Medieval Humour: Expressions, Receptions and Functions

Chapter Summaries

Chapter 1 – Fun and Games in the Gospels (Donncha MacGabhann). MacGabhann uncovers playful visual jokes in the Book of Kells, where lions and birds mimic human gestures, sometimes poking fun at Gospel stories. He likens these to “medieval emojis,” suggesting monks found delight even in sacred texts.

Chapter 2 – Bernard of Clairvaux, Killjoy? (Peter Jones). Jones challenges the stereotype of Bernard as humourless. While Bernard warned novices against joking, he also valued self-deprecating laughter for mature monks. In one anecdote, Bernard mock-excommunicated a swarm of flies—a glimpse of his dry wit.

Chapter 3 – Nonsense in Scribal Additions (Lucie Doležalová). Here, scribes finishing manuscripts slipped in rhymes, gibberish, and playful complaints like “When I drink beer, my knee stands crooked.” These lighthearted colophons show medieval copyists as witty and very human.

Chapter 4 – Carnivalesque Magic (Mark Truesdale). Truesdale explores comic tales of enchanted dances and chaotic revelry. While the scenes appear rebellious, the humour often ends with the guilty being punished. Laughter here reminded audiences of moral order as much as it mocked it.

Chapter 5 – Humour in Jaufre (Margaret Anne Purbrick). Purbrick approaches the Arthurian romance Jaufre through live performance. By reading it aloud, she discovered which lines reliably provoked laughter, showing how delivery and audience reaction bring medieval comedy to life.

Chapter 6 – Visual Humour in the Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles (Kleio Pethainou). Pethainou compares manuscript illuminations with early printed woodcuts. One scene shows a husband holding a candle to his wife’s backside—a bawdy joke rendered differently for private patrons and the broader reading public.

Comparative Analysis

One of the big questions about medieval humour is whether it was rebellious fun or a tool of authority. Earlier thinkers, like the Russian critic Mikhail Bakhtin, painted a romantic picture: medieval people poured into the streets during carnival to laugh at their rulers, overturn the social order, and celebrate the “grotesque body.” But the essays in Medieval Humour suggest a more complicated reality. Take Mark Truesdale’s study of comic tales with magic dances: yes, they sound wild and chaotic, but the jokes often ended with the guilty party punished, not liberated. Laughter, in these cases, reminded people where the boundaries were.

It is a similar story with Bernard of Clairvaux, the famously stern abbot. Most of us imagine monks as utterly humourless, but Peter Jones shows that Bernard actually encouraged older monks to laugh at themselves—it was the novices he warned against joking, for fear they would lose discipline. So medieval laughter wasn’t absent from monasteries; it just had its time and place.

Picture a tired scribe finishing off a long manuscript in Bohemia. Instead of a solemn ending, he writes, “When I drink beer, my knee stands crooked.” It is nonsense, but also a wink to the next weary copyist who might chuckle at the joke centuries later. That small, human touch connects us to medieval humour far more than any grand carnival ever could.

When compared with earlier books that focused mainly on literature or philosophy, this volume stands out for its variety. It looks at visual jokes in manuscripts, nonsense rhymes, bawdy tales, and even live storytelling. Instead of a single theory of laughter, it gives readers snapshots of how humour appeared in different corners of the medieval world. And that may be the most valuable insight of all: there was no one “medieval humour,” but many.

“Laughter in the Middle Ages was not just rebellion—it was also discipline, comfort, and sometimes pure nonsense.”

Critical Analysis

What makes Medieval Humour especially engaging is its range. One moment you’re deep inside the illuminated swirls of the Book of Kells, spotting lions and birds playing charades with scripture. Next, you’re listening to an Arthurian romance being performed live, with the audience laughing at a knight’s bumbling boast. These shifts remind us that humour was everywhere—from the margins of holy books to the banter of village tales.

For history enthusiasts, the book’s strength is in the detail. MacGabhann’s description of “medieval emojis” hidden in sacred texts brings to life the playfulness of monks we usually imagine as stern. Doležalová’s catalogue of scribal nonsense shows us that copyists were not robotic labourers but people with wit and creativity. And Pethainou’s comparison of manuscript art with printed woodcuts lets us see how a bawdy joke changed when aimed at a private reader versus a wider public.

Another anecdote drives this home: in the Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles, one illumination shows a husband holding a candle to his wife’s backside, trying to spy on her in the dark. To us, it is a bawdy gag; to them, it was both comic and moralising, a reminder of lust’s folly. Either way, it is a joke that crossed five centuries with ease.

That said, the collection does feel like a set of individual stories rather than a single argument. Readers looking for one big answer about medieval laughter may come away with more questions than conclusions. Some chapters dive into very technical detail—like the scribal hands of the Book of Kells—that casual readers might skim. And the focus leans toward literate and elite culture, leaving the laughter of peasants glimpsed only through the filter of books and sermons.

But these are small caveats in an otherwise lively work. Its originality lies in uncovering humour where we least expect it—scribes’ marginal doodles, monks’ reluctant chuckles, or subtle jokes tucked into holy scripture. By doing so, it bridges the gap between then and now. We recognise the same impulse to laugh at absurdity, to poke fun at authority, and to leave behind a playful trace for the next reader.

“Although cloaked in Latin or hidden in the margins of holy books, medieval humor still speaks with a human voice we can hear today.”

Conclusion

Medieval Humour makes a convincing case that laughter was alive and varied in the Middle Ages. The book is accessible to general readers and rewarding for history lovers, weaving stories of mischievous monks, cheeky scribes, and bawdy storytellers. Rather than forcing a single theory, it celebrates the variety of medieval jokes—sometimes rebellious, sometimes moralising, sometimes pure fun. The takeaway is clear: the Middle Ages were not just solemn chants and stern sermons; they were also punctuated by knowing smiles and shared laughter. This volume will leave readers looking at the past with fresh eyes, ready to spot humour where they least expect it.