This article appeared in BreakPoint's Findings Journal.

When Frankenstein was first published in 1818, it began with a "Preface" by Mary Shelley's husband, poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, who evidently wanted to legitimize his wife's shocking text. It is as though he worried that such unconventional literature might wreak havoc on the sensibilities of those who didn't understand it—much as Frankenstein's monster wreaked havoc on those people who reviled his strange form.

Percy Shelley's proprietary attitude toward Mary Shelley's monstrous novel might provide an analogy for Clement Greenberg's attitude toward the Abstract Expressionism he helped legitimize. Just as the painters Greenberg worked to promote recognized that the strange form of their creations unnerved conventional viewers, Mary Shelley acknowledged that her Frankenstein creation was as disturbing as Frankenstein's monster, later saying of her text, "I bid my hideous progeny go forth and prosper."¹

Neither Percy Shelley nor Clement Greenberg, however, could anticipate what direction the progeny they patronized might take. Had Shelley lived long enough, his horror over the multiple movie appropriations of Frankenstein would surely match in intensity Greenberg's disgust over the multiple "pop" transformations of art. As Arthur Danto makes clear in After the End of Art, the creation of art, like the creation of Frankenstein's monster, cannot be controlled.²

Ironically, Greenberg, like Shelley, "subscribed to a developmental progressive view of history," which implies an openness to transformation. However, their views of progress, Shelley in the realm of human nature and Greenberg in the realm of artistic taste, were similarly confined to historically situated definitions of authenticity in which "the superior work of art" does not change.³ For Greenberg, authenticity in visual art was manifest by painting, the flatness of which called attention to its own artifice, while for Shelley, authenticity in literary art was manifest by the verbal artifices of poetic language. Therefore, in his preface to his wife's work, Percy defends Mary's strange text by comparing its content to the poetry of Homer, Shakespeare, and Milton, assuring us that Frankenstein avoids "the enervating effects of the novels of the present day."⁴ Both Greenberg and Shelley, feeling like radicals in their attempt to defend a progressive new style, ended up sounding conservative, however, when "progress" took an unanticipated turn—Pop displacing Abstract Expression just as the novel displaced poetry as the influential literature of the nineteenth century. Both Shelley and Greenberg thus defend the "shock of the new" by embedding it in the old narrative of religious transcendence. In his Defence of Poetry, Shelley describes poets as the "prophets" of their age, for poetry "acts in another and diviner manner" than moral philosophy: A "poet participates in the eternal, the infinite, and the one."⁵ Similarly, Greenberg states in Avant-Garde and Kitsch that the "avant-garde poet or artist tries in effect to imitate God by creating something valid solely on its own terms, in the way nature itself is . . . valid: something given, increate, independent of meanings, similars, or originals."⁶

The religion of art valorized by Percy Shelley reached its apex during the high modernism of Clement Greenberg, such that the discourses of popular culture as well as of traditional faith were marginalized. Individuals immersed in both reviled discourses were regarded by patrons of the avant-garde as intellectual monsters. In a 1953 book entitled The Emperor's Clothes, for example, Kathleen Nott contemptuously disparaged poets and critics who were outspoken Christians, saying they were "engaged in the amputation and perversion of knowledge." She was especially hard on C. S. Lewis and Dorothy L. Sayers, calling them "braver and stupider than many of their orthodox literary fellows," because of their "tub-thumping" popularizing of the faith.⁷ The fact that Nott's popular book went into several editions exemplifies how one of the ends of modernism was to put an end to the hegemony of the Christian metanarrative. When Danto discusses "the end of art," then, Christians should take note, for he is referring to the end of a metanarrative that abjured Christianity.

DOROTHY SAYERS AND THE END OF ART
Dorothy L. Sayers might provide a helpful way to bring Danto's "end of art" into conversation with the ends of Christianity. Born in 1893, Sayers was a child of high modernism, which, according to Danto, began in 1889. When she graduated from Oxford in 1915, she wanted to participate in the high art of her day, working to get into print two books of poetry, even though she wasn't a very good poet. Both volumes, one in 1916 and the other in 1918, were a part of Basil Blackwell's Adventurers All series, which stated on the endpapers of each book, "It is hoped that these Adventurers may justly claim the attention of those intellects which, in resisting the enervating influence of the novel, look for something of permanent value in the more arduous pursuit of poetry." Whether intentionally or coincidentally, Blackwell echoes Shelley's contempt for "the enervating effects of the novels of the present day," seeking to support, like Greenberg, authentic art. Hence, Blackwell also included on the endpaper of his Adventurers All works the statement: "The object of this Series is to remove from the work of young poets the reproach of insolvency." It didn't work for Sayers, however, who later admitted in an interview, "I had leanings towards poetry, but it didn't pay."⁸ Therefore, in 1921 Sayers began writing detective fiction, which would make her a pariah of modernists like Blackwell. For if the novel was "enervating," the detective novel was considered downright debilitating, as Sayers admits in her 1937 essay "Gaudy Night": The "detective story of that period enjoyed a pretty poor reputation, and was not expected to contain anything that could be mistaken for 'serious reading.'"⁹ Indeed, the year Sayers began her first detective novel, protectors of literary art published one among the many manifestos that identify modernism as the "The Age of Manifestos."¹⁰ In 1921 the Newbolt Report on The Teaching of English in England sounded a religious call: "[L]iterature is not just a subject for academic study, but one of the chief temples of the human spirit, in which all should worship,"¹¹ similar to the way in which "museums were represented as temples to truth-through-beauty."¹² Detective fiction, however, was relegated to an outhouse behind these temples.

Modernist protectors of the sacred shrine of literature went so far as to attack detective fiction, as though it were undermining the temple. One such protector, Edmund Wilson, mentioned Sayers as he relegated detective novels to the "sub-literary," regarding them as "ill-written" and "degrading to the intelligence."¹³ In 1937, Cambridge Critic Q. D. Leavis described Sayers's fiction as "stale, second-hand, hollow," her "deliberate indecency" as "odious," her "delving into emotional deeps" as "nauseating," her "moral burden" only such that "your frock MUST be well-cut." Leavis then attacked what many consider to be Sayers' best detective novel, Gaudy Night, as a "combination of literary glibness and spiritual illiteracy," a "menace to civilization."¹⁴ As both a Christian and a detective fiction writer, Sayers, like Frankenstein's monster, was a menace to civilization.

THE CHRISTIAN OPPORTUNITY
Because one of the ends of modernist art theory was to derogate all that was considered "outside the pale of history," as Greenberg put it, "the end of art" might therefore operate as a welcome deconstruction of the pales protecting the high modernist temple. Since all creative expressions are allowed "after the end of art," expressions of Christian faith can once again be part of the artistic conversation. As Danto notes, "The pluralism of the present art world defines the ideal artist as a pluralist,"¹⁵ much as Dorothy L. Sayers was a pluralist, creating not only poetry and detective fiction, but also plays, advertisements, radio broadcasts, literary criticism, translations of Dante, and Christian apologetics. What makes her distinctive, of course, is that she was a pluralist during the reign of modernism, thus becoming a postmodernist before her time—not in spite of her Christianity, but because of it.

Sayers, in fact, was in the midst of theorizing a Christian view of creativity when Clement Greenberg published Avant-Garde and Kitsch in 1939. Her book-length study published two years later, The Mind of the Maker, celebrates what later brought Greenberg to despair: that any manifestation of creativity can be "divine," such that, as Danto puts it, "you can't define artworks in terms of some particular visual properties they may have," an assumption that "finished the modernist agenda."¹⁶ Furthermore, unlike Greenberg, who situated his art theory in a narrative of progress which culminated with the genius of abstract expressionism, Sayers asserts that "genius is, in fact, not subject to the 'law' of progress, and it is beginning to be extremely doubtful whether progress is a 'law' at all."¹⁷ Similar to postmodern theorists to follow, Sayers recognized that evolutionary narratives of progress are culturally constructed explanations of history that need to be questioned.

Ad Reinhardt noted in 1962 that "the one object of fifty years of abstract art [was] to present art-as-art and as nothing else . . . making it purer and emptier, more absolute and more exclusive."¹⁸ Sayers' concern was not with this modernist sanctification of an artwork's autonomy—described as a "verbal icon" in literature—but with the sanctity of the creative process itself. For Sayers, one is most Godlike, manifesting the Imago Dei, when one creates, thus allowing for a pluralism of creative outcomes. For Sayers, this pluralism is grounded in the plural nature of the Godhead.

THE TRINITARIAN CREATIVITY OF DOROTHY SAYERS
Building upon the Judeo-Christian doctrine that humans are created in the image of God, Sayers looks at how the Christian Church has defined that image in trinitarian terms and thus speculates about the Trinitarian nature of creativity. Just as God is three-in-one, so also is the artistic process, which, for Sayers, is constituted by the interrelationship between Idea, Energy, and Power: The Idea (like Creator God) originates the artwork, the Energy (like the incarnated Christ) brings it into physical existence, and the Power (like the Holy Spirit) is manifest within the receptivity of its audience. These elements, however, like the Godhead, are simultaneously engaged and mutually interdependent rather than temporally linear and hierarchically structured:

The Idea, that is, cannot be said to precede the Energy in time, because (so far as that act of creation is concerned) it is the Energy that creates the time-process . . . . The writer cannot even be conscious of his Idea except by the working of the Energy which formulates it to himself.¹⁹

In other words, the artist cannot see her creative Idea apart from the incarnated form emerging from the Idea.

Sayers thus regards aesthetic form in humanizing, rather than objectifying, terms, treating her own literary creations as though they were actual incarnations of her Idea. In her earliest letters that allude to the hero of her detective fiction, she describes Lord Peter Wimsey as though he were living his own life: "The typist is dawdling over him, it seems to me, but as I haven't the cash handy I bear up! But when he does arrive I ought to trot him round to various publishers before giving up altogether." She tells Eustace Barton, her collaborator on her only non-Wimsey novel, Documents of the Case (1930), "I'm looking forward to getting a rest from [Peter], because his everlasting breeziness does become a bit of a tax at times!"²⁰ When she writes in 1936 "How I Came to Invent the Character of Lord Peter," Sayers refers to him as though he were a human rather than a literary invention: "My impression is that I was thinking about writing a detective story, and that he walked in, complete with spats, and applied in an airy don't-care-if-I-get-it way for the job of hero."²¹ She later criticizes readers who identify her tastes with those of her hero-creation: "[W]hat is intolerable is that the created being should be thus violently stripped of its own precious personality." The other extreme appears in readers who want to impose their own constructs upon him. When someone said of Lord Peter, "But he's far too intelligent and far too nice not to be a Christian," she tells us she responded quite peremptorily with the statement, "He exists in his own right and not to please you." ²²

For Sayers, then, the artist's relation to her creation echoes the theological paradox of free will and determinism. In The Mind of the Maker she states that the author "is conscious of the same paradoxical need—namely, the complete independence of the creature, combined with its willing cooperation in his purpose in conformity with the law of its nature. In this insistent need the author sees the image of the perfect relation of Creator and creature, and perfect reconciliation of divine predestination with free created will."²³

Sayers experienced this paradox when she destined Peter to fall in love, with the intention of "marrying him off and getting rid of him." Sayers, therefore, created an Eve for her Adam. However, as soon as she formed Harriet Vane from the rib of Peter's character, she realized that Peter needed to mature in order to be worthy of Harriet's love. Thus, when Sayers gave Energy to her Idea about Peter, a new Power was generated: "[T]he puppets had somehow got just so much flesh and blood in them that I could not force them to accept [superficial love] without shocking myself."²⁴ She had to allow them a type of free will to give substance and meaning to their love.

The love that Sayers creates for Peter mirrors the author's love for her creation: "The creator's love for his work is not a greedy possessiveness; he never desires to subdue his work to himself but always to subdue himself to his work. The more genuinely creative he is, the more he will want his work to develop in accordance with its own nature, and to stand independent of himself."²⁵ The Power of the artwork arises from the complex interrelationship between the artist's deterministic gestures and the artwork's freely developing form.

SAYERS AND RECEPTION THEORY
Though Sayers spends much less time discussing the third member of her aesthetic trinity, she sees the Reader-Beholder as key to the "Power" of the work, a Power that becomes Incarnational as well:

When the writer's Idea is revealed or incarnate by his Energy, then, and only then, can his Power work on the world . . . . But once the Idea has entered into other minds, it will tend to reincarnate itself there with ever-increasing energy and ever-increasing Power. It may for some time incarnate itself only in more words, more books, more speeches; but the day comes when it incarnates itself in actions, and this is its day of judgment.²⁶

Sayers's concern for the role of the reader anticipates the Rezeptionsasthetik, or Reception Theory, of Roman Ingarden, Hans Jauss, and Wolfgang Iser, which developed in the 1960s as an answer to Russian Formalism and American New Criticism, both of which deemed considerations of author and reader irrelevant to the self-contained formal artistry of a literary work. Unlike Reception Theory, these "objectivist" movements reflected the modernist privileging of autonomy: not only of the existential author but also of the art object itself.

Sayers eschewed the objectivist commodification of a "work" of art; for her, the noun "work" alluded to the activity indicated by its verb form—as incarnated by the performances of both author and reader. Although it is highly unlikely she was aware of John Crowe Ransom's book The New Criticism while she was writing The Mind of the Maker, since both were published the same year (1941), Sayers later describes the New Criticism in a talk delivered to the Oxford University Spectator Club in 1956: "There is a school of criticism which asserts roundly that art and communication have nothing to do with one another. A work of art can only be assessed by that which it is in itself, and not by its effect upon the audience or spectators." She argues against what New Critics Wimsatt and Beardsley were to call "the affective fallacy," believing that poetry should, indeed, affect the reader. However, she also objects to the opposite extreme: criticism that tends "to disregard the work itself," like that of I. A. Richards, an influential literary critic through and against whom Ransom defined the New Criticism. Richards, exactly Sayers's age, emphasized the role of the reader, who psychically connects with the mind of a poem's maker. Though this may sound similar to Sayers, she took issue with psychological views of poetry, wherein "the only thing that the poet can tell us about is himself," making statements that, instead of corresponding to "eternal things," are merely "what Mr. I. A. Richards has called pseudo-statements.' "²⁷ Richards was influenced by the logical positivism of the 1920s, which held that only empirically verifiable statements can be designated "true." As Sayers defines it, "Logical Positivism . . . seem[s] to relegate poetry and poetic language to a Fools' Limbo."²⁸ While Richards accommodates logical positivism by describing poetry as "pseudo-statement," he goes on to valorize pseudo-statements as offering psychological affirmations and hence comforts that religion could no longer provide. Like many critics of his generation, Richards believed that poetry "is capable of saving us; it is a perfectly possible means of overcoming chaos."²⁹ To the woman who wrote "Creed or Chaos," Richards' answer to the chaos of the world was naïve—much as it is regarded by theorists today.

In her own day, Sayers seems to have agreed with R. G. Collingwood's critique of Richards's artificial division between scientific and poetic language. In Principles of Art (1937), Collingwood writes, "Dr. Richards assumes, apparently without realizing that anyone could do otherwise, that language is not an activity, but something which is 'used' . . . like a chisel that is used either for cutting wood or for lifting tacks."³⁰ Sayers likewise affirms language as activity: "Every word is an event," not an immutable thing like a chisel: "[A] word or a phrase is not, and cannot be, an instrument of precision." Collingwood's Principles of Art surely influenced The Mind of the Maker, published four years later. Not only does Sayers refer to Collingwood in her 1956 address "The Poetry of Search and the Poetry of Statement,"³¹ but she credits his book for much of what she says in her 1944 address "Towards a Christian Aesthetic."³² Therefore, though Sayers started to formulate her Trinitarian aesthetic theory in 1937, it is possible that, as she expanded her idea into a book-length study, she may have consulted Collingwood's work, which aligns the Athanasian Creed with the aesthetics of "creation," as does The Mind of the Maker. Collingwood makes the alignment apologetically, anticipating "all the familiar protests against an aesthetic mysticism that raises the function of art to the level of something divine and identifies the artist with God,"³³ grounding such protests in "theophobia." This word may have influenced Sayers's reference to the contemporary "phobia about that useful word" God (1939).³⁴ Indeed, just as Collingwood asserts that "the aesthetic experience or aesthetic activity is one which goes on in the artist's mind" independent of any material form,³⁵ so also Sayers emphasizes that creation occurs in the mind of the maker "whether or not the act ever becomes manifest in the form of written and printed book." Instead, such "things are not confined to the material manifestation; they exist in—they are—the creative mind itself." ³⁶ However, she would also agree with Collingwood that "this inward experience is supposed to stand in a double relation to something outward or bodily"—that it desires to be incarnated:

(a) For the artist, the inward experience may be externalized or converted into a perceptible object; though there is no intrinsic reason why it should be. (b) For the audience, there is a converse process: the outward experience comes first, and this is converted into that inward experience which is alone aesthetic.³⁷

Thus, while Sayers and Collingwood acknowledge that creation occurs apart from embodied substance, they still believe that reception to material form is important to the work of art—on two levels. On the one hand, they argue that any creator is empowered by the work of other creators, "that collaboration between artists has always been the rule,"³⁸ or, as Sayers puts it, that "between the poet and his age there is an intimate connection of mutual influence."³⁹ Both use Shakespeare's Hamlet to exemplify that "words and phrases become charged with the Power acquired by passing through the minds of successive writers,"⁴⁰ thus defying their era's mystification of "originality," which they similarly describe as a relatively recent dogma.⁴¹ On the other hand, Sayers and Collingwood both acknowledge the collaborative role of audience, that aesthetic activity "is a corporate activity belonging not to any one human being but to a community,"⁴² that "the Power" of an artistic creation is "a social power, working to bring all minds into its own unity."⁴³ This emphasis on a reading community anticipates the "Reader Response" theory of Stanley Fish, whose emphasis on "communities of interpretation" extends the work of the reception theorists of the 1960s.

Significantly, Collingwood provides a connection between Sayers and Rezeptionsasthetik, for both Iser and Jauss refer to constructs developed by Collingwood as they discuss the reader's role in the work of art.⁴⁴ Jauss and Iser, in fact, establish trinitarian views of the aesthetic object: the interdependence of origin-work-reader. Iser even implies an incarnational view of the artwork when he writes, "The literary text acts like a sort of living organism, which is linked to the reader, and also instructs him, by means of a feedback system."⁴⁵ And Jauss sees such instruction as affecting social behavior: "The relationship between literature and reader can actualize itself in the sensorial realm as an incitement to aesthetic perception as well as in the ethical realm as a summons to moral reflection."⁴⁶ For Sayers, of course, the reader's moral reflection becomes ethical "when it incarnates itself in actions."⁴⁷

Comparable to Sayers' Idea, Energy, and Power, the trinity informing Iser's aesthetic object is repertoire, strategies, and realization. "Realization" refers to the "reader's participation" in the text, bringing it to fulfillment. "Strategies," designating the "accepted procedures" for inscribing a creative text, gestures in its dynamism toward Sayers's words "Energy" and "Activity." In contrast, "Repertoire" is the least like Sayers's Trinitarian aesthetic; instead of an Author-Creator, Iser situates as "origin" the conventions that precede but also adhere within the art object.⁴⁸ The repertoire includes allusions, "social and historical norms," and literary traditions. Sayers exemplifies the repertoire of her own authorship when she discusses in The Mind of the Maker the allusions and historical elements that entered into one of her detective novels, The Nine Tailors.⁴⁹ This repertoire of her experience as a reader illustrates how the Power of reading a text interacts with Authorial Idea, in a mutual communion of the three in one.

The word communion repeatedly occurs in Roman Ingarden's elaborations of his reception theory: "[B]etween the observer and the artist, the master, there arises a specific rapprochement, even a certain kind of spiritual communion." And he recognizes, like Sayers, that sometimes the observer and the artist are one and the same person: "[T]he artist becomes an observer of his own emerging work, but even then it is not completely passive apprehension but an active, receptive behavior."⁵⁰ Sayers sees such "active, receptive behavior" in the artist as resulting from the creative Power of the work: "It is the thing which flows back to the writer from his own activity and makes him, as it were, the reader of his own book."⁵¹ For her, the Power, like that of the Holy Spirit, enters into and empowers the receiver and is part of the creativity of the whole. Ingarden would agree: "[T]he observer too does not behave in a completely passive or receptive way, but being temporarily disposed to the reception and recreation of the work itself, is also not only activity, but in a certain sense at least creative." Ingarden describes the re-creation enacted by the beholder-receiver as "concretizing" the work, suggesting that, just as a "certain kind of spiritual communion" is achieved "between the observer and the artist," the encounter between the observer and the work might be called communion as well. He even goes so far as to anthropomorphize the artistic work, as Sayers does when she compares it to Christ the Son: "Works of art have a right to expect to be properly apprehended by observers who are in communion with them."⁵² With his reiteration of the word communion as necessary to the fulfillment of an art object, Ingarden comes very close to Sayers's trinitarian paradigm.

THE MODERNIST MONSTER REDEEMED
The point here is not that Sayers influenced Rezeptionsasthetik. It is highly unlikely that Roman Ingarden, Hans Jauss, or Wolfgang Iser read the earlier writer. What we see, however, is that the Trinitarianism that informs the theory of Sayers led her to conclusions similar to those of innovative scholars in the last half of the twentieth century who were challenging the modernist metanarrative. Because she believed in God as the Creator of the universe, she was able to develop a theory of creativity that broke free from the pale of history that surrounded her. Though writing before the "end of art," Sayers was already "after the end of art" by situating art in the ends of a Trinitarian God who created humans to create.

Crystal Downing is Associate Professor of English and Film Studies at Messiah College, Grantham, Pennsylvania. The topics of her published articles include Shakespeare, postmodernism, film, Victorian culture, Bakhtin, and the relationship of faith to scholarship. She recently completed a book-length study titled Writing Performances: The Stages of Dorothy L. Sayers.

Notes

1. Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, Frankenstein: or The Modern Prometheus (1818; New York: Penguin, 1994), 7-8. (Author's Introduction to the Standard Novels Edition.)

2. Arthur C. Danto, After the End of Art: Contemporary Art and the Pale of History (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997).

3. Ibid., 135, 93.

4. Percy Bysshe Shelley, Preface, Frankenstein: or The Modern Prometheus (1818; New York: Penguin, 1994), 10.

5. Percy Bysshe Shelley, "A Defence of Poetry," The Norton Anthology of English Literature: The Romantic Period, ed. M. H. Abrams and Stephen Greenblatt (N.Y.: Norton, 2000), 792.

6. Quoted in Danto, 71.

7. Kathleen Nott, The Emperor's Clothes (1953; Bloomington, Ind.: Indiana University Press, 1958), 31, 68, 43.

8. Quoted in Ralph Hone, Dorothy L. Sayers: A Literary Biography (Ohio: Kent State University Press, 1979), 69.

9. Dorothy L. Sayers, "Gaudy Night," The Art of the Mystery Story: A Collection of Critical Essays, ed. Howard Haycraft (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1946), 208.

10. Danto, 46.

11. Chris Baldick, The Social Mission of English Criticism: 1848-1932 (Oxford, Clarendon, 1983), 101.

12. Danto, 182.

13. Edmund Wilson, "Who Cares Who Killed Roger Ackroyd?" The Art of the Mystery Story: A Collection of Critical Essays, ed. Howard Haycraft (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1946), 392, 394, 396.

14. Q. D. Leavis, "The Case of Miss Dorothy Sayers," Scrutiny 6 (1937): 336-7, 338, 340.

15. Danto, 9, 114.

16. Ibid., 16.

17. Dorothy L. Sayers, The Mind of the Maker (San Francisco: Harper, 1941, 1979), 44-45.

18. Danto, 27.

19. Sayers, Mind of the Maker, 40-41.

20. Dorothy L. Sayers, The Letters of Dorothy L. Sayers—1899 to 1936—The Making of a Detective Novelist (Vol. 1), ed. Barbara Reynolds (New York: St. Martins, 1995), 181, 274.

21. Sayers, quoted in James Barbazon, Dorothy L. Sayers: A Biography (New York: Scribner's, 1981), 120.

22. Sayers, Mind of the Maker, 130, 131.

23. Ibid., 138.

24. Sayers, "Gaudy Night," 210, 211.

25. Sayers, Mind of the Maker, 130.

26. Ibid., 111.

27. Dorothy L. Sayers, The Poetry of Search and the Poetry of Statement (London: Gollancz, 1963), 14, 17.

28. Dorothy L. Sayers, The Letters of Dorothy L. Sayers—1951-1957—In the Midst of Life, (Vol. IV), ed. Barbara Reynolds (Cambridge: Dorothy L. Sayers Society, 2000), 150.

29. I. A. Richards, Science and Poetry (London: Kegan Pual, Trench, Trubner, 1926, 1935), 95.

30. R. G. Collingwood, The Principles of Art (Oxford: Clarendon, 1938), 262.

31. Sayers, Search, 272, 271, 15.

32. Dorothy L. Sayers, The Whimsical Christian: 18 Essays by Dorothy L. Sayers (New York: MacMillan, 1978), 73.

33. Collingwood, 128.

34. Dorothy L. Sayers, The Letters of Dorothy L. Sayers—1937-1943—From Novelist to Playwright (Vol. II), ed. Barbara Reynolds (New York: St. Martins, 1997), 137-138.

35. Collingwood, 317.

36. Sayers, Mind of the Maker, 41.

37. Collingwood, 301-302.

38. Ibid., 319.

39. Sayers, Mind of the Maker, 187.

40. Ibid., 117.

41. Sayers, Mind of the Maker, 121, and Collingwood, 319-320.

42. Collingwood, 324.

43. Sayers, Mind of the Maker, 121.

44. Hazard Adams and Leroy Searle, Critical Theory Since 1965 (Tallahassee: Florida State University Press, 1986), 165, 172, 372.

45. Ibid., 368.

46. Ibid., 180.

47. Sayers, Mind of the Maker, 111.

48. Adams, 370.

49. Sayers, 120-122.

50. Adams, 196, 189.

51. Sayers, Mind of the Maker, 40-41.

52. Adams, 189, 190, 196 (emphasis added).