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And ’twas ever thus. Erin Maglaque explains how Robin Vose’s new history of the Index of Prohibited Books shows how Catholic censorship was, despite its totalizing ambitions, often incoherent and contradictory…

In the beginning was the Word. The trouble came afterward. How to teach the Word of God, how to translate Scripture, how to gloss and explain it: these were problems of grave concern to premodern Christians, and getting them wrong was beyond life-and-death. A bad reader’s soul was endangered for eternity. Angels didn’t have this problem. As Dante put it, angels “make themselves…completely known to each other,” communicating directly from divine spirit to divine spirit: a kind of transcendental laser beamed between celestial heads. But humans misunderstand; we grope for meaning; we struggle to be understood. From the beginning of the Catholic Church as an institution, churchmen sought to control the power of words—to shape good readers and eliminate bad ones. This meant censorship.

The Roman Index of Prohibited Books was first published in 1559. Catholic censorship persisted another four hundred years, making the Index the “longest-lived, and least understood” mechanism of censorship in history, as Robin Vose writes in a new book on the subject. At first, Catholic censorship was a relatively straightforward matter: all Protestant books, and all Protestant authors, were banned. So were books printed anonymously or without specifying a printer, date, or place of publication: these were too suspicious. It didn’t actually matter what books said; there were already too many for the Roman censors and theologians even to skim them all. By the end of the sixteenth century censors were simply copying titles from the Frankfurt Book Fair catalog into the Index. Soon, most regions—and many individual cities—had created their own indexes of prohibited books. They each had their own local persecutory flavor: in Spain, for example, the inquisitor general banned Islamic and Jewish writings, especially the Talmud. Local inquisitors in Mexico City banned books that inquisitors in Madrid found permissible.

The 1559 Index was a pet project of a conservative pope. Paul IV is maybe best known to history as the pope who had the Jews of Rome enclosed in a ghetto and gave freer rein to the persecutory impulses of the Roman Inquisition; he was hated by ordinary Romans of his own day, who burned the Inquisition office at his death. But the Index was also the culmination of pressures both inside and outside the Catholic Church, some of which had been mounting for centuries. The flourishing of heretical sects in medieval Southern Europe, such as the Cathars, and the Inquisition tribunals that arose to persecute them; the Reformation, and especially Luther’s mastery of the new technology of the printing press; the reforming voices inside the Catholic Church who sought theological uniformity and consistency: each contributed to the development of a universal Index for Catholic Europe. Soon the censors had an office in which to process great volumes of paperwork. The Congregation of the Index—a department of the Curia—was established in 1571; it worked closely with the Roman Inquisition and the Master of the Sacred Palace, the pope’s chief theologian. Everyone in Rome took a professional interest in heretical ideas.

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Censors concerned themselves with all genres of reimagining the world, from science and political ballads to vernacular literature. Louis-Sébastien Mercier’s novel The Year 2440: A Dream If There Ever Was One (1771) tells of a Parisian who wakes up in a future society ruled by a philosopher-king, with no priests or monks, no slavery, no pastry chefs, no dance teachers, and no tobacco. (There is no accounting for utopian tastes.) It was, of course, included on the Index; Charles III of Spain was said to have burned a copy with his own hands. Other such fantasies, from Thomas More’s Utopia (1516)to Tommaso Campanella’s Città del sole (written in 1602 and printed in 1623)—which imagined a city whose walls were painted with all of human knowledge in images that “render learning easy” to its citizens—were banned too.

The promise of learning without mediation was as utopian as free love.

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In Forbidden Knowledge: Medicine, Science, and Censorship in Early Modern Italy (2020), Hannah Marcus found that censorship in fact “catalyzed” new conversations about medicine. By asking experts to weigh in on the content of potentially heretical medical knowledge, the church effectively convened a kind of learned society for medical discussion and debate. Similarly, elite scholars were not only censored by the church but used as experts to determine whether to ban a book or how to expurgate it—that is, how to eliminate troubling passages so that the book could circulate in revised form.

Yet censorship worked as intended for the relatively impoverished and unlearned… While doctors, scientists, and aristocratic scholars could petition the Congregation of the Index to hold banned books in their private libraries, ordinary men and women in Catholic Europe had no such recourse. Some banned topics—such as forms of occult magic like divination, astrology, and hermeticism—were especially popular among elite scholars, yet laypeople couldn’t use scriptural amulets or charms for medical cures or good fortune. The Bible was translated by Catholic scholars into Polish, German, Hungarian, and Arabic, for use in conversion. But ordinary Italians were not authorized by the church to read a Bible in their own language until 1757.

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As I scrolled through scans of printed Indexes, nearly all of which are available online, I wondered about all those authors and titles, many of which would have been lost to history if they had not been included on the Index. Possibilities of alternative worlds, alternative futures, flicker from the thousands of pages of banned books and authors and subjects: magic, flashing weapons in forbidden duels, female authors whose names are otherwise unattested, the colonization of the moon, utopian ideas, love letters, escapist romance, erotic tales, madrigals. The Indexes are a counter-archive of European history.

More difficult to account for is the toll of self-censorship: the art and literature that was never made, the religious and scientific ideas that remained unwritten—unthought, even—because of the existence of the Index, the congregation, and the Inquisition tribunal. This counterfactual European history is a history of the obscure, the impracticable, the unrecorded. It is so elusive as to remain nearly unimaginable. But for every erotic novella or psalm-inscribed jewel on the Index, a crack appears in the edifice of our historical imagination. Some light gets in. The censor is crowded out by the apparition of what might have been.

In 1574 inquisitors came to the door of Domenico, a cobbler in Spilimbergo, in the far northeast of Italy. They seized and destroyed the only three books that Domenico owned: Orlando Furioso, the Decameron, and the New Testament. Domenico responded: “I swear I shall never read again.” This was the tragedy of censorship, an unbearable narrowing of the spiritual and cultural lives of ordinary people. But I also hear in Domenico’s words his own intolerance: an intolerance of suppression, a disobedience of power. Domenico would not be told how to read. He would rather not read at all…

Too timely: “Unwanted Thoughts,” from @ErinMaglaque in @nybooks.

* Italo Calvino

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As we listen for the rhyme, we might recall that it was on this date in 325 that Emperor Constantine, the first Roman emperor to convert to Christianity, convened the first Ecumenical Council in Nicaea (now Iznik) to discuss Arianism, a heresy arguing that Christ was subordinate to God the Father. “I entreat you,” Constantine said at the opening of the Council of Nicea, “to remove the causes of dissension among you and to establish peace.” The council attempted to resolve the bitter conflict by anathematizing Arius (Arianism’s founder) and ordering the burning of all his books. Still, the conflict raged for decades.