The Human Form in Literature
Where shall we find the human form in the written word? It lies prone, the body in the library of
Agatha Christie awaiting the clue solving genius. It forms the ‘newfoundland’ of John Donne’s
erotic love poetry as he watches in anticipation his lover undress for bed. It shimmers in
Shakespeare’s Dark Lady sonnet as the writer hangs on every aspect of the female form, loving
imperfection above all. It grows and shrinks with startling and disturbing results in Swift and
Lewis Carroll’s work or is created from the remains of other bodies, an unholy and unloved
figure haunting the outer limits of our world and imagination in Shelley’s gothic masterpiece.
Who would have thought that the human form could possess so much power to stir the minds of
writers and poets-this fragile and transient form?
The word ‘body’ itself is substantial and solid. It has its roots in Old English ‘bodig’ which
means a ‘trunk of a man or beast’ but the idea of ‘form’ is different and much more elusive. Its
origins are murky and seem to be claimed by every language, but perhaps the Latin word ‘forma’
is the closest, suggesting the shape, the figure, the outline, something that has been made in the
image of; a Golem or Galatea. I am not sure if the word ‘bodig’ excludes women as having
bodies or not but as Margaret Atwood is keen to show in ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’ and ‘The
Edible Woman’ a woman’s body and certainly the form she assumes in literature is often not her
own and can be manipulated and reconstructed by more powerful forces beyond herself.
Atwood’s brilliant tale of a woman depriving herself of nutrition as her personal identity in the
world is slowly eroded reminds us that the human form in literature is also something that for a
woman may slip out of her control.
Her ability to cling to the form of herself which she has mastery of, taking up space and not
being afraid to do so is a vital lesson for all readers. It reminds us of other female writers such as
the Brontes and George Eliot who were forced to conceal themselves behind the male form to
succeed. ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’ by Charlotte Perkin’s Gilman written almost 100 years earlier
is a stark reminder that for some woman at least the struggle for body control continues as a
narrative thread picked up by modern writers such as Virginia Woolf in her desperate search for
a room of her own and Sylvia Plath, the hero of many young females of today.
The idea that ‘bodig’ may refer to man and beast and that the two are in some ways
interchangeable is an amusing and grounding concept reminding us, in Hamlet’s words:
‘What is a man
If his chief good and market of his time
Be but to sleep and feed? A beast, no more.’
That we are in fact animals in another form and that our superiority lies, not in the human form
itself, but in the mind which moves and galvanizes us. Mary Shelley uses her gothic horror story,
Frankenstein, to ask us the same questions. What makes us human beings? Is it the superficial
form which we assume or is it more than that? Does the surface really matter, the corporeal shell
within which we exist? Is it the experiences of our lives that turn our bodies into ‘real humans’
and the way in which we choose to fill our space in the world?
Life from its inception is a painful and miserable experience for Shelley’s creature and its
nihilistic view of society is a harsh reminder to the reader that we should be careful not to judge
by appearance and if we see only the beast then it is ourselves that is reflected. In a similar way
the character in Carlo Collodi’s famous and well-loved fairy tale ‘Pinocchio ‘learns there is a
great deal to be endured, learned and sacrificed before the body can turn from wood into flesh
and blood. The precious body which the wooden boy longs to inhabit and holds so superior to his
own may not be as valuable as he believes.
The idea that the human form may be a changeable surface has been explored in other works
such as Kafka’s Metamorphoses, where the human body morphs into an insect and Gregor
Samsa finds he has become ‘a monstrous vermin’. This powerful novel explores the attitude of
others to this change as well as the main character’s feelings of alienation as the people he
knows, and loves ignore and marginalize him. Of course, Ovid is the prime writer on change and
the translation of his poem by Ted Hughes is a beautiful series of poems retelling the ancient
myths of transformation.
In myths bodies form trees, stars and flowers – the world is explained through the ‘mythos’ or
pleasing arrangement of words and the human form becomes an integral part of nature. Through
the myths we learn the origins of all things, but we also learn that the human form is very much a
part of the world we inhabit – that our atoms merge into the atoms of a tree or a flower and that
‘all flesh is grass.’ but not in a negative way. We simply have to accept that we are a part of the
grand celestial whole.
We could not discuss change of form without mentioning the most famous and perhaps the most
amusing change of all in Shakespeare's ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ where the inward
foolishness of Bottom is dramatically and visually demonstrated with an ass’s head; his inward
form becomes his outward one.
Perhaps it is only right also to end with the final and unending joy in the human form found in
poetry of all times and ages. Poets have the searching eye which examines every part of the
human form and love it unconditionally. Poets are always struggling to escape the bounds of the
form and merge with the world beyond – Andrew Marvell is a fine example with his ‘Dialogue
between the Soul and the Body’ and other metaphysical poets share the same obsession. Walt
Whitman loved to ‘sing the body electric’ but for him the body and the soul are not disconnected
but together form a beautiful intermingling continuance.
To read Whitman is to engage with a man who loves every aspect of human bodies, everything is
alive and vibrant and violently astounding. He shows us that love of form does not have to be
ethereal. Heinrich Heine writing in the 1800’s was very materialistic and surprisingly modern
when writing about his love of the body for itself. ‘I love this white and slender body.’
e.e.cummings ‘i like my body when it is with your body’ is very similar in tone, earthy and
realistic, although years apart in time.
They all remind us that though some may make gods of their lovers, it is the true poets who see
the imperfect form and love it for itself. This may be a lesson we need to relearn ourselves in the
modern world of filters and deepfakes as Virgil said ‘Nimium Ne Crede Colori.’ Don’t trust to
looks alone!
Rebecca Hobbs
English and Latin teacher
St Andrew’s College,
Station Road,
Cambridge
December 10th 2024