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Introduction

Sodomy and the sublime: once the pleasures of alliteration have faded, it is not at all clear what might connect the two. Sodomy is primarily a legal and theological category whose heyday was the medieval and early modern periods. The sublime is an aesthetic category that originated with Longinus but flourished in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. So the two terms inhabit not only different and apparently unrelated discourses but also distant historical and cultural moments. The temporal problem is perhaps the less serious of the two, since the category of the sublime often seems to be applied after the fact. Longinus detects it in Homer, who surely lacked any inkling of the concept; Edmund Burke finds it in Milton, who at least had read Longinus, as well as in Shakespeare and Spenser, who had not. So if the conjoining of sodomy and sublimity seems anachronistic, at least anachronism is built into one of the two terms. Still, other problems remain. Sodomy has generally denoted a class of nonprocreative sexual activities (usually but not always same-sex activities) for which one might be denounced, prosecuted, or executed. Sublimity is a class of aesthetic phenomena associated variously with grandeur, exaltation, the experience of fear or pain, and the limits of representation. Both categories have been so diversely construed that they are fuzzy around the edges, but it isn’t intuitively obvious how they might overlap, either logically or culturally. Sodomy doesn’t engross much space in treatises on aesthetics, and aesthetic issues, conversely, don’t much preoccupy the jurists and theologians who define sodomitical acts.

Things seem less dire if we shift categories a bit and speak of sexuality and aesthetics, for here we find a rich tradition, from Plato to Freud, connecting erotic (often homoerotic) desire and artistic creation or transcendent experience. Freud’s concept of sublimation, in which sexual drives are diverted to nonsexual (often artistic) aims, will provide a kind of guiding thread for much of this study, although I take it as a culminating point of the tradition I wish to explore rather than a theoretical postulate, and I will also examine certain themes that run distinctly against the Freudian grain. The very word sublimation suggests a connection with the sublime which I will develop in every chapter of this book, not only those on Freud and Lacan. Sublimation as a psychoanalytic concept draws on older alchemical traditions of purification, separation, and (surprisingly) defeminization, which will also come into play.

I turn to Oscar Wilde, however, to provide a first set of connections as well as tensions between the sexual and aesthetic spheres. Wilde’s novella The Portrait of Mr. W.H. depicts the catastrophic results of a theory about Shakespeare’s sonnets that circulates in hothouse fashion among a coterie of young men. There is much swooning over the beauty of the sonnets and of the young man they depict, all of which serves to displace the desire that Wilde’s characters feel for one another. Lawrence Danson wryly notes that “for many of Wilde’s readers, both before and after the trials, this ‘rationalization of homosexual desire as aesthetic experience’ (in Elaine Showalter’s phrase) was a verbal fig-leaf bulging with phallic reality.”¹ Such a response was not wrongheaded; indeed, it was probably just what Wilde demanded of his readers. One might even argue that part of Wilde’s project in the Portrait is to push the “fig-leaf” model to the point of breakdown. At the same time, however, this strategy reveals certain difficulties with the model itself insofar as it reduces the aesthetic to a mere surface phenomenon covering the truth of forbidden sexual desire. For one thing, aesthetic experience could not substitute for sexuality at all if it did not already offer a sensual intensity that rivals (or at least evokes) that of its counterpart. Second, it is not at all clear that (homo)sexuality is the hidden “truth” of aesthetic experience for Wilde; it seems more accurate to say that for him aesthetic experience is both the “truth” and the origin of sexual desire. This, I will argue, is an idea that Wilde borrows from Shakespeare, and it turns Freudian sublimation on its head. It is to be found as well in a passage from St. Paul to which I shall soon turn. The aesthetic origins of sexuality is a recurrent motif in the tradition I trace in this book.

But even if we accept the idea that aesthetic experience provided Wilde with a kind of fig-leaf for the love that dare not speak its name, his discursive situation has now been precisely reversed. On the one hand, openly addressing homoerotic themes when discussing Shakespeare’s Sonnets is now perfectly acceptable, indeed unavoidable—unless, that is, one happens to be Helen Vendler. I myself frequently enjoy the pleasurable frisson of springing sonnet 20 and its “master mistress” on unsuspecting groups of undergraduates. On the other hand, I would be rendered squirmingly uncomfortable were I told to teach a class on the beauty of Shakespeare’s sonnets. And I believe that I’m not alone in this. Thus if what was unspeakable for Wilde (let’s call it sodomy) is now perfectly speakable for us, yet what was once speakable for Wilde (let’s call it beauty) has now become somehow unspeakable—or at least less speakable—for us. This reversal of positions is the product of a complex history, but its possibility depends, I believe, partly on the fact that sodomy, from the very inception of the concept, is implicated in certain aesthetic categories, in particular that category known as the sublime.

The chronological starting point for this connection is a passage in St. Paul’s Epistle to the Romans. I address this passage in my first chapter and don’t want to anticipate too much of that argument here. Briefly, however: the passage claims that the Greeks were afflicted with homosexuality as divine punishment for worshiping statues. This is an odd moment in an odd but brilliant writer. Paul’s particular way of articulating same-sex acts and idolatry posits the former not only as the enemy of the unrepresentable God but also, more strangely, as his counterpart, a situation that continues in later descriptions of sodomy as the unspeakable vice. Sodomy is thus placed in that “beyond” of representation known as the sublime. More specifically, it is brought into proximity with a Hebraic sublime, associated with the Mosaic ban on images. Hebrew scripture has been associated with the sublime ever since Longinus and is cited in the writings of eighteenth-century writers on the sublime such as Burke and Kant. But it was Hegel who, in his Aesthetics, ties the concept of the sublime most intimately and powerfully to Hebrew scripture. I shall discuss Hegelian sublimity in my chapter on Freud, but I should also say that it influences this entire book, though sometimes only implicitly.

My thesis is that Paul’s equation of sodomy and sublimity in Romans is elaborated by medieval theologians and given aesthetic form by Shakespeare’s Sonnets. The Sonnets, in turn, powerfully influence Oscar Wilde’s later “invention” of homosexuality as both an identity and an aesthetic. The emergence of modern homosexuality does not cancel the older ties between sodomy and sublimity, however, but simply reworks them in new guises. Freud’s little book on Leonardo da Vinci and Jacques Lacan’s writings on sublimation in his Seventh Seminar exemplify this. I would claim, then, that the four works examined in this book are not randomly chosen but form part of a coherent tradition, a tradition I could easily have extended both laterally and forward to such contemporary writers as William Burroughs. I have limited myself to a few outstanding instances, however, on the theory that less is more.

Earlier I made the somewhat tongue in cheek remark that writers of treatises on aesthetics do not spend much time discussing sodomy. This is not to say that the issue of homoeroticism does not ever put in an appearance. Here I shall note two moments in which homosexual desire inflects the concept of beauty in philosophical aesthetics, as a kind of general prologue to my more specific investigation of sodomy and the sublime. The first example comes from Edmund Burke’s A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and the Beautiful (1757). At the beginning of the Third Part of the Enquiry, Burke first turns to the concept of beauty, which he defines as “that quality or those qualities in bodies by which they cause love, or some passion similar to it” (83).² He adds that he “confine[s] this definition to the merely sensible qualities of things” (83), meaning that he speaks of a love that attaches not to the personalities or the spiritual qualities of loved persons but only to their visible attributes as bodies. It might seem, then, that when Burke speaks of “love” he means “desire,” but he insists that this is not so:

I likewise distinguish love, by which I mean that satisfaction which arises to the mind upon contemplating anything beautiful, of whatsoever nature it may be, from desire or lust; which is an energy of the mind, that hurries us on to the possession of certain objects, that do not affect us as they are beautiful, but by means altogether different. We shall have a strong desire for a woman of no remarkable beauty; whilst the greatest beauty in men, or in other animals, though it causes love, yet excites nothing at all of desire. (83)

Having first defined the beautiful as that which causes love, Burke then defines love, tautologically, as the mind’s reaction to beauty. The two examples by which he proceeds to distinguish love from desire are parallel but asymmetrical to the logic of his argument. The “woman of no remarkable beauty” arouses desire but not love. She therefore falls outside the sphere of Burke’s investigation entirely. Although she plays the functional role of distinguishing an aesthetic passion or sensation from a non-aesthetic one, she is not herself a proper object for aesthetic contemplation. By contrast, the man (or animal) who causes love but not desire does constitute a legitimate object for aesthetic reflection—doubly legitimate, in that he provokes the proper impulse and does not arouse the improper one. The very possibility of the beautiful as something that excites a passion distinct from desire therefore depends on the nonexistence of male homoerotic desire. This is not just a case of any absence, but of a determinate absence that nevertheless provides a structural support. Burke could easily have found exemplary objects—a vase, a flower—in which the question of sexual desire would not have arisen at all. But he seems compelled to bring the question of beauty into dangerous propinquity with lust so as then to purge it as best he can.

Purgation, as we shall see in my chapter on Shakespeare’s Sonnets, plays an important role in the aesthetic tradition that this book explores. Burke’s contrast between the beautiful man and the “woman of no remarkable beauty” recalls, in fact, the Sonnets’ pairing of the beautiful young man and the so-called Dark Lady, whose “face hath not the pow’r to make love groan” (131: 6) but who nevertheless exerts an inexplicable sexual attraction on Shakespeare and, moreover, draws to herself all the sodomitical attributes that are carefully expunged from the young man. Burke does not mention sodomy directly in the opening passages on beauty, but by linking (non-)desire for men with that for animals, he obliquely evokes the fact that English law had for centuries united homosexuality and bestiality under the category of “buggery.” (A statute passed in 1533, for instance, outlawed “the detestable and abhomynable vice of buggery committed with mankynde or beaste.”)³ Burke therefore knew, and indirectly tells us he knew, that same-sex desire was possible, since the very existence of buggery laws attests to it. But such desire will be definitionally excluded from the field of the aesthetic.

Having made, as best he can, the requisite distinctions to define beauty, Burke sums up:

Which shews that beauty, and the passion caused by beauty, which I call love, is different from desire, though desire may sometimes operate along with it; but it is to this latter that we must attribute those violent and tempestuous passions, and the consequent emotions of the body which attend what is called love in some of its ordinary acceptations, and not to the effects of beauty merely as such. (83)

In provoking “violent and tempestuous passions,” desire spawns a turbulence more akin to the sublime than to the beautiful. Male homoerotic desire simply does not exist for Burke, but if it did, its passions would seem to be allied with sublimity. For what it is worth, a few pages before the beginning of Part Three, Burke notes that bitter tastes and stenches, including “the bitter apples of Sodom,” induce “ideas suitable to a sublime description” (78).

My second example comes from Hegel’s discussion of Greek statuary art in his Aesthetics. For Hegel, Greek art supremely embodies the ideal of the beautiful in which visible form and a richly determined and individualized consciousness harmoniously combine. In a section entitled “Particular Aspects of the Ideal From in Sculpture,” he undertakes to itemize those formal qualities of face and body that elevate Greek art to its ideal status. Before beginning, however, he discharges an intellectual debt:

If we turn now to consider in more detail the chief features of importance in connection with ideal sculptural form, we will follow Winkelmann in the main; with the greatest insight and felicity he has described the particular forms and the way they were treated and developed by Greek artists until they count as the sculptural ideal. Their liveliness, this deliquescence, eludes the categories of the Understanding which cannot grasp the particular here or get to the root of it as it can in architecture [mathematically]. (727)⁴

Hegel borrows liberally from the catalogue of statuary facial features and body parts in Winkelmann’s History of Ancient Art (1765), though his analysis rarely follows his predecessor’s. The distinctive qualities of Greek art that Hegel claims to learn through Winkelmann is “their liveliness, this deliquescence” (Die Lebendigheit, dies Zerfliessende). Both Hegel and Winkelmann distinguish Greek statues from their Egyptian forerunners on these grounds. But “deliquescence” also glances at the homoerotic element in Winkelmann’s work. The History of Ancient Art elevates the figure of the eighteenth-century castrato to a classical ideal, reflecting Winkelmann’s sexual interest in the castrati he consorted with in Rome.⁵ What Winkelmann valued aesthetically in the bodies of castrati and of youths was an indeterminacy of line (and of gender) that distinguished them from the hard outlines of adult male figures. “Here however in the great unity of youthful forms, the outlines themselves imperceptibly flow one into the other” (unmerklich eine in die andere fliessen).⁶ The “deliquescence” (Zerfliessen) of which Hegel takes note is therefore for Winkelmann the flowing (fliessen) of lines in the androgynous and attractive figure of the male youth.

I do not wish to claim, however, that in praising Winkelmann Hegel either assumes or endorses the homoerotic strains in the latter’s work. On the contrary, Hegel’s analysis systematically dampens the sensuous elements in Winkelmann’s descriptions. Moreover, this neutralization is, I would argue, elevated to a kind of thematic status when Hegel discusses the eyes of Greek statues. Hegel begins this discussion by insisting that Greeks painted in the eyes of statues only as an exception, and that the blankness of the eye is therefore a deliberate norm. He gives several reasons, of which two are pertinent here. First, a man’s

glance is what is most full of his soul, the concentration of his inmost personality and being…. But in sculpture [as opposed to painting] the sphere of the artist is neither the inner feeling of the soul, the concentration of the whole man into the one simple self which appears in the glance as this ultimate point of illumination, nor with the personality diffused in the complications of the external world. Sculpture has as its aim the entirety of the external form over which it must disperse the soul, and it must present it in this variety, and therefore it is not allowed to bring back this variety to one simple soulful point and the momentary glance of the eye. (73)

In other words, Greek statues must lack a seeing eye because the expression of soul must be distributed over the entirety of their form. Second, “the eye looks out into the external world; … But the genuine sculptural figure is precisely withdrawn from this link with external things and is immersed in the substantial nature of its spiritual content, independent in itself, not dispersed in or complicated by anything else” (732–33). The statue is therefore blind because it looks inward rather than outward; it “sees” only its withdrawn spiritual content and not the external world.

This theme of blindness recurs indirectly when Hegel turns to the question of nude and draped forms in Greek sculpture. The Greeks, claims Hegel, valued personal individuality and therefore respected the bare human figure because it is “the freest and most beautiful one. In this sense of course they discarded that shame or modesty which forbids the purely human body to be seen, and they did this, not from indifference to the spiritual, but from indifference to purely sensual desire, for the sake of beauty alone” (744). Of course, as Hegel notes, the Greeks sculpted primarily male figures nude. The “indifference to purely sensual desire” (Gleichgültigheit gegen das nur Sinnliche der Begierde)⁷ that allows aesthetic appreciation of the male body thus recalls Burke’s negation of homoerotic desire in his definition of beauty. But while Burke denies the very existence of such desire, Hegel insists rather that the Greeks do not care for it—they abstain from desiring this desire. To put it differently, the desire is there, but Greek eyes do not see it, and this not-seeing defines the aesthetic quality of their vision. Moreover, while describing the Greeks themselves as spectators, Hegel’s remarks clarify in retrospect the blindness of Greek statues. For what these statues (like the Greeks who sculpted them) do not see is sensual desire, specifically male homoerotic desire. Following a classically Freudian formula, then, we may say that blindness takes the place in Hegel that castration occupied in Winkelmann. The not-seeing of Greek statues is their way of incorporating the neutralization of desire that characterizes not only the Greeks but the subject of aesthetic contemplation more generally. The blind eyes of Greek statues teach the spectator in turn a blindness with respect to merely sensual content. But this (partial) negation of the visual in Greek art also recalls the more thoroughgoing annihilation of images that characterized the Hebraic sublime in Hegel. Greek beauty ascends to the spiritual, and it does so by blotting out the merely sensual, thus retaining a faint echo of its sublime precursor even as it celebrates the image. Where St. Paul saw Greek statues as fomenting homosexuality by turning the Greeks away from the sublime God, then, Hegel wields the sublime as a way of cordoning Greek beauty off from Greek homosexuality.

These examples provide nothing more than an initial matrix for this study. Aesthetic theory will play no great role in the chapters that follow. Nevertheless, Wilde, Freud, and Lacan share both an awareness of, and a subversive intent toward, the tradition of philosophical aesthetics. And Shakespeare constructs in his Sonnets an art that formulates—and then shifts—its own aesthetic principles as it proceeds. All four writers reflect in original ways upon the role of sexual desire in art (and art in sexual desire), and all four do so by conjoining the unlikely categories of sodomy and the sublime.

Before proceeding, however, I want to make clear what I do and do not hope to accomplish. Despite my book’s subtitle, I have relatively little to say directly on the topic of sodomy, and not a great deal more to say on the topic of the sublime. Much of the interesting recent work on sodomy in the early modern period has involved opening the concept up to include its associations with nonsexual phenomena such as witchcraft, treason, heresy, and so on. But this larger penumbra of cultural meanings simply doesn’t come into play in the specific tradition I address here. This is a book not about sodomy as such but about the way it is constructed by a specific, post-Pauline tradition. My treatment of sodomy is determined in large part by the fact that I focus on literary and theoretical texts, not on the legal arguments and the medical and theological treatises on which historians of sexuality have tended to base their work. In all the writings I address, sodomy is invoked either fleetingly or implicitly. Indeed, it constitutes a kind of empty hole in discourse, about which nothing directly can be said. This is one of its points of contact with the sublime. In any case, both sodomy and the sublime, taken separately, are topics that have generated abundant commentary and scholarship in recent years. My contribution, as I see it, is to draw previously unnoticed connections between the two. It is only natural, then, that I should focus on mediating terms, of which sublimation is the most important for my purposes.

Perhaps it is only a restatement of the previous paragraph to say that, while I hope this work will be of interest to queer theorists and historians of sexuality, I consider it to be primarily concerned with literary criticism and aesthetics. It would be an exaggeration to say that this is a book about art, not life. But it is more about literary constructions of the sexual than it is about the history of sexuality. Moreover, the specific lineage of writers I construct will be a puzzling and even troubling one, since it conjoins a foundational homophobe (St. Paul), a foundational homosexual (Oscar Wilde), the writer of the world’s most renowned same-sex love sonnets, and two of the most influential figures in psychoanalysis, a discourse and practice that have had a history of enforcing heteronormativity. This strange constellation of writers argues for the continuing and even generative presence of phobic strains in the construction of a “canonical” homosexuality—that is, same-sex desire as represented by some central texts and writers of the literary canon. I think it is fair to say that Shakespeare, Wilde, Freud, and Lacan all struggle with St. Paul, or with the tradition to which he gives rise, and that they manage to wrest something unexpected and even delightfully perverse from his dour moralizing. But it is true at the same time that Paul exerts an irresistible pressure despite the twistings and turnings to which he is subjected. And he does so not merely through the dead weight of cultural tradition but because his disagreeable fulminations also display a brilliance that almost invites revision. As a result of the fascination he exerts, later writers end up saying things that they might not be expected (or even wanted) to say.

Although the four figures on whom I focus have been arranged in chronological order, and some later writers even refer to earlier ones, nothing so coherent as a history emerges from the series I present. If anything, what I uncover is a compulsion to repeat a culturally primal scene. This is not a book about the emergence of modern homosexual identity, in part because the instances of sodomy I examine are, almost as often as not, heterosexual. But also in part because this a book about the ways in which an older, sodomitical thematic persists even into the modern regime of sexual identities, when its cultural supports might seem to have fallen away.