Reviewed by: A Double Sorrow: Troilus and Criseyde by Lavinia Greenlaw Elizabeth Langemak lavinia greenlaw, A Double Sorrow: Troilus and Criseyde. London: Faber & Faber, 2014. Pp. 217. isbn: 978–0–571–28454–2. £16.99. Lavinia Greenlaw’s newest work, which she terms ‘not a version, and certainly not a translation, but an extrapolation’ (iii) of the story of Troilus and Criseyde, is a beautiful, incisive utterance in the poetic tradition of making old things new again. Joining a long list of writers who have also reinvented this exploration of catastrophic courtship in verse, Greenlaw’s A Double Sorrow: Troilus and Criseyde, draws most heavily on Chaucer and Giovanni Boccaccio. Perhaps the most important material Greenlaw draws on, however, are her own talents as a poet. Shaping a fresh catalog of images, vigorous syntax, and sharp lines over the available scaffolding, Greenlaw’s ‘extrapolation’ is surprising, endlessly readable, and, above all, good poetry. In reinventing such a well-known poem, Greenlaw structures her work as a series of short, seven-line stanzas based very loosely on Chaucer’s rime royal. Each titled stanza is set alone on a page, and the resulting white space around it underscores the precision and directness of her language. Additionally, the reader encounters each stanza along with a compass of signs Greenlaw arranges on the page below it: a note on which particular lines by either Chaucer or Boccaccio inspired that stanza, and sometimes (but not always) a paraphrase of the plot point her stanza takes up. This is a strategy designed for good poem-making: between the title and the paraphrase, Greenlaw generally frees her stanzas from the work of plot, leaving them free to do the finer texturing verse can do. Another result of this structure is that, taken as a whole, the book reads as a sort of composite sketch of the characters drawn from a variety of witnesses: one detail from Chaucer, another from Boccaccio, and still another added by Greenlaw herself. [End Page 152] The annotations leave the reader free to encounter the story as an entirely new work, while also offering the option to trace Greenlaw’s story to its roots. By examining these annotations, the reader can also see the depth of Greenlaw’s reinvention. Chaucer, for example, is by far the most cited source in these stanzas, but in Greenlaw’s work it is not unusual to see a stanza that references thirteen consecutive lines from Chaucer, and then a single additional line more than one hundred lines beyond those. Nor does Greenlaw always use her source material in the order that either Chaucer or Boccaccio present it, and she often passes over huge swatches of lines in favor of focusing carefully on a single moment. Boccaccio’s rendering is left entirely out of Greenlaw’s Book One, appearing only occasionally in Books Two, Three, Four, and Five, in combination with lines drawn from Chaucer. One of the advantages of commingling sources is it frees Greenlaw not only to tell the story of Troilus and Criseyde, but also to comment on the nature of storytelling. Greenlaw’s stanzas include a variety of references to telling and writing, as when the poem’s speaker remarks on how ‘Stories change shape in the telling / As words alter through long use’ (46). Here, as in many moments scattered throughout the poem, Greenlaw simultaneously refers to a traditional plot point (Troilus and Pandarus planning to ensnare Criseyde in love), echoes Chaucer (in this case, she borrows a bit of throat clearing he offers at the beginning of his poem), and also calls attention to her own act of revision. When later in that same stanza she writes, ‘This is nothing new / But it’s close to home,’ a reader catches these allusions, which invest her text with a sense of multidimensionality. Several reviewers have made the apt comparison between Greenlaw’s work and that of Anne Carson, another poet with an interest in history, as well as what it means to revisit the history of a story in a story of one’s own. Certainly, Greenlaw writes with the stiff-necked factuality of Carson, regularly spitting out powerfully end-stopped lines...
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