As the July sun baked the Athens streets, delegates
attending the first conference of the International
Commission on Science and Literature sheltered
behind the doors of the Hellenic Research Institute, taking refuge in its
(mostly) air-conditioned seats. We were there to hear papers on topics from
plague to cyberpunk, given by presenters hailing from Austria to Australia, at
an event which certainly lived up to its global billing, and to its wide
disciplinary remit.
Listening to the talks, we met old favourites such as
Charles Dickens and Emily Dickinson, but were taught to think of them in new
ways: seeing, for instance, the Darwinian themes in Dickinson’s verses, as
James Levernier emphasised; or, as Helen Goodman revealed, the layers of grief
and masculinity in Dombey and Son.
Ryan Sweet’s engaging tour of adventure fiction revisited some childhood
classics, but from the novel angle of the history of disability: what was the
significance of these particularly prosthetic pirates, from Long John Silver to
Captain Hook?
Other talks focused more explicitly on discussions over what
science and its practitioners and audiences could be: who could be involved,
and in what ways? Gunhild Berg, for instance, analysed German portrayals of
both magicians and men of science, demonstrating how fictional writing was used
to challenge easy distinctions between the two. For Claire Jones, the gender of
scientific practitioners formed the starting-point of her analysis, as she discussed
anxieties over women’s laboratory research, introducing in particular a deeper
consideration of The Call, a thinly-veiled
biography of Hertha Ayrton.
The process and form of both science and literature were
also key areas of analysis: Rachel Crossland fascinatingly explored how
periodicals in the early twentieth-century reported on science ‘in progress’; in
Will Tattersdill’s bravura analysis, the tricky generic categorisation of a marvellous
monster story revealed the unstable nature of the literary, scientific, and
physical forms under consideration in late nineteenth-century palaeontology.
Clare Stainthorp, meanwhile, elegantly introduced the unified scientific
philosophy of Constance Naden, looking in depth at her poetic output.
Some of the most interesting talks engaged closely with
particular national contexts: Kostas Tampakis, for instance, revealed that it
was not only the boundary between science and literature that was called into
dispute by nineteenth-century Greek professor-poets but also national and
natural boundaries: the scientific domain undermined, they argued, Ottoman
claims to territory that was ‘naturally’ Greek. The French ‘anticipation’
fiction of the ninet
eenth and early twentieth centuries
was also, as Valérie Stiénon, Christèle Couleau, and Claire Barel-Moisan
demonstrated in their panel, drawn from specific Parisian journalistic and scientific
anxieties of the day.
Claire’s paper on the delightful illustrations by Robida
confirmed the importance of considering images and material forms of texts
alongside their words. Indeed, historical predictions of what form the book might
yet take was central to Valérie’s argument: would we soon be able to touch or
even smell stories? A presentation by Fay Tsitou of her charming toy theatre
show on the Greek language (and our many Greek terms for scientific objects and
concepts), “τῆλε, τήλε…, tele…”, affirmed the effectiveness of multisensory approaches.
Overall, the truly international scope was the great
strength of this event: the impressive range of topics but also the backgrounds
of participants demonstrated the value of global comparison and connection. My
particular thanks go to George Vlahakis and Kostas Tampakis as well as the rest
of the organising team for their wonderful hospitality and lunch-wrangling. Watch
out for news of the next CoSciLit event, scheduled for 2016.
