“Her Sex Points to Hysteria”: Diagnostic Narratives in a Student Notebook

– by Wood Institute travel grantee Lindsey Grubbs*

 

Hysteria posed a unique challenge to the medical profession in the late nineteenth century. As clinicians increasingly relied upon advances in instrumentation and laboratory science to diagnose organic disease, hysteria remained an enigma, mimicking organic disorder without discernable cause. S. Weir Mitchell, notorious for his work with the disorder, understood that what he once called “mysteria” was a condition with “hazy boundaries” that could not responsibly be drawn.[1] But despite this acknowledgement (or perhaps because of it), he spent much of his career attempting to delineate between organic and hysterical disorders.

Earlier this year, I spent two weeks in the Historical Medical Library researching for my dissertation the role of literature in the creation of new psychiatric diagnoses. Seeking evidence of how Mitchell employed narrative techniques as he disseminated his vision of hysteria, I spent most of my time, of course, with the Mitchell collections. His correspondence with other physicians, patients, and literary figures, his case notes, and his lecture notes demonstrated how deeply his diagnostic and literary interests supported one another. While taking a brief Mitchell-hiatus, however, I found a less glamorous set of materials that provided unexpected insight into the solidification of hysterical diagnoses in this period: the clinical notebooks of Charles P. Mercer, a medical student at the University of Pennsylvania. These writings are a fascinating window into just how the diagnostic gaze was trained in Mitchell’s Philadelphia.

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A script in sanitatis

Over the past few months, we’ve looked at various parts of medieval manuscripts – catchwords, ink (here and here), illuminations (here, here, and here), etc., etc.  Today we are going to look at the script of 10a 210 (Arnald of Villanova’s Regimen sanitatis ad regem Aragonum).

 

Folio 9v. Arnald of Villanova,
Regimen sanitatis ad regem Aragonum. Spain or southern France; 14th century or c.1400. Call number 10a 210.

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“A moth ate words”

Look closely at the first folio of 10a 210, Arnald of Villanova’s Regimen sanitatis ad regem Aragonum.  In the left and bottom margins you’ll see holes.  These holes are not the result of parchment tearing or existing holes in the skin (as discussed in this earlier post), but bookworms.  Bookworms are “Any of various insects that damage books; spec. a maggot that is said to burrow through the paper and boards,” as defined by the Oxford English Dictionary.

 

Folio 1r. Arnald of Villanova,
Regimen sanitatis ad regem Aragonum. Spain or southern France; 14th century or c.1400. Call number 10a 210.

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Cold temperatures are best for conception

Two weeks ago, we read Giles of Rome’s advice on moderation in the diet, and this week we are examining the best time to conceive children – male and female.  In the Book II, Part I, chapter 17, Giles explains what Aristotle says in Textus poleticorum and De metheoris regarding conception.

 

Folio 110v-111r. Giles of Rome. De regimine regem et principum. Call no. 10a 212.

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A letter with a story to tell

I have written several posts regrading initials in medieval manuscripts (here, here, here, and here), and here’s yet another.  This week it’s about historiated initials, the most elaborate initials one can find in manuscripts.  Historiated initials are letters which contain “an identifiable scene or figures, sometimes relating to the text.”

 

Folio 1r. Giles of Rome. De regimine regem et principum. Call no. 10a 212.

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Crying in the Library

– by Wood Institute travel grantee Heather Christle*

 

In 1906, Alvin Borgquist–a little-known graduate student at Clark University–published the world’s first in-depth psychological study of crying, and then appears to have vanished back into a quiet, private life in his native Utah.  His study is moving, strange, detached, threaded through with the racist and colonialist assumptions common to this era (and, distressingly, our own). The questionnaire he crafted to solicit data on typical crying behaviors fascinates me, forming as it does a kind of accidental poem.  Here, for instance, is Borgquist’s first question:

As a child did you ever cry till you almost lost consciousness or things seemed to change about you?  Describe a cry with utter abandon. Did it bring a sense of utter despair? Describe as fully as you can such an experience in yourself, your subjective feelings, how it grew, what caused and increased it, its physical symptoms, and all its after effects. What is wanted is a picture of a genuine and unforced fit or crisis of pure misery.[1]

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