Journal articles on the topic 'Cameroon literature (French)'

Unlike Cameroon English and Received Pronunciation, Cameroon Francophone English has a number of nasal and epenthetic vowels. Those nasal vowels are generally French ones, as Cameroon Francophone English is heavily influenced by that language. The epenthetic vowels found in Cameroon Francophone English as in many other non-native Englishes are difficult to explain. Part of the data analysed is drawn from past studies (Safotso 2001, 2006, 2012 & 2015; Kouega 2008). This is complemented by the oral reading of some test words by French-speaking Cameroonian undergraduate/postgraduate students and some speech gathered from debates and interventions on various national TV channels and radio stations. Results show that in Cameroon Francophone English, vowel nasalization and vowel epenthesis occur in specific positions. This paper attempts to show how they operate in that variety of English.

Almost anyone who reads ferdinand oyono's une vie de boy (1956) in any language will conclude that the novel focuses on French colonialism. But is it only about colonialism by the French? An analysis of the many German resonances throughout the text—as well as an engagement with the German translation of Une vie de boy—suggests that it is about much more. Oyono's Une vie de boy enables the reader to reflect on Europan colonialism more broadly beyond the role of France. The novel offers a lens onto Germany's colonial history because Cameroon was a former colonial “protectorate” of the German empire. This historical context, therefore, places Une vie de boy in both national and transnational contexts. While my reading addresses possible connections or similarities between French and German colonialism, the publication in German itself adds an important layer to the understanding of Une vie de boy in Germany. In consideration of the political activism of the novel's German publisher, Johann (Hans) Fladung (1898-1982), the publication of Oyono's novel can be read as a criticism of German historiography in the 1950s, which frequently avoided Germany's colonial history, a history that has been linked with the crimes of the Holocaust (Zimmerer).

Educational reform on a national scale often presents complexities due to the myriad perspectives of the stakeholders involved. Particularly in multicultural and multilingual societies, the distinct frames of reference can significantly impede compromise. One challenge is the change agents’ occasional oversight of local nuances. In Cameroon, attempts at reform, especially at primary and secondary education levels, have been notably contentious since the country’s independence from France and Britain in 1960. The subsequent reunification of British Southern Cameroon and French Eastern Cameroon established an imperfect union, birthing two education and legal systems with distinct characteristics, difficult to harmonize. A comprehensive review of the literature indicates that resistance to educational reform is more deeply rooted in the dual colonial legacy than the vast diversity of ethnicities and languages. Notably, in 1960, Cameroon comprised over 279 ethnic groups and languages within a population of less than six million. In contemporary times, for a now-divided Cameroon, home to approximately twenty-four million residents, successful educational reform that addresses modern-day needs can only materialize if both decision-makers and citizens prioritize a Cameroonian identity over their Francophone or Anglophone affiliations. This shift is crucial given the prevailing sociopolitical challenges that not only complicate educational harmonization but also impede national integration and unity.

This paper sets out to examine the translatability of Fulani oral poetry from Northern Cameroon, especially the mbooku genre, in a literary perspective. The corpus is gathered from selected oral poems that were transcribed and translated into German, English and French by different translators. The study reveals that it is possible to translate Fulani poems into European languages so that the target texts perform the same literary functions as the source texts, in spite of linguistic and cultural difficulties that occur during the transfer process. Thus, the author proposes a retranslation in which the content meets the form, taking into account some patterns of European modern poetry. He therefore advocates for retranslations of these poems from a purely literary perspective and would like to see translation studies focus more on the primary source of African orality.

Juxtaposed these quotations, which are separated by three centuries and two continents, suggest that seventeenth-century classical French drama serves as a model for African theatre of the early post-colonial period. The first quotation is, of course, from Moliere, the Old Regime's brilliant comic writer. The second is taken from a play by Oyônô-Mbia, a contemporary dramatist from Cameroon. Given the powerful grip France held over its colonies, it is not surprising to find residual influence of France's theatrical culture on African drama. By the end of World War One, French authority in sub-Saharan Africa extended from Cape Verde to the Congo river. The Third Republic established French schools in the larger colonial towns which attracted the children of well-to-do urban families. France therefore held strong political and cultural sway over the development of African leaders and writers.

The prosecution of perpetrators of mass violations of human rights remains one of the unfinished tasks of Africa's ʺdemocraciesʺ which, in itself, is eloquent evidence of the need for systemic arrangements to protect human rights, build a culture of the rule of law and ultimately defeat impunity. Emboldened by the absence of the foregoing, accountability for human rights violations of individuals and the fulfilment of the corresponding duty to prosecute violators have been contentious issues in Africa's politically volatile communities. As states are caught betwixt and between protecting human rights and holding individuals accountable, the questions about the State's fulfilment of its international obligations arises. Sourced primarily from international treaties, customary international law, and general principles of law, the duty to prosecute violations of human rights is revisited with a focus on the theoretical and legal framework. Situated in the context of the ongoing Anglophone Cameroon crisis in which political factions of the English-speaking regions are pitted against the French-speaking dominated Government of Cameroon, and bringing to the fore the violations, which have become an odious scourge, this paper argues that there is a sacrosanct duty on the Government of Cameroon to investigate, prosecute and punish such violations. The paper interrogates the relevant international law instruments and engages in a dialogue with relevant and respectable literature penned by prominent scholars and jurists on the issue of accountability. It provides an analytical disquisition on the duty to prosecute which, as argued herein, must be fulfilled by Cameroon given the violations that have been committed during the ongoing Anglophone Cameroon crisis.

A través de las obras literarias de Germain Metanmo y Céline Magneché Ndé, dos escritos cameruneses demuestran una contribución cada vez más visible a la literatura camerunesa en español. Todos autores originarios de la región occidental de Camerún y, por tanto, compartiendo la misma época geográfica, lingüística y cultural, estos francófonos han elegido la lengua de Cervantes como vehículo para sus creaciones. Una de las características comunes de sus producciones es el uso de paremias y fraseología local en general para transmitir sus mensajes. Esto plantea el interesante problema de las transferencias lingüísticas y culturales al mundo hispánico. Por tanto, este artículo pretende poner de relieve la existencia de dicha literatura, para luego situar las paremias de nuestro corpus en su contexto original y finalmente proponer vías de traducción o equivalencia de las mismas al español. Abstract Through their literary works, Germain Metanmo and Céline Magneché Ndé, two Cameroonian writers make an increasingly visible contribution to Cameroonian literature in the Spanish language. All originating from the western Cameroon region and thus sharing the same geographical, linguistic and cultural era, these French-speaking authors have chosen the language of Cervantes as the vehicle for their creations. One of the common characteristics of their productions is the use of paremias and local phraseology in general to convey their messages. This poses the interesting problem of linguistic and cultural transfers to the Hispanic world. This article therefore aims to highlight the existence of such literature, then situate the paremias of our corpus in their original context and finally propose ways of translation or equivalence of these into Spanish.

This article counters the assertion that ethnicization and ethnophobia is a cause of conflict with insights from how ethnic groupings around stokvels and cultural associations help entrench political stability and accelerate rural development where governments and service delivery is in short supply. Drawing from the current geopolitical and regional conflicts splitting former English and French trust territories that have since 1972 united to become one Cameroon, the article argues that, while at its inception the government’s revision of the federal system established in the negotiated 1961 constitution, the former British trust territories of the North and South West regions of present Cameroon have remained glued around ethnic groups and co-existed until the evident and admitted attempts by the government to erode the English Common Law and Anglo-Saxon educational systems. As such a cursory of literature which suggests that ethnicization is a trigger of intractable conflicts is examined with the view of demonstrating that in present-day Cameroon, the ethnicization which has kept a fragile nation together for years is once again the harbingers upon which the country’s stability, nation-building and development is reliant. Using ‘Social Cohesion’ as a reflexive praxis upon which societies are believed to stay together, the article confronts the notion that social cohesion has to be large societal demographics and with the aid of quantitative data sourced from assessing the impact of certain stokvels and intra-community ethnic associations, concludes that, ethnicization is a potent vehicle of stability and development.

Paul Biya, who has been in power in Cameroon as a prime minister from 1975 to 1982 and as a president since 1982, is now the longest-ruling non-royal national leader of the world. While this durability has baffled many observers worldwide, it has not yet attracted much attention from academia. In fact, the current literature on Cameroonian politics generally focuses on the dictatorial characteristics of the Paul Biya regime, not on its durability. The purpose of this paper is to fill this gap in the literature. Adopting a micro-level (or bottom-up) approach, we try to understand why most Cameroonian people are willing to stay under the same ruler for at least two generations. Using the Afrobarometer's round 7 national surveys in Cameroon, we apply simple statistical analyses and machine learning (or predictive analytics) to determine to what extent the Cameroonian people support their president and his regime and to identify the predictors (or determinants) of such support. As a result, we find that, despite the so-called "Anglophone crisis" and Boko Haram's attacks in the North, most Cameroonians, especially the French speakers, still approve of the job performance of Biya. The main factors behind this approval have more to do with their trust in the president himself, the approval of the job performance of their parliament members, and their regional location than with the conduct of the country's political affairs or the management of the national economy.

The present article focuses on the challenges of democratic crossing of Cameroon through the use of politicking mechanisms in a multiparty democratic development which regained its glory since the advent of renewal of the democratization processes in Sub-Saharan Africa fostered by the dawn of the Cold War in 1991. It brings out great efforts planned and implemented by the governmental officials and the anachronism of democratic detractors which likely continued to fuel period of uncertainties couple with societal chaos in the specific two English speaking Regions which moved from Provinces to Regions then later accorded with special stutus in the midst of uprisings in search of complete national and international autonomy which is far fetch. In consideration of national unity which was destroyed by two European Great Powers, they can be qualified as “Opportunist Provocators” (OP) of the First and Second World Wars and arbitrary partitioned of the territory naming it French and British Cameroons later accepted by the two international organisations known as the League of Nations and the United Nations Organisation in their Mandatory and Trusteeship Systems respectively still under their supreme hegemony during the 20th Century. All along efforts to quench the misunderstanding among Cameroonian, political detractors and other international actors in hidings have turn it to be profitable commercial commodity to the detriment of Cameroonians of the English speaking expression whose challenges are not limited to them, but also to the French speakers regions of the country which are hosting some of the Internal Displaced Persons (IDP). This shows that, the state of insecurity is not just limited to the two regions but nationwide as the lessons of politicking keeps prolonging and endangering the entire national territory. In fact, the scrutiny of specialize existing literature, our experiences as political stakeholder in the new democratic dispensation and living eyewitnes

Some of you know that my grandfather was a cook for the British in Kenya, and though he was a respected elder in his village, his employers called him “boy” for much of his life.—Barack Obama, president of the United States, speaking to the Parliament of Ghana, Accra, 11 July 2009How do you say khaki in fourteen languages? assuming that the answer is, in most cases, more or less khaki, what might that word mean? This question occurred to me three years ago as I was sitting in my Minnesota office with a student—a brilliant sophomore economics major from Hanoi—trying to understand a thorny text from Cameroon. The text before us was the Vietnamese translation of Ferdinand Oyono's landmark 1956 francophone anticolonial novel Une vie de boy, which I had been pondering for years. A central figure in the novel, the village's French commandant, was often depicted in “son short kaki” (“his khaki shorts”). Though I don't speak Vietnamese, I could make out enough of its modified Latin alphabet to recognize kaki several times in the 1997 translation. In seeking its Vietnamese meaning, I knew that at least six languages were already in play: kaki came to Oyono's French from English, which got the word in the mid-nineteenth century from Hindi-Urdu (where it means dust-colored), which got it from the Persian (transliterated “khakeh”), meaning dust (“Khaki”). What is more, Oyono's novel purports to be translated from the Ewondo, where kaki certainly meant something too. But in Vietnamese? My instinct was that khaki, at least in Vietnam, would signify what it did in Cameroon: the iconic colonial oppressor's fabric. But when my student, Phuong Vu, saw the word in Vietnamese, she immediately searched for an image on her laptop, then showed me a photo of the great anticolonial leader of Vietnam: the khaki-wearing Ho Chi Minh. Seeking a further data point, I asked my dean, the Somali scholar Ahmed Samatar, what khaki meant in his mother tongue. His reaction, too, was instant: “my grandfather was the first man in our village to wear khaki: it signifies modernity!” Khaki: one word, worldwide. But clearly not a monosignifying word, since it means, at minimum, dust, dust-colored, modernity, colonization, and anticolonial resistance. To paraphrase Langston Hughes, what kind of a translation can you make out of that?

Victor T. Le Vine, professor emeritus of political science, analyst, and commentator, died on May 7, 2010, after a brief illness. Le Vine, an only son, was born in Berlin in 1928. His family fled Nazi Germany and lived in France until they immigrated to the United States in 1938. A polyglot, fluent in French, German, and Russian, he was a rigorous researcher, a dedicated teacher, and an encyclopedic repository of classical works in politics, history, literature, and music. He mentored hundreds of graduate and undergraduate students in his 47 years as an academic and was known for using his multilingual skills and photographic memory to make every class lecture come alive—at times accompanying them with his vivid newspaper clippings that he collected from his travels. In his classroom, the politics of the postcolonial world were peppered with vignettes of his experiences as a participant observer in the heyday of Africa's decolonization. He shared with his students the emergence of the political systems of diverse countries such as Benin, Cameroon, Cyprus, the Czech Republic, Eritrea, Ghana, France, Israel, the PRC, Rwanda, Saudi Arabia, Turkey, and Zaire (DRC).

SUMMARYA great many plantain varieties are cropped in West and Central Africa, and there is a lack of information about their production potential and suitability for cropping system environments. To obtain benchmark data for the production potential of plantain varieties, experimental and modelling approaches were combined to determine intrinsic growth parameters and to increase understanding of factors affecting yield. Five real plantains commonly cropped in Cameroon and representative of plantain group diversity (Batard, Big Ebanga, Essong, French clair and Mbouroukou n°3) and four plantain-like hybrids (CRBP39, D248, D535 and FHIA21) were studied. A process-based growth model (the AAB model) was developed that accounts for specific characteristics of the plantain crop that includes parameters affecting growth, development and yield. Varietal-specific parameters were determined in a field experiment conducted under nearly non-limiting production conditions while general parameters were drawn from the literature. Parameters describing the conversion of intercepted radiation into dry matter were evaluated by model fitting. Photosynthetic efficiency was significantly higher for real plantains than for plantain-like hybrids. The model realistically simulated development, growth and bunch production for five varieties. These results are the first step in developing a useful tool for assessing the suitability of plantain varieties to different environments. The current study highlights the need for greater knowledge of plantain physiology in order to better model plantain growth and develop variety-specific production approaches.

Of the fourteen translations of Ferdinand Oyono's une vie de boy published to date, the Vietnamese translation, Đới Làm bồi, dates last, despite Vietnam and Cameroon's shared past under French colonialism. Nguyễn Như đat, the novel's Vietnamese translator, had anticipated that his version, published in 1997, would not find much of a market. The translator's pessimism was warranted, since the Vietnam of the late 1990s drastically differed from the two Vietnams of 1956, when Oyono's novel was originally published. Partitioned after the 1954 Geneva Accords and fighting against each other in the Second Indochina War, the Democratic Republic of Vietnam in the north and the Republic of Vietnam in the south were unified at the war's end, in 1975, under a socialist government. But since 1986 Vietnam has been engaged in the capitalist world market, albeit under the banner of socialism. Given this context of market socialism, the Vietnamese translation of Oyono's anticolonial novel seems to have lagged temporally: it was published at a time when literary translations in Vietnam began trending away from anticolonialism and toward, for example, Raymond Carver's minimalism, Haruki Murakami's surreal handling of alienation, and, more recently, Vladimir Nabokov's perversely defamiliarizing style.

The aim of the article is to examine how Cameroonian bilingualism was portrayed in academic literature and how it fit into the ongo¬ing geopolitical dynamics. The article considers two time periods for the geopolitical narrativization of African states (1960–1990 and 1990–2020). These two periods differ not only in geopolitical narrativization, but also in the shift in academic paradigms. This article employs geopolitical and anti-geopolitical approaches to show how the state’s narrative of bilingualism has been filling into the globally accepted narratives. Cameroon was chosen as the extreme case, where the two former colonial languages (English and French) share the same status, defining Cameroon as a bilingual country. The conclusion of the article is that Cameroon’s bilingual status has the ability to fit into the current geopolitical narratives. Beside the dominant narrative, there was present at least one important narrative.

In multilingual Cameroon, 247 indigenous languages live side by side with English and French (the two official languages) and Cameroon Pidgin English (the main lingua franca). While the two official languages of colonial heritage dominate public life in the areas of education, administration, politics, mass media, publicity and literature, both the indigenous languages and Cameroon Pidgin English are relegated to the background. This paper is a critique of language policy in Cameroon revealing that mother tongue education in the early years of primary education remains a distant cry, as the possible introduction of an indigenous language in the school system is not only considered unwanted by educational authorities but equally combated against by parents who believe that the future of their children lies in the mastery of the official languages. This persistent disregard of indigenous languages does not only alienate the Cameroonian child culturally, but further alienates the vast majority of Cameroonians who are illiterate (in English and French) since important State business is carried out in the official languages. As regards the implementation of the policy of official language bilingualism, there is clear imbalance in the use of the two official languages as French continues to be the dominant official language while English is relegated to a second place within the State. The frustration that ensues within the Anglophone community has led in recent years to the birth of Anglophone nationalism, a situation that seems to be widening the rift between the two main components of the society (Anglophones and Francophones), thereby compromising national unity. The paper is divided into five major parts. After a brief presentation of the country, the author dwells on multilingualism and language policy since the colonial period. The third, fourth and last parts of the paper focus on the critique of language policy in Cameroon with emphasis first on the policy of official language bilingualism and bilingual education, then on the place of indigenous languages, and finally on the national language debate.

Abstract Due to its colonial history and prevalent multilingualism, Cameroon is a country where language policies have profoundly impacted socioeconomic and political life. Cameroon has 273 local languages and two official languages, English and French. The two official languages have been a crystallization point for discontent and civil unrest, leading to secessionist sentiments and violence. In this paper, we assess Cameroon’s language policies, firstly by providing a brief historical and legal overview based in the literature. We then present a new decolonial analytical framework, building on but extending existing theoretical frameworks. Our new analysis shows that a transition to using indigenous languages in formal education and other domains is not necessary at present. However, we argue that such a transition will become unavoidable in future. We show that it will be practically possible to use a limited number of indigenous languages as mediums of instruction, building on existing bilingualisms in the country. We believe these languages should be chosen using rational criteria and we introduce an approximate assessment of which languages are easy to learn and teach, and for speakers of which other languages. The transition we foresee requires planning and preparation. A different approach to Cameroon’s languages may help in building national unity and healing national wounds in the areas of sociolinguistic power-sharing and interregional cohabitation. We expect that our approach also holds benefits for other African countries.

The purpose of this study is to examine how competency-based approach influences of writing skills development in Cameroon secondary schools. The coherence of the didactics of writing, as a subdiscipline of the didactics of French, comes from the analysis and description of teaching and learning writing at secondary school, where “French” as a discipline contains, along with grammar, spelling, reading, literature. It adopted a descriptive survey research design. Random sampling method was used to sample 12 secondary schools and study respondents from the accessible population of the study. A sample of 276 respondents comprising 12 principals and 48 teachers and 216 form 3 students was used for the study. Questionnaires, interviews and observation schedules were used to collect data from the respondents. Reliability of the instruments was established through test re-test method. A Pearson correlation coefficient (r = 0.75) thus the instruments were internally consistent and would test what is required to be tested. The findings indicate that the competency-based approach influences of writing skills development in Cameroon secondary schools.

This paper explores and discusses the synergetic link between language, culture and literature as underscored in John Nkengasong’s Across the Mongolo. Nkengasong, in his novel Across the Mongolo, intertwines Cameroon culture and rhetoric through cultural thought patterns such as the family structure, greeting and salutation, communal life and hospitality, culinary delights, days of the week, as well as linguistic thought patterns such as transliteration of metaphorical expressions and imagery, direct loans, coinage, code-mixing, French discourse, and Cameroon Pidgin English discourse, as index of socio-cultural and linguistic identity. These expressions ornament the write-up of the novel giving it a Cameroonian romantic aesthetic in linguistic texturing. They equally reveal that the language of Across the Mongolo portrays the interconnection between language and culture, and language and socio-cultural identity construction. The paper argues that a good knowledge of the socio-cultural and linguistic context of Cameroon is necessary for a good understanding of the rhetoric of the novel Across the Mongolo.

The prosecution of perpetrators of mass violations of human rights remains one of the unfinished tasks of Africa's ʺdemocraciesʺ which, in itself, is eloquent evidence of the need for systemic arrangements to protect human rights, build a culture of the rule of law and ultimately defeat impunity. Emboldened by the absence of the foregoing, accountability for human rights violations of individuals and the fulfilment of the corresponding duty to prosecute violators have been contentious issues in Africa's politically volatile communities. As states are caught betwixt and between protecting human rights and holding individuals accountable, the questions about the State's fulfilment of its international obligations arises. Sourced primarily from international treaties, customary international law, and general principles of law, the duty to prosecute violations of human rights is revisited with a focus on the theoretical and legal framework. Situated in the context of the ongoing Anglophone Cameroon crisis in which political factions of the English-speaking regions are pitted against the French-speaking dominated Government of Cameroon, and bringing to the fore the violations, which have become an odious scourge, this paper argues that there is a sacrosanct duty on the Government of Cameroon to investigate, prosecute and punish such violations. The paper interrogates the relevant international law instruments and engages in a dialogue with relevant and respectable literature penned by prominent scholars and jurists on the issue of accountability. It provides an analytical disquisition on the duty to prosecute which, as argued herein, must be fulfilled by Cameroon given the violations that have been committed during the ongoing Anglophone Cameroon crisis.

<p>La présente étude part du constat selon lequel la littérature camerounaise anglophone se démarque par sa forte hybridité culturelle. La traduction de ces types de textes en français constitue un exercice délicat, compte tenu du caractère domestiquant de cette langue. En effet, du roman d’Imbolo Mbue, Behold The Dreamers, rédigé en langue anglaise, se dégage le multilinguisme (le Bakweri, le pidgin-english du Cameroun et du Nigéria, etc.), les xénismes et le langage figuré, qui constitueraient des sources de problèmes, surtout lorsque la traduction est faite à l’aube du lointain (Berman 1999). Le problème de la préservation des éléments de la culture africaine à travers la traduction se pose donc dans cette étude. Notre travail s’articule autour des 3 questions suivantes : Comment identifier et décrire les marqueurs de l’africanité dans Behold the Dreamers ? Quelles sont les stratégies et techniques employées par la traductrice pour rendre l’africanité dans Behold the Dreamers ? Quel impact la traduction a-t-elle sur l’esthétique du texte cible ? Pour répondre à ces questions, nous avons convoqué la théorie des polysystèmes et utilisé le modèle d’analyse de Kruger et Wallmach (1985) pour identifier 15 marqueurs de l’africanité aux niveaux macro et micro-textuels, que nous avons comparé à leur traduction à l’aide de la méthode d’analyse de Wanchia (2016), de la critique des traductions de Berman (1995). Ces méthodes d’analyses qualitatives ont été soutenues par la sociocritique et le formalisme littéraire. Les données quantitatives sont analysées à l’aide de statistiques descriptives et inférentielles du logiciel SPSS 25.0 et présentées par les fréquences et les pourcentages. L’analyse du corpus nous a permis de démontrer que le traducteur a opté pour l’emprunt comme principale stratégie de traduction des éléments culturels. Par ailleurs, nous avons également constaté que le traducteur s’est efforcé de respecter le style de l’auteure. Toutefois, au vu des contresens et des écarts sémantiques observés dans la traduction, une révision devrait être envisagée afin de permettre aux futurs lecteurs du texte cible d’avoir accès à toutes les informations contenues dans le texte source. </p><p>This study was motivated by the observation that Anglophone Cameroonian literature is characterized by cultural hybridity, which makes the translation of Cameroon prose texts into French difficult. In fact, the English novel Behold the Dreamers demonstrates that the linguistic landscape of Cameroon is multilingual (English, French, local languages and Pidgin-English are spoken by Cameroonians). Hence, rendering xenisms and names (such as anthroponyms and toponyms) might be challenging. The problem of preserving Africaness (cultural elements) in translation, therefore, arises. This study sought to answer three questions: How can elements of Africaness in Behold the Dreamers be identified? What are the strategies and techniques employed to render them by the translator? How does the translation of Africaness impact the aesthetics of the target text? Twelve randomly selected excerpts of Africanness were compiled and analyzed at the macro and micro textual levels. The study was underpinned by the Polysystems Theory, Deconstruction, the Philological Theory, as well as literary criticism frameworks such as sociological criticism, formalism, feminist criticism, etc. Kruger and Wallmach’s (1985) corpus translation studies framework, Bermann’s (1995) method of translation criticism and Wanchia’s (2016) data analysis grid were applied for qualitative data collection and analyses. Quantitative data were analysed using descriptive and inferential statistics by SPSS 25.0 and presented in frequencies and percentages. The corpus-based analysis revealed that the translator opted for borrowing as the main strategy for translating cultural elements. It was also revealed that the translator respected the author’s style. Hence, in view of the semantic voids observed in the translation of culture-bound expressions, a revision of the French translation was proposed, to enable target language readers to have access to the same information contained in the source text.</p><p> </p><p><strong> Article visualizations:</strong></p><p><img src="/-counters-/edu/0784/a.php" alt="Hit counter" /></p>

Abstract According to the WHO, air pollution is responsible for 90% of deaths in Africa. However, few data on exposure to air pollution is available, and studies are rare, particularly in French-speaking Africa. This study aims to investigate the impact of air pollution on mortality in 13 French-speaking African countries (Algeria, Benin, Burkina Faso, Burundi, Cameroon, Ivory Coast, Guinea, Madagascar, Mali, Morocco, Democratic Republic of Congo, Senegal, Tunisia). Using data from the IHME, annual concentrations of the PM2.5 pollutant from different cities were integrated into a spatial interpolation model (IDW) at the scale of each country. The interpolation was validated using cross-validation models. For each of the considered cardiorespiratory diseases (LRI, stroke, COPD, IHD), the attributable mortality fraction was estimated using literature data and population exposure calculated using demographic data from each country. Large variations in concentration between the 13 countries are observed, with concentrations ranging from 1.76µg/m3 in Morocco to 67.03µg/m3 in Benin. Concentrations are higher in West Africa than in Central or North Africa. In 2019, 291,417 deaths attributable to air pollution were recorded in the 13 countries: 19.7% for ischemic heart disease, 6.5% for lower respiratory infections, 3.6% for chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, and 18.8% for stroke. Our model allowed us to obtain a spatial distribution and the number of deaths related to air pollution. However, the health impact of pollution could be improved by more systematic and comprehensive data collection through a system for monitoring concentrations of atmospheric pollutants. Key messages • This study estimates the number of deaths attributable to air pollution in 13 French-speaking African countries using a spatial interpolation model. • This study highlights the need for more data on air pollution exposure in French-speaking Africa.

This paper argues that illegitimacy is a concept that relates to almost all of the fundamental ways in which Western society has traditionally organised itself. Sex, family and marriage, and the power of the church and state, are all implicated in the various ways in which society reproduces itself from generation to generation. All employ the concepts of legitimacy and illegitimacy to define what is and what is not permissible. Further, the creation of the illegitimate can occur in more or less legitimate ways; for example, through acts of consent, on the one hand; and force, on the other. This paper uses the study of an English Renaissance text, Shakespeare’s Henry V, to argue that these concepts remain potent ones, regularly invoked as a means of identifying and denouncing perceived threats to the good ordering of the social fabric. In western societies, many of which may be constructed as post-marriage, illegitimate is often applied as a descriptor to unlicensed migrants, refugees and asylum seekers. In countries subject to war and conflict, rape as a war crime is increasingly used by armies to create fractures within the subject community and to undermine the paternity of a cohort of children. In societies where extramarital sex is prohibited, or where rape has been used as a weapon of war, the bastard acts as physical evidence that an unsanctioned act has been committed and the laws of society broken, a “failure in social control” (Laslett, Oosterveen and Smith, 5). This paper explores these themes, using past conceptions of the illegitimate and bastardy as an explanatory concept for problematic aspects of legitimacy in contemporary culture.Bastardy was a particularly important issue in sixteenth and seventeenth century Europe when an individual’s genealogy was a major determining factor of social status, property and identity (MacFarlane). Further, illegitimacy was not necessarily an aspect of a person’s birth. It could become a status into which they were thrust through the use of divorce, for example, as when Henry VIII illegitimised his daughter Mary after annulling his marriage to Mary’s mother, Catherine of Aragon. Alison Findlay’s study of illegitimacy in Renaissance literature lists over 70 portrayals of illegitimacy, or characters threatened with illegitimacy, between 1588 and 1652 (253–257). In addition to illegitimacy at an individual level however, discussions around what constitutes the “illegitimate” figure in terms of its relationship with the family and the wider community, are also applicable to broader concerns over national identity. In work such as Stages of History, Phyllis Rackin dissected images of masculine community present in Shakespeare’s history plays to expose underlying tensions over gender, power and identity. As the study of Henry V indicates in the following discussion, illegitimacy was also a metaphor brought to bear on issues of national as well as personal identity in the early modern era. The image of the nation as a “family” to denote unity and security, both then and now, is rendered complex and problematic by introducing the “illegitimate” into that nation-family image. The rhetoric used in the recent debate over the Scottish independence referendum, and in Australia’s ongoing controversy over “illegitimate” migration, both indicate that the concept of a “national bastard”, an amorphous figure that resists precise definition, remains a potent rhetorical force. Before turning to the detail of Henry V, it is useful to review the use of “illegitimate” in the early modern context. Lacking an established position within a family, a bastard was in danger of being marginalised and deprived of any but the most basic social identity. If acknowledged by a family, the bastard might become a drain on that family’s economic resources, drawing money away from legitimate children and resented accordingly. Such resentment may be reciprocated. In his essay “On Envy” the scientist, author, lawyer and eventually Lord Chancellor of England Francis Bacon explained the destructive impulse of bastardy as follows: “Deformed persons, and eunuchs, and old men, and bastards, are envious. For he that cannot possibly mend his own case will do what he can to impair another’s.” Thus, bastardy becomes a plot device which can be used to explain and to rationalise evil. In early modern English literature, as today, bastardy as a defect of birth is only one meaning for the word. What does “in everything illegitimate” (quoting Shakespeare’s character Thersites in Troilus and Cressida [V.viii.8]) mean for our understanding of both our own society and that of the late sixteenth century? Bastardy is an important ideologeme, in that it is a “unit of meaning through which the ‘social space’ constructs the ideological values of its signs” (Schleiner, 195). In other words, bastardy has an ideological significance that stretches far beyond a question of parental marital status, extending to become a metaphor for national as well as personal loss of identity. Anti-Catholic polemicists of the early sixteenth century accused priests of begetting a generation of bastards that would overthrow English society (Fish, 7). The historian Polydore Vergil was accused of suborning and bastardising English history by plagiarism and book destruction: “making himself father to other men’s works” (Hay, 159). Why is illegitimacy so important and so universal a metaphor? The term “bastard” in its sense of mixture or mongrel has been applied to language, to weaponry, to almost anything that is a distorted but recognisable version of something else. As such, the concept of bastardy lends itself readily to the rhetorical figure of metaphor which, as the sixteenth century writer George Puttenham puts it, is “a kind of wresting of a single word from his owne right signification, to another not so natural, but yet of some affinitie or coueniencie with it” (Puttenham, 178). Later on in The Art of English Poesie, Puttenham uses the word “bastard” to describe something that can best be recognised as being an imperfect version of something else: “This figure [oval] taketh his name of an egge […] and is as it were a bastard or imperfect rounde declining toward a longitude.” (101). “Bastard” as a descriptive term in this context has meaning because it connects the subject of discussion with its original. Michael Neill takes an anthropological approach to the question of why the bastard in early modern drama is almost invariably depicted as monstrous or evil. In “In everything illegitimate: Imagining the Bastard in Renaissance Drama,” Neill argues that bastards are “filthy”, using the term as it is construed by Mary Douglas in her work Purity and Danger. Douglas argues that dirt is defined by being where it should not be, it is “matter in the wrong place, belonging to ‘a residual category, rejected from our normal scheme of classifications,’ a source of fundamental pollution” (134). In this argument the figure of the bastard aligns strongly with the concept of the Other (Said). Arguably, however, the anthropologist Edmund Leach provides a more useful model to understand the associations of hybridity, monstrosity and bastardy. In “Animal Categories and Verbal Abuse”, Leach asserts that our perceptions of the world around us are largely based on binary distinctions; that an object is one thing, and is not another. If an object combines attributes of itself with those of another, the interlapping area will be suppressed so that there may be no hesitation in discerning between them. This repressed area, the area which is neither one thing nor another but “liminal” (40), becomes the object of fear and of fascination: – taboo. It is this liminality that creates anxiety surrounding bastards, as they occupy the repressed, “taboo” area between family and outsiders. In that it is born out of wedlock, the bastard child has no place within the family structure; yet as the child of a family member it cannot be completely relegated to the external world. Michael Neill rightly points out the extent to which the topos of illegitimacy is associated with the disintegration of boundaries and a consequent loss of coherence and identity, arguing that the bastard is “a by-product of the attempt to define and preserve a certain kind of social order” (147). The concept of the liminal figure, however, recognises that while a by-product can be identified and eliminated, a bastard can neither be contained nor excluded. Consequently, the bastard challenges the established order; to be illegitimate, it must retain its connection with the legitimate figure from which it diverges. Thus the illegitimate stands as a permanent threat to the legitimate, a reminder of what the legitimate can become. Bastardy is used by Shakespeare to indicate the fear of loss of national as well as personal identity. Although noted for its triumphalist construction of a hero-king, Henry V is also shot through with uncertainties and fears, fears which are frequently expressed using illegitimacy as a metaphor. Notwithstanding its battle scenes and militarism, it is the lawyers, genealogists and historians who initiate and drive forward the narrative in Henry V (McAlindon, 435). The reward of the battle for Henry is not so much the crown of France as the assurance of his own legitimacy as monarch. The lengthy and legalistic recital of genealogies with which the Archbishop of Canterbury proves to general English satisfaction that their English king Henry holds a better lineal right to the French throne than its current occupant may not be quite as “clear as is the summer sun” (Henry V 1.2.83), but Henry’s question about whether he may “with right and conscience” make his claim to the French throne elicits a succinct response. The churchmen tell Henry that, in order to demonstrate that he is truly the descendant of his royal forefathers, Henry will need to validate that claim. In other words, the legitimacy of Henry’s identity, based on his connection with the past, is predicated on his current behaviour:Gracious lord,Stand for your own; unwind your bloody flag;Look back into your mighty ancestors:Go, my dread lord, to your great-grandsire’s tomb,From whom you claim; invoke his warlike spirit…Awake remembrance of these valiant dead,And with your puissant arm renew their feats:You are their heir, you sit upon their throne,The blood and courage that renowned themRuns in your veins….Your brother kings and monarchs of the earthDo all expect that you should rouse yourselfAs did the former lions of your blood. (Henry V 1.2.122 – 124)These exhortations to Henry are one instance of the importance of genealogy and its immediate connection to personal and national identity. The subject recurs throughout the play as French and English characters both invoke a discourse of legitimacy and illegitimacy to articulate fears of invasion, defeat, and loss of personal and national identity. One particular example of this is the brief scene in which the French royalty allow themselves to contemplate the prospect of defeat at the hands of the English:Fr. King. ‘Tis certain, he hath pass’d the river Somme.Constable. And if he be not fought withal, my lord,Let us not live in France; let us quit all,And give our vineyards to a barbarous people.Dauphin. O Dieu vivant! shall a few sprays of us,The emptying of our fathers’ luxury,Our scions, put in wild and savage stock,Spirt up so suddenly into the clouds,And overlook their grafters?Bourbon. Normans, but bastard Normans, Norman bastards!...Dauphin. By faith and honour,Our madams mock at us, and plainly sayOur mettle is bred out; and they will giveTheir bodies to the lust of English youthTo new-store France with bastard warriors. (Henry V 3.5.1 – 31).Rape and sexual violence pervade the language of Henry V. France itself is constructed as a sexually vulnerable female with “womby vaultages” and a “mistress-court” (2.4.131, 140). In one of his most famous speeches Henry graphically describes the rape and slaughter that accompanies military defeat (3.3). Reading Henry V solely in terms of its association of military conquest with sexual violence, however, runs the risk of overlooking the image of bastards themselves as both the threat and the outcome of national defeat. The lines quoted above exemplify the extent to which illegitimacy was a vital metaphor within early modern discourses of national as well as personal identity. Although the lines are divided between various speakers – the French King, Constable (representing the law), Dauphin (the Crown Prince) and Bourbon (representing the aristocracy) – the images develop smoothly and consistently to express English dominance and French subordination, articulated through images of illegitimacy.The dialogue begins with the most immediate consequence of invasion and of illegitimacy: the loss of property. Legitimacy, illegitimacy and property were so closely associated that a case of bastardy brought to the ecclesiastical court that did not include a civil law suit about land was referred to as a case of “bastardy speciall”, and the association between illegitimacy and property is present in this speech (Cowell, 14). The use of the word “vine” is simultaneously a metonym for France and a metaphor for the family, as in the “family tree”, conflating the themes of family identity and national identity that are both threatened by the virile English forces.As the dialogue develops, the rhetoric becomes more elaborate. The vines which for the Constable (from a legal perspective) represented both France and French families become instead an attempt to depict the English as being of a subordinate breed. The Dauphin’s brief narrative of the English origins refers to the illegitimate William the Conqueror, bastard son of the Duke of Normandy and by designating the English as being descendants of a bastard Frenchman the Dauphin attempts to depict the English nation as originating from a superabundance of French virility; wild offshoots from a true stock. Yet “grafting” one plant to another can create a stronger plant, which is what has happened here. The Dauphin’s metaphors, designed to construct the English as an unruly and illegitimate offshoot of French society, a product of the overflowing French virility, evolve instead into an emblem of a younger, stronger branch which has overtaken its enfeebled origins.In creating this scene, Shakespeare constructs the Frenchmen as being unable to contain the English figuratively, still less literally. The attempts to reduce the English threat by imagining them as “a few sprays”, a product of casual sexual excess, collapses into Bourbon’s incoherent ejaculation: “Normans, but bastard Normans, Norman bastards!” and the Norman bastard dominates the conclusion of the scene. Instead of containing and marginalising the bastard, the metaphoric language creates and acknowledges a threat which cannot be marginalised. The “emptying of luxury” has engendered an uncontrollable illegitimate who will destroy the French nation beyond any hope of recovery, overrunning France with bastards.The scene is fascinating for its use of illegitimacy as a means of articulating fears not only for the past and present but also for the future. The Dauphin’s vision is one of irreversible national and familial disintegration, irreversible because, unlike rape, the French women’s imagined rejection of their French families and embrace of the English conquerors implies a total abandonment of family origins and the willing creation of a new, illegitimate dynasty. Immediately prior to this scene the audience has seen the Dauphin’s fear in action: the French princess Katherine is shown learning to speak English as part of her preparation for giving her body to a “bastard Norman”, a prospect which she anticipates with a frisson of pleasure and humour, as well as fear. This scene, between Katherine and her women, evokes a range of powerful anxieties which appear repeatedly in the drama and texts of the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries: anxieties over personal and national identity, over female chastity and masculine authority, and over continuity between generations. Peter Laslett in The World We Have Lost – Further Explored points out that “the engendering of children on a scale which might threaten the social structure was never, or almost never, a present possibility” (154) at this stage of European history. This being granted, the Dauphin’s depiction of such a “wave” of illegitimates, while it might have no roots in reality, functioned as a powerful image of disorder. Illegitimacy as a threat and as a strategy is not limited to the renaissance, although a study of renaissance texts offers a useful guidebook to the use of illegitimacy as a means of polarising and excluding. Although as previously discussed, for many Western countries, the marital status of one’s parents is probably the least meaningful definition associated with the word “illegitimate”, the concept of the nation as a family remains current in modern political discourse, and illegitimate continues to be a powerful metaphor. During the recent independence referendum in Scotland, David Cameron besought the Scottish people not to “break up the national family”; at the same time, the Scottish Nationalists have been constructed as “ungrateful bastards” for wishing to turn their backs on the national family. As Klocker and Dunne, and later O’Brien and Rowe, have demonstrated, the emotive use of words such as “illegitimate” and “illegal” in Australian political rhetoric concerning migration is of long standing. Given current tensions, it might be timely to call for a further and more detailed study of the way in which the term “illegitimate” continues to be used by politicians and the media to define, demonise and exclude certain types of would-be Australian immigrants from the collective Australian “national family”. Suggestions that persons suspected of engaging with terrorist organisations overseas should be stripped of their Australian passports imply the creation of national bastards in an attempt to distance the Australian community from such threats. But the strategy can never be completely successful. Constructing figures as bastard or the illegitimate remains a method by which the legitimate seeks to define itself, but it also means that the bastard or illegitimate can never be wholly separated or cast out. In one form or another, the bastard is here to stay.ReferencesBeardon, Elizabeth. “Sidney's ‘Mongrell Tragicomedy’ and Anglo-Spanish Exchange in the New Arcadia.” Journal for Early Modern Cultural Studies 10 (2010): 29 - 51.Davis, Kingsley. “Illegitimacy and the Social Structure.” American Journal of Sociology 45 (1939).John Cowell. The Interpreter. Cambridge: John Legate, 1607.Greenblatt, Stephen. Renaissance Self-Fashioning: From More to Shakespeare. 1980. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005.Findlay, Alison. Illegitimate Power: Bastards in Renaissance Drama. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2009.Hay, Denys. Polydore Vergil: Renaissance Historian and Man of Letters. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1952.Laslett, Peter. The World We Have Lost - Further Explored. London: Methuen, 1983.Laslett, P., K. Oosterveen, and R. M. Smith, eds. Bastardy and Its Comparative History. London: Edward Arnold, 1980.Leach, Edmund. “Anthropological Aspects of Language: Animal Categories and Verbal Abuse.” E. H. Lennenberg, ed. New Directives in the Study of Language. MIT Press, 1964. 23-63. MacFarlane, Alan. The Origins of English Individualism: The Family Property and Social Transition Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1978.Mclaren, Ann. “Monogamy, Polygamy and the True State: James I’s Rhetoric of Empire.” History of Political Thought 24 (2004): 446 – 480.McAlindon, T. “Testing the New Historicism: “Invisible Bullets” Reconsidered.” Studies in Philology 92 (1995):411 – 438.Neill, Michael. Putting History to the Question: Power, Politics and Society in English Renaissance Drama. New York: Columbia University Press, 2000.Pocock, J.G.A. Virtue, Commerce and History: Essays on English Political Thought and History, Chiefly in the Eighteenth Century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985. Puttenham, George. The Arte of English Poesie. Ed. Gladys Doidge Willcock and Alice Walker. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1936.Reekie, Gail. Measuring Immorality: Social Inquiry and the Problem of Illegitimacy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998. Rowe, Elizabeth, and Erin O’Brien. “Constructions of Asylum Seekers and Refugees in Australian Political Discourse”. In Kelly Richards and Juan Marcellus Tauri, eds., Crime Justice and Social Democracy: Proceedings of the 2nd International Conference. Brisbane: Queensland University of Technology, 2013.Schleiner, Louise. Tudor and Stuart Women Writers. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994.Shakespeare, William. Henry V in The Norton Shakespeare. Ed. S. Greenblatt, W. Cohen, J.E. Howard, and Katharine Eisaman Maus. New York and London: Norton, 2008.

IntroductionFirmly located within the discourse of visible culture as the lofty preserve of art exhibitions and museum artefacts, the noun “curate” has gradually transformed into the verb “to curate”. Williams writes that “curate” has become a fashionable code word among the aesthetically minded to describe a creative activity. Designers no longer simply sell clothes; they “curate” merchandise. Chefs no longer only make food; they also “curate” meals. Chosen for their keen eye for a particular style or a precise shade, it is their knowledge of their craft, their reputation, and their sheer ability to choose among countless objects which make the creative process a creative activity in itself. Writing from within the framework of “curate” as a creative process, this article discusses how the state banquet for Queen Elizabeth II, hosted by Irish President Mary McAleese at Dublin Castle in May 2011, was carefully curated to represent Ireland’s diplomatic, cultural, and culinary identity. The paper will focus in particular on how the menu for the banquet was created and how the banquet’s brief, “Ireland on a Plate”, was fulfilled.History and BackgroundFood has been used by nations for centuries to display wealth, cement alliances, and impress foreign visitors. Since the feasts of the Numidian kings (circa 340 BC), culinary staging and presentation has belonged to “a long, multifaceted and multicultural history of diplomatic practices” (IEHCA 5). According to the works of Baughman, Young, and Albala, food has defined the social, cultural, and political position of a nation’s leaders throughout history.In early 2011, Ross Lewis, Chef Patron of Chapter One Restaurant in Dublin, was asked by the Irish Food Board, Bord Bía, if he would be available to create a menu for a high-profile banquet (Mahon 112). The name of the guest of honour was divulged several weeks later after vetting by the protocol and security divisions of the Department of the Taoiseach (Prime Minister) and the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade. Lewis was informed that the menu was for the state banquet to be hosted by President Mary McAleese at Dublin Castle in honour of Queen Elizabeth II’s visit to Ireland the following May.Hosting a formal banquet for a visiting head of state is a key feature in the statecraft of international and diplomatic relations. Food is the societal common denominator that links all human beings, regardless of culture (Pliner and Rozin 19). When world leaders publicly share a meal, that meal is laden with symbolism, illuminating each diner’s position “in social networks and social systems” (Sobal, Bove, and Rauschenbach 378). The public nature of the meal signifies status and symbolic kinship and that “guest and host are on par in terms of their personal or official attributes” (Morgan 149). While the field of academic scholarship on diplomatic dining might be young, there is little doubt of the value ascribed to the semiotics of diplomatic gastronomy in modern power structures (Morgan 150; De Vooght and Scholliers 12; Chapple-Sokol 162), for, as Firth explains, symbols are malleable and perfectly suited to exploitation by all parties (427).Political DiplomacyWhen Ireland gained independence in December 1921, it marked the end of eight centuries of British rule. The outbreak of “The Troubles” in 1969 in Northern Ireland upset the gradually improving environment of British–Irish relations, and it would be some time before a state visit became a possibility. Beginning with the peace process in the 1990s, the IRA ceasefire of 1994, and the Good Friday Agreement in 1998, a state visit was firmly set in motion by the visit of Irish President Mary Robinson to Buckingham Palace in 1993, followed by the unofficial visit of the Prince of Wales to Ireland in 1995, and the visit of Irish President Mary McAleese to Buckingham Palace in 1999. An official invitation to Queen Elizabeth from President Mary McAleese in March 2011 was accepted, and the visit was scheduled for mid-May of the same year.The visit was a highly performative occasion, orchestrated and ordained in great detail, displaying all the necessary protocol associated with the state visit of one head of state to another: inspection of the military, a courtesy visit to the nation’s head of state on arrival, the laying of a wreath at the nation’s war memorial, and a state banquet.These aspects of protocol between Britain and Ireland were particularly symbolic. By inspecting the military on arrival, the existence of which is a key indicator of independence, Queen Elizabeth effectively demonstrated her recognition of Ireland’s national sovereignty. On making the customary courtesy call to the head of state, the Queen was received by President McAleese at her official residence Áras an Uachtaráin (The President’s House), which had formerly been the residence of the British monarch’s representative in Ireland (Robbins 66). The state banquet was held in Dublin Castle, once the headquarters of British rule where the Viceroy, the representative of Britain’s Court of St James, had maintained court (McDowell 1).Cultural DiplomacyThe state banquet provided an exceptional showcase of Irish culture and design and generated a level of preparation previously unseen among Dublin Castle staff, who described it as “the most stage managed state event” they had ever witnessed (Mahon 129).The castle was cleaned from top to bottom, and inventories were taken of the furniture and fittings. The Waterford Crystal chandeliers were painstakingly taken down, cleaned, and reassembled; the Killybegs carpets and rugs of Irish lamb’s wool were cleaned and repaired. A special edition Newbridge Silverware pen was commissioned for Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip to sign the newly ordered Irish leather-bound visitors’ book. A new set of state tableware was ordered for the President’s table. Irish manufacturers of household goods necessary for the guest rooms, such as towels and soaps, hand creams and body lotions, candle holders and scent diffusers, were sought. Members of Her Majesty’s staff conducted a “walk-through” several weeks in advance of the visit to ensure that the Queen’s wardrobe would not clash with the surroundings (Mahon 129–32).The promotion of Irish manufacture is a constant thread throughout history. Irish linen, writes Kane, enjoyed a reputation as far afield as the Netherlands and Italy in the 15th century, and archival documents from the Vaucluse attest to the purchase of Irish cloth in Avignon in 1432 (249–50). Support for Irish-made goods was raised in 1720 by Jonathan Swift, and by the 18th century, writes Foster, Dublin had become an important centre for luxury goods (44–51).It has been Irish government policy since the late 1940s to use Irish-manufactured goods for state entertaining, so the material culture of the banquet was distinctly Irish: Arklow Pottery plates, Newbridge Silverware cutlery, Waterford Crystal glassware, and Irish linen tablecloths. In order to decide upon the table setting for the banquet, four tables were laid in the King’s Bedroom in Dublin Castle. The Executive Chef responsible for the banquet menu, and certain key personnel, helped determine which setting would facilitate serving the food within the time schedule allowed (Mahon 128–29). The style of service would be service à la russe, so widespread in restaurants today as to seem unremarkable. Each plate is prepared in the kitchen by the chef and then served to each individual guest at table. In the mid-19th century, this style of service replaced service à la française, in which guests typically entered the dining room after the first course had been laid on the table and selected food from the choice of dishes displayed around them (Kaufman 126).The guest list was compiled by government and embassy officials on both sides and was a roll call of Irish and British life. At the President’s table, 10 guests would be served by a team of 10 staff in Dorchester livery. The remaining tables would each seat 12 guests, served by 12 liveried staff. The staff practiced for several days prior to the banquet to make sure that service would proceed smoothly within the time frame allowed. The team of waiters, each carrying a plate, would emerge from the kitchen in single file. They would then take up positions around the table, each waiter standing to the left of the guest they would serve. On receipt of a discreet signal, each plate would be laid in front of each guest at precisely the same moment, after which the waiters would then about foot and return to the kitchen in single file (Mahon 130).Post-prandial entertainment featured distinctive styles of performance and instruments associated with Irish traditional music. These included reels, hornpipes, and slipjigs, voice and harp, sean-nόs (old style) singing, and performances by established Irish artists on the fiddle, bouzouki, flute, and uilleann pipes (Office of Public Works).Culinary Diplomacy: Ireland on a PlateLewis was given the following brief: the menu had to be Irish, the main course must be beef, and the meal should represent the very best of Irish ingredients. There were no restrictions on menu design. There were no dietary requirements or specific requests from the Queen’s representatives, although Lewis was informed that shellfish is excluded de facto from Irish state banquets as a precautionary measure. The meal was to be four courses long and had to be served to 170 diners within exactly 1 hour and 10 minutes (Mahon 112). A small army of 16 chefs and 4 kitchen porters would prepare the food in the kitchen of Dublin Castle under tight security. The dishes would be served on state tableware by 40 waiters, 6 restaurant managers, a banqueting manager and a sommélier. Lewis would be at the helm of the operation as Executive Chef (Mahon 112–13).Lewis started by drawing up “a patchwork quilt” of the products he most wanted to use and built the menu around it. The choice of suppliers was based on experience but also on a supplier’s ability to deliver perfectly ripe goods in mid-May, a typically black spot in the Irish fruit and vegetable growing calendar as it sits between the end of one season and the beginning of another. Lewis consulted the Queen’s itinerary and the menus to be served so as to avoid repetitions. He had to discard his initial plan to feature lobster in the starter and rhubarb in the dessert—the former for the precautionary reasons mentioned above, and the latter because it featured on the Queen’s lunch menu on the day of the banquet (Mahon 112–13).Once the ingredients had been selected, the menu design focused on creating tastes, flavours and textures. Several draft menus were drawn up and myriad dishes were tasted and discussed in the kitchen of Lewis’s own restaurant. Various wines were paired and tasted with the different courses, the final choice being a Château Lynch-Bages 1998 red and a Château de Fieuzal 2005 white, both from French Bordeaux estates with an Irish connection (Kellaghan 3). Two months and two menu sittings later, the final menu was confirmed and signed off by state and embassy officials (Mahon 112–16).The StarterThe banquet’s starter featured organic Clare Island salmon cured in a sweet brine, laid on top of a salmon cream combining wild smoked salmon from the Burren and Cork’s Glenilen Farm crème fraîche, set over a lemon balm jelly from the Tannery Cookery School Gardens, Waterford. Garnished with horseradish cream, wild watercress, and chive flowers from Wicklow, the dish was finished with rapeseed oil from Kilkenny and a little sea salt from West Cork (Mahon 114). Main CourseA main course of Irish beef featured as the pièce de résistance of the menu. A rib of beef from Wexford’s Slaney Valley was provided by Kettyle Irish Foods in Fermanagh and served with ox cheek and tongue from Rathcoole, County Dublin. From along the eastern coastline came the ingredients for the traditional Irish dish of smoked champ: cabbage from Wicklow combined with potatoes and spring onions grown in Dublin. The new season’s broad beans and carrots were served with wild garlic leaf, which adorned the dish (Mahon 113). Cheese CourseThe cheese course was made up of Knockdrinna, a Tomme style goat’s milk cheese from Kilkenny; Milleens, a Munster style cow’s milk cheese produced in Cork; Cashel Blue, a cow’s milk blue cheese from Tipperary; and Glebe Brethan, a Comté style cheese from raw cow’s milk from Louth. Ditty’s Oatmeal Biscuits from Belfast accompanied the course.DessertLewis chose to feature Irish strawberries in the dessert. Pat Clarke guaranteed delivery of ripe strawberries on the day of the banquet. They married perfectly with cream and yoghurt from Glenilen Farm in Cork. The cream was set with Irish Carrageen moss, overlaid with strawberry jelly and sauce, and garnished with meringues made with Irish apple balsamic vinegar from Lusk in North Dublin, yoghurt mousse, and Irish soda bread tuiles made with wholemeal flour from the Mosse family mill in Kilkenny (Mahon 113).The following day, President McAleese telephoned Lewis, saying of the banquet “Ní hé go raibh sé go maith, ach go raibh sé míle uair níos fearr ná sin” (“It’s not that it was good but that it was a thousand times better”). The President observed that the menu was not only delicious but that it was “amazingly articulate in terms of the story that it told about Ireland and Irish food.” The Queen had particularly enjoyed the stuffed cabbage leaf of tongue, cheek and smoked colcannon (a traditional Irish dish of mashed potatoes with curly kale or green cabbage) and had noted the diverse selection of Irish ingredients from Irish artisans (Mahon 116). Irish CuisineWhen the topic of food is explored in Irish historiography, the focus tends to be on the consequences of the Great Famine (1845–49) which left the country “socially and emotionally scarred for well over a century” (Mac Con Iomaire and Gallagher 161). Some commentators consider the term “Irish cuisine” oxymoronic, according to Mac Con Iomaire and Maher (3). As Goldstein observes, Ireland has suffered twice—once from its food deprivation and second because these deprivations present an obstacle for the exploration of Irish foodways (xii). Writing about Italian, Irish, and Jewish migration to America, Diner states that the Irish did not have a food culture to speak of and that Irish writers “rarely included the details of food in describing daily life” (85). Mac Con Iomaire and Maher note that Diner’s methodology overlooks a centuries-long tradition of hospitality in Ireland such as that described by Simms (68) and shows an unfamiliarity with the wealth of food related sources in the Irish language, as highlighted by Mac Con Iomaire (“Exploring” 1–23).Recent scholarship on Ireland’s culinary past is unearthing a fascinating story of a much more nuanced culinary heritage than has been previously understood. This is clearly demonstrated in the research of Cullen, Cashman, Deleuze, Kellaghan, Kelly, Kennedy, Legg, Mac Con Iomaire, Mahon, O’Sullivan, Richman Kenneally, Sexton, and Stanley, Danaher, and Eogan.In 1996 Ireland was described by McKenna as having the most dynamic cuisine in any European country, a place where in the last decade “a vibrant almost unlikely style of cooking has emerged” (qtd. in Mac Con Iomaire “Jammet’s” 136). By 2014, there were nine restaurants in Dublin which had been awarded Michelin stars or Red Ms (Mac Con Iomaire “Jammet’s” 137). Ross Lewis, Chef Patron of Chapter One Restaurant, who would be chosen to create the menu for the state banquet for Queen Elizabeth II, has maintained a Michelin star since 2008 (Mac Con Iomaire, “Jammet’s” 138). Most recently the current strength of Irish gastronomy is globally apparent in Mark Moriarty’s award as San Pellegrino Young Chef 2015 (McQuillan). As Deleuze succinctly states: “Ireland has gone mad about food” (143).This article is part of a research project into Irish diplomatic dining, and the author is part of a research cluster into Ireland’s culinary heritage within the Dublin Institute of Technology. The aim of the research is to add to the growing body of scholarship on Irish gastronomic history and, ultimately, to contribute to the discourse on the existence of a national cuisine. If, as Zubaida says, “a nation’s cuisine is its court’s cuisine,” then it is time for Ireland to “research the feasts as well as the famines” (Mac Con Iomaire and Cashman 97).ConclusionThe Irish state banquet for Queen Elizabeth II in May 2011 was a highly orchestrated and formalised process. From the menu, material culture, entertainment, and level of consultation in the creative content, it is evident that the banquet was carefully curated to represent Ireland’s diplomatic, cultural, and culinary identity.The effects of the visit appear to have been felt in the years which have followed. Hennessy wrote in the Irish Times newspaper that Queen Elizabeth is privately said to regard her visit to Ireland as the most significant of the trips she has made during her 60-year reign. British Prime Minister David Cameron is noted to mention the visit before every Irish audience he encounters, and British Foreign Secretary William Hague has spoken in particular of the impact the state banquet in Dublin Castle made upon him. Hennessy points out that one of the most significant indicators of the peaceful relationship which exists between the two countries nowadays was the subsequent state visit by Irish President Michael D. Higgins to Britain in 2013. This was the first state visit to the United Kingdom by a President of Ireland and would have been unimaginable 25 years ago. The fact that the President and his wife stayed at Windsor Castle and that the attendant state banquet was held there instead of Buckingham Palace were both deemed to be marks of special favour and directly attributed to the success of Her Majesty’s 2011 visit to Ireland.As the research demonstrates, eating together unites rather than separates, gathers rather than divides, diffuses political tensions, and confirms alliances. It might be said then that the 2011 state banquet hosted by President Mary McAleese in honour of Queen Elizabeth II, curated by Ross Lewis, gives particular meaning to the axiom “to eat together is to eat in peace” (Taliano des Garets 160).AcknowledgementsSupervisors: Dr Máirtín Mac Con Iomaire (Dublin Institute of Technology) and Dr Michael Kennedy (Royal Irish Academy)Fáilte IrelandPhotos of the banquet dishes supplied and permission to reproduce them for this article kindly granted by Ross Lewis, Chef Patron, Chapter One Restaurant ‹http://www.chapteronerestaurant.com/›.Illustration ‘Ireland on a Plate’ © Jesse Campbell BrownRemerciementsThe author would like to thank the anonymous reviewers for their feedback and suggestions on an earlier draft of this article.ReferencesAlbala, Ken. The Banquet: Dining in the Great Courts of Late Renaissance Europe. 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Introduction The blockbuster DreamWorks film Shrek is a play on the classic fairy tale narrative, where the hero, atop his noble steed, rescues the cursed princess from a dragon-guarded tower. Except the hero is an Ogre, the steed is a talking donkey, the dragon just wants to be loved, and, when they finally break the curse, the princess permanently transforms into an Ogre. From the opening scene, the first movie subverts the viewers’ expectations, offering reflection as well as a critique on “some of the cultural conventions that characterise modernity” (Lacassagne, Nieguth, and Dépelteau). As one of the most successful animated films in history (Lacassagne, Nieguth, and Dépelteau) Shrek is an important text to analyse from a disability perspective. As Amanda Taylor suggests, the film introduces several disability themes that work together to make a social and cultural critique about social exclusion: there are many social and cultural issues within the movie Shrek that should be addressed when looking through a lens of disability. Shrek and Fiona are the very opposite of what society looks at as a fairy tale, yet they are still so popular. The producers of this movie have tackled social issues in a very positive way. Elements such as obesity and economic diversity are portrayed within this movie that show that there is an alternative to stereotyping. Taking Shrek as its case study, this article argues that monstrous images offer complex representations of disability that align with the affirmation model of disability. We begin with a review of key literature before starting a disability analysis of Shrek by drawing parallels between the social exclusion experienced by characters within the film and the effects of social disablement identified within the social model of disability and critical disability studies. We then move beyond the social model of disability to follow the importance of interdependence and disability pride throughout Shrek as it culminates in a representation of the affirmation model of disability. Throughout this article we make parallels between monsters, ogres, freaks (as a form of the monstrous), and characters with disability. Each as constructed as having extraordinary bodies—the non-normative. Reading Monsters through a Disability Lens Critical disability studies theorists often observe the way disability is used within narratives as a metaphor for something else (Mitchell and Snyder; Quayson; Garland-Thomson Extraordinary Bodies; Garland-Thomson Freakery). For Rosemarie Garland-Thomson, this is particularly illustrative in the figure of the monster in literary narratives: the word monster — perhaps the earliest and most enduring name for a singular body — derives from the Latin monstra, meaning to warn, show, or sign, and which has given us the modern verb demonstrate. (Garland-Thomson, Freakery 3) Disability has become a defining characteristic of the monstrous body—“bodies that in their gross failure to approximate to corporeal norms are radically excluded” (Shildrick 2). The field of critical disability studies is concerned with the ways these norms are constructed to exclude certain bodies. Jobling notes that the typical figure of the ogre occurs in folklore across many cultures around the world. The ogre performs the function of “a semi-human monster who commits crimes against the ingroup. The hero triumphs over the ogre, usually by killing him” (Jobling). Ogres, depicted as inhumanly large monstrous characters who eat children, are recognisable as a source of fear. The ogre occupies an important position as a narrative prosthesis (see Mitchell and Snyder) in children’s narratives. The monster therefore exists within narratives as a representation of something else. Reading monsters through a disability lens has been well researched in the critical disability studies field. Studies show how monstrosity is represented in film through disfigurement, typically in contrast to the normative or non-disabled body (Garland-Thomson Extraordinary Bodies). Feminist theory is often applied to gain an insight into “the meanings attributed to the bodies by cultural representation and the consequences of those meanings in the world” (Garland-Thomson Extraordinary Bodies). While several critical disability critiques emphasise the negative disability stereotypes associated with representations of monsters, increasingly theorists are considering the ways these monsters problematise and critique the social construction of the normate (Smith). Martha Stoddard Holmes’s Born This Way: Reading Frankenstein with Disability is a notable example of how a monstrous character poses both a critique and representation of society. The Creature forms a “visual identity first from the stares, words, and behaviours of others". She observes “his condition of disability and resulting social exclusion are, as narrated, purely aesthetic in nature, and as such, socially constructed”. Throughout the text, the Creature exemplifies both monstrosity to be feared and vulnerability to be pitied; these are features outlined by Margrit Shildrick as concepts that underpin the non-normative body in popular culture. It is evident that the perception of monstrosity is one that is socially constructed, and is largely negative. Susan Marie Schweik suggests a relationship between this negative representation and the ugly laws. The ugly laws refer to a set of laws that prohibited ugly people from participating in society during 1860s through to 1974. The ugly laws focus on non-normative bodies, especially bodies that were disfigured. The phrasing of these laws was such that it removed the personhood of so-called ugly people. For example, in the quote “so as to be an unsightly or disgusting object, or an improper person to be allowed in or on the streets” (Schweik), the people phrasing the law objectify its subjects. These archaic ugly laws reflected a societal view that ugly people were frightening to behold, which manifests in fear of the person themselves. Thus, images of non-normative bodies in film and literature were reflected as frightening monsters. These representations described are the typical depiction of non-normative monstrous bodies. While monsters have been consistently read through a disability lens, we aim to demonstrate through this article the importance of representations such as Shrek, as they depict a move towards disability pride and an affirmative model of disability. The Affirmative Model of Disability The affirmative model was developed as part of the disability arts movement. Colin Cameron (Disability Arts 11) asserts “the affirmation model identifies impairment as an important part of people’s identities, to be owned as part of who they are, and not as something to be hidden or regarded as a source of shame". He locates the negative representations of disability in texts mentioned above as a reflection of the values and assumptions related to the medical model of disability. While the medical model positions disability as a problem within the body, the social model locates this so-called problem in society. The affirmative model builds on but also critiques the social model of disability. The social model has been criticised by feminists with disability as over-emphasising “socio-structural barriers and ignoring personal and experiential aspects of disability” (Cameron Developing an Affirmation Model 24). However, the affirmative model retains the definition of disability as being located in social structures, with the addition of a subversion of the dominant cultural narrative which views disability or impairment as inherently negative. While there are still heavily prevalent issues with stereotypes in media, and people with disability continue to be invoked in narratives of monsters a serious attempt to work with people with disability on authentic and positive representation is gaining traction. Inspired by the 2020 Oscar-nominated documentary film Crip Camp, Netflix-backed documentary filmmakers with disability organisation FWD-Doc has partnered with social impact company Doc Society to release A Toolkit for Inclusion & Accessibility to positively influence disability representation and media access (Mitchell; FWD-Doc and Doc Society). This inclusion toolkit ascribes to the affirmative model of disability and makes the following recommendations that in films: people with disability are seen as multi-dimensional characters people’s life is seen as valid and valuable there is engagement in the disability community disability pride is shown intersectionality is shown allyship is shown good-quality audio description and captioning is used disability is not seen as tragic disability is not seen as inspiring disability is not used a punchline people overcoming disability are not shown people with disability are not infantilised no ableist language is used. The following section offers a thematic analysis of Shrek that draws on FWD-Doc’s recommendations. Although almost all these recommendations are achieved in Shrek, this article will focus on the most relevant instances. Findings: Setting Up a Normative Society Due to space limitations we have focussed on the first film in the Shrek franchise in this article. However, at the time of writing this there are four films, a few TV spin-offs, and a Broadway musical production. Lacassagne, Nieguth, and Dépelteau suggest that the first three films form a trilogy based on the original book and follow a “high level of thematic unity”, which continues the reflections and critiques of cultural conventions that are outlined in this article. However the spin-offs and fourth film are suggested to have departed from this thematic structure. The opening scene of Shrek is a fairy tale book being read by a narrator. It is a typical story of a princess being rescued by a handsome knight from a dragon-guarded tower. As the story nears its end, a page of the book is torn out and we hear the narrator say, “what a load of *flushing sound*”. This introduction is setting up an expectation of a film that will subvert the norms, and the film delivers. The viewer is introduced to a multi-dimensional title character who seems joyful, proud, independent, and comfortable in himself. He has hobbies; he paints, cooks, and reads. Despite his looks, he is not at all the typical figure of the ogre. Although audiences are introduced to this proud character of Shrek, we soon see that the world he lives in does not treat him positively. Shrek encounters a group of townspeople that are coming to kill him. He tries to scare them away but they are frozen in place, gawking at him. This is indicative of Garland-Thomson’s concept of the stare referred to earlier in this article. The stare occurs when normative members of society encounter people viewed as the other, monsters, and freaks. The stare is depicted as something fascinating and potentially horrifying that compels people to be unable to look away. After encountering this representation of a society that doesn’t accept him, Shrek meets Donkey. Donkey is hiding from people who would persecute him for being different and immediately identifies Shrek as another “freak” and thus an ally. However, Shrek has a harder time accepting that someone might not immediately dismiss him as a monster. Shrek: Listen, little donkey. Take a look at me. What am I?Donkey: Uh—Really tall?Shrek: No! I’m an Ogre. You know. “Grab your torch and pitchforks.” Doesn’t that bother you?Donkey: Nope.Shrek: Really?Donkey: Really, really.Shrek: Oh.Donkey: Man, I like you. What's your name?Shrek: Uh, Shrek.Donkey: Shrek? Well, you know what I like about you, Shrek? You got that kind of I-don't-care-what-nobody-thinks-of-me thing. I like that. I respect that, Shrek. You all right. Although Shrek is comfortable in himself, he has built an opinion based on the view he takes from others. Much like Frankenstein’s monster (Stoddard Holmes), this view is aesthetic in nature and socially constructed. The viewer is then introduced to Lord Maximus Farquaad, who is a fitting representation of someone enforcing the Shrek franchise’s version of the ugly laws. Lord Farquaad frequently objectifies the “freaks”, referring to them as “it” or “that", and he claims that they are “poisoning my perfect world”. The lordship of Duloc he rules over is thus representative of normative society, with a welcoming song that claims Duloc as a “perfect town” and warning “don’t make waves, stay in line and we’ll get on just fine”. Duloc is also represented as a society that follows instructions around societal norms, this is done through the use of cue cards that are shown to the on-screen audience telling them how to react, which they follow. These cue cards also offer a commentary on the constructed nature of this perfect society. Farquaad himself is of short stature and therefore ascribes to Kumari Campbell’s observations about the construction of ability. It is only by establishing and then marginalising disability as other that ability can be understood (Kumari Campbell). Upon entering the castle, Shrek is discriminated against solely based on appearance. Guards are ordered to kill him as the crowd cheers on. However, as Shrek begins to display physical prowess in the fight, the crowd begins to cheer for him. This indicates a meritocratic society that finds value in Shrek now that he has shown himself to be skilled physically. Findings: Taking an Affirmative Stance After the film sets up this constructed normative society, Shrek and Donkey venture out and continue to disrupt the typical narrative. When Shrek accepts the quest of rescuing a princess instead of just destroying Farquaad, Donkey asks him why, and Shrek responds by describing actions of a typical ogre: “maybe I could have decapitated an entire village and put their heads on a pike”. Instead, he likens himself to an onion, because “onions have layers”, which reinforces the film’s idea that he is a multi-dimensional character. Donkey questions why he could not have used an analogy that everyone likes, such as parfaits, but Shrek explains it is not about what everyone likes. This is a notable example of an affirmative stance that values him for being multidimensional even if he is not normative. Shrek and Donkey rescue Princess Fiona from the tower. From the moment she is introduced, she says “this is all wrong” and “this isn’t how it’s supposed to happen". This sentiment can be read as an expression of the confusion the viewer is supposed to be feeling due to the subversion of the typical narrative. However, Shrek has been wearing a helmet and Fiona has not seen that he is an Ogre, meaning she is still treating him like a brave knight. When asked to take off his helmet, Shrek refuses. This is the first time we see Shrek as vulnerable or self-conscious. Shrek wants to be seen as something other than an Ogre. The journey back is long and Fiona’s character gains depth. She is portrayed as unconventional, she is not afraid of Shrek, instead she kills birds, eats rats, burps, fights off bandits, and catches bugs for him to eat. The relationship between Shrek and Fiona grows and Donkey advocates for them to be together, however Shrek is convinced that nobody could see him as anything other than an Ogre. Donkey points out that he did not. Donkey: What exactly is your problem? What do you got against the world?Shrek: I'm not the one with the problem. It’s the world that seems to have a problem. People take one look at me and go, “Aah! Help! Run! A big, stupid, ugly, Ogre!” (Sighs) They judge me before they even know me. That's why I’m better off alone.Donkey: You know? When we met, I didn’t think you were just a big, stupid, ugly, ogre.Shrek: Yeah. I know. Donkey is demonstrating how their shared experience of being “freaks” meant that he accepted his friend from the beginning. This is a notable example of disability community. Donkey then discovers Fiona turns into an Ogre at night. After his initial shock, he agrees she is “ugly” but does not show any indication that he cares about it or that it makes her any less valuable to him. This lack of a negative reaction is challenging for Fiona because she harbours self-hatred, similar to the internalised ableism prevalent in some people with disability. This internalised ableism is often based on a desire to be ‘normal’, usually due to a lack of support or exposure to the positive disability community (Blackwater). Donkey tries to help Fiona overcome this internalised stigma, but a miscommunication based on Shrek’s own internalised ableism pulls Shrek and Fiona apart. Donkey, who is quickly becoming the voice of affirmation for the other characters, is ultimately the one who implores Shrek to confront his internalised ableism, and makes him feel loved and accepted. It is important that this comes from another “freak”, as this represents the power in disability community, rather than an able-bodied hero complex that is common in film. This strength in disability community is another notable example of the affirmative model of disability. Shrek and Donkey return to Duloc to confront Farquaad and Fiona. We see more representation of a normative society; the cue cards are present again, illustrating the constructed nature of normative society. Farquaad alludes again to the ugly laws of the lordship he rules over when he states “it’s rude enough being alive when no one wants you” to Shrek. When Fiona reveals herself to be an Ogre, Farquaad immediately rejects her, but she has already found community and affirmation with Shrek. Rather than being defeated by the now-hero Shrek, Farquaad is eaten by Dragon who is subverting the monstrous archetype of the dragon, instead being the ultimate defeater (Lacassagne, Nieguth, and Dépelteau). The crowd claps, indicating it was merely going along with the normative societal views that had been enforced on the community. A final rebellion against the normative society is indicated when the guard crosses out the cue card and writes “aww” in response to Shrek and Fiona’s first kiss. Shrek: Fiona? Fiona. Are you all right?Fiona: Well, yes. But I don’t understand. I’m supposed to be beautiful.Shrek: But you are beautiful. The conclusion is perhaps one of the most poignant representations of the affirmative model. Shrek and Fiona end up back at their swamp where they are free to be Ogres, surrounded by other “freaks” as well as non-freak allies they’ve made along the way. They are flourishing in their proud community, surrounded by intersectional creatures. Although the first Shrek movie is a story about overcoming, it is not about people overcoming their monstrosity/disability. Instead, the film is about people overcoming societal and internalised views that disable them, and embracing a community that takes pride in difference. Conclusion Within critical disability studies, monsters are recognised as existing in the realm of hyper-representation. They are used within narratives to represent and reveal something else. As Garland-Thomson explains, monsters take on a semantic distinction to demonstrate the non-normative body. The ogre in children’s literature and popular culture is a monstrous figure used as a narrative prosthesis to incite fear. Shrek, however, takes this construction of the monster and subverts it to critique the construction of normative characters and societies in children’s narratives. To make this critique, the film draws on the affirmative model of disability and embraces disability pride through the personal journeys of its lead characters Shrek, Donkey and Fiona. References Blackwater, Amelia. “Disability Community – Our Internalised Ableism.” Deafness Forum of Australia 2020. 23 July 2021. <https://www.disabilityaustraliahub.com.au/disability-community-our-internalised-ableism>. Cameron, Colin. “Developing an Affirmation Model of Impairment and Disability.” 2013. ———. “Disability Arts: The Building of Critical Community Politics and Identity.” Politics, Power and Community Development (2016): 199. FWD-Doc, and Doc Society. A Toolkit for Inclusion & Accessibility: Changing the Narrative of Disability in Documentary Film. London: FWD-Doc. Feb. 2021. 2 Aug. 2021 <https://static1.squarespace.com/static/5dd1c2b5a0f7a568485cbedd/t/602d4708d39c1d1154d0902a/1613581716771/FWD-Doc+Toolkit+small.pdf>. Garland-Thomson, Rosemarie. Extraordinary Bodies: Figuring Physical Disability in American Culture and Literature. New York: Columbia University Press, 1997. ———. Freakery : Cultural Spectacles of the Extraordinary Body. New York: New York University Press, 1996. ———. “The Politics of Staring: Visual Rhetorics of Disability in Popular Photography.” Disability Studies: Enabling the Humanities. Eds. Sharon L. Snyder, Brenda Jo Brueggemann, and Rosemarie Garland-Thomson. New York: Modern Language Association of America, 2002. 56–75. . Jobling, Ian. “The Psychological Foundations of the Hero-Ogre Story: A Cross-Cultural Study.” Human Nature 12.3 (2001): 247–272. 2 Aug. 2021 <https://doi.org/10.1007/s12110-001-1009-7>. Kafer, Alison. Feminist, Queer, Crip. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2013. Kumari Campbell, Fiona. Contours of Ableism: The Production of Disability and Abledness New York: Palgrave Macmillan 2009. Lacassagne, Aurélie, Tim Nieguth, and François Dépelteau, eds. Investigating Shrek : Power, Identity, and Ideology. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011. Mitchell, David, and Sharon Snyder. Narrative Prosthesis: Disability and the Dependencies of Discourse. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2000. Mitchell, Wendy. “DocSociety, Netflix Launch Groundbreaking Disability and Inclusion Toolkit (Exclusive).” ScreenDaily 25 Feb. 2021. Quayson, Ato. Aesthetic Nervousness : Disability and the Crisis of Representation. New York: Columbia University Press, 2007. Schweik, Susan M. The Ugly Laws: Disability in Public. New York: New York University, 2009. Shildrick, Margrit. Embodying the Monster: Encounters with the Vulnerable Self. London: Sage, 2002. Smith, Angela. Hideous Progeny: Disability, Eugenics, and Classic Horror Cinema. West Sussex: Columbia University Press, 2012. Steig, William. Shrek! New York: Farrar, Straus and Grioux, 1990. Stoddard Holmes, Martha. “Born This Way: Reading Frankenstein with Disability.” Literature and Medicine 36.2 (2018): 372–387. Swain, John, and Sally French. “Towards an Affirmation Model of Disability.” Disability & Society 15.4 (2000): 569–582. Taylor, Amanda. “Shrek’s Portrayal of Disability.” Disability in Children’s Literature 5 May 2017. 13 July 2021 <https://disabilityinchildrenslit.wordpress.com/2017/05/05/shreks-portrayal-of-disability>. Thomson, Rosemarie Garland. Extraordinary Bodies: Figuring Physical Disability in American Culture and Literature. New York: Columbia University Press, 2017.

Biology teaches us that organisms adapt—or don’t; sociology claims that people adapt—or don’t. We know that ideas can adapt; sometimes even institutions can adapt. Or not. Various papers in this issue attest in exciting ways to precisely such adaptations and maladaptations. (See, for example, the articles in this issue by Lelia Green, Leesa Bonniface, and Tami McMahon, by Lexey A. Bartlett, and by Debra Ferreday.) Adaptation is a part of nature and culture, but it’s the latter alone that interests me here. (However, see the article by Hutcheon and Bortolotti for a discussion of nature and culture together.) It’s no news to anyone that not only adaptations, but all art is bred of other art, though sometimes artists seem to get carried away. My favourite example of excess of association or attribution can be found in the acknowledgements page to a verse drama called Beatrice Chancy by the self-defined “maximalist” (not minimalist) poet, novelist, librettist, and critic, George Elliot Clarke. His selected list of the incarnations of the story of Beatrice Cenci, a sixteenth-century Italian noblewoman put to death for the murder of her father, includes dramas, romances, chronicles, screenplays, parodies, sculptures, photographs, and operas: dramas by Vincenzo Pieracci (1816), Percy Bysshe Shelley (1819), Juliusz Slowacki (1843), Waldter Landor (1851), Antonin Artaud (1935) and Alberto Moravia (1958); the romances by Francesco Guerrazi (1854), Henri Pierangeli (1933), Philip Lindsay (1940), Frederic Prokosch (1955) and Susanne Kircher (1976); the chronicles by Stendhal (1839), Mary Shelley (1839), Alexandre Dumas, père (1939-40), Robert Browning (1864), Charles Swinburne (1883), Corrado Ricci (1923), Sir Lionel Cust (1929), Kurt Pfister (1946) and Irene Mitchell (1991); the film/screenplay by Bertrand Tavernier and Colo O’Hagan (1988); the parody by Kathy Acker (1993); the sculpture by Harriet Hosmer (1857); the photograph by Julia Ward Cameron (1866); and the operas by Guido Pannain (1942), Berthold Goldschmidt (1951, 1995) and Havergal Brian (1962). (Beatrice Chancy, 152) He concludes the list with: “These creators have dallied with Beatrice Cenci, but I have committed indiscretions” (152). An “intertextual feast”, by Clarke’s own admission, this rewriting of Beatrice’s story—especially Percy Bysshe Shelley’s own verse play, The Cenci—illustrates brilliantly what Northrop Frye offered as the first principle of the production of literature: “literature can only derive its form from itself” (15). But in the last several decades, what has come to be called intertextuality theory has shifted thinking away from looking at this phenomenon from the point of view of authorial influences on the writing of literature (and works like Harold Bloom’s famous study of the Anxiety of Influence) and toward considering our readerly associations with literature, the connections we (not the author) make—as we read. We, the readers, have become “empowered”, as we say, and we’ve become the object of academic study in our own right. Among the many associations we inevitably make, as readers, is with adaptations of the literature we read, be it of Jane Austin novels or Beowulf. Some of us may have seen the 2006 rock opera of Beowulf done by the Irish Repertory Theatre; others await the new Neil Gaiman animated film. Some may have played the Beowulf videogame. I personally plan to miss the upcoming updated version that makes Beowulf into the son of an African explorer. But I did see Sturla Gunnarsson’s Beowulf and Grendel film, and yearned to see the comic opera at the Lincoln Centre Festival in 2006 called Grendel, the Transcendence of the Great Big Bad. I am not really interested in whether these adaptations—all in the last year or so—signify Hollywood’s need for a new “monster of the week” or are just the sign of a desire to cash in on the success of The Lord of the Rings. For all I know they might well act as an ethical reminder of the human in the alien in a time of global strife (see McGee, A4). What interests me is the impact these multiple adaptations can have on the reader of literature as well as on the production of literature. Literature, like painting, is usually thought of as what Nelson Goodman (114) calls a one-stage art form: what we read (like what we see on a canvas) is what is put there by the originating artist. Several major consequences follow from this view. First, the implication is that the work is thus an original and new creation by that artist. However, even the most original of novelists—like Salman Rushdie—are the first to tell you that stories get told and retold over and over. Indeed his controversial novel, The Satanic Verses, takes this as a major theme. Works like the Thousand and One Nights are crucial references in all of his work. As he writes in Haroun and the Sea of Stories: “no story comes from nowhere; new stories are born of old” (86). But illusion of originality is only one of the implications of seeing literature as a one-stage art form. Another is the assumption that what the writer put on paper is what we read. But entire doctoral programs in literary production and book history have been set up to study how this is not the case, in fact. Editors influence, even change, what authors want to write. Designers control how we literally see the work of literature. Beatrice Chancy’s bookend maps of historical Acadia literally frame how we read the historical story of the title’s mixed-race offspring of an African slave and a white slave owner in colonial Nova Scotia in 1801. Media interest or fashion or academic ideological focus may provoke a publisher to foreground in the physical presentation different elements of a text like this—its stress on race, or gender, or sexuality. The fact that its author won Canada’s Governor General’s Award for poetry might mean that the fact that this is a verse play is emphasised. If the book goes into a second edition, will a new preface get added, changing the framework for the reader once again? As Katherine Larson has convincingly shown, the paratextual elements that surround a work of literature like this one become a major site of meaning generation. What if literature were not a one-stage an art form at all? What if it were, rather, what Goodman calls “two-stage” (114)? What if we accept that other artists, other creators, are needed to bring it to life—editors, publishers, and indeed readers? In a very real and literal sense, from our (audience) point of view, there may be no such thing as a one-stage art work. Just as the experience of literature is made possible for readers by the writer, in conjunction with a team of professional and creative people, so, arguably all art needs its audience to be art; the un-interpreted, un-experienced art work is not worth calling art. Goodman resists this move to considering literature a two-stage art, not at all sure that readings are end products the way that performance works are (114). Plays, films, television shows, or operas would be his prime examples of two-stage arts. In each of these, a text (a playtext, a screenplay, a score, a libretto) is moved from page to stage or screen and given life, by an entire team of creative individuals: directors, actors, designers, musicians, and so on. Literary adaptations to the screen or stage are usually considered as yet another form of this kind of transcription or transposition of a written text to a performance medium. But the verbal move from the “book” to the diminutive “libretto” (in Italian, little book or booklet) is indicative of a view that sees adaptation as a step downward, a move away from a primary literary “source”. In fact, an entire negative rhetoric of “infidelity” has developed in both journalistic reviewing and academic discourse about adaptations, and it is a morally loaded rhetoric that I find surprising in its intensity. Here is the wonderfully critical description of that rhetoric by the king of film adaptation critics, Robert Stam: Terms like “infidelity,” “betrayal,” “deformation,” “violation,” “bastardisation,” “vulgarisation,” and “desecration” proliferate in adaptation discourse, each word carrying its specific charge of opprobrium. “Infidelity” carries overtones of Victorian prudishness; “betrayal” evokes ethical perfidy; “bastardisation” connotes illegitimacy; “deformation” implies aesthetic disgust and monstrosity; “violation” calls to mind sexual violence; “vulgarisation” conjures up class degradation; and “desecration” intimates religious sacrilege and blasphemy. (3) I join many others today, like Stam, in challenging the persistence of this fidelity discourse in adaptation studies, thereby providing yet another example of what, in his article here called “The Persistence of Fidelity: Adaptation Theory Today,” John Connor has called the “fidelity reflex”—the call to end an obsession with fidelity as the sole criterion for judging the success of an adaptation. But here I want to come at this same issue of the relation of adaptation to the adapted text from another angle. When considering an adaptation of a literary work, there are other reasons why the literary “source” text might be privileged. Literature has historical priority as an art form, Stam claims, and so in some people’s eyes will always be superior to other forms. But does it actually have priority? What about even earlier performative forms like ritual and song? Or to look forward, instead of back, as Tim Barker urges us to do in his article here, what about the new media’s additions to our repertoire with the advent of electronic technology? How can we retain this hierarchy of artistic forms—with literature inevitably on top—in a world like ours today? How can both the Romantic ideology of original genius and the capitalist notion of individual authorship hold up in the face of the complex reality of the production of literature today (as well as in the past)? (In “Amen to That: Sampling and Adapting the Past”, Steve Collins shows how digital technology has changed the possibilities of musical creativity in adapting/sampling.) Like many other ages before our own, adaptation is rampant today, as director Spike Jonze and screenwriter Charlie Kaufman clearly realised in creating Adaptation, their meta-cinematic illustration-as-send-up film about adaptation. But rarely has a culture denigrated the adapter as a secondary and derivative creator as much as we do the screenwriter today—as Jonze explores with great irony. Michelle McMerrin and Sergio Rizzo helpfully explain in their pieces here that one of the reasons for this is the strength of auteur theory in film criticism. But we live in a world in which works of literature have been turned into more than films. We now have literary adaptations in the forms of interactive new media works and videogames; we have theme parks; and of course, we have the more common television series, radio and stage plays, musicals, dance works, and operas. And, of course, we now have novelisations of films—and they are not given the respect that originary novels are given: it is the adaptation as adaptation that is denigrated, as Deborah Allison shows in “Film/Print: Novelisations and Capricorn One”. Adaptations across media are inevitably fraught, and for complex and multiple reasons. The financing and distribution issues of these widely different media alone inevitably challenge older capitalist models. The need or desire to appeal to a global market has consequences for adaptations of literature, especially with regard to its regional and historical specificities. These particularities are what usually get adapted or “indigenised” for new audiences—be they the particularities of the Spanish gypsy Carmen (see Ioana Furnica, “Subverting the ‘Good, Old Tune’”), those of the Japanese samurai genre (see Kevin P. Eubanks, “Becoming-Samurai: Samurai [Films], Kung-Fu [Flicks] and Hip-Hop [Soundtracks]”), of American hip hop graffiti (see Kara-Jane Lombard, “‘To Us Writers, the Differences Are Obvious’: The Adaptation of Hip Hop Graffiti to an Australian Context”) or of Jane Austen’s fiction (see Suchitra Mathur, “From British ‘Pride’ to Indian ‘Bride’: Mapping the Contours of a Globalised (Post?)Colonialism”). What happens to the literary text that is being adapted, often multiple times? Rather than being displaced by the adaptation (as is often feared), it most frequently gets a new life: new editions of the book appear, with stills from the movie adaptation on its cover. But if I buy and read the book after seeing the movie, I read it differently than I would have before I had seen the film: in effect, the book, not the adaptation, has become the second and even secondary text for me. And as I read, I can only “see” characters as imagined by the director of the film; the cinematic version has taken over, has even colonised, my reader’s imagination. The literary “source” text, in my readerly, experiential terms, becomes the secondary work. It exists on an experiential continuum, in other words, with its adaptations. It may have been created before, but I only came to know it after. What if I have read the literary work first, and then see the movie? In my imagination, I have already cast the characters: I know what Gabriel and Gretta Conroy of James Joyce’s story, “The Dead,” look and sound like—in my imagination, at least. Then along comes John Huston’s lush period piece cinematic adaptation and the director superimposes his vision upon mine; his forcibly replaces mine. But, in this particular case, Huston still arguably needs my imagination, or at least my memory—though he may not have realised it fully in making the film. When, in a central scene in the narrative, Gabriel watches his wife listening, moved, to the singing of the Irish song, “The Lass of Aughrim,” what we see on screen is a concerned, intrigued, but in the end rather blank face: Gabriel doesn’t alter his expression as he listens and watches. His expression may not change—but I know exactly what he is thinking. Huston does not tell us; indeed, without the use of voice-over, he cannot. And since the song itself is important, voice-over is impossible. But I know exactly what he is thinking: I’ve read the book. I fill in the blank, so to speak. Gabriel looks at Gretta and thinks: There was grace and mystery in her attitude as if she were a symbol of something. He asked himself what is a woman standing on the stairs in the shadow, listening to distant music, a symbol of. If he were a painter he would paint her in that attitude. … Distant Music he would call the picture if he were a painter. (210) A few pages later the narrator will tell us: At last she turned towards them and Gabriel saw that there was colour on her cheeks and that her eyes were shining. A sudden tide of joy went leaping out of his heart. (212) This joy, of course, puts him in a very different—disastrously different—state of mind than his wife, who (we later learn) is remembering a young man who sang that song to her when she was a girl—and who died, for love of her. I know this—because I’ve read the book. Watching the movie, I interpret Gabriel’s blank expression in this knowledge. Just as the director’s vision can colonise my visual and aural imagination, so too can I, as reader, supplement the film’s silence with the literary text’s inner knowledge. The question, of course, is: should I have to do so? Because I have read the book, I will. But what if I haven’t read the book? Will I substitute my own ideas, from what I’ve seen in the rest of the film, or from what I’ve experienced in my own life? Filmmakers always have to deal with this problem, of course, since the camera is resolutely externalising, and actors must reveal their inner worlds through bodily gesture or facial expression for the camera to record and for the spectator to witness and comprehend. But film is not only a visual medium: it uses music and sound, and it also uses words—spoken words within the dramatic situation, words overheard on the street, on television, but also voice-over words, spoken by a narrating figure. Stephen Dedalus escapes from Ireland at the end of Joseph Strick’s 1978 adaptation of Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man with the same words as he does in the novel, where they appear as Stephen’s diary entry: Amen. So be it. Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race. … Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead. (253) The words from the novel also belong to the film as film, with its very different story, less about an artist than about a young Irishman finally able to escape his family, his religion and his country. What’s deliberately NOT in the movie is the irony of Joyce’s final, benign-looking textual signal to his reader: Dublin, 1904 Trieste, 1914 The first date is the time of Stephen’s leaving Dublin—and the time of his return, as we know from the novel Ulysses, the sequel, if you like, to this novel. The escape was short-lived! Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man has an ironic structure that has primed its readers to expect not escape and triumph but something else. Each chapter of the novel has ended on this kind of personal triumphant high; the next has ironically opened with Stephen mired in the mundane and in failure. Stephen’s final words in both film and novel remind us that he really is an Icarus figure, following his “Old father, old artificer”, his namesake, Daedalus. And Icarus, we recall, takes a tumble. In the novel version, we are reminded that this is the portrait of the artist “as a young man”—later, in 1914, from the distance of Trieste (to which he has escaped) Joyce, writing this story, could take some ironic distance from his earlier persona. There is no such distance in the film version. However, it stands alone, on its own; Joyce’s irony is not appropriate in Strick’s vision. His is a different work, with its own message and its own, considerably more romantic and less ironic power. Literary adaptations are their own things—inspired by, based on an adapted text but something different, something other. I want to argue that these works adapted from literature are now part of our readerly experience of that literature, and for that reason deserve the same attention we give to the literary, and not only the same attention, but also the same respect. I am a literarily trained person. People like me who love words, already love plays, but shouldn’t we also love films—and operas, and musicals, and even videogames? There is no need to denigrate words that are heard (and visualised) in order to privilege words that are read. Works of literature can have afterlives in their adaptations and translations, just as they have pre-lives, in terms of influences and models, as George Eliot Clarke openly allows in those acknowledgements to Beatrice Chancy. I want to return to that Canadian work, because it raises for me many of the issues about adaptation and language that I see at the core of our literary distrust of the move away from the written, printed text. I ended my recent book on adaptation with a brief examination of this work, but I didn’t deal with this particular issue of language. So I want to return to it, as to unfinished business. Clarke is, by the way, clear in the verse drama as well as in articles and interviews that among the many intertexts to Beatrice Chancy, the most important are slave narratives, especially one called Celia, a Slave, and Shelley’s play, The Cenci. Both are stories of mistreated and subordinated women who fight back. Since Clarke himself has written at length about the slave narratives, I’m going to concentrate here on Shelley’s The Cenci. The distance from Shelley’s verse play to Clarke’s verse play is a temporal one, but it is also geographic and ideological one: from the old to the new world, and from a European to what Clarke calls an “Africadian” (African Canadian/African Acadian) perspective. Yet both poets were writing political protest plays against unjust authority and despotic power. And they have both become plays that are more read than performed—a sad fate, according to Clarke, for two works that are so concerned with voice. We know that Shelley sought to calibrate the stylistic registers of his work with various dramatic characters and effects to create a modern “mixed” style that was both a return to the ancients and offered a new drama of great range and flexibility where the expression fits what is being expressed (see Bruhn). His polemic against eighteenth-century European dramatic conventions has been seen as leading the way for realist drama later in the nineteenth century, with what has been called its “mixed style mimesis” (Bruhn) Clarke’s adaptation does not aim for Shelley’s perfect linguistic decorum. It mixes the elevated and the biblical with the idiomatic and the sensual—even the vulgar—the lushly poetic with the coarsely powerful. But perhaps Shelley’s idea of appropriate language fits, after all: Beatrice Chancy is a woman of mixed blood—the child of a slave woman and her slave owner; she has been educated by her white father in a convent school. Sometimes that educated, elevated discourse is heard; at other times, she uses the variety of discourses operative within slave society—from religious to colloquial. But all the time, words count—as in all printed and oral literature. Clarke’s verse drama was given a staged reading in Toronto in 1997, but the story’s, if not the book’s, real second life came when it was used as the basis for an opera libretto. Actually the libretto commission came first (from Queen of Puddings Theatre in Toronto), and Clarke started writing what was to be his first of many opera texts. Constantly frustrated by the art form’s demands for concision, he found himself writing two texts at once—a short libretto and a longer, five-act tragic verse play to be published separately. Since it takes considerably longer to sing than to speak (or read) a line of text, the composer James Rolfe keep asking for cuts—in the name of economy (too many singers), because of clarity of action for audience comprehension, or because of sheer length. Opera audiences have to sit in a theatre for a fixed length of time, unlike readers who can put a book down and return to it later. However, what was never sacrificed to length or to the demands of the music was the language. In fact, the double impact of the powerful mixed language and the equally potent music, increases the impact of the literary text when performed in its operatic adaptation. Here is the verse play version of the scene after Beatrice’s rape by her own father, Francis Chancey: I was black but comely. Don’t glance Upon me. This flesh is crumbling Like proved lies. I’m perfumed, ruddied Carrion. Assassinated. Screams of mucking juncos scrawled Over the chapel and my nerves, A stickiness, as when he finished Maculating my thighs and dress. My eyes seep pus; I can’t walk: the floors Are tizzy, dented by stout mauling. Suddenly I would like poison. The flesh limps from my spine. My inlets crimp. Vultures flutter, ghastly, without meaning. I can see lice swarming the air. … His scythe went shick shick shick and slashed My flowers; they lay, murdered, in heaps. (90) The biblical and the violent meet in the texture of the language. And none of that power gets lost in the opera adaptation, despite cuts and alterations for easier aural comprehension. I was black but comely. Don’t look Upon me: this flesh is dying. I’m perfumed, bleeding carrion, My eyes weep pus, my womb’s sopping With tears; I can hardly walk: the floors Are tizzy, the sick walls tumbling, Crumbling like proved lies. His scythe went shick shick shick and cut My flowers; they lay in heaps, murdered. (95) Clarke has said that he feels the libretto is less “literary” in his words than the verse play, for it removes the lines of French, Latin, Spanish and Italian that pepper the play as part of the author’s critique of the highly educated planter class in Nova Scotia: their education did not guarantee ethical behaviour (“Adaptation” 14). I have not concentrated on the music of the opera, because I wanted to keep the focus on the language. But I should say that the Rolfe’s score is as historically grounded as Clarke’s libretto: it is rooted in African Canadian music (from ring shouts to spirituals to blues) and in Scottish fiddle music and local reels of the time, not to mention bel canto Italian opera. However, the music consciously links black and white traditions in a way that Clarke’s words and story refuse: they remain stubbornly separate, set in deliberate tension with the music’s resolution. Beatrice will murder her father, and, at the very moment that Nova Scotia slaves are liberated, she and her co-conspirators will be hanged for that murder. Unlike the printed verse drama, the shorter opera libretto functions like a screenplay, if you will. It is not so much an autonomous work unto itself, but it points toward a potential enactment or embodiment in performance. Yet, even there, Clarke cannot resist the lure of words—even though they are words that no audience will ever hear. The stage directions for Act 3, scene 2 of the opera read: “The garden. Slaves, sunflowers, stars, sparks” (98). The printed verse play is full of these poetic associative stage directions, suggesting that despite his protestations to the contrary, Clarke may have thought of that version as one meant to be read by the eye. After Beatrice’s rape, the stage directions read: “A violin mopes. Invisible shovelsful of dirt thud upon the scene—as if those present were being buried alive—like ourselves” (91). Our imaginations—and emotions—go to work, assisted by the poet’s associations. There are many such textual helpers—epigraphs, photographs, notes—that we do not have when we watch and listen to the opera. We do have the music, the staged drama, the colours and sounds as well as the words of the text. As Clarke puts the difference: “as a chamber opera, Beatrice Chancy has ascended to television broadcast. But as a closet drama, it play only within the reader’s head” (“Adaptation” 14). Clarke’s work of literature, his verse drama, is a “situated utterance, produced in one medium and in one historical and social context,” to use Robert Stam’s terms. In the opera version, it was transformed into another “equally situated utterance, produced in a different context and relayed through a different medium” (45-6). I want to argue that both are worthy of study and respect by wordsmiths, by people like me. I realise I’ve loaded the dice: here neither the verse play nor the libretto is primary; neither is really the “source” text, for they were written at the same time and by the same person. But for readers and audiences (my focus and interest here), they exist on a continuum—depending on which we happen to experience first. As Ilana Shiloh explores here, the same is true about the short story and film of Memento. I am not alone in wanting to mount a defence of adaptations. Julie Sanders ends her new book called Adaptation and Appropriation with these words: “Adaptation and appropriation … are, endlessly and wonderfully, about seeing things come back to us in as many forms as possible” (160). The storytelling imagination is an adaptive mechanism—whether manifesting itself in print or on stage or on screen. The study of the production of literature should, I would like to argue, include those other forms taken by that storytelling drive. If I can be forgiven a move to the amusing—but still serious—in concluding, Terry Pratchett puts it beautifully in his fantasy story, Witches Abroad: “Stories, great flapping ribbons of shaped space-time, have been blowing and uncoiling around the universe since the beginning of time. And they have evolved. The weakest have died and the strongest have survived and they have grown fat on the retelling.” In biology as in culture, adaptations reign. References Bloom, Harold. The Anxiety of Influence. New York: Oxford University Press, 1975. Bruhn, Mark J. “’Prodigious Mixtures and Confusions Strange’: The Self-Subverting Mixed Style of The Cenci.” Poetics Today 22.4 (2001). Clarke, George Elliott. “Beatrice Chancy: A Libretto in Four Acts.” Canadian Theatre Review 96 (1998): 62-79. ———. Beatrice Chancy. Victoria, BC: Polestar, 1999. ———. “Adaptation: Love or Cannibalism? Some Personal Observations”, unpublished manuscript of article. Frye, Northrop. The Educated Imagination. Toronto: CBC, 1963. Goodman, Nelson. Languages of Art: An Approach to a Theory of Symbols. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1968. Hutcheon, Linda, and Gary R. Bortolotti. “On the Origin of Adaptations: Rethinking Fidelity Discourse and “Success”—Biologically.” New Literary History. Forthcoming. Joyce, James. Dubliners. 1916. New York: Viking, 1967. ———. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. 1916. Penguin: Harmondsworth, 1960. Larson, Katherine. “Resistance from the Margins in George Elliott Clarke’s Beatrice Chancy.” Canadian Literature 189 (2006): 103-118. McGee, Celia. “Beowulf on Demand.” New York Times, Arts and Leisure. 30 April 2006. A4. Rushdie, Salman. The Satanic Verses. New York: Viking, 1988. ———. Haroun and the Sea of Stories. London: Granta/Penguin, 1990. Sanders, Julie. Adaptation and Appropriation. London and New York: Routledge, 160. Shelley, Percy Bysshe. The Cenci. Ed. George Edward Woodberry. Boston and London: Heath, 1909. Stam, Robert. “Introduction: The Theory and Practice of Adaptation.” Literature and Film: A Guide to the Theory and Practice of Film Adaptation. Oxford: Blackwell, 2005. 1-52. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Hutcheon, Linda. "In Defence of Literary Adaptation as Cultural Production." M/C Journal 10.2 (2007). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0705/01-hutcheon.php>. APA Style Hutcheon, L. (May 2007) "In Defence of Literary Adaptation as Cultural Production," M/C Journal, 10(2). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0705/01-hutcheon.php>.

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