The censors of mid-eighteenth century France simply did not know what to do with the works of one Geoffrey-Jacques. This prolific pseudonymous writer cranked out novels and stories that juuuuust skirted the edge of the pornographic, but veered away in an almost compulsively skittish manner, back towards character-schtick, will-they-or-won’t-they plotting, and the occasional brush with the fantastic, often involving the main character’s automaton valet. It must have been quite frustrating for men who were used to reading the raunchiest material Enlightenment France had to offer — which could be very raunchy indeed — to be inundated with volumes of material swimming with such innuendo and sexual allusiveness, only to have the characters not engage but rather discuss popular plays and ballads of the day. “Sacre bleu!” we can imagine the censors exclaiming, “get on with it already!” But Geoffrey-Jacques, whoever he was, never obliged them.

Perhaps out of frustration, the main body of his work was allowed to be published, but were stamped with the unique label “Matieres Questionable,” a warning both to the pious and the prurient that the material within would satisfy neither. This is how the English translations, compilations of which are sold almost solely to students of early modern literature and the public sphere, or to the sort of people who randomly buy odd titles at academic used book stores, came to be known as “Questionable Content.”

(Note: I realize I broke format here. I’m not sorry!)

Among the early innovations in print culture were the “Sprechen Donnereschen” templates. First carved by famed printmaker Albrecht Durer, the template depicted three “thunder lizards” in disputation. Reproductions of the template spread through Germany during the sixteenth century, and printers for the different side in the era’s political and religious conflicts would put different ideas in the mouths of the thunder lizards. Though the opinions the lizards mouthed varied, their role of each was generally the same: the large “Tyranneidechse” would make a statement, the smaller “Schnelleidechse” would refute it, and commentary — often of a humorous or sentimental nature — would be provided by the humble “Vogeleidesche.” Occasionally, printers would add characters to the original Durer woodcut — a small insect perched on Tyranneidechse’s nose, for example — but most of the polemicists stuck to the plain three-lizard format. Rumor has it a group of Konigsberg printers approached Immanuel Kant to produce a Sprechen Donnereschen print of some of his ideas, but Kant, a known stick-in-the-mud, refused, and the format became a historical curiosity of the Reformation era.

In 2001, Italian archivists were tickled to discovered a previously unknown group of stories by Renaissance humanist Giovanni Bocaccio. Referred to as the “Mal di Legno” stories after the fictional estate in which they take place, these tales do not attain the popularity of the Decameron upon publication, but do attract a cult following. Readers praise Mal di Legno for its strong characterization as well as its absurd and often bawdy humor. Favorite tales include (the normally lacksaidaiscal) Count Raimondo’s triumph at a tournament with the help of his stalwart, low-born counselor Arrosto Manzo; young Filippo’s wandering off to find Prester John and the efforts of Raimondo and his retainers to recover the boy; and morose troubadour Teodoro’s coming into possession of a mandolin that, when played, turns Raimondo into a beast. Many of the stories are accounts of the characters good-naturedly jesting with each other at feasts, with little “action,” per se. Some scholars claim that the characters “Mendacino” and “Suffacatino,” wooden men whose purposes are to spread lies and laughter (respectively) might be the first depiction of secular sentient automata in Western literature.