MICHAEL WOOD
“Just think: a Soviet film director conceived the production of an English play while flying to Japan.”
—Grigori Kozintsev, King Lear: the Space of Tragedy
What is the language of a Russian film? Of a Japanese film? The question sounds like a trick or a riddle, a children’s joke, along the lines of “Who wrote Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony?,” or “What was the date of the 1848 revolutions?” And there is an obvious answer, of course. The language of the film, in the most literal sense, is Russian or Japanese. But if we say this we need to note at once how much we have smuggled into, or taken for granted about, the meaning of the word “film.” We are probably thinking of sound films, although if we are being cautious we shall remember the title cards in silent films. And we are almost certainly thinking of representational images rather than abstract designs, or the dancing cartoons of Disney’s Fantasia, for example; of a pictured world in which humans or animals speak, and therefore speak a national language of some sort, whether they are heard in the film or not. There are many other kinds of film.
But there is another, less literal sense in which the language of these films is still Russian or Japanese, and we can usefully think, with Christian Metz, of the language of cinema, and wonder to what extent that nonverbal language is already national.1 As my title suggests, I do want to prolong that question, but mainly I want to consider the issue of translation in film: what is being translated onto film; how viewers translate among the different sign-systems they are seeing on a screen (and hearing on a sound track); how and when national cultures count and do not count. But we need some examples.
The credits are in Russian, and just before they end we hear a human voice chanting, also in Russian. Then comes a series of noises calling out for interpretation or naming. They sound like, and turn out to be, the creaking of a crude wooden-wheeled cart being pushed over rough ground, and the limping, irregular footsteps of a man walking with a stick on the same terrain. The images appear. They are black and white, and shot mostly from a middle distance, that is, neither in close-up nor in long shot. A group of poorly dressed people, men and women, many of them cripples, make their way with difficulty over a hillside dotted with stones like monoliths. It is hard to place them in time or space by their ragged clothes, but we may think of some undefined period in Europe somewhere between the Middle Ages and the Enlightenment. They look like whatever the European poor are supposed to look like when we allow them into the historical picture. One of them pauses, and blows a signal on a primitive horn: an announcement of some kind. Orchestral music starts up in the sound track. Now we do get a long shot, and a clearer sense of the hillside. Beyond it is a valley, into which these people—there must be a hundred or more of them—are peering. We suddenly see some horsemen in a row, their tall lances erect beside them. We cannot locate them in relation to the gathering mass of people because they have only sky behind them. But then suddenly we in are a particular place, where different, much better-dressed people are waiting, and two poised and wealthy-looking gentlemen walk down a wooden stairway leading from the battlements of a castle. The castle looks medieval, the two gentlemen and the waiting assembly seem to belong to a generic European Renaissance. The men speak, in Russian, the opening lines of King Lear:
I thought the King had more affected the Duke of Albany than Cornwall.
It did always seem so to us, but now, in the division of the
kingdom, it appears not which of the dukes he values most, for
equalities are so weighed, that curiosity in neither can make choice
of either’s moiety.
The division of the kingdoms. That, presumably, is what the blast of the horn announced, that is what the cripples and the poor are assembling to hear about, however remotely. That is what the gentry are attending to more closely.
We are looking at the beginning of Grigori Kozintsev’s film of King Lear (1971). The Russian words we hear are those of Boris Pasternak, author of this translation, and the discreetly sounding music is by Dmitri Shostakovich. But the words we see on the screen, if we are viewing a print with English subtitles, are not a translation of what we hear. They are the text of King Lear, the source of the speeches, not their rendering in English. We are hearing Pasternak’s translation, but reading untranslated Shakespeare. This unusually complicated relation of Russian to English, and of screen speech to screen text, opens up a whole range of questions about language and translation in film, although the questions take on their full force only when we remember the larger context of the presentation: printed credits, chanting voice, noises off, black and white moving images, sound of horn, music in the sound track, difficulty of correlating images, hillside and castle, crowd and horsemen, speech in Russian, text in English.
And who are these people on the hillside, for whom Shakespeare’s text seems to give no warrant, since it opens with the words I have just quoted? They inhabit “a cruel stone world,” in Kozintsev’s words, they and the landscape are “the ends of a civilization”: “the road to Lear’s castle, a way through the ravages of epochs, a stone chronicle.”2 But they do in fact respond to a textual cue. They are the “wretches” whom Lear, like most productions of the play, has forgotten and whom he remembers only in extreme destitution and distress. They are the people of the kingdom he has given away, and to whom he belatedly thinks a ruler should “shake the superflux”—as if he or any other ruler would ever think the superfluous was superfluous while they had it. Kozintsev does not make his Lear speak of any superflux, but he does bring these people—rhetorically present in Shakespeare’s “wretches, wheresoe’er you are”—physically to the screen. They cluster on the hillside at the start of the film, and they or their counterparts return when Lear enters a hovel on a heath, a huddled heap of faces and limbs, a vision of a human tangle borrowed, perhaps, from the crowded ship’s quarters of Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin (1925). Lear addresses them not as a memory of injustice but as a present mass of human suffering:
Poor naked wretches …
That bide the pelting of this pitiless night [the subtitle has storm],
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,
Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these? O, I have ta’en
Too little care of this!3
Houseless, unfed, and ragged, they are the world of the governed, “the people without rights,”4 as Kozintsev calls them, the hapless human contents of the portions into which Lear has divided up his kingdom, and the film places them at its opening in order to remind us that a kingdom is more than land, and that a land anyone wants to rule almost always has people on it.
Another hillside, more horsemen. But the hills are vast and grassy, and we see long vistas of them, a green landscape of rounded summits and deep valleys. The horsemen sit waiting, in groups of four or three or two, the only visible movement the twitching of their horses’ tails. There is faint, high violin music in the sound track. The credits on the side of the screen are in Japanese, so we can guess where we are. A closer look at the horsemen reveals them to have the beards and costumes of ancient Japanese warriors, longbows in their hands, quivers of arrows strapped to their backs. Suddenly a boar appears in close-up, and we know why the horsemen are waiting. The boar hears a sound, and starts to run. The hunting warriors appear behind him in hot pursuit. Other boars appear and the chase is on, boars and mounted huntsmen racing through the long grass. We see the oldest of the huntsmen draw his bow, still riding fast as he does so. The music now features a high-pitched flute, and the screen suddenly shows the film’s title, two large red characters, which look almost as if they have been painted in blood: Ran, meaning chaos.
After the title the huntsmen sit in a canvas enclosure discussing their day. The oldest one, Lord Hidetora, falls asleep, and awakens to announce a strange dream. Then Hidetora says the time has come for peace, and he is stepping down, leaving his hard-won territories and his first castle to his eldest son; his second and third castles and corresponding lands to his second and third sons. He will retain only a thirty-man escort and the title of Great Lord. He plans to visit each of his son’s castles in turn. The first two sons make obsequious speeches, saying all the right things, and the third son calls his father senile and crazy. The third son is blunt and harshly outspoken, not merely honest, but we begin to recognize the structure. The third son is Cordelia, he cannot lie, and he understands that his father fails to understand himself. More important, he understands, and clearly says, that their whole world is one of strife and chaos, that one cannot step down from a history of violence, and that an imperious, warlike father is not likely to have raised docile and unambitious sons. Like Cordelia, the third son is banished, and the story follows the pattern of King Lear—with the significant difference, of course, that English daughters have been transformed into Japanese sons. The film is Akira Kurosawa’s Ran (1985).
The hunting scene corresponds in more than one way to that of the gathering crowd in Kozintsev’s King Lear. The huntsmen, like the crowd, are waiting, and until we see the boar, we do not know what they are waiting for: an enemy, perhaps, a raid, or the onset of a battle. And although we soon learn the men are gathered for a sporting occasion, the occasion itself, the fast-riding, armed horsemen, and the ensuing conversation, are full of memories of war. More discursively, Kurosawa, like Kozintsev, is giving us, in imagery, a deep story that Shakespeare’s text only hints at. In place of “the people without rights” and their stony terrain, we have a culture of vigilance and discipline and the struggle for survival. “I’ve tried to give Lear a history,” Kurosawa said. “I try to make it clear that his power must rest upon a lifetime of bloodthirsty savagery.”5 He makes it more than clear in the abdication scene I’ve just described, but all kinds of hints of this history lie in the opening images, with their complicated mixture of beauty and menace.
In both Kozintsev’s and Kurosawa’s films something more than a production of Shakespeare is taking place: the cinema is not just a modern stage. In effect, we are witnessing a double translation: from culture to culture and from medium to medium. The cultural translation is easy enough to track, and translation seems close enough to the right word. Shakespeare’s ancient England becomes Kozintsev’s Renaissance Russia; Lear’s time becomes Shakespeare’s time. In the early stages of planning his film, Kozintsev visited Lear’s “places” in England: “Newcastle-upon-Tyne, a ninth-century cathedral, castles, Anglo-Saxon monuments …” He reports, “I did not yet know what surroundings Lear was to have. Only not these; the action could not take place here.” Later he says his scene was to be “the world of history without external historical characteristics; a world which is absolutely real (filmed on location), without existing in nature, constructed out of a montage which will last for two hours.”6 Much film theory is compressed into this lucid and paradoxical sentence, and we have seen the practice that results: the construction not of an illusion but of an emblematic reality. Kurosawa’s translation of England into Japan, here as in his earlier film, Throne of Blood (1957), based on Macbeth, comes eerily close not so much to Shakespeare as to what we imagine the world of Shakespeare’s sources to be like: violent and unforgiving, less courtly and Christian than he has managed to make it, even if his characters (in King Lear) do repeatedly invoke pagan gods. And the translation of three daughters into three sons is, I think, more than a response to cultural difference. It is true that Shakespeare’s audience would have had no difficulty in imagining powerful women, since their country had been ruled by two shrewd and ruthless queens for all of the fifty years before Shakespeare wrote King Lear, and that there is no Japanese equivalent for such public authority being given to women. But even if the shift of gender starts in historical plausibility, it ends somewhere else: in an implied question about the difference gender makes in struggles for power. This is too large a subject to tackle here, but it is worth saying briefly that Ran seems both to insist on the difference, and to make it, after we have registered all the obvious effects of dress and language and means of action, rather hard to find, since the most lethal and captivating figure in the film is not the king or any of this three sons, but the first son’s wife (and second son’s mistress), Lady Kaede.
The translation from medium to medium is harder to describe correctly, since literally we are seeing the realization in one medium of a text designed for another: a virtual translation, let’s say, or a real translation of the virtual text composed of various stage productions of the play, remembered, reconstructed, or imagined. It is not clear that translation is exactly the right word here; not clear either that there is a better one, since the phantom of a stage production of a famous play must haunt all film versions. One of the things these films must necessarily be, apart from films, is not-the-play. We think of live bodies, physical space, real time, and the triumphs and failures of stage illusion—that unmistakable, never precisely repeated gesture, that terrible makeup. A film has none of this, and in films based on Shakespeare we remember this absence. In fact, the difference between good and bad Shakespeare films often has to do with this absence. The trick is not to make us forget it, but to persuade us to do something with our memory. Kozintsev and Kurosawa remind us constantly that their films are films, and it is for this reason that the notion of translation will not go away—even though it can usually quite easily be made to go away in the cinema. Both films turn a literal absence of fleshly life, a sequence of shadows on a screen, into a series of questions about the end or absence of life, about mortality and the shadowiness even of much actual existence. Think again of Kozintsev’s notion of a setting that is real but does not exist in nature and is made out of montage. A film world is always remade, put together out of pieces. Both of these films ask us to think about the pieces and the putting together. And beyond that, since the translation is double (from medium to medium and from culture to culture) they ask us to think of the national origins of two sets of pieces, and of the national styles involved in putting them together—assuming that even the most talented individual directors do not work entirely outside of any tradition.
What is a national film style? Is there an international film style? I do not think there are narrowly national styles of any great interest, and of course it’s true that good directors work as much against their traditions as with them. I do not think there is an international style of any great interest either, unless we take the well-made Hollywood film as having become an international model, through a sort of imperialism of expressive means. But there are distinct traditions, and Kozintsev, for example, for all his interest in Japan and Kurosawa, and all forms of inventive filmmaking from Dreyer to Welles and Buñuel and Fellini, remains a director in the tradition of Eisenstein, and there are clear family resemblances between his King Lear and Eisenstein’s Ivan the Terrible (1942, 1945), as well as the previously mentioned Battleship Potemkin. Kozintsev gets less hieratic and less symbolic performances out of his actors, but they still look as if they are ready to step into a brilliant archive of gesture and posture, and we would not confuse them with characters in a British or Italian or French film, even if the costumes were more or less the same. Similar things can be said of Kurosawa, the most international of all Japanese directors, and a man long scorned in Japan because of that very reputation. The very silences in Kurosawa sound Japanese, and are unlikely to be found even in the most silent moments of Western film.
But style is not the same as language, and it is worth recalling the elements of film language we have glanced at so far: noises, voices, music, black and white images, images in color, pictures of humans, of animals, of landscapes, of castles, of tents; dialogues about rule and division, changing faces, sudden gestures. Many of these elements are going to be national in particular cases, but in principle, and described as generally as I have just described them, they are international. Gesture as a locally interpretable language will always belong to a specifiable culture, but the idea of gesture as language belongs to culture at large. Each individual king will govern (or not) a particular country, but kingship is found in many places. We might think of this relation between the general and the particular as the relation between a word and a referent, or a word and a name: between the word “pointing,” for instance, and the act of pointing at this; between the word “king” and the name Lear. But then we shall need to complicate our picture at once, because Lear functions both as a word (the man with the three daughters or sons, the man who divides his kingdom, the man to whom the whole story of Lear happens) and a name (this actor, this particular incarnation, this face, this hair, this set of highly individualized motions). This is true on stage, of course, and true more generally of literature, since every reader must actualize a version of the characters he or she reads about. That is why Henry Fielding could say, in one of his slyest jokes, that it was a mistake for Cervantes to set Don Quixote in Spain—since one could see its characters in London any day.7 But the force of the referent or the name is especially compelling in film, where we see an unavoidable range of stark particulars, and often can reach the general, or the translatable, only after a considerable interpretative struggle. In photography, still or moving, “the referent adheres,” Roland Barthes says, the object or person remains stubbornly an object or a person, will not quite turn into a sign.8 This was not always entirely true, and whatever truth the claim had has vanished with the advent of digital photography. A digital image may resemble an object or a person, and we usually understand it through that resemblance. It is not a purely conventional sign like a word. But it reconstructs rather than registers an illusion, and the same is true of digital sound. These are not traces of objects or persons, as photographs and recordings once were; like footprints or a fingerprints. And Barthes’ claim about photography tells us something important about the cinema—that is, about the history and theory of moving images prior to the digital age. In the cinema the referent (often) adheres not only because of what we know about the technology that produces the images but because the screen and the sound track are full of referents, of signs that have not made it all the way into “signhood.” If we think again of any of the instances I have evoked so far, we shall see we are caught up in a curious kind of semantic travel, from the irreducible creak or tap or horse or armor to a relay of implied meanings. We turn the sounds and images into words or at least into candidates for words: cart, lameness, hunt, warriors. Then we make another move and turn these notions into larger suggestions on the verge of allegory: poverty, rightlessness, vigilance, violence. But then we look again and all the generalities have vanished. All there is is the creak and the tap and the horse and the armor, nothing else. And the travel starts again.
To Barthes’ claim that the referent adheres to the photograph, we could add Benjamin’s idea that photography refuses or evades art because “the beholder feels an irresistible urge to search … a picture for the tiny spark of contingency, of the Here and Now, with which reality has so to speak seared the subject.”9 This is a fantasy about photography, but a fantasy with a long historical life. It suggests not that the camera cannot lie, but that it cannot shake off the world.
Of course the camera can shake off the world in all kinds of ways. Every act of framing a shot excludes something. And blanking out wrinkles from a finished photo, retouching waistlines, or airbrushing out whole casts of characters, are all ways of refusing aspects of actuality. But the fantasy, forgetting these things, remembers something else: that a camera can be pictured as perfectly lacking in intelligence, and therefore unable to scrutinize or alter what it sees.
The fantasy is not about the camera always doing this; no one thinks the posed studio photograph is anything other than a posed studio photograph. The fantasy is about the chance, once in a while, of catching mere contingency, and especially in a moving film. Near the beginning of the story “A Scandal in Bohemia,” Sherlock Holmes is called an “observing-machine,” and a little later makes a famous distinction between seeing and observing. “When I hear you give your reasons,” Watson remarks, ‘the thing always appears to me to be so ridiculously simple that I could easily do it myself, though at each successive instance of your reasoning I am baffled until you explain your process. And yet I believe that my eyes are as good as yours.” “Quite so,” Holmes says. “You see, but you do not observe. The distinction is clear. For example, you have frequently seen the steps which lead up from the hall to his room.” Watson says he has.
“How often?”
“Well, some hundreds of times.”
“Then how many are there?”
“How many? I don’t know.”
“Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have seen. That is just my point. Now, I know that there are seventeen steps, because I have both seen and observed.”10
“Observing” is not reflection or intelligence, it is just better seeing. The observing-machine will always have counted the steps, or rather will not even need to count them, because it will register the seventeen steps every time. It does not have to remember because it does not have a means of forgetting. What the machine represents in such an interpretation is not so much a modern technology as the mind so close to perception it can scarcely think.
There is an extraordinary moment in A la Recherche du temps perdu that catches the mind in just such a phase, and evokes it through a recourse to the image of just this technology. The camera, Proust suggests, defamiliarizes the world and reveals our tricks of perception to us. But it also reveals the world itself and our loved ones to us, especially when we have wrapped them up in all kinds of protective familiarities. This is an intricate and painful affair, because the camera tells the very truth that human agencies are conspiring to deny. When Proust’s narrator writes of “film” in this passage (a la façon des pellicules), I do not know whether he means the film you put in a camera or the film you see in a cinema. Probably the second, since early films are full of stories of what a camera will see when it is inadvertently left running, when the world stumbles into its view, so to speak. As if the camera were a kind of spy without a job—who need only to wait to become employed. There are many things to be said about this passage, but let me for the moment mention only the delicacy of its multiple perspectives, marked by words like affectionate, cruel, intelligent, devoted, loving, and deceptive, and by the intense desire not to see what is so sadly to be seen, along with the faithful reporting of seeing it. I’d like to note too that the real narrator is a ghost and the real grandmother a sort of photographic hallucination: when so-called reality returns it means the cover-up is back in place, and the film, what Proust elsewhere calls mere “cinematic procession,” is over. The narrator enters a room where his grandmother is reading:
I was there in the room, but in another way I was not yet there because she was ignorant of the fact, and, like a woman who has been caught unawares at some piece of needlework that she will hide away if anyone comes in, she was absorbed in thoughts which she had always kept hidden in my presence. The only part of myself that was present—in that privileged moment which does not last and in which, during the brief space of a return, we suddenly find ourselves able to perceive our own absence—was the witness, the observer, in travelling coat and hat, the stranger to the house, the photographer who has called to take a photograph of places that will never be seen again. What my eyes did, automatically, in the moment I caught sight of my grandmother, was take a photograph. We never see those who are dear to us except in the animated workings, the perpetual motion of our incessant love for them, which, before allowing the images their faces represent to reach us, draws them into its vortex, flings them back on to the idea of them we have always had, makes them adhere to it, coincide with it…. But if, instead of our eyes, it should happen to be a purely material lens, a photographic plate, that has been watching things, then what we see, in the courtyard of the Institute, for example, instead of an Academician emerging into the street to hail a cab, will be his tottering attempts to avoid falling on his back, the parabola of his fall, as though he were drunk or the ground covered in ice. Similarly, some cruel trick of chance may prevent the intelligent devotion of our affection from rushing forward in time to hide from our eyes what they ought never to linger upon, and, outstripped by chance, they get there first with the field to themselves and start to function mechanically like photographic film, showing us, not the beloved figure who has long ceased to exist and whose death our affection has never wanted to reveal, but the new person it has clothed, hundreds of times each day, in a lovingly deceptive likeness…. I, for whom my grandmother was still myself, I who had only ever seen her with my soul, always at the same point of the past, through the transparency of contiguous and overlapping memories, suddenly, in our drawing-room which had become part of a new world, the world of Time, inhabited by the strangers we describe as “aging well,” for the first time and for a mere second, since she vanished almost immediately, I saw, sitting there on the sofa beneath the lamp, red-faced, heavy and vulgar, ill, her mind in a daze, the slightly crazed eyes wandering over a book, a crushed old woman whom I did not know.11
This is not the place to distinguish minutely between still and moving photography. It will be enough to say that still photography often returns to “art” while movies before the digital age frequently work best when they claim not quite to have been there. This is an art too, of course, but an art that announces its insufficiency, its dependence on a merely material, untransformed world. Its realm is the real that is not natural, as Kozintsev says; a place of incomplete signs, in Barthes’ sense; of contingency, in Benjamin’s; of (almost) unthought, unedited perceptions, as in Proust’s narrator’s glimpse of his grandmother.
It is often said that the arrival of sound altered the cinema drastically, and in one sense it did. But only because films, and especially North American films, came to depend so massively on talk. Films not only spoke, they became garrulous, turned to dialogue for all their story lines, jokes, and the mapping of emotions. This in turn generated dubbing for overseas audiences, and the use of subtitles—which need to be clearly distinguished from the title-cards of silent films, themselves part of a film-text, not translations into the print of one language of the spoken sounds of another. These talkative films became markedly national, not just because they spoke a national language, but because they spoke so much and had such need of speech.
There are other relations of sound and image, and we have only to think of the celebrated seven minute “silent” sequence in Ran to see what they may be. This sequence is silent in the sense that it has no dialogue or sound effects, only slow, haunting Mahler-influenced orchestral music (by Toru Takemitsu). But the silence is sudden, and the absence of noise is felt throughout the sequence. Lord Hidetora is being attacked by his two elder sons, we hear horses neighing, soldiers shouting, and see his abrupt alarm. One of his soldiers, several arrows in his body, collapses and dies, but not before saying they are in hell. Then the music rises, and everything else goes totally silent: arrows hit the castle walls, guns are fired, soldiers fall, Hidetora’s concubines commit suicide, men are yelling, flames appear, clouds billow—all inaudible. Then Hidetora’s eldest son Taro rides into the castle courtyard. The battle is over, apparently. The slow music continues, and so does the silence of the represented world. Then sound returns loudly as a gunshot kills Taro—one of his brother’s men has murdered him. Kurosawa’s metaphors are both visual and aural: a scene of carnage and sounds both heard and unheard. Death and betrayal are hell, and hell is silence, the dream-like muffling of the noises of the world, a place where even extreme violence cannot make itself heard.
This sequence, like the most memorable moments in many films, presents us with a finely articulated instance of the complexity of our question about translation. Here are countless elements that are local and untranslatable; local and translatable; not local at all but not translated; or translated into the most enduring, cosmic terms. We see persons and a world both clothed and unclothed in interpretation, in Proust’s terms, dressed in the brilliant colors of ancient courtly Japan, but also showing glimpses of Lear’s “thing itself,” “unaccommodated man.”12 And as we listen to the civilized music of the Western concert hall we try in vain to hear the sounds of an Eastern world that has died.
NOTES
1. Cf. Christian Metz, Film Language: a Semiotics of the Cinema, trans. Michael Taylor (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1991).
2. Grigori Kozintsev, King Lear: The Space of Tragedy, trans. Mary Mackintosh (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1977), pp. 83, 130.
3. William Shakespeare, King Lear, Act III, Scene Four. London: J M Dent, 1935, p. 54.
4. Kozintsev, King Lear, p. 36.
5. Stuart Galbraith IV, The Emperor and the Wolf: The Lives and Films of Akira Kurosawa and Toshiro Mifune (New York and London: Faber and Faber, 2001), p. 578.
6. Kozintsev, King Lear, pp. 21, 81.
7. Henry Fielding, Tom Jones (New York: Signet, 1961), p.160. “The facts we deliver may be relied on, though we often mistake the age and country wherein they happened: for though it may be worth the examination of critics whether the shepherd Chrysostom, who, as Cervantes informs us, died for love of the fair Marcella, who hated him, was ever in Spain, will any one doubt but that such a silly fellow hath really existed?”
8. Roland Barthes, La Chambre claire (Paris: Gallimard Seuil), 1980, p. 18.
9. Walter Benjamin, “A Small History of Photography,” in One-Way Street, trans. Edmund Jephcott and Kingsley Shorter (London: Verso Books, 1985), p. 243.
10. Arthur Conan Doyle, “A Scandal in Bohemia,” in Sherlock Holmes: The Complete Novels and Stories, Volume 1 (New York: Bantam, 1986), p. 211.
11. Marcel Proust, The Guermantes Way, trans. Mark Treharne (London: Penguin Books, 2002), pp. 137–38.
12. Shakespeare, King Lear, Act III, Scene Four, p. 56.