This chapter shows how Minerva authors championed the Press, taught readers how to read them and helped to shift the culture in proto-Victorian ways. It collects together the solutions that women authors proposed to the range of domestic, social and political issues they tackled, argues that their iterative imitations created a community of readers, as well as of writers, and evaluates Minerva Press fiction by the Aesthetics of Reuse.

Chapter 1 argues that two major changes in the long eighteenth century brought questions about literary sensorimotor imagery to the fore: first, the blending of classical models of rhetoric with modern philosophical theories about how the mind moves; and second, the proliferation of reproducible printed illustrations. In the first case, because the passions were explained by the flow of humours and animal spirits or the vibration of nerves, emotion was motion in essays on criticism. Dennis, Kames, and Johnson promoted sensorimotor models of reading and writing that, even as pamphlets and periodicals increasingly satirized mind-in-motion models, continued to wield enormous explanatory power in theories about human agency and creativity. In the second case, serpentine line illustrations in works by Cavendish, Hogarth, and Sterne demonstrate how printed images were not only visual cues but also embodied proprioceptive prompts inviting readers to imagine their bodies in motion.

Chapter 1 assesses the evidence beyond the charter corpus for literary activity in Kent, Mercia and Wessex in the mid-ninth century. This evidence comprises five categories: surviving manuscripts with contemporary English provenances, letters, inscribed objects, the events of the 850s, and Asser’s account of King Alfred’s childhood engagement with books. The importance of understanding survival patterns and the nature of the evidence is stressed, particularly because attempts were rarely made to preserve letters for posterity, and because different ways of engaging with books and inscribed objects generated varyingly large fingerprints for twenty-first-century eyes. Asser’s famous account, furthermore, needs to be approached with caution, though it does in several ways align with the impression of literary activity that one gets from mid-ninth-century sources. A good deal remains unknown about many of the contexts in which literary activity took place, but it is nonetheless clear that the written word was conspicuous in many mid-ninth-century social settings, despite the likelihood that in some contexts resources for new literary productions were limited. Much of this literary culture was fundamentally social, and it was often inspired by international exchange.

What does it mean to know a language? Language is our primary tool for communication, and speaking, listening, reading, and writing are integral to our everyday lives. This chapter explores how adults use and understand language, from speech to the written word. We deconstruct the processes that are involved when speakers speak and listeners listen, and when readers read, and writers write. We delve into groundbreaking (and often controversial) studies to find out what they can tell us about speech production and comprehension. We’ll also find that a big part of language use is misuse. We look at the typical language of adults and the normal mistakes we make in our speech everyday, from mondegreens and malapropisms to spoonerisms and other slips of the tongue. We discuss what these speech and hearing errors mean, and what they reveal about the way language is organized in our minds.

Dante traces the question of happiness to our nature, knowledge of which is available.His decision to persist in rational inquiry is not arbitrary as rests on such knowledge. At the heart of Paradiso Dante speaks with his ancestor Cacciaguida about Florentine politics and nobility because the needed self-knowledge is gained through reflection on political life. From the contemplative unity characteristic of the previous Heaven to the political conflict in Mars is an ascent.

The key discussion concerns how candidly Dante’s poem should express the truth. The literary question points to the political problem of posed by the enduring tensions among human goods, and these tensions disclose the conflicts inherent in an embodied mind. Among beings that desire and reason, that are “mortal” and aware of their mortality, there is decisive inequality, inequality regarding the willingness and ability to discern truth.The scope of this difference defies the possibility that good can be understood by deduction from a principle or law, making it a matter for inquiry. The life devoted to this inquiry, as indicated in these central Cantos, is available here and now and grounds every genuinely common good. Dante calls his epic of self-reflection a “comedy.”

The newcomer to James will meet a philosopher whose language is bracingly lucid. For scholars of James however, this seeming virtue has presented itself as a kind of puzzle: In this context, James has often been faulted for his clarity – for a poetics that contradicts and even seems to undermine the key linguistic tenets of his own work. Those who admire James’s language may encounter a contrary problem: As teachers of James well know, despite his seeming legibility, his writing is apt to be misunderstood – easily reduced and simplified, his ideas taken in just the wrong way. This chapter recasts James’s stylistic choices in light of his early work on perceptual psychology, restoring his use of demonstration, diagram and self-experiment to an account of his rhetorical strategy – one that pertains across his long life of writing. Reading James at this angle resolves many of the seemingly difficult or even paradoxical parts of his thought: The assertion that “the world stands really malleable,” that the “absolute cannot be impossible,” that objects of experience may be taken “twice over,” and even the meaning of “conversion” itself. Understanding the ways in which James used the material at hand to reach his audience opens his work to more immediate, everyday use, while also modeling a mode of interpretation that makes “vague and inarticulate” effects in literature and art available to collective interrogation. Though James did not propose an overarching theory of the aesthetic, approaching James in this way shows the practice of interpretation to be central to the practice of pragmatism, as lived and experienced on a daily basis.

Reading was one of Debussy’s favourite occupations, without doubt one of the activities that nourished and sustained him the most. Still, any attempt to uncover greater detail about the kind of reader Debussy actually was, remains a complicated, almost archaeological task. Although the sale of scores, manuscripts and several books sent to Debussy offers some leads, it does not make it possible to reconstruct their precise importance or to show their full diversity. In order to understand Debussy’s literary inclinations as fully as possible, it is thus necessary to examine other sources, such as letters, books sent to him, testimonies of friends, as well as the diaries and notebooks that have been miraculously preserved – notably those in which he noted references to works likely to interest him and even specific sentences that he particularly liked. By cross-checking these various elements, I sketch a portrait of a composer through one of his most essential passions.

In the early decades of the twentieth century, young and mostly urban Egyptian men and boys started writing in new ways. Inspired by the recent emergence of mass-circulated print fiction in both books and periodicals, they became infatuated with writing fiction. Their writerly endeavours often clashed with the textual preferences of their fathers, and represented a major shift in the understanding of what written texts are for, and who can write them.

African popular intellectuals in colonial Freetown, Sierra Leone, during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries produced public writing in which they lamented the danger of reading ‘like a European’, or quick and mechanical reading practices, which they argued led to the degeneration of the ‘African mind’. This chapter’s case study of Orishatukeh Faduma’s 1919 Sierra Leone Weekly News column, ‘How to Cultivate a Love For Reading,’ reveals how contributors in Freetown reimagined transatlantic public anxieties about race, nationhood, and madness to encourage local readers to ‘read like an African’, which meant slowly, selectively, and critically. Through public writing, Faduma and other popular intellectuals turned globally popular understandings of racial madness on their head to generate the ‘right’ kind of African reader. They used the press to produce a distinctly African literary culture in between the local and the global, and thus used literacy as a social vehicle of colonial self-making.