Utopia, Incorporated: Reassessing Intellectual Property Rights to "The Island"
To speak of property rights, even intellectual ones, concerning Utopia may seem contrary to the spirit of an island where communality is the rule and property at the very least tributary to the root of all evil: Pride, another destructive individualizing force. The text itself reflects a communal spirit in the dialogue among its mostly historically grounded figures who strive to define the features of the best commonwealth and the most appropriate means for instituting them. In a time that ascribed to the Latin motto "a friend is another self," distinctions that matter so much today could easily become blurred, especially among such friends as Thomas More, Desiderius Erasmus, and Peter Giles, all closely involved in the genesis and evolution of Utopia. Such blurring, nevertheless, prevents the full story behind Utopia’s production from being told. Fortunately, those who edit texts sometimes alert us to the hidden processes and unseen hands behind their production. Thus, in an appendix to their translation of Utopia, George M. Logan, Robert M. Adams, and Clarence H. Miller claim that although Thomas More wrote Utopia, the published book itself was “heavily dependent on Giles and Erasmus’ work as editors, agents, publicists and commentators, and buttressed by the commendatory, and sometimes interpretative, letters and poems of a number of other humanists.” This reliance was so great as to lead the editors to claim that Utopia “was a corporate product of Erasmus’ humanist circle” (276). This view of Erasmus as CEO of Utopia, Incorporated at least acknowledges that others had contributing roles to play in fashioning the considerable apparatus in which it is packaged. Still, even today the contents of that package remain intact and inviolate just as the sovereignty of the individual author, Thomas More in this case, persists as a particularly indispensable element for this classic text. Although such sovereignty of the author has long been under siege by the forces of post-structuralism, it has persisted in spite of what D. C. Greetham identifies as "the potential liberation of literary study from great figures" promised by American New Historicism. Such sovereignty in this case obscures the dynamic process through which texts come into being. As Alexander Nehamas might assert, Thomas More, the historically situated writer of Utopia, whom we have thus far granted ownership of the text, gets in the way of the author of the text, a figure "to a great extent the product and not the producer of the text, its property and not its owner" (272). The designation "Thomas More's Utopia" bundles up and binds the text into a one-man production, effectively obscuring the communal nature of the text's production, the process by which it came into being. Moreover, a focus on authorial sovereignty makes readers overlook the performativity of the text, how the Utopian narrative reenacts the process of the text's creation. Indeed, there is a larger story to Utopia than what has been revealed thus far about it. This story can be derived from the correspondence and parerga leading up to and beyond the publication of Utopia; its elements are often corroborated in the text, allegorized in the founding of the island as well as in the figuration of Raphael, who in many ways stands for the effaced presence of Erasmus in the text. Composed of tantalizing clues and false leads, shaded in half-truths and demi-falsehoods, the elements of this narrative challenge us to reassess intellectual property rights over Utopia, calling into question accepted views of its authorship, indeed calling into question what it means for a text to be authored. Tellingly, the presence of Erasmus at the margins of the text causes questions about the textual integrity of Utopia to arise, questions that ultimately challenge assumptions about how the text was created and by whom. In his letter to Ulrich von Hutten in 1519, Erasmus offers current and future readers clues to the composition of Utopia in indicating that Book 2 was composed by More when he was in the Netherlands during a break in commercial negotiations for Henry VIII. According to Erasmus, it was later, on his return to England, that More composed Book 1. Erasmus' inside information about the text's composition, although it lay dormant for centuries, prepared the groundwork for a startling revelation about the text's structure. In his "Utopia: The Biography of an Idea," J. H. Hexter first alerted readers to problems involving Utopia's textual integrity. As Hexter pointed out, the narrator and narrative of Book 2 would have decidedly disconnected natures unless we assume that the prefatory pages of Book 1 were written in conjunction with Book 2. Hexter noted "seams" or misalignments where the author had inserted Book 2 into Book 1. Although Erasmus had put readers on notice centuries ago about the "preposterous"--"last before first"--nature of the text, Hexter was the first commentator to survey the Utopian terrain and demarcate discontinuities in it. John Perlette has categorized Hexter's critique as fomenting "a scandal insofar as it accuses a Western classic of disunity," and Logan follows suit in noting that Hexter offers "a thoroughly disintegrative reading--one that has been widely accepted" (15). More recent insights into the composition of Utopia have exposed the text to further potential "scandals," this time concerning its authorship and the assigning of intellectual property rights. In their translation of Utopia, Logan, Adams, and Miller indicate that a careful tracing of references to the evolving text through the correspondence among More, Erasmus, and others reveals that More refers to it only as Nusquama before its publication in late 1516. They speculate that Erasmus (and perhaps Giles) might have had a role in shifting the working title of Nusquama to a Greek equivalent: In their letters of September and October, More and Erasmus always refer to the book by a Latin title, ‘Nusquama’. But Geldenhouwer’s letter calls it ‘Utopia’ (which must therefore be the name the manuscript bore when Erasmus passed it to him), and in the printed version the former title has given way to this Graecism. As More’s last written contact with Erasmus is dated 31 October 1516 (“I am delighted to hear that Pieter approves of my Nusquama”) and Geldenhouwer’s reference to the text as Utopia is dated 12 November 1516, there remains an unrealistically small time-frame for More to have changed his mind about the title and to have communicated that change to Erasmus. We can assume that Geldenhouwer knew of the name change at least a few days before his letter announcing the printing was already underway; in conjunction with the time required for More’s last letter to have arrived, the time-frame for communicating such a change would have been less than a week. As Hexter points out concerning this time period: "In none of these letters is there any indication of other correspondence between the two [More and Erasmus] during this time in which Erasmus might have been informed or instructed about Utopia" (xvi). This compressed time-frame strongly suggests that Thomas More is not the author of Utopia in terms of entitling the text. Moreover, the same hand that so authoritatively crossed out More's working title and replaced it with one of its own devising was also responsible for translating its place-names from one language to another, further complicating the issue of intellectual property rights. Thus, Logan, Adams, and Miller further point out: Conformably, in the printed version all proper nouns associated with the new island are Greek in origin. But the fact that this was not always the case is manifest in the appearance at one point of a Latin name for the principal city of Utopia: ‘In senatu Mentirano…’ (144:31). (In subsequent editions ‘Mentirano’ becomes ‘Amaurotico’.) These circumstances may be thought to suggest that some at least of the Graecisms are due not to More but to his editor(s). (271) In furthering a "disintegrative" reading of the text, these discoveries provide an "un-authorized" version of Utopia, inviting us to look at the text not so much as one man's opaque, finished product but as a work-in-progress involving other collaborators. Rather than allot the writer exclusive rights over the text, we can begin to look at what the text has to say about its own authoring. For example, the shifting of geographic place names is discernible not only from a comparative analysis of one edition with another but is also suggestively set forth in the textual narrative. In this respect, we are told that the Utopians follow a clever strategy of shifting landmarks so that any threatening intruders entering the island will lose their bearings. Strategies of misalignment and disinformation are employed to make the island inaccessible to potential invaders: The channels are known only to the natives, and so it does not easily happen that any foreigner enters the bay except with a Utopian pilot. In fact, the entrance is hardly safe even for themselves, unless they guide themselves by landmarks on the shore. If these were removed to other positions, they could easily lure an enemy’s fleet, however numerous, to destruction. (111) In a performative sense, the signal switching the Utopians do to protect the entrance to Utopia reenacts the switching of the title and the place-names of which, until the mid-twentieth century, readers were unaware. Textually speaking, the signal switching from the more familiar Latin to the less accessible Greek meant that many more readers would approach the text with a risk of running aground. Running aground here signifies two levels of misconception: The first, fairly common in More's day, involves failing to perceive the self-canceling value of Utopian place-names, in effect mistaking fiction for fact. The second misconception, passed over too quickly by Logan, Adams, and Miller, involves a failure to readjust our bearings in approaching this all-too-familiar classic as the production of one author working in isolation. Just as earlier readers had to get new bearings on the text after Hexter’s revelations, it now appears that contemporary readers will have to adjust their own bearings on the basis of these latest discoveries. Past readings based on the assumption that Utopia is entirely the work of one Thomas More have become untrustworthy if not perilously out-dated. The question at this juncture involves how far we should go in re-mapping the Utopian terrain in re-adjudicating intellectual property rights over the text. Rather than treat these latest findings as interesting oddities that, once acknowledged, have little bearing on the integrity of the text and the question of authorship, I wish to anticipate and perhaps encourage future inquiries concerning Utopia's composition and authorship. Is More the sole owner and proprietor of this island he reputedly created? What grounds are there for even entertaining suspicions that someone other than More might have had a hand in the arrangement and composition of the text? What further intellectual property rights might we assign to Erasmus and perhaps Giles in considering their contributions to the fashioning of this text? What are the consequences of transferring intellectual property rights from the historical writer of the text to the more conditional figure who arises from the process of the text's creation, a figure essentially authored by the text? Strangely enough, the person most marginalized from the text proper is the one who had the greatest hand in bringing this text to press. Letters between More and Erasmus, and among Erasmus, Giles, Froben, Budé and others, amply document Erasmus as a guiding spirit not only in the editing of the text but also in the very important process of introducing it with commendatory letters from well connected people, ensuring that its first public appearance would occur in grand style. For more than a year leading up to the text's appearance, Erasmus played the gracious host for the text; its “adoptive father,” he filled in More’s place, as More himself implies when he writes of longing for the return of his text with all the expectancy of a parent waiting for the return of a child. Given such a prolonged stay, the equivalent of a grand tour, one might wonder if the “child” of More’s first conception did not return with different manners and an improved pedigree as a result of its Continental sojourn. Erasmus, of course, is a primary suspect for having had a hand in the composing and arranging of Utopia. As editor, he had the opportunity, means, and permission for doing so. Just how much authority the Dutch humanist had over the text is underscored a number of times both in his and in More's correspondence. More, a relative neophyte author, gives his friend and mentor Erasmus considerable leeway and authority in dealing with the text he is sending to him. In a letter of 3 September 1516, More writes:
I send you my book on Nowhere, and you will find it nowhere well written; it has a preface addressed to my friend Pieter. Well you must do what you can for it. I know from experience that you need no urging. (CWE, 4, 66).
More's direction to Erasmus to "do what you can" for the manuscript might be construed as giving him leave to make whatever changes and improvements to the text that this experienced editor might deem fit to make. Certainly, the facts that someone other than More re-titled the manuscript and probably also altered the map of Utopia by translating its Latin place-names into Greek suggest that someone had a free hand in approving and instituting such changes. One can glean a sense of Erasmus' overriding authority concerning the text from a letter written by Gerardus Noviomagus [Geldenhauer] to "Master Erasmus": My friend Martens has undertaken the task of printing the Utopia with the greatest pleasure. The plan of the island itself has been drawn out by a capital artist, and Paludanus will show it you; if you would like any alterations, either let me know, or note them on the draft….I will take great care to see that Utopia makes its public appearance in style, so that readers may get the benefit of it, and not be put off. (CWE, 4, 125) Others apparently viewed Erasmus as having the power to effect or sanction alterations, here to the map, but elsewhere, as we have seen, to the title and the place-names of Utopia. With More absent from the scene and with all the decision-making pressures involving a text in the throes of publication, More's urgently expressed desire to have the text published expeditiously led him to grant Erasmus a rather large sway and command over his text. Remarkably, Erasmus' authority over the text of Utopia even exceeded More's in one very notable instance. In discussing More's 1517 letter to Utopia's readers, a letter David Wootton feels offered “invaluable advice on how to read Utopia," Wootton finds it odd that Erasmus dropped this letter from the third edition (March 1518) of Utopia: "Clearly there was something about it Erasmus did not like” (“Intro” 6). In its place, we find a new prefatory letter by Budé. What could have possessed an editor to replace the author's pronouncement on his own work with that of a secondary authority? Wootton speculates that Erasmus' preference for Budé's explication is that it underscored the Erasmian elements of Utopia: “Budé’s reference to Pythagoras makes clear that he had traced Utopia to its source in Erasmus’s discussion of the Pythagorean adages on friendship” (“Intro” 9). The substitution of Budé’s letter for More’s, like the shifting of Nusquama and its place-names to their Greek equivalents, suggests that Erasmus took an active role both in the parerga and the text proper in ensuring that his reading—and his version—of the text would prevail. Having already witnessed some of the changes that came from Erasmus' exercising such authority over the text of Utopia, we might inquire into the possibility that he effected other changes by considering the type of editor he was. Described by Huizinga as "lord and master of the printing-office" (64), Erasmus was "one of the first who…worked directly and continually for the press" (65). Erasmus admits to his own "great temerity" in being able to write and edit a text at the same time it was going to print. Of his Adagia, he notes: "'we began to work at the same time, I to write, Aldus to print'" (64). In a crisis, Erasmus demonstrated an ability to be creative and to rescue another writer’s text, whenever necessary, from any potential loss of integrity. In this respect, Huizinga discusses Erasmus' role in the printing of Robert Gaguin's Deorigineet gestisFrancorumCompendium: The printer had finished his work on 30 September 1495, but of the 136 leaves, two remained blank…By judicious spacing the compositor managed to fill up folio 135 with a poem by Gaguin, the colophon and two panegyrics by Faustus Andrelinus and another humanist. Even then there was need of matter, and Erasmus dashed into the breach and furnished a long commendatory letter, completely filling the superfluous blank space of folio 136. (Huizinga 25) Perhaps no text Erasmus edited had more disconcerting breaches and discontinuities than did Utopia. One of the most puzzling--but thus far unposed--questions about the seams that Hexter pointed out at various junctures in the text concerns how the author of Utopia could have made such a patchwork quilt of the text by inserting one book so clumsily into another. We might expect that once More had completed the final copy of Nusquama, prior to sending it on to Erasmus, our English author would have taken more care to smooth over the disruptive breaks that have become so obvious to readers once Hexter so clearly identified them. One scenario that might explain this curious neglect on More's part would involve thinking of what we now know as Utopia as two separate hand-written texts that Erasmus, as editor, was given the task of reconciling. Thus, when More returned to England from the Netherlands, we know that Nusquama constituted the prefatory materials of what we have come to know as Book 1 and all but the final pages of Book 2. Given the time constraints placed on More on his return to England, the extra materials that constitute the rest of what we now know as Utopia possibly may have existed all along as a separate text, not yet consolidated into a larger text up to and including the moment he sent Nusquama and the rest of what we now know as Utopia to Erasmus. Could it be that More did not have the time to re-copy (or have recopied) the handwritten versions of Book 1 and Book 2, the latter largely constituting what was referred to as Nusquama in his and Erasmus’s correspondence? It is then perhaps that Erasmus, called upon in the accompanying letter to do what he could for the text, had to dash once more into the breach, although what was called for here was considerably more demanding a task than simply filling in a blank. An editor faced with two relatively incongruous texts might very well have decided upon the easiest course of simply opening up a seam in which to incorporate one into the other. Since what Erasmus had was so different and enlarged from what he had originally received, he might have felt a need for the new title. Certainly, the more Erasmus exercised an authorial function in the arrangement of the text’s elements, the more he would have felt justified in re-titling the work. Little wonder then that More was anxiously awaiting the return of the text, curious as to what transformations it had undergone by Erasmus’ hand. The advantage of such a scenario is that it saves More from appearing so awkward and clumsy in handling the editing and arranging of his own text. The disadvantage is that such a scenario weakens the English author’s position as sole author of a text that we already know he did not entitle. To the extent that intellectual property rights involve the naming of a text, the mapping of a text's terrain, and the demarcation of boundaries, we may very well have to adjudicate on behalf of a party other than More in terms of assigning those rights. As fair compensation, such a reassessment plays truer to what we know of the communal nature of authorship in this period. Citing the work of Thorpe, Pizer, and Gaskell in the related area of copy-text editing, D. C. Greetham remarks that "the isolation of the lone author practiced by copy-text editing did not sufficiently recognize either the cultural status of writing and publication or the expectations of authors that their texts would be modified, even brought to perfection, by the agency of publication" (403). Authorizing Erasmus to "do what you can" for the text, More does so in a context wherein the editor's prerogatives were much less restricted and, on the contrary, more expansive than what we recognize today. The moment writer More sends off his manuscript with these instructions marks the creation of the author figure, detached from the historically situated writer and discernible only to the extent that we can recreate the conditions of the text's production. While clues in the parerga and the renaming of the text and island lend some support to this "two-book" hypothesis, the text itself performatively recreates the conditions surrounding its production, offering us the possibility of reading the text in the spirit in which it was created. Indeed, as I have suggested, the text supplies an ongoing narrative of its own production, a story that began with Erasmus’s clues about the order in which the two Books were written and with the evidence that someone other than More played a role in renaming the text and re-establishing its geographical place-names. Thus, early in Book 2 we are told that Utopia was not always an island but had been a peninsula known as Abraxa until the time that Utopus arrived and conquered its original inhabitants. It was then that those Abraxians who stayed joined efforts with the Utopians to cut off the land link to the peninsula, effectively isolating it from the mainland. The evidence of Utopia’s former state can still be discerned in the landscape: “As the report goes and as the appearance of the ground shows, the island once was not surrounded by sea” (113). An extension of the previously cited narrative, in which the shifting of place-names is related to the shifting of landmarks, Abraxa's transformation into Utopia reenacts Nusquama's textual transformation into Utopia. In this narrative, Nusquama, the original text of Utopia, was indeed formerly a “peninsula” in the sense that it was once connected to the “mainland” of the initial pages of Book 1 until the intervening sections added to that book caused a separation. What Erasmus had earlier established in the parerga is thus validated in the narrative of the island’s creation. In this narrative, Erasmus can be associated with King Utopus, the innovator who bestows upon the primitive Abraxians all sorts of social and cultural improvements, now read as editorial improvements done in More’s behalf. The material formation of the text is performatively recreated in the narrative of conquest and the redefinition of the island; as though to corroborate this thesis, the text is sometimes referred to as “the Island,” further suggesting a connection between the material production of the text and the reconfiguration of the peninsula into an island. A sense of entitlement passes over to Erasmus here as one traces the geneaology of the text, the island, and its founder’s names to their originating source. As More’s editor, Erasmus is the textual innovator who has cut the link between Nusquama’s initial and subsequent pages, inserted the material of Book 2, and then renamed the text just as Utopus renamed the land of the less cultured Abraxians in improving them. The re-naming of Nusquama as described in the text thus allows us to read what was until recently the hidden narrative of Erasmus’ own “invasive” re-naming of Nusquama. This scenario suggests that Erasmus may have made other changes in the text; for example, since Book 2 was written first, before the material of Book 1 was inserted into the text, we must assume that the story of Abraxa’s transformation from a peninsula into an island was a latter addition, reflecting the chronology of the two books' production. Later on in Book 2, another such insertion must have been necessary, for the narrator speaks of the Utopian race being derived from the Greek because of “traces of Greek in the names of their cities and officials” (181). This statement could not have been made of Nusquama, with its city names originally derived from Latin. For this reason, this passage is very likely another one bearing Erasmus’ imprint (and revealing another glimpse of the process behind the text’s production). As Hexter demonstrated long ago, good old-fashioned detective work can be valuable in redefining Utopia's status not as the isolated, finished text that has been handed down to us but, in Barthian terms, as an “‘anactivityofproduction.’” Given the nature of Utopia, Incorporated and its historical circumstances, however, chasing down clues, gathering testimony, and establishing motives can be complicated by a number of factors. For example, More, Erasmus, and Giles at times engaged in a deliberate disinformation campaign about the text. Thus, only a few months after Utopia's publication, we find More claiming to Archbishop Warham that he had not wished to see it published (TM 282). Certainly, fears of finding disfavor at court in perilous times of religious ferment provided a legitimate reason for More and Erasmus to want to distance themselves from potentially controversial texts. Another complicating factor here is the Bakhtinian spirit of license that seems a natural concomitant to the text. Utopia, Inc. is an enterprise marked by an ongoing spirit of gamesmanship on the part of its formulators vis-à-vis not only their sixteenth-century readers but also readers in the distant future. Referring to a “near-conspiracy of letter-writing” on the part of More’s humanist circle of friends, Cotton notes how the text is “un-closed-off”: “It can still be played with, added to, and extrapolated into the future” (45). The parerga and correspondence surrounding the text often draw out the satirical implications of the Utopian enterprise, although contemporary readers, buoyed by the considerable explanatory apparatus that has grown up around the text, may be too complacent in assuming that these implications have been entirely teased out for them. The members of Utopia, Inc. engage in the kind of plotting and counterplotting that could keep conspiracy theorists in business for a good long while as they try to separate truth from fiction. Indeed, the first conspiracy theory involving intellectual property rights began shortly after the publication of Utopia. Thus, we know from Erasmus’s correspondence with More that a few months after the text appeared, Luigi Marliano, a physician to Chièvres and Bishop of Tuy in Galicia, accused Erasmus of being the author of the first book of Utopia. In countering this charge, Erasmus writes to More in March of 1517: I enclose a letter to Marliano, having heard that he suspects the first book of the Utopia of coming from me, and I should not like that to get about for nothing is more baseless. That dialogue of Julius and Peter, I understand, is already in the hands of the chancellor, and delights him hugely. (CWE, 4, 271) Marliano's accusations were taken seriously enough for Erasmus to compose an immediate response and to send a copy of that response to More. This response neither survives in Erasmus' correspondence nor in More's, a shame in that it would have been interesting to know how Erasmus defended himself against this charge. Although Erasmus' correspondence constitutes a prodigious collection, we know from precedent that he did not always choose to save and to publish all his correspondence. For example, before it was clear just how vociferous the Church's stand would be against Luther and how dangerous it would be to countenance his theses, Huizinga informs us that Erasmus wrote "in favourable terms" about Luther to one of his partisans, John Lang. In this letter, Erasmus complains about "'the monarchy of the Pope at Rome, [which] as it is now, is a pestilence to Christendom.'" Huizinga remarks that Erasmus had second thoughts about this letter, for "it did not find its way into any of the collections" (141). We might very well wonder if both More and Erasmus found it convenient to suppress the Marliano’s letter and his response because of a similar fear of the potentially embarrassing issue of authorship they brought up. Undeniably, Marliano’s large-scale conspiracy theory implicating Erasmus as the author of Book 1 poses some difficulties. Certainly, the inequalities of style between the two books would bolster the argument of separate authorship; however, since the quality of Book 1 falls short of that found in Book 2, it would have made more sense for Marliano to have accused Erasmus, the master stylist, of having written Book 2 rather than Book 1, with its more uneven style. By all accounts, Erasmus’ Latin style was superior to More’s own. Erasmus himself apologizes for this inequality, noting that Book 2 was written in relative leisure while the more hastily composed Book 1, written in stolen moments amid More’s many household and public obligations, suffers in comparison. Of course, given Erasmus’s penchant for offering misleading or deceptive statements concerning matters of authorship, a more suspicious reader might consider this apology for Utopia’s uneven style an evasive maneuver to prevent more astute readers from considering the possibility of dual authorship for the text. Another objection to Marliano’s claim lies in the Englishness of Book 1, with this first book’s close engagement with and penetrating analysis of English political and social situations. As I will show later, however, Erasmus certainly had the credentials and experience to add to, if not to compose, sections of this book. At the very least, Marliano’s questioning of the authorship of Book 1 should make readers more alert to the possibility of multiple authorship in Utopia. In the letter cited above, for example, consider what immediately follows Erasmus’ reference to Marliano’s accusation. There, Erasmus refers to "That dialogue of Julius and Peter" as though the controversial work Juliusexclusus were a text authored by someone else. As Huizinga informs us, the fear of retribution in the early days of the Reformation caused Erasmus either to deny authorship of a text or, in retrospect, to have regretted publishing a text that proved controversial: "He most sedulously denied his authorship of the Julius dialogue, for fear of the consequences, even to More, and always in such a way as to avoid saying outright, 'I did not write it'" (127). In a convincingly exasperated tone, Erasmus complains to More: Will these slanderers never stop? They leave no stone unturned to do harm to Erasmus! They’ve convinced many people in Cologne that that outrageous little book…was written by me; and they would have convinced many more if I had not blunted the edge of their treacherous lies. (10) Erasmus’s denial of authoring Julius to his English friend may have been intended more for public consumption than as a legitimate grievance to More, for J. Kelley Sowards argues More had “intimate and certain knowledge that his friend had written it!” (11). The Dutch humanist’s defensive posturing for his friend suggests a certain complicity between them. Even in their private correspondence, both were capable of carrying on an elaborate subterfuge. At the very least, Erasmus' denial of any hand in the writing of Book 1, followed by an artful dodging of having authored a text that he is now widely thought to have written, should raise some suspicions about his trustworthiness in such matters. Erasmus certainly had reasons for disassociating himself from charges he was the author of potentially controversial texts. Speaking of his InPraiseofFolly, Huizinga observes that Erasmus' "airy play with the texts of Holy Scripture had been too venturesome for many" such as Martin van Dorp. Erasmus writes in 1517 that he would not have published the book if he had known so many would be offended (Huizinga 77). During the time that Nusquama/Utopia was being edited, More himself writes to Erasmus, admonishing him to be careful about publishing in these perilous times: But there are other people, my dearest Erasmus, who have formed a conspiracy in our midst to read what you write in a very different frame of mind; and this horrible plan of theirs gives me some concern. Do not therefore be in a hurry to publish. As for what you have published already, since it is too late for second thoughts, I would urge you one thing at least--you know my devotion and concern for you: I do beg and beseech you to lose no time in going through and correcting everything, in such a way as to leave the least possible scope for misrepresentation. (CWE, 4, 115) More proceeds to warn Erasmus that Henry Standish and a formidable following of Franciscan friars have pledged to carefully sift Erasmus' writings for any hint of heresy. No friend to such friars, Erasmus certainly had cause to avoid being associated with attacks against them. For example, Marliano may very well have jumped to his conclusion about Erasmus’ authorship of Book 1 on the basis of similarities between its derisory stance towards the mendicant friar and Erasmus’ own derisory attitudes expressed in TheAntibarbari. Indeed, this would not be the only time that material and concerns from Erasmus’ own writing had crossed over into Utopia. As Hexter and Surtz inform us in their commentary, “All these wiles and machinations of the French King seem to be a watered-down version and adaptation of the magnificent confession made by Julius II in ‘”Julius exclusus’” (TM 351, n. 86/26). Erasmus’ prudence in dangerous times seems to have led him to disassociate himself from a number of texts that bore his unmistakable imprint. Commenting on the centuries of speculation following the publication of one of the more popular fabricated texts of the day, Johannis Reuchlin’s LettersofObscureMen (Epistolaeobscurorumvirorum), Francis Griffin Stokes tallies at least twenty-eight critics who attributed the scandalous work to one writer or another, Erasmus among the candidates. Underscoring Erasmus’s caution over authorial attributions at the threshold of the Reformation, Stokes points out that even though Erasmus’s name shows up in the preface of the third edition “there is good reason to think that the sensitive scholar demurred to being depicted danscettegalère”: He knew that great events were imminent, and he felt some doubt as to the part he would be found playing in them. It seemed scarcely prudent to commit himself unreservedly to a party who expressed their opinions with such heedless exuberance. (l) In retrospect, Erasmus’s caution was well advised for, according to Hamilton, Reuchlin’s satire “’gave the victory to Reuchlin over the Begging Friars, and to Luther over the Court of Rome’” (lxix). More is identified along with Fisher, Colet, Linacre, Latimer, and Tunstall among “the Englishmen of light and learning” (xxxviii) who supported Reuchlin against the attacks of “’those mendicant fraternities, who, under the mantle of humility, reigned omnipotent over the Christian world.’” Pre-Reformation satire might escape censure in the spirit of play that marked that period; however, it would certainly be viewed with a more jaundiced eye in the light of what followed. Marliano’s ascribing of Book 1 to Erasmus would be particularly troublesome in linking the author of The Antibarbari with Book 1’s jest concerning the mendicant friar. Even if one discounts fear as a motivating factor for Erasmus to disguise any hand he might have had in the composing of Utopia, a good deal of evidence suggests Erasmus (and More) enjoyed playing tricks not only on their contemporary audience but on readers yet to come. As an editor, Erasmus was not above jesting even in the hallowed print shop. For example, George Faludy recounts an incident of such humor that occurred in 1515: Arriving at last in Basle, he entered the printing shop of Johannes Froben in a manner reminiscent of his first day at Aldus’s in Venice. This time he varied the joke by delivering a letter from himself to Froben, introducing himself as an intimate friend of the humanist, and explaining that Erasmus had entrusted him with the business of publishing his books, so that whatever he did Froben could take as being done on the authority of Erasmus himself. Then, to Froben’s horror, he set to work as if he were taking over the shop. If Erasmus could play such tricks of transferring intellectual property rights under the pretense of an authority granted to himself by himself, one wonders how far he might have gone when the authority had actually been granted by another party, his good friend More. Certainly, the inner group of humanists with whom More associated constantly used humor and prevarication in maintaining an inside joke. Beyond desiring to shield himself from any controversy an association with Utopian ideals might occasion, Erasmus very likely joined in the spirit of play that marked his relationship with More, a spirit hearkening back to his own EncomiumMoriae and its playful linking of More to the spirit of divine foolishness. This spirit is resurrected in the name of Raphael Hythloday’s designation as “the divine speaker of nonsense.” Only a select few of those learned in Greek would be in on the joke, an exclusionary principle in which More and company often delighted. To this end, More expresses a keen awareness not only of his contemporary audience but also of an audience in the far distant future. The notion that a text might hoodwink a contemporary audience is only trumped by the notion that “the long nose of scorn” would project so far into the future even the most recherché of readers would be misled. Such is More’s admiration for Reuchlin’s Lettersof ObscureMen: As to the Epistolaeobscurorumvirorum, it would do your heart good to see how much everyone enjoys them, the learned as a joke and the unlearned in all seriousness; these latter, when they see us laughing, suppose we are laughing only at the style, which they do not defend, but consider it atoned for by the importance of the matter: a flashing blade, they think, lurks in that battered scabbard. I wish the book had been given a different title!--in less than a century scholars dazed with their researches would have failed to detect the long nose of scorn, had it been longer than any rhinoceros's. I am delighted to hear that Pieter approves of my Nusquama; if men such as he like it, I shall begin to like it myself. (CWE, 4, 116) Revealingly, More’s delighted praise for the Epistolae as a standing joke on the “learned” is followed by a reference to his Nusquama, recalling Erasmus’ earlier cited letter when his denial of having any hand in the composition of Utopia is followed by his tacit denial of authorship of Juliusexclusus. Once again confronted with shadowy half-truths and demi-falsehoods, readers have the formidable task of separating tantalizing clues from false leads in trying to figure out what hand has been dealt them. Clearly, though, More, Erasmus, and their circle took great joy in producing and reading texts that confounded their less astute audiences. More’s desire to see the Epistolae re-titled, as a means of further confusion, foreshadows the re-titling of his own work, the transformation of its title and place-names from Latin to Greek another means of disorienting its less astute readers and keeping the joke in play that much longer. The timing of this letter, containing More's last reference to the text as Nusquama before its publication as Utopia, leaves open the possibility that it might have inspired Erasmus to re-name the text as a means of extending the work's own “long nose of scorn” as a satire. As we have seen, the printing house was not so serious a place as to preclude such trickery involving matters of authorship and intellectual property rights. As it turned out, this renaming strategy worked only too well; indeed, combined with the text’s parerga, the Graecisms caused unforeseen difficulties in the text’s reception, as Wootton demonstrates: But the prefatory materials were disastrous. They all treated Utopia as if it were a real place, and a significant proportion of the first readers seem to have failed to grasp that they were dealing with a fiction, for the simple reason that knowledge of Greek was extremely rare and so very few of them can have grasped the significance of Utopia’s place names. (“Intro” 6). Worried that Utopia’s first reception had been accounted more a factual than a fictional account, More addresses one reader’s uncertainty over whether the text was “factual or imaginary” (Wootton 167). Employing a litotic strategy of negating the opposite of what he affirms, More engages in a process of denial that bears all the markings of humanist satire and understatement. Stating that he “might not have been unwilling to employ such a fiction,” More asserts in that case he would have been more clever in dealing with a mixed audience: But I would certainly have managed my narrative in such a way that, while I might actually have intended the unsophisticated to be misled by their own ignorance, I would have left for the more educated some clues that would have made it easy for them to make sense of our undertaking. Thus I would have needed only to give such names to the ruler, the river, the city, and the island as would alert the expert reader to the fact that the island was nowhere, the city a chimera, the river without water, and the ruler without subjects. This wouldn’t have been hard to do and would have been much wittier than what I actually did…I am not so stupid as to have actually wanted to use such barbarous and meaningless names as Utopia, Anyder, Amaurot, and Ademus. (“More to Giles,” Wootton 167) The external conditions surrounding the text’s composition point toward yet another level of satire and understatement in this passage. As we now know that More did not provide the Greek equivalents to the title or place names in Utopia, and Giles would be well aware of this fact, an unexpected element of truth arises in More’s denial. Indeed, he had not wanted “to use such barbarous and meaningless names” in this text; others, Erasmus, Giles, or both had apparently made such a decision in his absence. More’s equivocation here provides yet another instance in which assertions or denials concerning intellectual property rights over a text need to be viewed with deep suspicion. In making a jest, More indeed speaks a truth, but a truth that he probably never expected subsequent readers to know in its entirety. More humorous yet, More had to defend the name "Utopia" when the grammarian and author of Antimorus, Brixius, claimed that the text should have been more properly designated Udepotia (TM, 274). Since he could not reveal Erasmus' role in the renaming of Nusquama, the English humanist had to weather Brixius' misdirected critique on his own. Anyone studying More or Erasmus in any depth can testify to each one’s capacity for misleading statements and satiric undertones. There is the willingness, even eagerness, on the part of More and Erasmus to manipulate their readers in efforts after image enhancement, satire, or deception. Seasoned researchers of More and Erasmus come to realize that appearances often belie the image put forth for public consumption. Describing her graduate school initiation into Erasmus, with its inculcation of due reverence and obeisance to the master, Lisa Jardine describes her increasing “shock” in realizing in subsequent years just how much conscious manipulation Erasmus exercised in “fashioning that greatness himself” (4). She found herself having to reconcile Erasmus’ reputation for the “eschewing of all worldly distractions and (most) rewards” with the disconcertingly worldly and conniving figure revealed in the correspondence: And yet, here I uncovered him shaping his own persisting trace in intellectual history, adjusting his public image, editing the evidence to be left for his biographers, managing the production of “influences” and contemporary movements to enhance his own posthumous renown. (4) It may well be that Jardine underestimates both the satire and the seriousness behind Erasmus' self-fashioning. While posthumous renown may very well have been on his mind, more immediate concerns of censorship and persecution made it necessary to mask his authorship of potentially controversial texts. Utopia is in this respect exemplary of texts Elizabeth Eisenstein describes as being printed under the auspices of a mysterious "Republic of Letters," a "place" whose location has "remained, from the beginning, a somewhat elusive, often deliberately mysterious, domain." Fearing persecution, "Its inhabitants rarely used their proper names--preferring more elegant Latinate or Greek versions" (138). Hythlodaeus, "the speaker of nonsense," would certainly qualify in this respect. The invented accommodation addresses of the publications of this Republic, "Products issued from 'Utopia' and 'Cosmopolis,'" caused a "sense of unreality and impracticality [to be] associated with the circulation of ideas" (138-9). The presses themselves employed invented accommodation addresses to shield authors from the censors. Suggestively, one such invented accommodation address--"Utopia"--was used "by a Leiden printer to mask an Erasmian satire" (138). Utopia fits Eisenstein's characterization of the products of these presses as both "fan[ning] the flames of religious controversy [but] also creat[ing] a new vested interest in ecumenical concord and toleration" (139). Eisenstein describes these printing houses as "'polyglot' households" that functioned during times of religious conflict as "international houses" providing scholars with "a meeting place, message center, sanctuary…" (139). Not surprisingly, the practices of this Republic can be traced from the eighteenth century book-publishing trade of Amsterdam and Paris to those enterprises operating in the sixteenth century Rotterdam of Erasmus. In many respects, Erasmus held the necessary credentials for citizenship in this Republic: In the midst of all this it is necessary to remember that Erasmus insisted that he was a citizen of the world. He called Holland his patria; but Latin, the universal language, was his mother tongue. It was Christian civilization, built on the foundation of Graeco-Roman culture, which he regarded as his paternal domain. In fact, his usual disregard of national differences was responsible for a number of serious errors of judgement he was to make regarding national divisions and aspirations. Humanism was by its nature a supra-national movement, and the neo-Platonists’ ‘unity of the human spirit’ was not only the aim of Erasmus’s actions but also their very basis. (Faludy 109) With his critique of rapacious monarchs and his desire to escape the limiting boundaries of nationalist aspirations, Raphael encodes the Erasmian project of transcending national boundaries and synthesizing a larger community. Modeling his own image on Jerome’s, Erasmus worked outside the limiting boundaries of his own national identity in an effort to create a utopian elsewhere, a homogenous intellectual community based upon ideal standards. As Jardine points out: "Jerome stood for the dissemination of true scripture throughout the Western world; Erasmus would stand for the dissemination of humane learning across Europe" (4). Utopia’s translation from the Latin Nusquama to its Greek coinage calls to mind Erasmus’ agenda of purifying texts by orienting them more around the original sinequanon of all sources, classical Greece. Certainly the Dutch scholar was no novice to the practice of restoring texts to their original condition by translating them from their corrupt form to a more faithful rendition. For example, he reveals to his friend Batt his grand purpose “to restore the whole of Jerome, however comprehensive he may be, and spoiled, mutilated, entangled by the ignorance of the divines; and to re-insert the Greek passages" (Huizinga 48). The Utopian alphabet is itself an extension of the Erasmian project of synthesis and purification. Logan notes, for example, that the Utopian alphabet “reveals affinities with Greek and Latin, [and] has enough internal consistency to suggest it was worked out with some care” (23). Of course, as a product of the Republic of Letters, the text provides a “key” to the language that contains only just enough legitimate etymological connections to Latin, Greek, and Hebrew as to cause the less sophisticated readers to be led astray. To view Utopia as a product of the Republic of Letters situates it squarely in the bustling center of the print house, where the dissemination of knowledge, recovery of lost languages, and the practice of toleration all took place in a close-knit atmosphere of friendship and shared purpose. Jardine describes Erasmus as “the center to which a large, specific part of the print-related activities of a much less well known group of authors, commendatories, emendatores, and castigators was directed.” The historical trace of Erasmus “is in a strong sense constructed out of those activities” (9). In this vein, Diarmaid MacCulloch characterizes the Dutch humanist as “the patron saint of networkers” (94). So closely knit and networked were members of this group that we find among More, Erasmus, and Hythloday a seeming interchangeability that often complicates the project of assigning intellectual property rights. After all, as Wootton points out in “Friendship Portrayed: A New Account of Utopia,” the very first observation in Erasmus’s collection of adages affirms that “Between friends is all common.” For example, in a letter that More wrote to Giles, appearing in the second edition of Utopia, More employs the phrase “our Utopia” in referring to the text. Noting that the Latin "noster" can signify either “mine” or “our,” Wootton opts to translate it as “our” because “it seems an appropriate recognition of Giles’s role in the publication of Utopia” (“Intro.” 166, n. 86). Having by his own admission supplied marginal comments for the text and perhaps having had a hand in the transformation of its title and place names to their Greek equivalents, Giles would seem even more worthy to receive such an honor. Such notions are underwritten by the diptych that Erasmus and Giles commissioned from Quentin Metsys for More as an enduring tribute to their friendship. Jardine labels the diptych a “joint portrait project” (39). Here, we discover two panels, one depicting Erasmus at his writing desk and the other Peter Giles pushing a book along a table towards the foreground. Although the identity of the book is undisclosed, Jardine argues convincingly that the book linking Erasmus and Giles—and by extension More—is none other than the classic text that also stands as an enduring monument to their friendship: it seems to me irresistible to identify this book as More’s Utopia, a book with which both Erasmus and Giles are closely associated—closely enough associated for Giles to indicate it with an almost proprietorial gesture (38). The placement of the text in the middle ground connecting the three friends, as well as Giles’ proprietary gesture towards it, suggests just how much the three figures are implicated in the text. In his translation of a poem More wrote to celebrate the diptych (“The Picture Speaks”), Wootton argues “the loving text” that the poem claims “represents their spiritual identity” is the Utopia. As the diptych suggests, More, Erasmus, and Giles were inseparable friends whose relationship was strongly centered on the text of Utopia. We find in its pages, in speaking pictures, an explicit textualization of More and Giles’ friendship. As in the diptych, where one member is missing but his presence is implicitly suggested, we also find that Erasmus enjoys no internal reference in a text focusing on the other two-thirds of the triangle. His trace, however, is discernible in the figure of Raphael. This trace occurs at all levels, from a matter of shared personal preferences to similar philosophical outlooks. Indeed, many of the concerns about intellectual property rights posed thus far coalesce around the figures of Raphael Hythloday and Desiderius Erasmus. This correlation is no small coincidence, as the activities and careers of the historical and fictional personages often converge. In this respect, Jardine describes Erasmus as “an itinerant producer of textbooks and translations in multiple copies; he rarely kept a home of his own but lived in the houses of printers, and ran a bustling publishing ‘workshop’ (officina)” (7). Examining representations of Erasmus, Jardine finds the Dutch humanist always depicted in a nonlocatable “study full of the portable apparatus of reading and writing” (9). MacCulloch goes a step farther, claiming Erasmus “virtually created a new category of career—the roving international man of letters who lived off the proceeds of his writings” (97). In his numerous travels and in his dissemination of knowledge to the Utopians, Raphael Hythlodaeus reenacts Erasmus Desiderius' career as an itinerant scholar, editor, book publisher, and promoter of classical learning. Indeed, he introduces printing to the Utopians. As Cotton notes, “The Utopians are particularly enthralled with Hythloday’s traveling library, probably because it emphasizes the practical rather than the theoretical” (46). Raphael’s rootlessness recalls Erasmus’ own “estrangement from his native tongue," his sense of being unappreciated by his countrymen (Huizinga 43). Erasmus’ Adages itself grows out of the Northern humanist’s nine-month sojourn at Aldus' Academy. Indeed, Erasmus’ desire to perfect his knowledge of Greek and to add to the store of his collection mark him as a singular figure in the dissemination of Greek learning to the Western world, so singular in fact that Deno John Geankopolos includes him among the “Greek” exiles or émigrés in his GreekScholarsinVenice: Though not a Greek, he is nevertheless included here because he is perhaps the outstanding example of a Northern humanist who, having profited from association with the Greek émigrés, was able to “popularize” the classical learning in his writings and thus more effectively than any other scholar to reach a wide audience in northern Europe. (256) An émigré in his own right, Erasmus stayed for several months with the printer Aldus and his Greek Academy both to master the Greek language and to acquire the ability to rescue many classical manuscripts either from mistranslation or neglect: He had immeasurably improved his command of Greek by living amidst the Greek colony in Venice, and through his daily rubbing elbows with émigré Greek scholars and others he vastly widened his reading of Greek literature. (Schoeck, Prince: 91). H. C. Porter reminds us that the careers of Raphael and Erasmus intersect, the two often finding themselves in foreign strands working for the advancement of learning: It will be recalled that, at the time Erasmus was instructing his small class in Cambridge, Raphael Hythloday, the Portuguese ancient mariner, was teaching Greek to the inhabitants of the island of Utopia--so well that "in less than three years' space there was nothing in the Greek tongue that they lacked.” (38-39) Hexter informs us that Raphael’s reading list for the Utopians closely mirrors Erasmus’ own preferences: "'De ratione studii' recommends the same thinkers in the same order: 'Plato and Aristotle, and the latter's disciple, Theophrastus, [and the combination of the two, Plotinus]'" (Opera, I, 523). (467). Wootton affirms what any annotator of Utopia soon discovers in tracing the source of many of its allusions: “Again and again we find that the supposed absurdities of Utopia are in fact Erasmian principles” (“Intro” 12). Perhaps more impressive than the similarities of the principles held by the real figure and his fictional counterpart is the commitment to those principles, again underscored by Wootton: If Utopia is now far more widely read than anything Erasmus wrote, his name still deserves to be linked to More’s, for his commitment to the views expressed by Hythloday went far deeper than More’s. Indeed, as we listen to Hythloday, it is Erasmus’s voice we hear, for Utopia is best read as a dialogue between two friends who were soon to go separate ways. (“Intro” 33) Wootton’s claim that the text incorporates an allegory of sorts of the two friends’ parting adds yet another performative dimension to a text that, closely scrutinized, has much to say about its own production as well as those involved in that production. As a foreigner and outsider, Raphael reenacts Erasmus’s own experiences in his several sojourns on English soil. While one might be hesitant to find any trace of Erasmus's hand in Book 1, given its preoccupations with the English social and political scene, we should recall that Erasmus spent the better part of the fifteen years preceding the appearance of Utopia in England: First stay in England: 1499-1500. Second stay in England: 1502-1506. Third stay in England: 1509-14. Such familiarity with England would have certainly provided Erasmus with an intimate sense of English conditions and concerns. As Jardine points out, “it is an easy matter for English Erasmus scholars implicitly to claim for him a life-long Englishness and, certainly, a lifelong affinity with intellectual life on an English model” (12). Although there are undeniably mythic elements to the construction of Hythloday's character, at several points in Utopia there is a one-to-one correlation between Hythloday's biographical circumstances and Erasmus' own experiences in England. The Portuguese sailor often stands as a place-marker for Erasmus in these situations. While aspects of their parallel lives are sometimes pointed out, curiously enough, it is often only in passing. For example, Hexter and Surtz observe of Hythloday's reference to the Battle of Blackheath: "It is interesting to note that, two years after the battle, Erasmus, like Hythlodaeus, visited England for some months: May (?) 1499, to January 1500 (Ep., I, 237, 274)" (TM 313). The circumstances here match Erasmus as much as they do Thomas More. In their dispute over English domestic policies in Book 1, the lawyer compliments Raphael’s speaking ability while reminding him that “you are but a stranger” (71), a reference that connects Raphael more closely to Erasmus than to More. In spite of such disparities, Raphael's biographical circumstances are displaced on to More even though they match Erasmus' own circumstances just as closely. Thus, one of More's earliest biographers, Nicholas Harpsfield, who scarcely mentions Erasmus, identifies Raphael as a convenient fiction for conveying More's experience: And like a most thankful man, he [More] maketh honourable mention of Cardinal Morton, Archbishop of Canterbury and Lord Chancellor of England, in whose house, as we have said, himself in his tender youth was brought up, albeit it be by the dissembled name of the said Hythlodaye, whom he imagineth to have been in England, and to have been acquainted with the said Cardinal. (110-111) Given Raphael's many affinities to Erasmus, however, it is just as likely that the reference via Hythlodaeus is to Erasmus as much as it is to More. Erasmus also spent some of this time in Cardinal Morton’s house, and thus was just as likely to have heard and remembered the same banter and dialogues as Raphael recites in Book 1. Referring to the Dialogue of Counsel addition, Wootton informs us that Erasmus was very closely associated with it, both as an auditor and, very likely in my view, as a participant: But it is worth considering that, while the rest of Book One was written in early February 1516, this section may well have been written shortly after Erasmus was More’s house guest in August 1516. Certainly we know that More must have written part of Utopia after this visit, as the manuscript was not ready for Erasmus to take away with him. (“Intro,” 28-9) Although the Dialogue of Counsel is generally thought to involve More's own dilemma about entering court service, the focus in the text is on Hythloday who, in this respect as well, mirrors Erasmus' own concerns about court service. Like Harpsfield, Hexter and Surtz assume the Dialogue of Counsel is a "fictitious dialogue" that More set up "to talk to himself" (xxxvii). Coinciding so closely to Erasmus' visit, however, it would make more sense to ascribe the Platonic sailor's role to Erasmus. Even Hexter and Surtz point out in reference to a councillorship offered to Erasmus in May of 1515 that "Giles at Antwerp and More at Bruges might have urged upon Erasmus, passing through from London to Basel in late May, the same kind of arguments that they used upon Hythlodaeus in Utopia" (TM 307). Hythloday's refusal to serve at court reflects a cosmopolitan view of politics and the court more akin to Erasmian principles than to Morean ones. If More had made up his mind about court service much earlier than what biographers prior to Guy and Marius have argued, the argument is even stronger that the Dialogue of Counsel is more reflective of Erasmus’ situation than Thomas More’s. Was there a dialogue in More’s house in August of 1516 in which More played the role of Morus in the text and Erasmus argued Hythloday’s position? In this regard, the question of intellectual property rights involves not only what Erasmus might have written into the text of Utopia but also how much a work entirely attributed to Thomas More owes to the Dutch scholar’s own philosophic stances and experiences. The problem with not identifying Erasmus with Raphael is that important biographical elements of this narrative are too easily dismissed as fictional and unrelated to issues of authorship. At several points in the parerga, what appear to be jests validating Raphael's existence as the raconteur of Utopian life and customs can be seen instead as extensions of the text's narrative concerning its production. Central to the narrative at these points is the matter of intellectual property rights. Such concerns show up in More’s letters about Utopia. An important part of the narrative concerning Utopia’s production and authorship, these letters reveal an anxiety on More’s part about the authenticity of an account he has rendered second-hand. He worries, for example, that Utopia may constitute an unauthorized version of material first presented to him by Raphael. Although the whereabouts of the footloose navigator are currently unknown, More expresses a concern that he may one day return and wish to give his own account of his travels to Utopia. Having staked a competing claim to the same textual territory, More plays the role of a Plato to a Socrates in identifying his own claim as derivative and secondary. Thus, after his abortive effort to give the location of Utopia, as described in “More to Giles,” More seems curiously insecure about the authenticity of his own narrative and very dependent upon receiving some sort of confirmation from Raphael. More desires him to read over his book, worried that his impersonation of Hythloday and repackaging of his experiences may run up against their originals: Therefore I beg you, my dear Peter, to get in touch with Hythloday—in person if you can, or by letters if he’s gone—and make sure that my work contains nothing false and omits nothing true. Perhaps it would be better to show him the book itself. If I’ve made a mistake, there’s nobody better qualified to correct me; but even he cannot do it, unless he reads over my book. Besides, you will be able to discover in this way whether he’s pleased or annoyed that I have written the book. If he has decided to write out his own story himself, he may not want me to do so; and I should be sorry, too, if in publicizing the commonwealth of Utopia I had robbed him and his story of the flower of novelty. (Logan 37) Reading this passage as a narrative about Utopia’s production, readers find Raphael cast in the roles of editor and proofreader, functions provided by the historically situated Erasmus. As a figuration of Erasmus, Hythloday is invoked by More as one “qualified to correct me." As we have seen, as one edition of Utopia ceded to another, Erasmus did indeed exercise such an editorial function. This ongoing narrative of Erasmus/Raphael’s importance to the work is a natural extension of Erasmus’ involvement in Utopia from its formative stages on to publication. Implicit in Budé's letter to Lupset, a letter preferred by Erasmus to More's own pronouncements on Utopia, is the suggestion that Erasmus may have had some resentment about being relegated to the role of ghostwriter in a text bearing so much of his imprint. Budé tries to gloss over this point of contention. Thus, while Hythloday is given credit for the discovery of Utopia and for being "the architect of the Utopian nation, the founder of its customs and institutions," Budé credits More as "its adorner, who has bestowed on the island and its holy institutions the grace of his style, the polish of his diction." Assuming the role of a humble artisan, More Evidently… made scruple of asserting too great a role in the book. Lest Hythloday have grounds for complaint that More had prematurely plucked and pre-empted the glory due to him, which he might have had if he himself had chosen to write up his travels. He feared of course, that Hythloday who was living of his own free will on the island of Udepotia, might some day return, and be angry and vexed at More’s unfairness in leaving him only the husks of credit for his discovery. Such aconviction is characteristic of wise and virtuous men. [Italicized words in Greek]. While More himself is a man of weight whose word carries great authority, I am bound to give him full credit on the word of Peter Giles of Antwerp. (Logan 17). This insistence on portraying Raphael as a living historical personage has been traditionally viewed as an effort on the part of More's circle of friends to keep the joke going, particularly for those who believed in Utopia as an actual account of a real place. If we consider the above disclaimer in the light of intellectual property rights disputes, then we can view it as offering some insight into the relationship between More and Erasmus. As the figuration of Erasmus, Raphael is represented here as someone who has contributed to the text but who has not been given full credit. More's reluctance to claim "too great a role in the book" might very well have an element of truth to it, reminding readers once more of the multiple levels of jest and irony sanctioned by Utopia, Inc. at any given point. To label Thomas More the author of Utopia forecloses upon and subsumes many of the uncertainties and conflicts in which this multivocal text is packaged. More's own anxieties about authorship, often presented in a jesting manner, take on a more serious dimension when the voices constituting Utopia, Inc. are allowed to speak. Such anxieties and tensions on More's part can be recuperated in the restored narrative of the text's production by examining Hythloday as the effaced presence of Erasmus in the work. What I hope to have accomplished here by reassessing intellectual property rights over the text is to restore Erasmus (under the guise of Hythloday) as an understated part of the triad so critical to the text’s production and the narrative it tells about that production. I make no pretensions to have gotten the whole story straight but only to have initiated several lines of inquiry that others may wish to pursue or close off as the occasion demands. My own satisfaction in playing detective has come from the feeling that I have met Utopia, Incorporated on its own terms as an enterprise undertaken in the high spirit of friendship and gamesmanship. In the final analysis, authorship may depend less upon the isolated and singular figure so familiar in modern terms; on the contrary, we may very well discover that the figure of the author exists as a presiding spirit manifested through Raphael Hythloday and reflecting the special synergy created among More, Erasmus, and Giles. As we recreate the terms of that relationship, perhaps we will bear out Nehemas' contention that “The unity the author represents…is not a unity that must be assumed to be there at first but a unity that may be possibly captured at last.’"
George M. Logan, Robert M. Adams, and Clarence H. Miller, “Appendix: The Early Editions and the Choice of Copy-Text” in Utopia: LatinTextandEnglishTranslation, ed. George M. Logan, Robert M. Adams, and Clarence H. Miller (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, Editions 1994): 270-76.
Greetham singles out Stephen Greenblatt and Louis Montrose as having "been largely unable or unwilling to resist their [great writers'] attraction." In the case of the former, Greetham cites "the ubiquity and cultural gravity of Shakespeare in Greenblatt's ShakespeareanNegotiations, and the chapters on More, Marlowe, the Bible, Spenser, and Othello in Renaissance Self-Fashioning…which is still essentially a 'great figure' collection of essays." Greetham, D. C. Theories of the Text. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1999: 118.
 Alexander Nehemas, “Writer, Text, Work, Author,” in LiteratureandtheQuestionofPhilosophy, ed. Anthony J. Cascardi (The Johns Hopkins UP, 1987), 265-91.
 In using the term “intellectual property rights,” I am not arguing that their modern sense involving issues of copyright or monetary compensation would have any meaning to More or his circle. At least in its inception and preparation for publication, Utopia seems to have been akin to what Lawrence Lessig would describe as an open source “commons,” open that is to the tinkering and rearranging of others than the private author figure, a figure who became exclusively identified with Thomas More in the public imagination once the text had been published. One can find, however, in the parerga, an early modern posing of the intellectual property rights question in More’s concern over whether or not Hythloday will be angry in finding that his oral account of Utopia has made it into print without the voyager’s knowledge or approval. On Lessig’s defense of the open source “commons,” consult TheFutureofIdeas: TheFateoftheCommonsinaConnectedWorld (New York: Random House, 2002).
 Cited by Hexter in "The Composition of Utopia." TheCompleteWorksofSt. ThomasMore. Vol.4. Ed. J. H. Hexter and Edward Surtz, S. J. Yale UP, 1965, xv.
 George M. Logan, TheMeaningofMore's "Utopia" (Princeton: Princeton UP, 1983). John Perlette, "Of Sites and Parasites: The Centrality of the Marginal Anecdote in Book I," ELH 54 (1987): 231-52 (note 1) 30.
 William T. Cotton characterizes Giles as the “most adept game player…who may in fact have been a co-progenitor of the book, through the conversations held with More in 1515” (56). “Five-Fold Crisis in ‘Utopia’: A Foreshadow of Major Modern Utopian Narrative Strategies” in UtopianStudies 14.2 (2003): 41-67.
 "The Correspondence of Erasmus" in CollectedWorksofErasmus, trans. R. A. B.
Mynors & D. F. S. Thomson. Vol. 4. Toronto: U of Toronto Press, 1974.
 David Wootton, “Introduction” in Utopia; withErasmus’sThe Sileni of Alcibiades, ed. and trans. David Wootton (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishers, 1999): 1-34. Hereafter referred to as “Intro.”
 Philip Gaskell, NewIntroductiontoBibliography (Oxford: Oxford UP, 1972);
Donald Pizer, “On the Editing of Modern American Texts” BulletinoftheNewYork
PublicLibrary, 75 (1971), 147-53); James Thorpe, PrinciplesofTextualCriticism (San
Marino: Huntington Library, 1972).
 Another trace of authorship other than More’s own is found in the text’s apparently anachronistic reference to the propitiation Wolsey made to Maximilian (88). In a note to the passage, Hexter remarks: “The propritiation mentioned by Hythlodaeus took place a few months after More had sent his manuscript to Erasmus (September 1516) but not before Wolsey had wasted a large sum of money to strengthen Maximilan’s position in Italy by purchasing Swiss to serve him there” (355).
 Qtd. in Greetham 48. Barthes, Roland. “The Death of the Author,” in Image, Music,
Text, trans. Stephen Heath (New York: Hill and Wang, 1977), 157.
 L. J. Huizinga, ErasmusofRotterdam, trans. F. Hopman. London: Phaidon Press, 1952.
 Diarmaid MacCulloch maintains that Pace wrote Juliusexclusus (97). The
Reformation: AHistory. New York: Viking Penguin, 2004.
 J. Kelley Sowards, “Introduction.” TheJuliusexclususofErasmus, trans. Paul Pascal. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1968: 7-32. Letter 908 is cited from P. S. Allen, Opus EpistolarumDes. ErasmiRoterodami, 12 vols. (Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1906-58), III: 463-64. Somewhat unconvincingly, R. J. Schoeck maintains that Erasmus only denied responsibility for publishing Julius (ErasmusofEurope: ThePrinceofHumanists [1501-1536]. Edinburgh: Edinburgh UP, 1993: 118.
 William Hamilton, qtd. by Stokes (xxxvii-xxxviii).
 George Faludy, Erasmus, (New York: Stein and Day, 1970), 146.
 “Introduction” in EpistolaeObscrurumVirorum: TheLatinTextwithanEnglish
Rendering, Notes, andanHistoricalIntroduction by Francis Griffin Stokes (London:
Chatto and Windus, 1925): xv—lxxiii).
 As Harpsfield points out: "And surely this said jolly invention of Sir Thomas More seemed to bear a good countenance of truth, not only for the credit of Master More was in with the world, but even for that about that time many strange and unknown nations and many conclusions were discovered, such as our forefathers did neither know nor believe….These and other considerations caused many wise, learned men nothing less to distrust that this had been nothing but an inventive drift of Sir Thomas More's own imagination and head, but took it for a very sure known story. Wherein they were deceived by Master More, as wise and as well learned as they were, as Zeuxis the painter was in old time, notwithstanding he painted grapes so lively and exquisitely that the birds came to pick upon them as upon very grapes indeed…." (110-111).
 Lisa Jardine, Erasmus, ManofLetters: TheConstructionofCharismainPrint (New Jersey: Princeton UP, 1993). Diarmaid MacCulloch describes Erasmus in similar terms: “He perfectly exemplified the humanist theme of building new possibilities, for he invented himself out of his own imaginative resources.” TheReformation: AHistory (New York: Viking Penguin, 2004), 94.
 Elizabeth Eisenstein, ThePrintingPressasanAgentofChange: Communicationsand
CulturalTransformationsinEarly-ModernEurope. Vol. 1 of 2 (Cambridge: Cambridge
UP, 1979), 138.
 David Wootton, “Friendship Portrayed: A New Account of Utopia,” HistoryWorkshop Journal 45 (1998), 30-47. Wootton finds the bond between these two friends so close and interchangeable that in taking up the Adages “you will find yourself suddenly, entirely unexpectedly, on a voyage to Utopia” (31).
 H. C. Porter, “Introduction,” ErasmusandCambridge: TheCambridgeLettersof Erasmus, trans. D. F. S. Thomson. (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1963): 3-103.
 See Richard Marius, ThomasMore (New York: Knopf, 1984), 156-57; and J. A.
Guy, ThePublicCareerofSirThomasMore (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1980),