Mason & Dixon

M&D Chapter 6

[6.1] Leaving things dirtier than they were before, 47-48

The chapter opens with Cherrycoke and Brae discussing the Royal Society’s instructions to Mason and Dixon. They are interrupted when speech introduces another family member, Uncle Lomax. The first half of this brief section, then, deals with a contract that cannot be broken (‘the Royal S. … threatening legal action …’ etc, 47); while the second half of the section deals with a contract broken, soap ‘of low Quality’ that ‘often leaves things dirtier than they were before its application’. There have already been significant references to contracts – chapter 5 opens with Cherrycoke’s ‘spiritual Contract with the World as given’ (30), perhaps a reminder of Mason’s ‘Contract between the City and oneself’ (14); one might note here the absence of capitalisation in a reference that is more prosaic.

It is also interesting that Cherrycoke refers to ‘more Earthly Certainties’ (47) when he means, contra science, ‘a warning … from Beyond’. Cf Captain Smith’s juxtaposition of ‘Scientifick’ to ‘ancient Beliefs’ (37). If science is defined by, and depends on, empirical evidence that can be scrutinised objectively, this ‘warning’ is more of a gut feeling to do with fear. The Royal Society, meanwhile invokes a system based on legality and the need to compensate those who judged to be injured parties; while those consumers buying soap from Uncle Lomax have no such safeguards. On the Seahorse, hierarchical relations are informed by an imagined community that is rendered ineffective, or untrustworthy, when relations must be regulated by the law and the market.[1]

[6.2.1] Rebellion and immoderate desires, 48-50

If Captain Smith desires the right kind of company and conversation (32-35), Cherrycoke here demonstrates the downside of being ‘quarter’d with … a rattle‑head’ (48). Aboard the Seahorse characters are confined in a closed world that emphasises status and the importance of knowing, so to speak, your place. One might think back to the passage describing the ship’s motto and the ‘Code as strict as that of any ancient Knight’ (36). Cf Grant’s ‘feckless Youth, a Source of pre‑civiliz’d Sentiment’ (51).

Previously, Unchleigh was singled out as one of the ‘boil-brain’d subordinates’ Captain Smith would like to distance himself from (36). Unchleigh’s reappearance on 48, then, sharply contrasts the closed society of the Seahorse and the open society governed by contract law. Subsequently, impromptu signalling between ships (49) is followed by ‘a mysterious seal’d Dispatch’ (50): the former as transient as speech, the latter a record that has legal status.

Unchleigh’s antipathy to ‘Print’ (48) is to modernity, of course, as well as a reminder of Cherrycoke’s introduction in chapter 1, and his role here as a narrator, in association with oral traditions of preliteracy – cf the legal system that confines Mason and Dixon (47) precisely because agreements have been recorded. In chapter 1 Cherrycoke is interrupted by the first adult to join his audience, Uncle Ives ‘lately return’d from a Coffee-House Meeting’ (9) – his interruption is to ask what Cherrycoke was found guilty of, ‘strictly professional interest, of course’ and Unchleigh, here, fears ‘Civil Unrest’ as the consequence of discussion, the promotion of thinking, and quite unacceptable in a closed society. The ‘mysterious seal’d Dispatch, handed to the Captain at Plymouth just before they cast off’ (50; or ‘seal’d Sheaf of Papers’, 51) requires, of course, no thinking or discussion.

The interaction between Cherrycoke and Unchleigh is followed that between the two ships (and their respective captains), again raising the question of personal space, or ‘Standard Interval’ (49). This brief passage provides a bridge to Mason/Dixon, whose bickering seems ongoing. Not least, the reference to beer and wine returns the narrative to their first meeting (17-18).

[6.2.2] Your first damn’d fool’s errand, 50-54

The introduction to Grant’s thoughts (‘well, almost any Ship’, 50) might recall the similar introduction to Smith, ‘oblig’d at last to accept the remote scruffy Sixth Rate …’ etc (35). Each man expects more. However, reference here to ‘the Immortality of Ships’ (50) through constant transformation would appear to include crew and, specifically, its captain, given the replacement of Smith by Grant: another way of thinking about the imagined community as an abstract notion. Nonetheless, given his orders in writing (‘a seal’d Sheaf of Papers’, 51), Grant must confirm delivery by signing ‘an instrument of Receipt’ – making him personally responsible, of course.

Odd behaviour, as observed, links Grant and Mason (51-52). However, ‘Madness at Sea’ (52) is hardly worrisome (cf Unchleigh’s concerns earlier on 48);[2] and the crew now comes to the fore. Half way down 52 the paragraph beginning ‘This ship’s history …’ etc introduces ‘[t]he Frigate life’. The loss of musicians here follows the earlier description of ‘the Immortality of Ships’ (50). If the rebuilding of ships suggests one kind of tradition, musicianship suggests another, ‘Slowcombe … having learn’d the Art of his Instrument from the fam’d Hanoverian Fifer Johann Ulrich …’ etc (53). The ship is ‘a Village’ (52; repeated, 53) marked by the ability of its inhabitants to coexist peacefully: Soames’ solitude, followed by Veevle’s sleepfulness (54), undisturbed by noise that would awaken others. This passage provides another take on the ship as a closed society, following earlier descriptions of rank. Officers – and the claustrophobia indicated by their interactions – are absent; and authority is represented by the intrusion of the reward offered to anyone who can wake Veevle. Cf the way in which Grant and Mason/Dixon have earlier been disciplined from afar by written orders and a contract enforceable by law, respectively.[3]

[6.3] A Royal Museum of Work, 54-56

The new section begins with Grant’s introduction (kind of) into ‘the shipboard routine’ (54), speaking, then identified by a response. Similarly, on the next page, it appears to be Grant asking after Bodine (55), although he is not identified by name here either. In this section, then, with the emphasis on work, Grant is marginal to the action. Down the page on 54, Higgs is ‘an ideal Subject to practise being insane upon’; but this opening statement comes to nothing, succeeded here by a detailed account of Higgs’ ‘Obsessedness’ (55). A further connection between ship and society is identified with ‘the Project of tidying up the work of the Riggers at Plymouth …’ etc. Hence: ‘a Thousand details, each nearly invisible, all working together …’ etc, a succinct description of the division of labour, one that quickly morphs into national pride expressed as a job done well.[4] Again, as with the description of the sea battle in 4.4 (37-38), work is war-related: regarding, that is, the ship that will most impress the enemy (55). Cf the earlier passage on ‘the Immortality of Ships’ (50), where the work in question is that which Higgs is here so critical of.

Nonetheless, work is here fetishised, promoted as an empty ritual. Higgs’ fastidiousness is a distraction, one of the ‘alternatives to Ennui’ (55) that include Bodine’s ‘Penis in the Jewel Block’. The section deals with boredom as the obvious alternative to battle, and ‘the Prospect of crossing the Equatorial Line’ is also obsessed over, ‘grow[ing] unnaturally magnified’. Cf the earlier ‘ancient Beliefs’ (37).

[6.4] But imagine, 56-57

The previous section ends with an allusion to ‘the Ceremony of Initiation plann’d for those new to this Crossing’ (55), that is Mason, Dixon and Cherrycoke, the first time they have appeared here – and the new section begins with the twins’ response to the version of events Cherrycoke has offered them (56). At a distance they are unable to appreciate the role played by distraction, perhaps ironic, given that, in chapter 1, Cherrycoke’s story began as just that. In this section he alludes to another aspect of storytelling, ‘the part that no one ever tells you about’. One might wonder what kind of account the twins have just heard of, for example, Bodine ‘quite enjoying the Friction’ (55), or ‘Posterior Assault’. Uncle Ives has tried to stifle any curiosity the twins might have – ‘ignoring ʼem’s best’ (56) – to avoid embarrassment, one imagines. This attempt at censorship recalls the earlier scene opening chapter 4 (30-31). Here, the detail revealing unspeakable horrors has become Spotted Dick up the nose (56); and the twins are silenced in contemplation of horrors they think they can appreciate (57).

[6.5] A game, 57

The previous section begins, then, with the twins’ curiosity, their desire for knowledge; and ends with their silence. Job done. Above the break, ‘the Lull’; below it, ‘the Seahorse gallops’, phrasing that, following the graphic description of Spotted Dick effects, draws attention to Cherrycoke as a creator of the stories he tells. He has escaped the interrogation the twins intended and, this goal achieved, the second paragraph returns him to being a character: from I to ‘the Rev’d’. Here, Mason and Dixon become the narrative focus: if their ‘game’, as a ritual dependent on the power of repetition, recalls ‘the Ceremony of Initiation’ (55), the reference to children here (‘consol[ing] themselves when something is denied them’, 57) recalls the twins but, more generally, the need for distraction. The ‘spoken Map of the Island they have been kept from and will never see’ is a forceful imagining of that which is absent, all of which serves the purpose of making Mason/Dixon absent from the ship that, currently, confines them (as well as invoking the storyteller telling the story).

[1] Again one thinks of Thompson’s writing of resistance and a moral economy based on a consensus regarding some notion of ‘fairness’ that, in a pre- or early-modern context, has widespread currency. Against that, there is the way in which legality is seen to supplement and confirm state power. For example, Weber’s view that the state is defined in relation to the legitimate use of violence might be set against Foucault’s description of governmentality and docile bodies. If Mason and Dixon might be sued by the Royal Society, for example, they would come up against state power in the form of a legal system allowed to punish them. This is the first reference in the novel to this kind of coercion – earlier references to ‘a Contract between the City and oneself’ (14) or a ‘spiritual Contract’ (30) invoke learned behaviour and docile bodies; but Cherrycoke’s employment, so to speak, rests on kinship.

[2] Another indication, perhaps, that the ship’s community is a throwback. Cf the way in which definitions of madness (that is,medicalisation) have signalled modernity. See, for example, Michel Foucault, History of Madness, Routledge, 2006 (first French publication 1961); and Roy Porter, Mind-Forg’d Manacles, Penguin, 1990 (first published 1987). See also Thomas Szasz, The Manufacture of Madness, First Syracuse University Press, 1997 (first published 1960); and then Szasz, The myth of mental illness: 50 years later, The Psychiatrist, 2011.

[3] Veevle is policed informally by his peers rather than threatened with punishment. See Foucault on governmentality and docile bodies. Moreover, in a village where people can easily ignore each other … If the urban community that requires a Contract etc is marked by organic solidarity, the village is marked by mechanical solidarity.

[4] The writing here of ‘a Thousand details, each nearly invisible’ recalls Adam Smith’s invisible hand, the almost magical co-ordination of independent factors. See: Adam Smith, The Wealth of Nations. Currently, of course, the Adam Smith Institute exists to persuade us that Smith was an advocate of neoliberalism, which view might be contested. See Emma Rothschild, 1994, Adam Smith and the Invisible Hand, The American Economic Review, 84, 2, 319-322; and Gavin Kennedy, Adam Smith and the Invisible Hand: From Metaphor to Myth, Econ Journal Watch, 6, 2, 2009, 239‑263. Of more interest is the way in which Smith’s invisible hand relates to Durkheim’s division of labour within the writing of modernity.

M&D Chapter 5

In the aftermath of battle Mason and Dixon are reborn, so to speak, as a couple, the ampersand perhaps coming into focus here. If one can speak of rebirth, however, it is inseparable from knowledge – there is no tabula rasa. As with Ethelmer in the previous chapter the knowledge in question cannot be spoken of.

[5.1.1] Being tossed out for anything, 42-45

The action is continuous from the previous chapter, Mason and Dixon ‘know[ing] they must stand as one …’ etc, sharing authorship of the letter written to the Royal Society (42). They are back in England, ‘drinking up their liquor allowance’ (43), even falling into ‘a companionable Silence’ (44). For the most part, however, there is a return to the bickering that marked the early stages of their relationship in chapter 3, not least the sarcasm and falling out featured on 43. With Mason’s stereotyping of ‘your People’ (42) meaning slips from the intended reference to Quakers to Dixon’s own reference to ‘Coal-Mining, I guess’; and there is also a reference to social status as explored in chapter 4, as well as the regional differences hidden by national identity. The letter that must be redrafted, an eventual final version hiding from the reader’s gaze its production (42-43, again on 44), goes back to the questioning of historical traces in chapter 2. Similarly, as given here, a family history of resistance (‘being tossed out for anything’, 43) would go unacknowledged if Dixon’s identity as a Quaker were left as Mason appears to define it: ‘you’re not suppos’d to believe in War’. Perhaps, in the aftermath of battle, and the unforgettable (‘Vapors rising from the Wounds of dying Sailors’, 42) there is an attempt to undo the action of the previous chapter. What they cannot repress is the thought that they should be dead but ‘inconveniently surviv’d’ (44), even if ‘what they cannot speak … resumes breathless Sovereignty’ (45).

[5.1.2] Some Gang of initial’d Scoundrels, 45-46

Juxtaposed in the phase above is what Mason and Dixon suspect the truth to be, even if they cannot speak of it openly, and the way they want to present themselves in writing; the composition of the letter they write to the Royal Society is marked by self-censorship. When (on 45) they receive, in reply, ‘a Letter of Reproach and Threat’ it is to the point and one wonders if its authors (‘some faceless committee’) had to carefully consider each word in the same way. As a pair, then, Mason and Dixon are exposed to the exercise of power; and Mason, as he sees it, has suffered (‘Not even the courtesy, – Damme! of a personal Reply’) a loss of status, abandoned by Bradley. As the chapter ends, they are isolated: ‘Plymouth reels merrily all ʼround them’ (46).

M&D Chapter 4

This chapter begins with Cherrycoke’s storytelling in a family setting, but the narrative insists, as in chapter 1, on relocating characters outside the home in the context of a wider society. Juxtaposed to this process is the way in which relationships, firstly, on the Seahorse and, then, between that ship and the l’Grand are organised to construct alternative social units. Earlier references to Durkheim’s notion of social solidarity are revisited.

[4.1] Blood racing quietly, 30-31

The chapter opens with Cherrycoke’s ‘spiritual Contract with the World as given’ (30), perhaps a reminder of Mason’s ‘Contract between the City and oneself’ (14). The function of this short first section resembles that of the equally brief second chapter, a bridge that offers a reflective commentary of sorts. If chapter 2 undermines the truth claims of historical traces (letters that cannot be left to speak for themselves), this section focuses on family dynamics and what ‘[e]v’ryone “knows”’ (31) – even when reluctant, as Ethelmer is here, to openly address ‘past crimes’ that are ‘difficult to reconcile with the living Uncle …’ etc. If the ‘Contract between the City and oneself’ refers to the way in which strangers – by definition, they lack any kind of shared (personal) history but have been thrown together nonetheless – must negotiate their passage through an urban setting, here family members with that shared history must also negotiate and renew ongoing relationships. Later in this chapter, the Seahorse and the l’Grand will demonstrate another kind of interaction, to do with the warlike posturing that is necessarily based on an agreed recognition of foreignness.

At the outset (30), Cherrycoke returns to the end of chapter 1 and the ‘engine of Destruction’ (11). The two chapters intervening have introduced Mason and Dixon, making them aware, eventually, of the same dangers; and now Cherrycoke’s audience has increased with the appearance of Ethelmer, whose reference (bottom of 30) to ‘anything that sets the Blood a-racing’ perhaps recalls the Dog’s ‘pure Edge of blood‑love’ (24) – effects of a certain kind of entertainment. The allusion here to a sea battle sees Ethelmer ‘amiably pollicat[ing] the adults’ (30) – as though their presence, rather than that of children, might require him to moderate his speech – in contrast to more fearful references preceding it. Firstly, one might wonder at the discrepancy between the narrative as it appears on the page and whatever version is offered to Cherrycoke’s audience – it is plausible, for example, to accept that earlier descriptions of The Pearl of Sumatra and Hepsie would have been edited/bowdlerised. However, in the writing, Ethelmer’s gesture here has usefully distinguished between Cherrycoke (‘amiably’) and LeSpark (‘less certainly’). The latter’s business selling arms to all comers is described on 31, just after Brae’s response to her cousin: that ‘Blood may “race” as quietly as it must’ acknowledges what cannot be put into words, and the line is then followed by Mr LeSpark’s ‘Fortune’. Cf LeSpark’s introduction (in his absence) in chapter 1: ‘a respected Merchant active in Town Affairs’ (6). Brae’s ‘quietly’ might also remind the reader of the association of violence‑as‑entertainment and The Pearl of Sumatra’s noisy soundtrack. The section ends with Ethelmer, introspective, struggling to match ‘the living Uncle’ to ‘a Saga’ that would explain the accumulation of wealth.

Ethelmer‑as‑storyteller, then, is set against Cherrycoke to highlight what can be said. What they have in common is an outsider status based on roles played outside the family. Cherrycoke is introduced as a ‘far-travel’d Uncle’ (6) who can trade in stories accumulated on those travels, while a key moment for the introspective Ethelmer is meeting his uncle outside the family (31).

[4.2] You’d think there’d be a Team from somewhere, 31-34

On the Seahorse Captain Smith, introduced here in his absence, is denounced as ‘a Privateer’ (32), guilty perhaps of ‘petty Extortion’ and ‘adopting the ways of Street Bullies’ – cf his reputation here with that of Wade LeSpark in 4.1. Not least, Smith’s ‘Approach to … guests’ (32) might recall the way in which Cherrycoke must necessarily earn – that is, pay for – his own guest status in the wealthy LeSpark’s home. Eventually introduced in person, Smith offers an alternative reading, one (‘the fancy of a Heart unschool’d in Guile’, 33) that prioritises his own need for the right kind of company and ‘plenty of Philosophickal Conversation’. If 4.1 closes with Ethelmer’s ‘Innocence … long, even enjoyably, departed’ (31), here Smith hopes to presents himself as genuinely innocent. However, the section ends with a hint (‘as gently as possible’) of superior knowledge (34).

The previous section alludes to family history and 4.2 focuses on another kind of family, the group brought together by circumstances aboard ship. Conflict based on social status – the formulation of a ship’s hierarchy, Mason and Dixon ‘tak[ing] their turns with the other principal Officers in dining with the Captain, whose dreams …’ etc (33) – is succeeded by a reference to conflict with France. The construction of some kind of national identity is here inseparable from international relations and the likelihood of warfare. Moreover, these constructions and an unavoidable bellicosity are ways of dealing with the status anxiety engendered by squabbles over the seating order at dinner. One might think back to chapter 3, Mason and Dixon anticipating the voyage: ‘It may be our last chance for civilis’d Drink’ (18).

[4.3] A nearly unsensed ghost, 34-37

The captain is now ‘this Lad’ (34), even if ‘young Smith’s been around forever’. Earlier, it was suspected that he might try to take advantage of his position; now, if there is any likelihood of battle, an apparent youthfulness and lack of seagoing experience are brought to the fore, along with evident disrespect from ‘a Youth of loutish and ungather’d appearance’ (35). Blinky and his advice arrives in a flashback (‘He’d been greeted …’ etc) as Smith recalls his first impressions of the Seahorse, disappointed by a ‘remote scruffy Sixth Rate throwing itself like a tether’d beast against its anchor-cables’, the descriptions of sailor and ship of a kind – one wonders if, elsewhere, ship and crew have been deemed expendable if he proves incapable of taking Blinky’s advice. If Smith does lack the gravitas that, supposedly, goes with age, his youthfulness is not on a par with that of ‘the young salt’. Practical experience is the issue and there is, perhaps, an echo of the earlier exchange between Mason and Dixon regarding the latter’s credentials (16-17). And then, looking ahead a little, Cherrycoke’s introduction to Mason/Dixon (36) will emphasise his youth. The significance of this recollection, here, might well be that it follows the earlier reference to Smith’s yearning for the right kind of company (33); in his eyes, therefore, any shortcomings of his command are exaggerated.

What follows (‘The vessel herself …’ etc, 35) is to do with experience, but also personifies the ship, its ‘Reputation for Nerve’ more properly belonging to its crew. Such anthropomorphism recalls the Learnèd Dog but also emphasises a unity vital for survival. Moreover, Dixon’s proficiency (17) and that of Smith here on 35 indicate the kind of specialised labour that characterises modern society. Interestingly, then, the ship’s motto invokes a past age, one where honour has meaning in a closed society, one where social rank is fixed (36) and corresponding to a ‘spiritual Contract with the World as given’ (30) rather than a ‘Contract between the City and oneself’ (14).

And so to the top of 37, where the captain differentiates between ‘how very Scientifick we are here’ (when referring to the officers) and how ‘ancient Beliefs will persist’ (when referring to ‘a group of Sailors holystoning the deck’. Bongo might be patronised here, but he has nonetheless learned to refer, a few lines down, to ‘Frenchies’, as though he can thereby earn membership of the national group, here defined by its opposition to those living the other side of the Channel.

[4.4] Death making itself sensible in new ways, 37-38

Another brief section returning the narrative to Cherrycoke and his audience, the battle (lasting ‘an hour and a half’) summarised, initially, in a couple of lines (37), most likely because, as he admits, Cherrycoke ‘was well below, and preoccupied with sea‑surgery …’ etc, 37-38). The lengthy account that follows on 38 is heavily dependent on what can be heard, for example, ‘close enough to hear the creak and jingling …’ etc, or ‘the cries of the injur’d and dying’, or ‘until we’d hear the Gun‑Tackle being shifted …’ etc. Here and elsewhere, this passage draws the reader’s attention to human activity, either suffering or the doing of battle-related work that will produce suffering … and the power of smell is also featured (‘so as not to be the first to foul his breeches in front of the others’, 38). Eventually, ‘the Ship’s hoarse Shrieking, a great Sea‑animal in pain …’ etc takes the narrative back to the earlier anthropomorphism (35). And one might also have in mind here the passage describing events at The Pearl of Sumatra (24-25).

In this section Cherrycoke’s audience is identified as Brae (as on 8 her role is to admonish his excesses) and the twins. Elsewhere, other family members have been identified if/when they speak – no one’s presence is recorded otherwise, for example, listening quietly: Uncle Ives in chapter 1 (9), and then Ethelmer and Wade LeSpark as this chapter opens (30‑31). Hence, it has been established that the reader can have no way of knowing who, at any given time, might also be in the room. Moreover, each character, when introduced, is immediately tied to a life outside the family and the room that hosts Cherrycoke’s storytelling.[1]

[4.5] It has occurred to me, 38-41

As the section opens, Mason and Dixon must find a role: ‘It takes an effort to act philosophickal, or even to find ways to be useful’ (39). Cf Captain Smith earlier, as 4.3 concluded: ‘Gentlemen, ʼtwould oblige me if you’d find ways to be useful below’ (37). Or earlier still, news of the fate of Bencoolen impacting on plans made – and taken for granted – by Mason and Dixon (33-34). The battle ended, Smith goes on to speculate as to their importance (39). The question here is, perhaps, rhetorical: cf Smith’s ‘[p]erhaps there is’ (top of 34).

At the bottom of 39 ‘the perfect ellipse of the l’Grand’s stern dwindle[s] into the dark; and then, a page later, there is an abrupt transition (‘A Year before …’ etc, 40) to a French perspective, one that introduces speculation in the form of ‘Invisible Gamesters’. One might think of the ‘gaming’ described on 24-25. One might also recall the reference to ‘riots of sailors’ (15): on that occasion they would have been anxious to prevent the exploitation, as they saw it, of dead comrades.[2] In chapter 3 sailors are found ashore; in the current chapter they have been seen as necessary (if expendable) elements in battle. Here, ‘a crew so melancholick’ (40) can be set against earlier anthropomorphism: ‘The Vessel herself … enjoys a Reputation for Nerve …’ etc (35).

The chapter ends with Mason and Dixon now ‘reluctant to part company’ (41); they have finally found a role as a pair, drinking and speculating, for example: ‘what else did they know?’ The unity expressed here is inseparable, then, from shared suspicions, a moment that returns them, and the reader, to Smith’s comment at the end of 4.2 (top of 34).

[1] In my commentary on chapter 3 I introduced the distinction Durkheim made between mechanical and organic solidarity. The way adult characters are, quite arbitrarily, inserted into the family setting established in the novel’s opening pages – Cherrycoke entertaining niece and nephews – seems another way of addressing the writing of social solidarity. As well as Thijssen’s article I also have in mind here an older article comparing Durkheim and Tönnies – see Joan Aldous, Emile Durkheim, and Ferdinand Tönnies, An exchange between Durkheim and Tönnies on the nature of social relations, with an introduction by Joan Aldous, American Journal of Sociology, 1972, 77 (6). Not least, one can argue that, for Durkheim, organic solidarity meant a productive (beneficial) confrontation with difference, necessary for a functional social change. It is this feature that sees common ground of sorts emerge between Durkheim and Foucault. See for example comparable discussions of crime and punishment in The Division of Labour in Society and Discipline and Punish.

[2] The use of ‘riots’ as a collective noun here should recall Thompson’s essay on the morality of riot. See EP Thompson, The Moral Economy in the Eighteenth Century, in Customs in Common, Penguin, 1993, 185-258 (essay first published 1971). In Customs in Common, see also the following chapter, The Moral Economy Reviewed (259-351). Thompson shared with Foucault an interest in resistance. In the earlier scene, the sailors lack the legitimacy afforded their actions when aboard ship. In this chapter, scenes on the Seahorse have allowed the construction of an ‘imagined community’ – see Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, Verso, 2006 (first published 1983).


M&D Chapter 3

If the first chapter located Cherrycoke in the family home and set one kind of discipline against another, and the second offered, and problematised, historical traces, the new chapter finds Mason and Dixon in Portsmouth, negotiating their own new relationship as well as interactions with others.

[3.1.1] There’s this Jesuit, this Corsican, and this Chinaman, 14-18

The chapter begins with Cherrycoke admitting his distance from the events he describes, his I perhaps going back to where chapter 1 ended (11). At the very least he is dependent on recollections offered by Mason and Dixon, ‘how they remember’d meeting’ (14); or even his own memory, ‘too often abridg’d by the Day’s Fatigue’. If the previous chapter has questioned the way in which historical traces might be taken for granted, here the authenticity of so-called personal accounts might be undermined.

What follows that opening is a detailed account of the meeting in Portsmouth, Dixon very much the outsider on Mason’s beat. The narrative offers a commentary on constructions of ‘native’ and ‘foreign’, and Durham might even be another country – for example, Dixon ‘pronouncing the forms of You consciously, as if borrowing them from another Tongue’ (16), shortly after the joke designed to emphasise a shared identity based on constructed difference (15-16); and cf the subsequent distinction between ‘Grape people and Grain people’ (18).[1] To begin with, Mason, as putative expert, speaks of a ‘Contract between the City and oneself’ (14) – by which he means the learned behaviour of city life, the ability to interact with strangers on a regular basis without coming to blows.[2] One might infer that Mason, for example, is the author of, as presented in the text, ‘Dixon’s clear Stupefaction’ – a take in line with the dismissive attitude he demonstrated previously (13; and cf ‘some shambling wild Country Fool’ on 17). In chapter 2 the narrative invoked the region behaviour that, according to Goffman, governs interactions; here, there is another take on the way people might read each other. It is, therefore, worth noting (a) the narrative’s association of Mason (the astronomer) with a macrosociological approach to interaction; and then (b) the way Dixon picks on that ‘peculiar station in Life’ (16). And so Mason mocks the way Dixon speaks, in response to which Dixon wonders if Mason has spent too much time as a scientist (‘alone on top of that fam’d Hill in Greenwich’, 15), not enough time with people (experiences that would allow him to question generalising norms).

In the space of a couple of pages, Mason’s status has been questioned, Dixon’s subversive potential on display – for example: ‘Takes an odd bird to stay up peering at Stars all night …’ (16). Here, according to Dixon’s mocking line, what is ‘odd’ about Mason is the absence of oddity, another way of questioning the superior status accorded the scientist: ‘On the other hand, Surveyors are runnin’ about numerous as Bed-bugs …’ etc (17).

By the end of this first phase of the chapter, Mason and Dixon have negotiated a relationship based on the need to prepare, so to speak, for their departure: ‘We’re sailing to the Indies …’ etc (18). Whatever the differences that might separate them, they now have a something in common as they anticipate the privations of travel – hence the need to share a ‘civiliz’d Drink’.

[3.1.2] All at once, out of the Murk, 18-20

Without a formal section break, a new phase is signalled by the passage of time: ‘As the day darkens …’ etc (18). Artificial light is accompanied by noises imposed on the characters (‘the sounds of the Stables and the Alleys grow louder …’ etc); and what is signalled is shared experiences. Abruptly, the narrative is less concerned with characters’ perceptions of each other as the setting becomes one they must confront together. Hence, as the paragraph ends: ‘Mason and Dixon become aware …’ etc.

This transitional phase brings, ‘out of the Murk’, the ‘somewhat dishevel’d Norfolk Terrier’ – as though Mason and Dixon have, somehow, crossed over into another world. Here, the reader is positioned with Dixon, attention drawn to Mason’s ‘Magnetickal Stupor’ (19) and, down the page, his likening of the dog to ‘an Actress one admires’. If the first phase of this chapter, then, played with the discursive arrangement of cultural difference, not least the regional factors that would mark Dixon/Durham as somehow foreign, what has been introduced here is Mason’s openness to new, what might be called irrational, ideas: ‘Isn’t it worth looking ridiculous …’ etc. The reader is still positioned with Dixon (‘There is something else in progress …’ etc, top of 20) as he speculates; however, he does so on the basis of shared experience, ‘remember[ing] himself, after his father passed on’. The Dog will eventually lead them to ‘the one [Mason] must see’ (25) and the naming of Rebekah that will both conclude this quest of sorts and provide a narrative strain that distances Mason and Dixon from events that surround them.

[3.1.3] Provisions for survival in a World less fantastick, 20-23

As they pursue the Learnéd Dog Mason and Dixon are confronted by ‘a sudden, large Son of Neptune, backed by an uncertain number of comparably drunken Shipmates’ (21); at this point Mason and Dixon are exposed as ‘the ones with all the strange Machinery, sailing in the Seahorse’, their reputation, it seems, preceding them (cf Dixon’s earlier ‘odd bird’ reference to astronomy, bottom of 16). For Bodine, the dog provides a business opportunity, ‘to keep the Savages amused’ – cf Cherrycoke’s role in keeping the children similarly ‘amus’d’, or distracted (bottom of 6). However, a little later in this phase, the Dog will boast of his free-born status: ‘No one owns me’ (23).

The awareness of geographical distance already established when discussing Dixon’s northern origins is developed on a broader scale; but there is still an emphasis on how information might be transmitted. And so, ‘I’ve been out more than once … there’s a million islands out there’ (21), Bodine speaking with one kind of authority – cf Mason ‘coming the Old London Hand’ at the start of the chapter (14). Here, Bodine’s authority comes up against another kind, as displayed by Mason: ‘I’ve heard they eat dogs out there’ (21). Earlier, of course, Mason mocked Dixon over the missed opportunity to witness a hanging: ‘what’s the first thing they’ll ask …’ etc (15). Here, the Dog goes on to cite ‘[t]ravellers return’d from the Japanese Islands’ (22). And then a dispute between Dog and Lunarians (22-23) returns the reader to the opening of the chapter and Dixon’s fears: ‘How can Yese dwell thah’ closely together, Day upon Day, without all growing Murderous?’ (14).

[3.1.4] The net Motion of the Company, cries in Concert, 23-25

The Dog twice denies he is owned by anyone (23-24), which claim should be aligned, firstly, with the earlier reference to dogs ‘learn[ing] to act as human as possible’ (22); but also, secondly, with the subsequent reference to the Dog being ‘drawn by the smell of Blood in the Cock-Pit’ (24). One might see the latter as a reference to the Dog’s nature, that is, he shares with the fighting birds ‘this pure Edge of blood‑lust’. But any ‘blood-lust’ on display is that of the human audience also; and the Dog must ‘yawn yes of course, seen it all before, birds slashing one another to death’ – merely one kind of ‘Work’ (according to Mrs Jellows, 25) to be linked to another, the ‘assorted sounds of greater and lesser Ecstasy’. And so, in the rest of this paragraph, a soundtrack both avian and human in origin blurs any distinction that might easily be made between human and non-human, for example: ‘the demented crowing of fighting-cocks waiting their moment, cries in Concert at some inaudible turn of a card …’ etc.

However, none of this activity, it seems, is to involve Mason and Dixon, who remain, somehow disinterested (in spite of Dixon ‘growing increasingly desperate for a drink’, 24). What does interest Mason is Dark Hepsie (according to the Dog, ‘the one you must see’). Earlier, the Dog ‘recognises [Mason], tho’ now he is too key’d up to speak with any Coherence’ and arranges a meeting ‘later, out in back’ (19). A page later, he ‘leads them at a trot out of the stables, out of the courtyard, and down the street …’ etc (20). At the bottom of 21, following the appearance of Bodine and Lunarians, the Dog again prompts Mason (‘pushes [his] Leg with his Head…’ etc). There is momentum here, a sense of purpose that carries Dog and Mason/Dixon forward, until (‘the Dog butting at Mason’, 25) they reach their goal and the first direct reference to Rebekah. Finally, here: ‘Somehow the Learnéd Dog has led him to presume …’ etc.

Moreover, Mason is ‘[u]nable to abandon her’ and also ‘eager to be aboard a ship …’ etc. There is an echo, then, of Cherrycoke in the first chapter. Firstly: ‘he has linger’d’ and ‘finds he cannot detach’ (8). And then the account of his departure from England in 1.2: ‘Tho’ my Inclination had been to go out aboard an East Indiaman …’ etc (10-11).

If the purpose of the chapter has been to describe the first meeting of Mason and Dixon it has done so by linking them with reference to their respective family histories (go back to Dixon recalling his father on 20). The fast-forward to Mason’s ‘confess[ion] months later’ (25) recalls the intrusive narrative of the previous chapter: ‘A few months later …’ etc (12-13). In the current chapter, progression is inseparable from both the Learnéd Dog (as a guide – Hepsie is ‘this Dog-reveal’d Crone’) and distractions on offer at The Pearl of Sumatra (24-25).

Another key feature of the chapter is the role played by sensual, particularly aural, phenomena. Dixon’s perspective is prioritised at significant moments and the reader is aligned with him as an outsider in an alien environment. Throughout, the world imposes itself sensually and the reader is necessarily distanced by an inability, for example, to hear what is presented. One might understand dialogue as language, for example; one cannot hear it. In chapter one, Cherrycoke’s role as narrator emphasises an oral tradition in which storytelling requires a listening subject; and the current chapter opens with Mason mocking Dixon’s accent (15). The Dog’s appearance is signalled by ‘a dozen mirror’d Lanthorns [that] have leapt alight together’ and then ‘a sprightly Overture’ (18); they are interrupted by ‘[a] small, noisy party … working its way up the street and into Ear-shot’ (21); the impact on sailors of Mrs Jellow’s voice is noted (23). In The Pearl of Sumatra Mason/Dixon gradually make sense of what is happening, ‘after a while’ (24); and the subsequent paragraph begins with ‘the smell of Blood’, going on to ‘assorted sounds’ (top of 25).[3]

[3.1.5] Fate, meet Men of Science … Men of Science, meet Fate, 25-29

The Dog’s name is now revealed (‘Fang, as he now apparently wishes to be known’); and then ‘with an expressive swing of his Head, [he] makes a dignified Exit’ (26). The name, given here for the first time, draws attention to his canine status, while the ‘dignified Exit’ might be said to emphasise anthropomorphism.[4]

Hepsie goes on to talk of fate in association with the ship sailing on Friday before Dixon makes out her disguise: ‘a shockingly young woman’. His nature as a ‘country Lout’ means ‘he can’t keep from flirting’ and he will, when they separate, earn an amiable Nod’ (28). Given Mason’s distraction, this is another moment when the text reminds the reader of their alignment with Dixon. Down the page on 26, ‘she cackles, as the young fancy the old to cackle’, followed by ‘Hepsie [is] too ʼpert by Decades’; but Mason seems not to have noticed. Top of 27 Dixon is ‘nudging Mason urgently with his Toe’. Mason, meanwhile, remains distracted and ‘clutching his head’. If Hepsie is performing, so is he, it seems, albeit unawares. Hepsie is then described as ‘the young Impostress’ in the middle of a passage in which Dixon is trying to reason with Mason: ‘ʼtis the Age of Reason … we’re Men of Science’.[5]

When Bodine asks Mason and Dixon what Hepsie said, they can remember little (28). Which might be a reminder of Cherrycoke as narrator. The chapter opens with a reference to Cherrycoke and the twins (14) but there has been nothing since. The chapter ends with Mason ‘earnestly needing a further Word with Hepsie or the Dog’; but he ‘can find no trace of either, search as he may’ (29). Has he imagined all?

[1] On this reference to drinking and status see Colin A Clarke, Consumption on the Frontier: Food and Sacrament in Mason & Dixon, in Hinds (ed), Multiple Worlds, 85. Other discussions of characterisation and status relevant here include Kathryn Hume, Mason & Dixon, in Inger H Dalsgaard, Luc Herman and Brian McHale (eds), The Cambridge Companion to Thomas Pynchon, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press; and David Seed, Pynchon’s Intertexts, in Dalsgaard et al (ed), Cambridge Companion.

[2] In the late-C19th Durkheim’s functionalism aimed to describe social change by distinguishing between what he called mechanical and organic solidarity, the latter being generally comparable to Mason’s contract here. See Emile Durkheim, Readings from Emile Durkheim, Kenneth Thompson (ed), London: Routledge, 2004, 23-47. For a recent discussion of Durkheim’s ideas, see Peter Thijssen, From mechanical to organic solidarity, and back: With Honneth beyond Durkheim, European Journal of Social Theory, 2012, 15 (4).

[3] One might refer to Pynchon’s (re-)writing of phenomenology here, just as earlier, he has borrowed from a range of sociological traditions. Any such discussion is impossible without reference to Martin Eve’s account in Pynchon and Philosophy, although I would not agree with the view that Pynchon shows himself hostile to critical theory. See Martin Paul Eve, Pynchon and Philosophy: Wittgenstein, Foucault and Adorno, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillian, 2014. If Pynchon quotes from particular theories, plays with them as ‘ways of seeing’, the current chapter demonstrates that ‘seeing’ is always a problematic affair. If Mason/Dixon are presented as experts who have been taught to subscribe to objectivity and a scientific method associated with the Enlightenment, Mason as astronomer and Dixon as surveyor, each devoted to the kind of rigorous classification and measurement that positivism takes for granted (still – we live, after all, in the age of something called ‘big data’; and some will speak of ‘metrics’ with orgasmic delight), the current chapter offers a deconstruction of such certainties, just as chapter 2 challenges conventional notions of reliable historical sources (or traces).

[4] In this study, a key point of comparison will be the work of John Gray, so this might be a good time to quote him – in Straw Dogs, for example, he argues against any simplistic distinction between ‘human’ and ‘non-human’ if that means a hierarchical arrangement. See John Gray, Straw Dogs: Thoughts on Humans and Other Animals, London: Granta Books, 2002. One might also cite Burns on the conflict between reason and imagination as a key feature of the narrative throughout, part of what he calls a parallactic method. See Christy L Burns, Postmodern Historiography: Politics and the Parallactic Method in Thomas Pynchon’s Mason & Dixon, Postmodern Culture, 2003, 14 (1).

[5] On science and anti-science throughout, see William B Millard, Delineations of Madness and Science: Mason & Dixon, Pynchonian Space and the Snovian Disjunction, in Copestake (ed), American Postmodernity. The essay on Snow is part of the Pynchon middle period discussed earlier.

M&D Chapter 2

[2.1] Obedient servants, 12-13

The short second chapter introduces Mason and Dixon as they introduce themselves to each other, in letters that feature here as ‘traces of the past’.[1] A narrative commentary separates the two letters, perhaps a kind of surveillance in which the reader is complicit.

Chapter 1 dwells on Cherrycoke as storyteller and, in his own words, ‘untrustworthy Remembrancer’ (8); and the novel’s first (explicit) reference to Mason and Dixon (‘It’s twenty years …’ etc, 7) comes within a story told to entertain the children, where ‘poor Mason’ might alert the reader to the identity of ‘a Friend of years ago’ earlier (6), before the more explicit reference (‘And now Mason’s gone’, 8 – the paragraph that builds to Cherrycoke’s self-deprecation, above) a page later.

Just as the first chapter ends with Cherrycoke’s I liberated from the setting that has established him, the two letters feature the Is of Mason and Dixon; and the narrative goes on to challenge the (surface) veracity of both letters (‘A few months later, when it is no longer necessary to pretend …’, 12; ‘Mason in turn confesses …’, 13). If Cherrycoke introduces Mason and Dixon as names that are already significant, easily recognisable to the knowing reader of chapter 1, the letters re-introduce them as not-yet-significant; and the narrative insert exposes the two about-to-be protagonists, drawing attention to artifice (on Dixon’s part) and a less than sympathetic first impression (on Mason’s part), in each case information not immediately apparent to the letters’ (intended) readers. It is interesting that, when they first appear in the text, Mason and Dixon are, then, associated with the kind of region behaviour described by Goffman, specifically the difference between front and back regions (on- and off-stage).[2]

The point Jenkins makes is that history-writing recontextualises the trace; the letters, say, are no longer what they were, a private communication between two strangers negotiating a new relationship.[3] Another way to regard recontextualisation might be to go back to the furniture described at the beginning of chapter one, also traces that have been, so to speak, relocated (5-6). Not least, recontextualisation follows the narrative passage separating the letters. Dixon’s admission that he ‘[w]ent thro’ twenty Revisions’ (12) suggests a shift from one kind of introduction to another, revisions emphasising self-conscious performance designed to impress. Consider Cherrycoke’s storytelling and his need to perform in order to impress. Similarly, Mason’s letter refers to ‘your universally good Name’ (13), following the earlier (but subsequent) confession ‘to having nearly thrown the Letter away’. One letter (Dixon’s) can be reread by what comes after; while the other (Mason’s) might be undercut by what has preceded it. In each case the meaning of historical artefacts is both contingent and unstable.

[1] See Keith Jenkins, Re-Thinking History, London: Routledge, 2003 (first published 1991), 26; also Michel Foucault, Nietzsche, Genealogy, History, in Donald F Bouchard (ed), Language, Counter-Memory, Practice: Selected Essays and Interviews, New York: Cornell University Press, 139-164. As a related example, consider the critical reception to M&D as traces – see Charles Clerc, Mason & Dixon & Pynchon, Oxford: University Press of America, 2000, 9-38.

[2] Erving Goffman, The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, Penguin, 1990 (first published 1959). Goffman’s work in the 1950s and 1960s is certainly relevant to the evolution of Pynchon’s writing generally. In relation to surveillance and what impression management might mean in contemporary society, see Trevor Pinch, The Invisible Technologies of Goffman’s Sociology From the Merry-Go-Round to the Internet, Technology and Culture, 2010, 51 (2).

[3] Jenkins, 26-27. Hence the key role, he goes on, played by ‘epistemological, methodological and ideological factors’; the past (mistakenly called ‘history’) does not speak for itself, and historians are not innocent, disinterested reporters. This discussion of traces, of course, complements Smith’s introduction to Pynchon’s take on history-writing (Smith, Pynchon and History, 1-17).


What starts here will become a page-by-page commentary on M&D, similar to the one I have already completed on AtD. Generally, I shall work out what I want to say about the relationship between two novels that, arguably, represent Pynchon’s major achievement.

Reading is always rereading, of course. When M&D was first published it appeared seven years after VL and 24 years after GR, and was seen by some as ‘a return to form’ after the aberration that was VL. Even then, reading M&D led inevitably to a reappraisal of each the earlier novels; in time, this has allowed the construction of a middle period for Pynchon, beginning with the short texts published in the early‑1980s (including the Introduction to an autobiography known as SL). In this middle period, I would suggest, there is a more explicit interest in narrative as narrative, the telling of stories. If, then, GR concludes the early period, texts of this middle period make up a transitional phase that leads to the late period of 1984 Foreword, AtD, IV and BE. Those who maintain GR is Pynchon’s ‘masterpiece’ might too readily dismiss the last two novels on that list, and even AtD as well; but one should be able to see how these texts mark Pynchon’s thinking through of the relationship between his fiction and the politics of the post‑1989 world.

And it should go without saying that, if reading is always rereading, no (re)reading can ever be more than provisional.[1]


I first read M&D when it was published in May 1997. Publication coincided with, for me, a long weekend following the British general election that led to Tony Blair’s appointment as prime minister. Relieved to see the back of a Conservative government, I nonetheless ignored the news and spent the weekend reading Pynchon’s new novel; like many others, I never had any confidence in Blair as a Labour prime minister. Tom Watson says we should stop dissing Blair; I would simply point out that, even without mentioning the Iraq War, a government that frittered away a 179-seat majority and five million votes might – tactical voting in 1997 notwithstanding – have a little explaining to do, and should have achieved rather more than it did, had there been any intention to seriously be a Labour government.

And no, it isn’t irrelevant to mention this election and government here. Shortly afterwards, Blair fell into line as the Clinton government’s makeover of NATO found an excuse to bomb Kosovo.[2] Blair it was whose ‘doctrine’ (‘I can have one if I want it; you don’t have to be president’) justified a foreign policy based on the rhetoric of some kind of universalised humanitarianism;[3] and one can see how this contemporary writing of ‘universal rights’ (always, of course, to be honoured selectively) had already found its way into M&D as, on their travels, Mason and Dixon confront racism (or racisms). Subsequently, when the ‘blurb’ for AtD, hinting at the novel’s concerns with globalisation, was published in August 2006, I suggested that a key narrative concern might be less to do with ‘location’ than with the way transition and movement became as important as named characters. M&D had already juxtaposed its narrative of space (the journeys undertaken by Mason and Dixon) to one of time (Cherrycoke as a – possibly unreliable – narrator), and Pynchon’s concerns were apparent from the outset.

Chapter 1 of M&D, for example, is split into two sections, the second of which offers a narration by Cherrycoke, now distanced from the family setting that, in the first few pages, has confined him. His narration here lifts Cherrycoke out of both place and time, resembling as it does the voiceover that, in a film, will mark the transition to a flashback (commencing in Chapter 2). One can see, then, straightaway, an interest in confronting C18th pastiche with the way the film medium has shaped perceptions of storytelling more generally.[4]


If M&D is now 20 years old, the world that produced it has become a world in which the publication of AtD was not only possible but might coincide with that of The Shock Doctrine. One should address the relevance, to AtD’s focus on power, of discussions since 2001, of ‘neoliberalism’ and ‘terrorism’.[5] If terrorism in the 1960s and 1970s was, supposedly, a product of affluence within Western societies, by the time Pynchon could put Bush II into both the Foreword and AtD, Fukuyama’s ‘end of history’ had come up against Huntington’s ‘clash of civilisations’ as US hegemony was problematised anew.[6]

Previously, Nixon had appeared in both GR and VL as the post-1945 Bretton Woods system underwent some modification. Publication of M&D in the mid-1990s, then, can be tied to historical processes that, 20 years on, make the novel different (as any text must always become different); while reference here to the Blair government has been a reminder that, currently, British politics is being transformed, the neoliberal paradigm dismantled, even as, globally, US foreign policy goes on invoking ‘liberal democracy’ as a more seductive ideology.[7]

Next up … Chapter 1.

[1] For the application of Hayden White’s ideas on historiography to Pynchon’s fiction, see Shawn Smith, Pynchon and History: Metahistorical Rhetoric and Postmodern Narrative Form in the Novels of Thomas Pynchon, Routledge, 2005. This book is one of the many excellent ‘recent’ (or ‘recentish’) studies of Pynchon’s work. However, in preceding Pynchon’s last three novels, of course, Smith’s take on M&D in particular illustrates the point I have tried to make here.

[2] For a summary and references, see my recent post, Labour and NATO.

[3] See, for example, Mark Bevir and Ian Hall, The rise of security governance (in Bevir and Hall eds, Interpreting Global Security, Routledge, 2014).

[4] Henry James might be of interest to Pynchon for his narratives of European‑American culture clash, something he has in common with Nabokov; but his books also foreground, as a feature of literary modernism, the montage that is more obviously a feature of film. On film and fiction, see Seymour Chatman, Coming to Terms The Rhetoric of Narrative in Fiction and Film, Cornell, 1990. Consideration of film and narrative is one way of linking M&D to VL before it and both AtD and IV coming after it.

[5] Naomi Klein, The Shock Doctrine: The Rise of Disaster Capitalism, Penguin, 2008 (first published 2007). The writing of global politics as Pynchon made his way from VL to M&D to AtD and beyond is central to any reading of the novels. On neoliberalism, see David Harvey, A Brief History of Neoliberalism, OUP, 2007 (first published 2005); Yanis Varoufakis, The Global Minotaur: America, Europe and the Future of the Global Economy, Zed Books, 2015 (first published, 2011); or Simon Springer, The Discourse of Neoliberalism: An Anatomy of a Powerful Idea, Rowman & Littlefield, 2016. On terrorism, see Mike Davis, Buda’s Wagon: A Brief History of the Car Bomb, Verso, 2007; or Lisa Stampnitzky, Disciplining Terror: How Experts Invented ‘Terrorism’, CUP, 2013.

[6] See, for example, Perry Anderson, American Foreign Policy and its Thinkers, Verso, 2015.

[7] Nonetheless … as accounts of an emergent alternative democracy, see Naomi Klein, No Logo, Fourth Estate, 2010 (first published 2000); and Naomi Klein, This Changes Everything: Capitalism vs the Climate, Penguin, 2015 (first published 2014). Further, on television, making for an interesting comparison, there has been The Newsroom (Aaron Sorkin, 2012 onwards) as a successor to The West Wing (Aaron Sorkin, 1999-2006).