Gargantua and Pantagruel, Illustrated, Book 3 — Themes and Context
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The source record for Gargantua and Pantagruel, Illustrated, Book 3 — Themes and Context measures this digital text at 88,787 words, 6 hr 27 min estimated reading time, and 11 detected text sections.
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Others did fortify and rampire their walls, set up little fortresses, bastions, squared ravelins, digged trenches, cleansed countermines, fenced themselves with gabions, contrived platforms, emptied casemates, barricaded the false brays, erected the cavaliers, repaired the counterscarps, plastered the curtains, lengthened ravelins, stopped parapets, morticed barbacans, assured the portcullises, fastened the herses, sarasinesques, and cataracts, placed their sentries, and doubled their patrol. Everyone did watch and ward, and not one was exempted from carrying the basket. Some polished corslets, varnished backs and breasts, cleaned the headpieces, mail-coats, brigandines, salads, helmets, morions, jacks, gushets, gorgets, hoguines, brassars, and cuissars, corslets, haubergeons, shields, bucklers, targets, greaves, gauntlets, and spurs. Others made ready bows, slings, crossbows, pellets, catapults, migrains or fire-balls, firebrands, balists, scorpions, and other such warlike engines expugnatory and destructive to the Hellepolides. They sharpened and prepared spears, staves, pikes, brown bills, halberds, long hooks, lances, zagayes, quarterstaves, eelspears, partisans, troutstaves, clubs, battle-axes, maces, darts, dartlets, glaives, javelins, javelots, and truncheons. They set edges upon scimitars, cutlasses, badelairs, backswords, tucks, rapiers, bayonets, arrow-heads, dags, daggers, mandousians, poniards, whinyards, knives, skeans, shables, chipping knives, and raillons.
Every man exercised his weapon, every man scoured off the rust from his natural hanger; nor was there a woman amongst them, though never so reserved or old, who made not her harness to be well furbished; as you know the Corinthian women of old were reputed very courageous combatants.
Diogenes seeing them all so warm at work, and himself not employed by the magistrates in any business whatsoever, he did very seriously, for many days together, without speaking one word, consider and contemplate the countenance of his fellow-citizens.
Then on a sudden, as if he had been roused up and inspired by a martial spirit, he girded his cloak scarfwise about his left arm, tucked up his sleeves to the elbow, trussed himself like a clown gathering apples, and, giving to one of his old acquaintance his wallet, books, and opistographs, away went he out of town towards a little hill or promontory of Corinth called (the) Cranie; and there on the strand, a pretty level place, did he roll his jolly tub, which served him for a house to shelter him from the injuries of the weather: there, I say, in a great vehemency of spirit, did he turn it, veer it, wheel it, whirl it, frisk it, jumble it, shuffle it, huddle it, tumble it, hurry it, jolt it, justle it, overthrow it, evert it, invert it, subvert it, overturn it, beat it, thwack it, bump it, batter it, knock it, thrust it, push it, jerk it, shock it, shake it, toss it, throw it, overthrow it, upside down, topsy-turvy, arsiturvy, tread it, trample it, stamp it, tap it, ting it, ring it, tingle it, towl it, sound it, resound it, stop it, shut it, unbung it, close it, unstopple it. And then again in a mighty bustle he bandied it, slubbered it, hacked it, whittled it, wayed it, darted it, hurled it, staggered it, reeled it, swinged it, brangled it, tottered it, lifted it, heaved it, transformed it, transfigured it, transposed it, transplaced it, reared it, raised it, hoised it, washed it, dighted it, cleansed it, rinsed it, nailed it, settled it, fastened it, shackled it, fettered it, levelled it, blocked it, tugged it, tewed it, carried it, bedashed it, bewrayed it, parched it, mounted it, broached it, nicked it, notched it, bespattered it, decked it, adorned it, trimmed it, garnished it, gauged it, furnished it, bored it, pierced it, trapped it, rumbled it, slid it down the hill, and precipitated it from the very height of the Cranie; then from the foot to the top (like another Sisyphus with his stone) bore it up again, and every way so banged it and belaboured it that it was ten thousand to one he had not struck the bottom of it out.
Which when one of his friends had seen, and asked him why he did so toil his body, perplex his spirit, and torment his tub, the philosopher's answer was that, not being employed in any other charge by the Republic, he thought it expedient to thunder and storm it so tempestuously upon his tub, that amongst a people so fervently busy and earnest at work he alone might not seem a loitering slug and lazy fellow. To the same purpose may I say of myself,
Though I be rid from fear, I am not void of care.
Book III of Rabelais's five-book series opens not with giant feats but with a colonial venture: Pantagruel transports a colony of Utopians into Dipsody and appoints Panurge Laird of Salmigondin, where the latter quickly wastes his revenue. The catalog subjects list “Giants — Fiction” and “Fantasy fiction, French,” yet the excerpts show that the giants themselves are nearly absent from this volume. Instead, the narrative centers on Panurge's obsessive question—whether to marry—and the series of comic consultations that follow. The translation by Sir Thomas Urquhart and Peter Antony Motteux, with its 17th-century English, adds a layer of archaic vigor to Rabelais's learned satire.
Debt as a Philosophical and Comic Engine
The early chapters pivot on a sustained debate about borrowing and lending. Panurge delivers a lengthy praise of debtors and borrowers, arguing that debt binds society together: “the end of the world approacheth… Crescat; Nos qui vivimus, multiplicemur.” Pantagruel, by contrast, “altogether abhorreth the debtors and borrowers.” This opposition is not merely economic; it frames the larger question of obligation—marital, financial, and moral—that drives the book. The excerpts show Rabelais using scholastic rhetoric to defend absurd positions, a technique that undercuts any single interpretation. Readers should note how the translators preserve the rhythm of these set pieces, mixing Latin tags with coarse vernacular.
Divination and the Limits of Counsel
Panurge seeks advice from multiple sources: dice, the Virgilian lottery, dreams, a sibyl, a dumb man, an old poet, and Friar John. Each method yields ambiguous or contradictory results. Pantagruel warns that “the trial of one's fortune by the throwing of dice” is unlawful, yet he himself proposes the Virgilian lot. The sibyl of Panzoust speaks in cryptic verses that Pantagruel and Panurge “diversely expound.” The pattern suggests that no authority—classical, religious, or folk—can settle Panurge's doubt. The excerpts do not reveal whether he marries, leaving the reader in the same state of uncertainty as the protagonist. This structural repetition of failed consultations is the book's central comic mechanism.
Bawdy Wordplay and Learned Allusion
Rabelais's style fuses erudite references with scatological humor. Friar John advises Panurge to “solder well together the joints of the double-backed and two-bellied beast” and warns that “non-usage oftentimes destroys one's right.” The text is dense with classical allusions—Leander and Hero, Homeric and Virgilian lots—alongside invented terms like “onocrotalwise” and “hypogastrian lower sort of troglodytic people.” The translators often add footnotes (initialled 'M.' from the Maitland Club edition) to explain these references. Readers unfamiliar with Renaissance humanism may find the digressions challenging, but the physical comedy and verbal inventiveness remain accessible. The illustrations by Gustave Doré, though not excerpted here, would amplify this blend of the grotesque and the learned.
Because the excerpts cover only the first half of Book III, the outcome of Panurge's quest remains unknown. Readers should approach this volume as a self-contained comic inquiry into decision-making, rather than a straightforward adventure. The translation's 17th-century English rewards slow reading, especially where the translators coin new words or preserve Latin tags. Pay attention to the footnotes, which often clarify the period context or restore passages omitted by Motteux.
There’s something about Panurge’s endless second-guessing that reminds me of being young and unsure, mapping out every step before moving. I felt that same quiet ache reading about two chums figuring out their place at the academy—old questions of loyalty and nerve, wrapped in a gentler uniform. Dick Prescott's First Year at West Point; Or, Two Chums in the Cadet Gray — Reading Notes lingered like a hand on my shoulder.
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