As this article focuses on Lister’s political context and activity, it doesn’t have direct connections to her sexuality (though it does to her gender). Lister’s lifetime spanned a very busy political era for the UK, including the later consequences of the French Revolution, the rise of the industrial era, the abolition of the slave trade and then of slavery itself, and other significant events and changes. Through all this, Lister approached issues as a staunch Tory, supporting the Crown, the rights and privileges of landowners, and the special place of the Anglican church.
19th c
LHMP entry
I’m going to skim over this article because it falls in the category of “scholarship about modern philosophical theories” and doesn’t really say much about Lister’s historic context. In this case, the modern theory has to do with the concept of the closet. So it analyzes Listers’ practices around concealment and management of her personal life, but does so in a framework based on 20th century ideas about being closeted. Many of the historic texts and frameworks that are discussed are not examined in terms of how Lister engaged with them, but rather uses them as metaphors.
[Note: check out Turton’s other articles on queer lexicography, especially Turton 2024. I’ll be skipping briefly over some topics he covers in those.]
This article explores Lister’s sources of anatomical knowledge and how they affected her embodied understanding of erotic response. The question begins with an odd fact: although Lister first recorded the word “clytoris” in 1814, at age 22, it wasn’t until 17 years later that she describes clearly identifying her own clitoris. What can make sense of this for a woman who was deeply and clinically interested in her own sexuality?
This article traces one aspect of how Lister understood her gender and sexuality, that is, as a “natural” variation that was to some extent unique to her. Rather than projecting modern identity concepts back in time onto Lister, Shannon locates this understanding within the past and present philosophies of Lister’s own time with respect to the concept of “nature.”
Foreword by Emma Donoghue
This is the collection of papers based on material from the Lister archives, approached from a variety of angles. [Note: Not all of the material touches on her sexuality, but I will blog everything, though some coverage may be briefer than others.]
The front matter includes a forward by Emma Donoghue, an introduction by Chris Roulston (one of the editors), and a conversation between Carolyn Gonda (the other editor) and Helena Whitbread.
The appendices consist of several types of information. The first section covers technical reference data:
This section, naturally, sums up the author’s purposes and results. Lister’s records had multiple functions. [Note: One hesitates to call them “purposes” as the functions likely emerged from the practice, rather than being a design feature.] The detailed and structured record of her activities, thoughts, and experiences create a type of autobiography, while at the same time not being designed as a literary work or coherent narrative. The function of her correspondence was to create and maintain a social network that included family, friends, and lovers.
Lister’s habit of using code phrases for meaningful events and concepts is particularly evident in language around desire. One especially colorful expression was “going to Italy.” Whitbread interpreted this as indicating a fully sexual relationship, but Orr opines that the evidence for this is not included in the excerpts in No Priest But Love, and that the meaning is more nuanced. The other method of signifying especially noteworthy progress in the relationship was with a triple Silcrow symbol.
This section uses Listers discussion with Barlow of her sexual history to lay out both that history and the context in which she shares it, and how that reflects the progression of the Barlow romance. Some of the filtering of the information is marked by how Lister describes her sharing as “the story,” “nearly the whole story,” “nearly the real story,” and similar qualifications. “Story” did not imply a fiction but simply referred to a communication. Such stories were shared with a gradation of specificity.
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