be standing here alone with nowhere to be / With a man mad with grief and on each side a thief / and everybody hanging from a tree” from the song “Sun Forest”. Such echoes are certainly there, and the musical style of the album continues that of its haunting predecessor, Skeleton Tree, the first album released after the tragic death of his son. The song that electrified me was “Fireflies”, which opens:

Jesus lying in his mother’s arms
Is a photon released from a dying star
We move through the forest at night
The sky is full of momentary light
And everything we need is just too far
We are photons released from a dying star
We are fireflies a child has trapped in a jar
And everything is distant as the stars
I am here and you are where you are

The image invoked here – Jesus as photon from a dying star – is perhaps something closer to a piece that John Berryman (another of Cave’s favourite poems) might write, and yet in the line “We are the fireflies a child has trapped in a jar” I cannot help but hear another lyric by William Blake, “The Fly”:

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance
And drink & sing:
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

In the hands of another poet, this would be nihilism, and in the hands of another singer “Fireflies” would be an equally empty vision of death. Yet for Cave – guided by, I would argue, William Blake as much as those “wonderful prose poems” of the New Testament – what we come to in Ghosteen is that post-secular quest for a world of eternity, one that owes nothing to the religion of stocks and stones and everything to the creative imagination.

Review: William Blake, Tate Britain

As the director of Tate Britain, Alex Farquharson, observes in the catalogue accompanying the new Blake show, although there have been a number of very well-received exhibitions of Blake’s work in the twenty-first century, such as those in Paris (2009), Moscow (2011) and the Ashmolean, Oxford (2014), it is through four major exhibitions since 1913 – the last having taken place in 2000 – that the Tate at Millbank has established “a very special relationship with this most idiosyncratic and distinctive of artists” (William Blake,  p.6). This latest show, titled simply “William Blake”, is the largest and most comprehensive ever to be held, presenting a huge variety of Blake’s works (over 350 of them) in a largely chronological order via a series of galleries. Its overall ambition is to shift the emphasis of Blake’s work from being perceived almost entirely as that of a printmaker to that of a visual artist of much wider abilities. Tracking Blake’s progress across his lifetime, the works are then grouped in a series of five “rooms” that also organise the collection thematically according to the format or period of the artist’s life.

The first of the five rooms is called “Blake Be an Artist!”, drawing this unusual instruction from an account recorded by Henry Crabb Robinson, in which Blake related how a spirit told him: “Blake, be an artist and nothing else.” While the overall flow of the exhibition is largely chronological, this first room begins not with the young Blake’s apprenticeship to the engraver James Basire, but rather his enrollment at the Royal Academy in 1779. This is certainly to pre-empt the shift that the entire show is attempting to make, to transform Blake from being perceived almost entirely as a printmaker to an important visual artist who is also a master engraver. As the authors of the catalogue explain, “whatever use he made practically of the facilities [at the Academy], there is no doubt that this was a turning point in his life and his art.” (p.25) It was at the Academy that Blake made the pivot into the art world of the eighteenth century as a designer and originator of art rather than remaining a craftsman employed to reproduce the works of others, coming to the attention of significant players such as Henry Fuseli and John Flaxman.

Before entering the terracotta-red space of Blake’s first expressions as an artist, the visitor faces a single blue-green wall upon which is set “Albion Rose” (previously known as “Glad Day” after Gilchrist’s description of the painting in his 1863 Life of William Blake, Pictor Ignotis). This colour-printed etching – a difficult procedure that was only rarely used in the eighteenth century – was made around 1793 and hand coloured by Blake during one of the most revolutionary phases of his life. Much reproduced, it depicts the giant Albion, a key figure in Blake’s mythology, standing in a pose similar to Da Vinci’s depiction of the Vitruvian Man. Along with “The Ghost of a Flea”, “Newton” or “The Ancient of Days”, it is one of his most famous images and, as Myrone and Concannon observe, has been subject to much speculative scholarship over a century and a half. While resisting the temptation to attempt to explain too much of my own opinions as to its meaning (upon which I speculated a great deal in my first book, William Blake and the Myths of Britain back in 1999), my allusion to Da Vinci is significant: the Vitruvian Man was meant to display the essential proportions of the ideal human body, and Blake’s Albion is also intended as a universal figure, his idiosyncratic everyman. To select this as the very first image that visitors to the exhibition encounter offers an important frame for the subsequent rooms, marking Blake as an artist who is both British and universal in his aspirations.

In the two areas dedicated to “Blake Be an Artist”, the works include a number of his drawings as well as watercolours of biblical subjects, such as those illustrating the story of Joseph and his brethren, and ends with the series of ink and watercolour washes for his unpublished poem, Tiriel. This section was generally fascinating for me in terms of demonstrating the development of Blake as an artist in the 1770s and 1780s, but I wonder how it must have appeared to visitors unfamiliar with his work. Very simply: William Blake was not a particularly good painter before the 1790s, and while his combination of mannerist, gothic and neo-classical techniques in his earliest work is fascinating to the art historian and student of Blake, there is very little in the way of star attractions to compel the eye of the viewer, with two exceptions (one of which is not even by Blake). The first of these is a gigantic book of engravings from the Shakespeare Gallery commissioned by John Boydell in the 1780s, opened to Richard Earlom’s reproduction of Fuseli’s depiction of Lear casting out Cordelia. Blake was tangentially involved with the Boydell project, having been commissioned to produce an engraving of the gloomy finale of Romeo and Juliet after a painting by John Opie, but his limited involvement was telling: while no means an outsider to the London art scene, Blake was never central to it. The second image, this time by Blake, is a particularly wonderful image also drawn from Shakespeare: “Oberon, Titania and Puck with Fairies Dancing” is a delicate watercolour that shows Blake’s emerging talent as a colourist but also, after the stiff, column-like patriarchs of his early biblical illustrations and the drawings for Tiriel, also shows his ability to bring dynamism to his figures. It is tempting to view Tiriel as something of a dead end, both visually and poetically for Blake (and I am being deliberately harsh here): Blake is not so much neoclassical in his art at this point as archaic but without the grandeur of the pre-Hellenic sculpture that he would invoke later in his career. Similarly, his imitation of Shakespeare’s tragedies – particularly Lear – is rigid and wooden rather than majestic: we are witnessing the formation of an artist who remains, at this stage, largely derivative in his work. As such, it is a true pleasure that the first Room of the exhibition ends with a dance to match the joyful posture of “Albion Rose”.

Upon the two visits I made when the general public were present, the distinction between Room 1 and Room 2 – “Making Prints, Making a Living” – was vivid and immediate. The first room contained a significant number of visitors, many of whom I suspect were already politely curious about Blake but perhaps wondering what all the fuss about. On both occasions, however, the second room was packed – and with good reason. This returns to the theme of many an earlier exhibtion: Blake the printmaker. Although Blake’s output could vary in terms of its qualities, he was without doubt one of the great artisans of his time. This is immediately evident in some of the commercial work that he produced, such as the reproduction of Hogarth’s painting of the climax of The Beggar’s Opera, an intaglio engraving that would have taken a great deal of time to complete and is exquisite in its detail. Similarly, his work on Thomas Stothard’s The Fall of Rosamund is meticulous – although, ironically, the technical perfection of these pieces makes them somewhat forgetable: Blake was a great engraver, but then the commercial print industry in eighteenth-century London meant that there were plenty of other very good engravers. Ironically, it is where a certain crude vitality comes through, as in his engravings for John Gabriel Stedman’s The Narrative of a Five Years Expedition against the Revolted Negroes of Surinam, that his commercial work becomes memorable. Blake’s depictions of the torture of rebel slaves are some of the most troubling images to emerge from the period that, unsurprisingly, continued to be used in abolitionist texts throughout the nineteenth century.

Important as the commercial work is – the curators rightly observe that “reproductive engraving… was the backbone of his working life” (p.52) – it is the presence of the illuminated books that attracted the interest of most visitors. An exceptional feature of the current exhibition is the number of illuminated books that are present as bound books: while, like everyone, I am used to printed facsimiles in this format, I have become used to seeing Blake’s originals as separate prints over the years. Obviously, this means that the books themselves tend to be fixed at a very limited number of pages on display, but the range present in a single case show the sheer variety of the format of the book at a glance, from the tiny emblem books The Gates of Paradise to the large folio edition of Europe A Prophecy. To demonstrate the variety of Blake’s designs within a text, there are selections of Songs of Innocence and of Experience displayed very eye-catchingly on plinths (a feature which attracted the attention of every visitor I spoke to at Tate) and, along the walls of one space, a complete set of America a Prophecy, allowing viewers to compare the designs from plate to plate within a single edition and also to compare coloured printed versions to monochrome plates and, indeed, a bound copy of the book.

The third room, “Patronage and Independence”, shares some of the innovative display features of its predecessor, with large plinths set up to break up the presentation of individual plates, with others then set up around the walls. Divided into three sections, this part of the exhibition concentrates on two incredibly important figures in William Blake’s life – Thomas Butts, the civil servant who was the patron for many years during Blake’s life, and William Hayley, the well-connected poet established in Felpham, Sussex, who drove Blake to distraction but also provided him with much-needed support when the artist was tried for sedition in 1804. Upon entering this particular space, I was immediately struck by what, for me, was one of the cleverest arrangements in the entire exhibition – the placement of two of the Red Dragon paintings alongside “Satan in his Original Glory”. While all of the Red Dragon paintings, which take their inspiration from the Book of Revelation, tend to be reproduced together, the appearance of Satan as beautiful, prefallen angel, reminds us that Lucifer, the most perfect of God’s creations, would also become the great beast and that his pride was as much a source of spiritual ugliness. (One of the most amusing conversations overheard at the exhibition involved this painting, when a member of the public asserted that the curators must have labelled the painting incorrectly as Satan could not be this beautiful.)

The first two sections, dominated largely by the biblical paintings for Butts, as well as the illustrations to Milton’s Paradise Lost and a separate gallery for the magnificent large colour prints, easily dominate the viewer’s eye and demonstrate how, in contrast to much of the non-engraved work of the 1770s and 1780s, by the mid-1790s Blake had become a truly original artist with his own specific visual language and style. Strictly speaking, “Newton”, “Nebuchadnezzar” and the other large colour prints that were produced between 1795 and 1805 (and several of which were purchased by Butts) are prints rather than paintings, but this is nitpicking over Blake’s status as a visual artist. These works are among those pieces that establish him easily as one of the greatest British artists ever, indeed, an artist whose work can be compared to the Renaissance or northern European masters. Alongside these, the translucent watercolours for Paradise Lost are an astonishing boon (particularly as I am always surprised when I see the originals just how small they are – something about their spiritual allusions seems to indicate that they have been shrunk in reproduction from what must be more massive paintings, and yet the reverse is true). By this period, following his return from Felpham in particular, Blake had settled into a mature style which combined the grace of neoclassical art with a solemn formality that he associated with the art of the Middle East. This combination had been a feature of the “patriarchal” vision that Blake had experimented with from the beginning, but by the time of his large colour prints and the illustrations to Milton, there was a mastery of the classical human figure that is at once both deeply familiar from the long tradition of western art and somehow profoundly strange, as though the cherubim and seraphim of ancient Mesopotamia are being brought to life before our eyes.

In contrast to the work done for Butts (to which must be added the delightful watercolours for Thomas Gray’s poetry, commissioned by the artist John Flaxman as a gift for his wife, Anne), the art from the Felpham period is generally less rich, although two particular items stand out. The first of these, which was immensely gratifying to see, is a number of the heads of the poets that were painted by Blake to appear in William Hayley’s library. Although Hayley’s house no longer survives, we know from contemporary accounts that they were displayed high on the walls around his library, and the curators have made the wise decision to place Blake’s works similarly high up, leading them to dominate the viewer’s gaze when they enter this part of the gallery. Another important work is “The Vision of the Last Judgement” which was painted for the remarkable Elizabeth Ilive, the patron of the arts and polymath who became the wife of George Wyndham, 3rd Earl of Egremont. In contrast to the recent exhibition at Petworth House, the home of Egremont, “The Vision” is slighlty overwhelmed by such a rich collection of Blakean artefacts but is still one of the great treasures of Blake’s career, a coherent vision of eternity that, in my opinion, surpasses Michelangelo’s Last Judgement in terms of its conception and intellectual coherence even if not in terms of scale and grandeur. For me, this has always been a painting that appears to capture the essence of an eastern mandela rather than the rigid hierarchies of Western Christian art.

Room 4, “Independence and Despair”, contains the most innovative part of the exhibition which, unfortunately, was also one of the least successful for me. Dealing with the period following the return of Catherine and William from Felpham, the first image to catch the viewer’s eye is the large oil portrait by Thomas Phillips, commissioned in 1807 to accompany an ambitious project, Blake’s illustrations to a large volume of Robert Blair’s poem, The Grave. Included alongside the Phillips portrait is a copy of the white line engraving that Blake showed to the book’s publisher, Robert Cromek, a striking but highly idiosyncratic image that led Cromek to pull the lucrative engraving work from Blake and, instead, hire another artisan, Louis Schiavonetti, to reproduce Blake’s designs. Throughout the nineteenth century, The Grave was the work for which Blake was best known prior to the publication of Gilchrist’s biography, and my own unpopular opinion is that, in terms of his immediate posthumous reception, Schiavonetti and Cromek did Blake a favour even as they reduced his already straitened circumstances further. Blake’s own engravings would have been bold, modern to the point of futuristic but, rather like his astonishing print of Chaucer’s Canterbury pilgrims (perhaps the first work of modern art to attempt to emulate medieval styles and typies), would have been utterly baffling to contemporaries. Thomas Stothard’s more fluid and naturalistic rendition of the Chaucer pilgrims is immediately recognisable as suitable for contemporary tastes – and much, much less memorable than Blake’s. It was, in the end, Stothard who made the money while to Blake would be reserved posthumous fame.

The work with Cromek is presented in a fairly standard format, although there are nice touches such as the fact that printed copies of The Grave are lined up to draw the viewer’s eye to the originals as they hang on the wall. Beyond this, however, the curators have tried something very bold: in 1809, Blake held his only one-man show, above his brother’s shop in Broad Street. As such, for the exhibition a room has been constructed to house paintings from that exhibition, to try and give a sense of the feel of how it must have appeared to visitors. Martin Myrone, who has written extensively about the failed exhibition and the accompanying Descriptive Catalogue, includes very thoughtful considerations as to what Blake was trying to achieve and its contemporary reception, but it does not really work as it stands. The main problem is that, as much of Blake’s work from this period is very sensitive to light, the room within a gallery is simply too dark to see the works properly. Tate has engaged in an extremely interesting concept, to digitally restore Blake’s spiritual portraits for Nelson and Pitt (which have darkened over time), projecting images of how they would originally appear over the originals. Unfortunately, this “restoration” cannot be left on permanently, meaning it is very hit and miss as to whether you will actually be able to see them (they only appeared for me on the third visit to the exhibition). Finally, with regard to the reconstruction itself, the fact that the curators are unable to restore the missing painting of “The Ancient Britons”, perhaps Blake’s most amibitious work ever, as well as the fact that another centrepiece – “Chaucer’s Canterbury Pilgrims” – are also outside the room make it less successful than it should have been. Beyond the room, there is a large, full-wall projection of how Blake’s “frescos” could appear if transferred to full size in settings such as the parish church of St James, itself a very interesting idea, as well as close up screens of the texture and restoration of the damaged tempera paintings which, I must be honest, I felt was a waste of good gallery space.

This critical comment arises from the fact that “William Blake” ends very much on a high. In 1818, Blake began a series of friendships, starting with the artist John Linnell, that would transform the final decade of his life and lead to a truly remarkable artistic renaissance. It is from this period that we have his illustrations to Dante and to Job, his most monumental illuminated book, Jerusalem the Emanation of the Giant Albion, and a series of astonishing pieces of art including his woodcuts to Dr Thornton’s edition of Virgil’s Georgics and “The Ghost of a Flea”. These final years saw Blake produce a series of astonishing pieces that would surpass that of most artists in terms of originality and execution, and after a largely empty room (very few visitors to the exhibition paused in the digital projection space) it felt frustrating to have these magnificent works cramped into one space. For example, on my first visit, I missed the fact that Blake’s illustrations to The Book of Job were present: they exist, as bound books (which is wonderful to see), but the opportunity to have selections of them displayed separately on the wall, such as the images of Leviathan and Behemoth, or the morning stars singing at the creation of the world, would have immediately drawn attention to one of the most perfect examples of Blake’s intaglio style. Similarly, while the curators did not wish to reproduce the entire 100 plates of Jerusalem in the exhibition, restricting themselves to the first 25 plates of Book 1, this was perhaps the only element where the 2000 show surpassed that of 2019. That said, it was wonderful to see the illustrations to John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress on display, a series that is rarely shown.

And it is this observation that is more important than my critical comments. “William Blake” is not perfect – but then the perfect exhibition of William Blake’s works perhaps only exists in heaven. The most striking factor of this show is that it is so comprehensive; indeed, I suspect that for many visitors it must be overwhelming. Over the space of two days, I made three separate visits to the exhibition and, guided by decades of knowledge about Blake and his works, I still realise that this review remains a series of initial impressions that will be further refracted by subsequent visits. For example, I am very conscious of the fact that I have said very little about Catherine Blake in this review: much has been made by the curators and indeed media reports of her contribution, and indeed I was writing about this (along with Shirley Dent) after the 2000 show. And yet… even after three visits it is hard to make out that contribution aside from a portrait or two and a few comments in accompanying notes. In part, that is because of the success of the show: it truly demonstrates the range and variety of her husband’s art.

There are flaws, then, in the execution of the aspirations of Tate, and yet this show is truly astonishing. It is, quite simply, the best exhibition of Blake’s work that I have seen in my lifetime, and that appreciation has only grown with each visit. For the first, I was very lucky to be part of a private view (hence the early images showing largely empty rooms), but actually my subsequent visits as a member of the general public were, if anything, even more illuminating. Yes, it is frustrating not to be able to look at everything in the first rooms because of people lining up to stare at everything – yet this is itself the point. William Blake is remarkably popular. At one moment, I made a detour through the Clore gallery which houses the remarkable Turner collection. This was by no means empty, but it is Blake who – if only for a short time – commands attention. A particular joy for me after the 2000 show was how it stimulated renewed interest in Blake among artists, writers, directors and composers. I believe that the success of this show, recreating Blake as a great artist, will do the same for the next generation of those for whom imagination is the life.

William Blake is on show at Tate Britain, 11 September 2019-2 February 2020. Admission £18 standard adult (members free, reductions available). The exhibition catalogue, also titled William Blake, is available for £25 paperback, £40 hardback, written by Martin Myrone and Amy Concannon.

Alchemy, Rosicrucianism, and the Grail – Bruce Dickinson’s Take on “Jerusalem”

“Jerusalem” is mostly known as a hymn written by Hubert Parry (1916), a musical adaptation of the verses found in the introduction to William Blake’s Milton: a Poem (1804-11). There are numerous musical variations and re-recordings which are more or less faithful to the hymn. The version I am to discuss today, however, is radically different. And it was intended to be radically different. British singer and songwriter Bruce Dickinson wanted to show what he describes as the true character of “Jerusalem.” He rejects a patriotic reading in favour of mysticism. Dickinson interprets the verses named “Jerusalem” in his song of the same name (The Chemical Wedding, 1998) as part of the mystic tradition, informed by alchemy. (Dickinson, Autobiography, 269-270)

“Jerusalem” is hereby only a small part of a larger project. The Chemical Wedding is a concept album linking concepts of mysticism and occult, such as tarot cards (“The Tower” – the chorus consists exclusively of archetypes taken from the major arcana), or representations of the occult, such as the three witches in Macbeth (“Book of Thel”), with Blakean characters and thought (“Book of Thel”, “Gates of Urizen”) or even descriptions of Blake paintings (“Book of Thel”). The name derives from the third manifesto of the Rosicrucian Order, Chymische Hochzeit Christiani Rosencreutz Anno 1459 (The Chemical Wedding, 1616), a text heavily rooted in alchemy. But, the overarching theme holding it all together is the opposition of Los and Urizen, which Dickinson identifies as two antagonistic forces fighting for the soul of the artist. In this case Los embodies creativity, while Urizen stands for art industry. (cf. Dickinson, Autobiography, 269)

In case of “Jerusalem” he has partly re-written the stanzas and added his own lyrics to flesh out what he sees as its true character. (l. c. 269-270) Which leads us to the question: What is the true character of “Jerusalem?”

Dickinson indeed presents a rewriting of “Jerusalem” that is in no way patriotic. In a last twist, he questions the possibility of recreating “Jerusalem,” because the spatio-temporal surroundings are far from ideal (and this negative description refers to England). This gives “Jerusalem” a very pessimistic ending. Probably it is too late or impossible to recreate “Jerusalem” after all – a notion which sweeps away all heroic notions from the stanzas with on motion of the hand.

To grasp what might be the “true character” of the stanzas referred to as “Jerusalem,” I want to go back to their origin, to the preceding text in the introduction. Blake calls out to his fellow artists, to “painters,” “sculptures,” and “architects”. For once, they should leave aside the “slave[ry] of the Latin and Greek sword,” meaning the legacy of the ancient classics, Homer, Ovid, Plato, Cicero, in favour of the Bible. Secondly, they should put up a “mental fight” against “ignorant Hirelings.” The “fashionable Fools” try to rule the world of art by payment or advertisement. The artist, however, should ignore “Greek and Roman models” and live by “his true Imagination” of “the World of Eternity in which we shall live forever.” This clearly echoes what Dickinson describes as the never-ending dilemma of the artist, the dichotomy between artistic inspiration and commerce of the world of art. This world view is thus clearly something both artists share. But what does it have to do with “Jerusalem?”

The crucial point, in my eyes, is indeed “Jerusalem.” “Jerusalem” commonly refers to the New Jerusalem, or, Heavenly Jerusalem, as described in the Biblical chapter “Revelation.” It refers to the new city that will emerge after the Apocalypse (Rev. 22 NIV). In this case, however, we have a significant addition: the grail. Dickinson points out that the New Jerusalem will be rebuilt in England, but that it will contain the grail. This is physically impossible. As much as you try to built a Jerusalem in England, it cannot automatically contain the grail.

As “Jerusalem” as described here cannot refer to a material city, it is thus something spiritual, something immaterial. The narrator seeks to be able to lay his eyes upon an unspecified object again, which arguably refers to the New Jerusalem, by the removal of scales from his eyes. This invokes the Biblical story of Saulus who is transformed to Paulus by the falling of scales from his eyes to allow him see again. (Acts, 9 NIV) The scales in the song are supposed to be washed off by blood that rains from the sky, which in turn evokes the first trumpet of the Apocalypse. The first trumpet causes fire, hail, and blood to come from the sky. (Rev, 8:7 NIV) The seven trumpets of the Apocalypse precede the coming of the New Jerusalem. (Rev, 8-9, 11:15 NIV) In short, the first trumpet of the Apocalypse causes blood to fall from the sky which washes away the scales of the eyes of the narrator who can then see again, his surroundings in general and the New Jerusalem in particular. So far we are following a thoroughly Biblical narrative.

Yet, the narrator is not so much passively waiting, as fighting. The line in the third stanza “bring me my spear: the clouds unfold!” is exchanged for the exclamation that the narrator will not sleep until the clouds open and thus make it possible for Jerusalem to descend from the sky or for the narrator to see skyward. This change to an imperative not to rest until the task is accomplished adds urgency. The opening of the sky is something he has to fight for, as illustrated in Blake’s original text: “Bring me my bow of burning gold, bring me my arrow of desires, […] bring me my chariot of fire,” and “I will not cease from mental fight, Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand.” I argue, that this is where not only Rosicrucianism comes in, but also Arthurian myth as well as myths about the Knights Templar. It is the Knights Templar who sought the earthly, old Jerusalem. Lore and Mysticism often link them to the quest of quests, the search for the grail, which in turn also evokes the Arthurian knights. Sword, chariot of fire, (mental) fight are all elements which may point to chivalry and so, with addition of the crucial element of the grail, put “Jerusalem” firmly into the context of different discourses of knighthood.

The grail traditionally asks for a true hero, such as Indiana Jones in the rather recent example Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade (1989), who must pass several tests or fulfil certain tasks to prove his worthiness of the grail. Whereas these tasks are more like riddles for Jones, they were something as tricky as finding the right behavioural code at court, a question of political correctness, for Percival in the eponymous medieval epic written by Wolfram von Eschenbach (1200-1210). To find the grail is not only a quest in the meaning of physical adventure, it is indeed a process that asks for purification of the mind.

Another seeker who faces such riddles and trials to purify him and improve his wisdom is no other than Christian Rosenkreutz in Chymische Hochzeit. The third manifesto of the Rosicrucian Order is variously seen as an allegory, a text describing a spiritual vision, or a hoax. But, as pointed out above, it is safe to say that this text is heavily rooted in alchemy. Alchemy does not only seek the purification of metal, but also of the mind. Rosenkreutz excels so much in the tasks given that he wins the special favour of the king after the king’s resurrection. I am speculating here, but I assume that this is the king we encounter in the song. Winning the favour and respect of the king is of course another ideal of knighthood, together with carrying king and queen in their hearts.

I think we are thus left with several possible readings of these metaphors of chivalry. In the first reading, the chivalry harks back to the quest of Rosenkreutz and the various knights who seek enlightenment in one way or another. In a second reading, the fight is a fight for Jerusalem. In a third reading, enlightenment and Jerusalem are probably even the same. In the end, we can say that the narrator has adapted the mindset of a knight and is actively fighting to rebuild “Jerusalem”.

I think, that this fight is a metaphor for opposition to conventional ways of thinking and resistance against oppression and suppression of the free development of the mind. The knight-figure must seek his own enlightenment and purification. Here we go back to the beginning to the dichotomy between Los and Urizen as embodiments of inspiration and art industry. If I read “Jerusalem” in its original context, meaning the preceding text of the introduction, these restrictions refer to the aforementioned prescriptions by the art industry. The artist ought to follow the poetic imagination which Blake calls the “Eternal World in which we will live.” This is an accurate description of the New Jerusalem, the city the narrator seeks to see again. This complies with what Dickinson describes as Blake’s “anti-materialistic message.” (Dickinson, Autobiography, 270)

“Jerusalem” is thus the “Eternal World” in the future to come, the paradisiacal city after the Apocalypse, and the poetic imagination alike. (I know, I am claiming here that Jerusalem, the city/person, takes the place of Los, but stay with me.) The last line in Dickinson’s song refers to a destroying of chains – and these chains, in turn, tie indeed the city / person Jerusalem “in the Dens of Babylon” (plate 39). This later quote from Milton follows the recording of the song as a spoken quote, tying the somewhat paratextual verses from the introduction to the body of the work. Now, “Jerusalem” stands for four different objects: poetic imagination, “Eternal World”, city, and person. I argue that these chains are the one thing to be fought; the knight-figure must indeed free Jerusalem. He is to free “Jerusalem” from the chains and thereby recreate it.

So what is indeed Blake’s “true Jerusalem?” I do not think that we can ever truly answer this (as long as we don’t put up a séance), but I say that Dickinsons reading of “Jerusalem” as representing the true artists’ minds is closer to Blake’s original text when compared with the context they originate in than every attempt to use “Jerusalem” as a second national anthem.

Live Performance
See a Live Performance of Bruce Dickinson’s “Jerusalem” featuring Ian Anderson in Canterbury Cathedral:
“Ian Anderson from Jethro Tull with Bruce Dickinson – Jerusalem.” Youtube.com, uploaded by Jethro Tull & Ian Anderson. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YTgZatpr1L8 (21.12.2011) [09.09.19]

Sources

  • “Acts.” Holy Bible (New International Version), Biblica, 2011. biblegateway.com. https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Acts+1&version=NIV [09.09.2019]
  • Andreae, Johann, Valentin. Die Chymische Hochzeit des Christian Rosenkreutz Anno 1459. Translated by Walter Weber. Stuttgart: Freies Geistesleben, 1957.
  • Blake, William. Milton: a Poem. The William Blake Archivehttp://www.blakearchive.org/work/biblicalwc (2017) [09.09.2019]
  • Dickinson, Bruce, Z, Roy and Eddie Casillas. “Book of Thel”. Dickinson, Bruce. The Chemical Wedding. Sanctuary, 1998
  • Dickinson, Bruce, Z, Roy. “Gates of Urizen.” Bruce Dickinson. The Chemical Wedding. Sanctuary, 1998.
  • Dickinson, Bruce, Z, Roy and William Blake. “Jerusalem.” Bruce Dickinson. The Chemical Wedding. Sanctuary, 1998.
  • Dickinson, Bruce. The Chemical Wedding. Sanctuary, 1998.
  • Dickinson, Bruce, Z, Roy. “The Tower”. Dickinson, Bruce. The Chemical Wedding. Sanctuary, 1998.
  • Dickinson Bruce. What Does This Button Do: an Autobiography. London: Harper Collins, 2018.
  • Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Dir. Stephen Spielberg. Lucasfilm, 1989.
  • “Revelation.” Holy Bible (New International Version), Biblica, 2011. biblegateway.com. https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Revelation+1&version=NIV [09.09.2019]
  • Shakespeare, William. Macbeth. The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. ed. by W. J. Craig. London, Henry Pordes, 1984.
  • Steiner Rudolf. “Die Chymische Hochzeit des Christian Rosenkreutz.” Andreae, Johann, Valentin. Die Chymische Hochzeit des Christian Rosenkreutz Anno 1459. Translated by Walter Weber. Stuttgart: Freies Geistesleben, 1957. 135-174.
  • Whittaker, Jason. “‘Jerusalem’ Set to Music: A Selected Discography.” Blake/an Illustrated Quarterly. Vol. 52, no. 4, 2019, n. p.
  • Wolfram von Eschenbach. Parzival: Band 1 und 2, Mittelhochdeutsch /Neuhochdeutsch. Translated by Wolfgang Spiewok. Reclam. 2011.

 

Blake and music on Index Rerum

For anyone who has been involved in Blake studies in the past thirty years or so – particularly in the UK but not restricted to that location – Keri Davies has long been a name to be reckoned with. Former Vice-President of the Blake Society, Keri has transformed our understanding of such elements as the early collectors of Blake’s work and his mother’s involvement with the Moravian Church and how that could have influenced his own views on religion. On a more personal note, Keri is also the person who probably knows most about musical settings of Blake, and whose discoveries have often been a spur and influence on my own work.

He (less regularly than I would like!) provides insights into these discoveries at his blog, Index Rerum, and the following is itself a brief index of musical things that can be found there. While I’m concentrating here on Blake and music, there are plenty of other articles on Blake that always repay the perusal.

The first four pieces – dealing with settings of Blake to music by Benjamin Britten, Cornelius Cardew, Adrian Leverkühn and John Sykes – are adapted from articles first published on Zoamorphosis.com. Each of them are extensive listings of musical adaptations and settings of Blake’s poetry that were missed from or dealt with cursorily in Donald Fitch’s Blake Set to Music (1990). In each post, Keri demonstrates his intimate knowledge of each composer and also draws attention to a tendency which is sometimes evident in scholars dealing with the reception of Blake (and a trap into which I may have fallen more than once): it is not enough to be familiar with Blake’s work when dealing with issues of the poet’s reception, as this work also requires knowledge of and empathy towards the later subjects who adapt Blake. All four pieces (as with any work by Keri) are worth reading, but I would draw special attention to the piece on Leverkühn: this German composer did not actually exist, but in some respects – as the central protagonist of Thomas Mann’s Doctor Faustus – is the most important figure in the twentieth-century adoption of Blake into European music. Leverkühn, had he actually written, would have been one of the first European composers to set Blake’s poetry to music, and Mann’s extensive work on musicology prior to writing the novel informed his depiction of the diabolical artist brilliantly, a depiction that is wonderfully dissected by Keri here.

Blake set to music in Europe is an excellent list of the primary classical European composers who have set Blake’s poetry to music, with the opportunity to follow up that listing with their works and analysis of their compositions (a little of which I have done). This listing was then followed in 2014 by another excellent account of a single artist, Walter Zimmerman, whose Songs of Innocence and Experience and Ecchoing Green have been influenced by Blake, as Keri writes, in “a profound way”. At the other end of the scale, his blog includes two Blakespotting pieces in popular music recorded by Sting and The Pet Shop Boys.

In 2016, the Index Rerum included two pieces, the first of which – on Ralph Vaughan Williams – I consider an essential read for anyone interested in Blake and music. (As well as being erudite and scholarly, this piece is also great for Keri’s sideswipes at those infatuated by Williams as part of a cult of Englishness.) The second, shorter piece is on a prolific but much less-well known composer, Catherine Adelaide Ranken who was active in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, producing a great deal of material inspired by poets such as Swinburne, Shelley and, of course, Blake.

There are two more musical-related pieces from 2017. The first details Keri’s incredible discovery of the very first poem of Blake to be set to music, an adaptation of “The Chimney Sweeper” by T. L. Hately in 1863. This was followed by an extremely useful biographical and bibliographical note on Donald Fitch, the most important scholar (as yet) to have worked on Blake’s settings and whose 1990 catalogue, Blake Set to Music, remains indispensable. Finally (thus far), 2018 saw two interrelated pieces on The Fugs – the first an account of Blake’s influence on Ed Sanders and The Fugs (a presentation of which I was lucky enough to see in Manchester), the second a discography of their work.

An alphabetical list of work on Blake and music is below, but the Index Rerum is always worth visiting for insights on one of the most important scholars to have worked on Blake studies in recent decades.

Benjamin Britten
Blake set to music in Europe
Cornelius Cardew
Ed Sanders and The Fugs, and a discography of The Fugs
Donald Fitch
T. L. Hately
Adrian Leverkühn
The Pet Shop Boys
Catherine Adelaide Ranken
Sting
John Sykes
Ralph Vaughan Williams
Walter Zimmerman

Review: Music roundup for early 2019

This year has been a very active year for adaptations of William Blake set to music. We have already covered a couple of new releases this year, such as Astralingua’s wonderful album Safe Passage which includes a version of the Song of Experience, “A Poison Tree”, as well as the avant guard album by Josef van Wissem and Jim Jarmusch, An Attempt to Draw Aside the Veil. What follows now is a roundup of some of the other new releases of the first part of 2019.

The first release of the year was by hip-hop/punk crossover band, Msngrs. Their album, Psychopomp & Circumstance, featuring synthesisers and modules with stripped-back percussion and clipped vocals transforms “The Tyger” into a rhythmic rap song and is rapidly becoming the most-listened to track by Msngrs on various streaming services. It is, I must be honest, a version that left me cold at first – precisely because it is so regular in its somewhat pounding beat. It has grown on me a great deal, especially insofar as the interludes with choppy funk guitar break that regularity to make it more of a fun dance track.

The next item is very different, both in terms of style and the fact that it is a complete album devoted to adaptations of the works of Blake. Fearful Symmetry: The Songs of William Mac Davis brings together eight settings of Blake’s works as well as another of other compositions by Mac Davis, a composer who has studied at the universities of Mississippi and Utah but has previously released little other work. This album brings together a number of pieces from previous years: there are elements of Britten’s experiments in chromaticism on some of the tracks, particularly “The Sick Rose” (an especially haunting piece) and “The Tyger”, while others such as “The Shepherd” and “A Cradle Song” share similarities with elements of more traditional English classical or even folk music. It is too simplistic to say that the more complex pieces are those from Songs of Experience – “The Lamb” for example, combines elements of chromatic piano scales, performed with a beautiful reserve by Robert Carl Smith, to accompany Lynda Poston-Smith’s voice, one which is often haunting and powerful. It is surprising that Mac Davis has not released more music earlier, as there are some particularly bold interpretations of Blake’s work in the classical tradition.

Very different is Light Mind Rising by The Mighty Ur: a mixture of prog-rock and experimental metal, the group work with figures such as the poet Steve Mcauliffe who provides the lyrics and vocals for many of their tracks. There is an echo of groups such as Godflesh as though interpreted via Julian Cope, and the group invoke Blake as a spirit throughout many of the pieces. It is most evident, however, in “Fourfold City”, which is not a direct setting of Blake’s work but rather a riff on London through Blake’s visionary poetics, with Mcauliffe invoking images of hope and angels in a cityscape that owes much to Blake’s Jerusalem the Emanation of the Giant Albion and his Song of Experience, “London”. Blake figures as the poet into whom Milton entered via his left foot, and that prophet who had to break systems to create his own. The track – and indeed the album – becomes strangely hypnotic at various points.

More direct interpretations of Blake come via the album Visions of William Blake by Mick and Kate Stannard, a mixture of straighforward musical settings of various poems by the Romantic as well as spoken-word pieces with a musical accompaniment. The opening track, “The Garden of Love”, is a strong example, although personally I prefer the ones where Kate sings Blake’s lyrics – as in “A Poison Tree”. It is these tracks (which also include “Holy Thursday” and “The Lamb” – this veers in a very sinister fashion from Blake’s original text towards the end) which tend to accompany her voice with simpler guitar or string instruments that are most effective for me, although some of the other incantatory or spoken pieces, such as “The Sick Rose” can also be strangely appealing.

Finally, a more recent addition to the Blakean oeuvre is Nerina Pallot’s double A-side single, English/Jerusalem. Pallot has previously released five albums and was nominated for an Ivor Novello Award for her 2007 song, “Sophia”. This latest release is a an almost perfect combination of piano and her voice for “English”, and guitar for “Jerusalem”, which carries with it echoes of Joni Mitchell and Kate Bush, both in terms of range and the somewhat idiosyncratic singer-songwriter traits of both figures. “Jerusalem” is a fine rendition, but the real killer is “English” which is simply superb. It’s final line – “This broken-down Jerusalem is still my home” gives some sense of the ironic sense of the lyrics of the entire song. That said, her rendition of the Parry hymn is very fine, belonging as it does to the English folk tradition of performing the archetypal English song, which began with Don Partridge and has been heard more recently in the work of figures such as Chris Wood. This is a must-listen for any Blake fans for 2019.

 

You can hear all the albums and tracks listed here on Spotify:

Psychopomp & Circumstance
Fearful Symmetry
Light Mind Rising
Visions of William Blake
English/Jerusalem

 

Review: William Blake’s Mystic Map of London

At the end of William Blake’s Mystic Map of London, the artist and author Louisa Albani includes a quotation from Iain Sinclair’s Blake’s London, in which he writes:

“The golden chain goes on & on & on, & the maps we need to follow are  all to be found in the works of the archetypal London writer, William Blake of Lambeth.”

The quotation is an apt one, as indeed is Sinclair’s description of Blake as “the godfather of psychogeography” in his earlier book, London Orbital. Simon Cole, who has contributed much of the writing to William Blake’s Mystic Map, directly refers to Blake as the “original psychogeographer”, while Albani invokes Sinclair as a direct inspiration for her project, along with Peter Ackroyd, Hnery Eliot, Niall McDevitt, and June Singer. And the nature of that project? To invoke Blake’s spirit as an an anarchist and activist in his own time to understand not only the London of his own day, but that of the city in the twenty-first century. As Albani writes in her introduction:

In 21st century London, significant landmarks continue to be knocked down, and common land gets sold off to money-hungry developers. We are led to believe that such changes are an inevitable part of city life, but the privatisation of free space can lead to feelings of powerlessness. How can we address this feeling? Perhaps by being visionary architects of our own futures, imaginatively mapping our own sacred spaces across the city.

Albani, who describes herself as an artist, educator and independent publisher, has produced a wonderfully beautiful pamphlet to map out her own imaginative response to Blake, a visionary mapping of the city that draws upon the Romantic as she has also drawn upon Mary Wollstonecraft for a similar work dealing with her inspirations. The book comprises a series of hand-drawn maps and illustrations of scenes in London (and of Blake’s life), with particular emphasis paid to the features that appear in those locations. Thus the “Mystic Map of Soho”, for example, lists that the Ancient Order of Druids was founded at the Old Kings Arms east of Poland Street in 1781, while the font in Christopher Wren’s church of St James, Picadilly, was designed by Grinling Gibbons and was inspired by the Tree of Life. There are elements of Albani’s (and Cole’s) enthusiasm which occasionally inspire a Urizenic-academic raise of they eyebrow from me (I have, in the past, spent far too long tracking down what I believe was the relative insignificance of that Druidic Order in the Old Kings Arms), but at the same time I am fully aware of just how important these minute particulars are to an understanding of William Blake. Many is the time that I have felt this myself, wandering through London’s chartered streets and mentally mapping how they must have appeared in Blake’s day (and how so many of those tracks still survive into the present, even as the city is constantly destroyed and rebuilt).

Alongside the images are a series of short prose pieces, some by Albani, others by Cole, as well as quotations and extracts of Blake’s works. Thus we learn of the site of the old Newgate Prison where Blake is said to have been carried along by the crowd during the Gordon Riots of 1780, or his home in 17 South Molton Street, the one London residence that still stands today. Interspersed with these are satirical or observational pieces, such as Cole’s “Death Sentence Commuted to Shopping”, a meditative riff on the fact that Molton Street, formerly close by Tyburn where criminals were hanged, is now dominated by the traffic generated by the commerce of Oxford Street. My own particular favourite among the illustrations included is that of William and Catherine, looking out of the window at Fountain Court, their final home. The aged couple, William sitting and increasingly infirm, Catherine vibrant and standing, are sketched out against the watercolour of the Strand on which they gaze. It is touching and elegant in its simplicity.

William Blake’s Mystic Map of London is a deeply personal response to Blake’s visions of the Jerusalem and Babylon that was his home for all but three years of his life. Albani’s work is not a systematic appraisal of the city – no more than Jerusalem the Emanation of the Giant Albion is a systematic account of the history of Britain. Indeed, in her introduction Albani introduces Baudelaire’s notion of the flâneur, the modern drifter through the city who absorbs aimlessly, a process that the later Situationists would describe as dérive, the revolutionary act of engaging with the situations of the city against the impositions of those in power. In Blake’s case, this was to reimagine those chartered streets as the conduits of Los and Enitharmon, the sites of struggles between Vala, Luvah and Urizen – his great Zoas with which he projected his own psychic battles onto the urban landscape around him. Taking her cue from Blake, Louisa Albani has created her own psychic projections onto Blake’s city and her London, deploying the technique of kintsugi, the golden joinery employed by Japanese artists to bind together broken pottery: the fragments of the city contained in her book are bound together with the same golden string that Blake promised would lead to Jerusalem, and which words are inscribed on his tombstone with which the book concludes:

I GIVE you the end of a golden string;
Only wind it into a ball,
It will lead you in at Heaven’s gate,
Built in Jerusalem’s wall

 

Louisa Albani, William Blake’s Mystic Map of London, with contributions by Simon Cole. Night Bird Press, 2019. £9.00. 

Blakespotting: Blake news for May and June 2019

One of the most unusual appropriations of Blake’s works in recent weeks has been a cabaret show loosely based on The Marriage of Heaven and Hell: Ian Schrager, the hotelier and former Studio 54 co-founder, opened a new Weimar-esque cabaret, the Paradise Club, at the Times Square Edition hotel with a floor show – “The Devouring”, which The New York Times described as “a high-concept reimagining of a William Blake poem and features half-clothed acrobats, ballerinas and an operatic cover of “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails. The overall effect is somewhere between Cirque du Soleil and a Super Bowl halftime show, reimagined by Twyla Tharp.”

Elsewhere, an exhibition at New York’s Morgan Museum and Library shows how theatrical designs for stagings of Maurice Sendak’s work often took their inspiration from William Blake as well. Famous for Where the Wild Things Are, Sendak also sought to put his work on the stage in theatrical performances and even operas, and as a Blake collector the Romantic’s vision affected his own art work. “Drawing the Curtain: Maurice Sendak’s Designs for Opera and Ballet” is on at the Morgan from 14 June to 6 October, and Artnet observed that in 1981 Sendak’s work was displayed alongside that of Blake and Mozart, both of whom were important sources of inspiration for him.

Books and games drew attention to two Blake sightings in May and June. A review in The Irish Times of Peter Linebaugh’s story of Catherine and Edward Despard – which takes its title, Red Round Globe Hot Burning from Blake’s Visions of the Daughters of Albion – observes that the barbaric hanging of Despard in 1803 in front of a crowd of 20,000 draws upon a dual vision of the words as representing the human heart and the globe of the world. In his book, published in March, Linebaugh describes Blake as having “the prophetic power to imagine a different world, and a different heart.” (p.2) Meanwhile, Asobo Studio/Focus Home Interative released A Plague Tale: Innocence in May. A survival game, it’s connection to William Blake came from a promotional trailer in which Sean Bean recited the poem from Songs of Innocence, “The Little Boy Lost”. Unlike DMC5 (reviewed here), there doesn’t seem to be a more profound connection to the Romantic poet, but hearing Sean Bean recite Blake’s words is something definitely worthwhile. The gaming website Kotaku summed it up best with the headline: “Sean Bean Reading William Blake is My Kind of PR Stunt”.

 

Finally, Ed Simon offered a thoughtful piece for JStor Daily at the beginning of June outlining why Blake’s religious and spiritual perspective made him a much more effective abolitionist in the anti-slavery cause, especially in his illustrations for John Gabriel Stedman’s The Narrative of a Five Years Expedition against the Revolted Negroes of Suriname, that often racist Enlightened philosophers such as as Voltaire and Jefferson.

Review: Devil May Cry 5

William Blake’s art and poetry has been well-received in Japan for many years. Nobel Prize-winner in literature, Kenzaburo Oe, has cited Blake as a significant source of inspiration. Several successful Blake exhibitions in Tokyo also signal that the English artist is a welcome addition to Japanese art connoisseurs. In a decidedly different direction, towards the low-brow and popular, Devil May Cry 5 has also struck Blake inspiration. True to the rest of the series, Devil May Cry 5 (DMC5) is an action-based, hack-and-slash video game. The term hack-and-slash is precisely what it sounds like; wherein the player utilizes an impressively imaginative arsenal of melee weapons used to beat up the baddies.

Capcom’s Devil May Cry is no stranger to fantastical literary allusions. The main protagonist, Dante, is named after the poet of The Divine Comedy. His coldly rational, and power-hungry twin brother is Vergil – as in, the ancient Roman poet that guided Dante through the Inferno. More phrases and nods from literature abound in the series, like Faust and Mephistopheles demons that you need to smash into smithereens. The phrase “give up the ghost,” found in Shakespeare’s King Henry VI and Julius Caesar, as well as in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, is reworked into a combat phrase for a snarky, young protagonist called Nero. While maneuvering a pummeling move with his cyborgic arm, he teases the diabolical beasts on their futile resilience: “Don’t wanna give up the ghost, do ya?!” Beyond literary allusions, the Devil May Cry universe has its own extensive universe gleaned from six video games, a manga series, comic books, three novels, and an anime series.

In order to provide the most cohesive understanding of Blakean influence in DMC5, I’ve chosen to focus on crucial elements of the storyline. For this reason, consider what follows as spoilers. If you do choose to play the game, there will still be twists and turns that I have not relinquished – so you’re in luck. Or as the beloved protagonist of the games would say, “Jackpot!”

The stylish playable characters in Devil May Cry 5. Left to right: V, Nero, and Dante.

A mysterious, tattooed man arrives at the Devil May Cry office and asks for Dante and his team of devil-hunters (Lady, Trish, Nico, and Nero) to help him exterminate a demon. Dante asks the strange man for his name, who replies: “’I have no name, I am but two days old,’ but you can call me V.” The reference to Blake’s “Infant Joy” from Songs of Innocence, prepares the player for the oncoming barrage of Blake references. Over the course of the game, you realize that V is captivated by William Blake, as evidenced by his conversational references, adopting lines from the Marriage of Heaven and Hell as combat phrases, and when left in an idle position, flips through his book of Blake’s poetry and art. His fascination with Blake goes so far that he has named the demon they’re hunting after Urizen.

V explains that Urizen has planted a massive, demonic tree in the surrounding cities that exsanguinates humans to feed its thirst. After harvesting enough blood, the tree will bear a singular, fiendish fruit. Whoever is powerful enough to eat the fruit will assume the role of King of the Underworld. This information gives context to the opening title card of the game from “The Poison Tree”: “And it grew both day and night, Till it bore an apple bright.”

Eventually, after a few successes and upsets on the battlefield, V reveals that Urizen is the diabolical part of Dante’s brother. Vergil, encumbered by his humanity, excised his demonic and human divisions of his soul with a mystical sword. Resulting in the human embodiment of Vergil made manifest as V. Vergil’s insistence to annihilate this part of himself has proven largely successful, as V’s body is rapidly deteriorating, represented by his dependence on a cane, inability to move efficiently, and his skin cracking like dried earth. V’s deteriorating health factors into the gameplay of the character as well. Instead of Dante and Nero’s stylish and dynamic fighting styles equipped with an array of weapons like swords with motorcycle engines, bazooka-blasting prosthetic limbs, and a cowboy hat that spits destructive orbs – V uses demonic powers to summon familiars that can inflict massive amounts of pain on your enemies. The familiars take shape as: Griffon (an “avian monstrosity”), Shadow (a black panther that can shapeshift into needles, blades, and a ninja star), and Nightmare (an orc-like creature with gargantuan fists and lasers). As a character, V plays as a slow and deliberate type, underscoring the differences among this brazen troupe of devil-hunters.

From Nico’s Enemy Report on Urizen:
“Your target—the demon king. Thing is, I can’t find any mention of Urizen in any of my demonology texts. You’d think a guy who crowns himself king of all demons would be a little more infamous…”

Considering these differences, the group decide to split up to find Urizen, and Dante arrives first. He defeats Cerberus, the tri-headed canine beast that guards the underworld, and finds Urizen about to indulge in the diabolical fruit. The boss battle is challenging but not impossible, requiring the player to remain vigilant and change up their attacks often. Before you deliver the final blow to Urizen, the rest of your team shows up. V intervenes and asks for this final wish, insinuating he should be the one to kill Urizen. However, his intervention turns into a reunification of V and Urizen – culminating into Vergil.

DMC5 received a warm welcome from gamers. Metacritic, an online service that averages reviews from reputable gaming journals and blogs, determined it was “very good,” and received a reception score of 88%. The core, original team that created the series has reassembled to complete this game, including director, Hideaki Itsuno. Together again, they have created one of the most enjoyable installments of the series, thanks to their signature “stylized action” and impeccable technical aesthetic advancements. Devil May Cry 5 is absolutely bizarre, over-the-top, and campy which makes the use of Blake’s poetry and art so stimulating.

William Blake has permeated media across all platforms and often, in a very serious way. One of the most discussed and reworked examples is Hubert Parry’s arrangement of lines from Milton, as “Jerusalem” — a rousing song for British soldiers at the time of the first World War (Listen to the podcast about it here). Diverging from this style of reworking, the references to Blake seem alien in the comical DMC5. While V clearly finds solace and stoic inspiration in the works of Blake, the surrounding atmosphere and dialogue of the game subvert the grave nature of V. It reminds me of a brief moment in Mean Streets (1973) by Martin Scorsese. An intense and bizarre scene of Tony entering a young tiger’s cage, explains that he, “really wanted to get a little tiger…ol’ William Blake and all that.” Tony, the owner of a seedy strip joint, is immersed in a world of sex, sin, guilt, lust, and murder. The same thing V is encapsulated in – all the other characters revel in vulgarity and silliness. Because of their high-octane action moves and saucy banter, V can feel downright insufferable. Why can’t he loosen up and have a little bit of fun? But that’s why it works. The creators know that their audience enjoy high art references but indulge in cheeky buffoonery. After all, the series title is a reference to the phrase “the Devil may care, but I do not!”

Devil May Cry 5 is a stylish romp of carnage, glitzy action, and mythopoetic ponderings of our internal desires. Campaign mode is single player but online allows for 1-3 players. The Entertainment Software Rating Board (ESRB) rated the game as “M” for Mature as there is blood, partial nudity, strong language, and violence. Available on PC, Xbox One, and PlayStation 4. Amazon price: £36.99.