I guess there are worse reasons to become an academic than to try to give weight to your pet readings of your favorite characters. I feel like in this book I was constantly coming across sentences like: "Merlin wouldn't do that!"
And then there's this quote: “The Prose Lancelot…contains a reputable, authentic telling of Lancelot’s childhood, except when it insists he was ‘taught’ by ‘mermen.’” (p. 304)
Obviously the Prose Lancelot, a work of fiction, contains no such thing. (The reputable and authentic part, I mean, not the mermen.)
“So, what actually transpired when Merlin and the Lady of the Lake proceeded towards Merlin’s Cave, entered it, and opened the tomb in which he lay down?” (p. 309)
Nothing “actually” transpired, of course. And yet Goodrich really wants us to believe that the historical personage Merlin and the historical personage Lady of the Lake went to a real cave for a real death on a real day in history. Am I just a grump for pointing out that Midas never actually turned his daughter to gold and Icarus never actually flew near the sun and any historicity you care to wring from Geoffrey of Monmouth or the French Vulgate Cycle has to be treated so much more tentatively than this book does? What we have here is something as nonsensical as a flat earth volume, but a whole lot more learned. I mean, Goodrich knows her stuff! She’s just…crazy? Uncritical?
This book is like one of those renaissance texts that says the myth of autochthonous birth came about because witnesses saw some people coming out of a cave and assumed they were born full-grown there (a real theory from Boccaccio); or perhaps more appositely like one of those nineteenth-century mythographies that treats passages in Ovid as reservoirs of astronomical knowledge. It’s Hamlet’s Mill but less interesting (because less audacious). It’s not something I would have expected to have been published in 1988.