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LHMP #451 Turton 2022 The Lexicographical Lesbian


Full citation: 

Turton, Stephen. 2022. “The Lexicographical Lesbian: Remaking the Body in Anne Lister’s Erotic Glossary” in The Review of English Studies, vol. 73, no. 310: 537-551.

One of the threads I’ve followed in structuring the Lesbian Historic Motif Project is the question of how women in history could have become aware of the possibilities of love between women. What models would they have? To what extent would they have viewed their own desires as part of a pre-existing tradition? We rarely have data as explicit and detailed as Anne Lister’s diaries, but they give us a snapshot of one type of possibility.

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It might seem odd to cover this article after covering Turton’s book (Before the Word Was Queer) that functionally includes material about Anne Lister, but “The Lexicographical Lesbian” goes into a bit more detail. And besides which, I’m a completist.

The theme of this article is the ways in which people acquire knowledge about sexuality, and how they use that knowledge to develop an understanding of their own sexuality. In the case of Anne Lister, we have a specific example of how she sought out vocabulary about sex, and especially about same-sex topics. She not only compiled a glossary for her own reference, but recorded how that exploration made her feel and how it affected self-understanding.

The paper begins with what seems like the requisite meditation on the use of the word “lesbian” in the context of historic studies, particularly considering Paula Blank’s “The Proverbial ‘Lesbian’” and its exploration of the usefulness of tracing the history of the word across time and different languages. [Note: this article is on my to-do list and maybe I should move it up the priority.]

Turton notes that the history of dictionaries has typically focused on a sort of patrilineal heritage – tracing the relationships between male-authored high-profile dictionaries – while ignoring the work of female lexicographers and studies on the language of marginalized communities (e.g., gay slang). But while these community languages were rarely incorporated into official dictionaries, the communities themselves can be traced through careful work.

In addition to examples of 18th century male “molly house” communities, Turton catalogs references to [the perception, at least, of] secret networks of women-loving-women, intersecting figures such as sculptor Anne Damer. He refers to Anne Lister’s “language play” as more of an individual, rather than community, project. [Note: Though we can’t know to what extent Lister’s many lovers either shared her vocabulary or picked it up from her.]  In addition to Lister’s diaries, she compiled several “commonplace books” (a term for a sort of scrapbook in which people compiled useful or interesting information). It’s in one of these that she recorded her glossary of erotic language. The act of compiling it demonstrates that dictionaries—in addition to serving their authors’ stated purposes and audiences—have a separate life in how readers interact with them.

We now return to consideration of the historicity of using the word “lesbian” in a late 18th century context. Turton reviews, not only how various historians of sexuality have approached the question, but the historic evidence for use of the word (and related words) in something approximating the modern sense. (This is an interesting discussion on its own, and includes some more recent shifts away from the position against using “lesbian” in a historic context.)

Circling back to Lister’s thoughts, we see how she interpreted sexuality in large part via books and classical texts—though not as thoroughly as she sometimes claimed when discussing the topic with other women. (Lister frequently dissembled about her out experience and desires when sounding out other women about theirs.)

Lister was unusual (though far from unique) as a woman familiar with classical languages and interested in acquiring books generally considered appropriate only for male readers. The glossary she compiled allows us to trace both her sources (primarily Nathan Bailey’s 1721 Universal Etymological English Dictionary) and her active search for sexual vocabulary.

Having identified the words, which typically appear in the context of misogynistic and heteronormative assumptions, we get commentary on how Lister imagined herself into their linguistic context. With respect to the definition of Latin crisare (the movements a woman makes during intercourse), Lister recorded “thinking of these things after getting into bed in a state of great excitement for a good while & afterwards it is sad to confess another cross” [i.e., orgasm – Lister seems to have attached stigma to masturbation that she didn’t attach to sex with women].

Another angle to self-insertion (if you will forgive my double-entendre) appears in several passages in the diaries where Lister fantasizes or speculates about how she would act with specific women if she had a penis. Her glossary includes several anatomical terms involving the penis, as well as the clitoris. These fantasies did not extend to using a dildo, which she explicitly disparaged in one diary entry (while imagining the use of one and being familiar with classical references to them). She considered, but appears to have rejected, the trope of women using enlarged clitorises for lesbian sex, and explored her own anatomy to conclude that it was not unusual in structure (and therefore could not be an explanation for her desires). Several diary entries, as well as a recorded citation in her glossary for tribas led Lister to mull over the question of whether sex between women constituted adultery (if one of them were married, as her long-time lover Mariana was).

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