Academic literature on the topic 'Citations anciennes'

This article questions the widely held assumption that the received Mengzi (Mencius) was composed by an author or authors familiar with the Lunyu (Analects). After reviewing the history of the association between Kongzi (Confucius) and Mengzi and between the Lunyu and Mengzi, it summarizes the case against the traditional dating of the Lunyu to argue for a reevaluation of the “Lunyu→Mengzi nexus.” It then analyzes Lunyu parallels in the Mengzi to show that those parallels do not establish the Mengzi authors’ familiarity with a Lunyu text. The next section on the dating of the Mengzi examines early Mengzi quotations to suggest that the text may not have been fixed until the Eastern Han period, in which case some Lunyu parallels in the Mengzi might reflect a Han milieu. A final section considers the implications of a Mengzi→Lunyu nexus for the study of early Chinese thought. Cet article met en question l’opinion extrêmement répandue selon laquelle le texte reçu du Mengzi (Mencius) aurait été composé par un ou plusieurs auteurs familiers du Lunyu (Analectes). Après avoir passé en revue l’histoire de l’association entre Kongzi (Con­fu­cius) et Mengzi et entre le Lunyu et le Mengzi, l’auteur récapitule les arguments allant à ­l’encontre de la datation traditionnelle du Lunyu et argumente en faveur d’une réévaluation de la “connexion Lunyu→Mengzi”. Il analyse ensuite les parallèles avec le Lunyu dans le Mengzi et montre que ceux-ci ne prouvent pas que les auteurs du Mengzi aient été au fait d’une quelconque version du Lunyu. La section suivante, sur la datation du Mengzi, s’intéresse aux citations anciennes du Mengzi et suggère que le texte n’a pu être fixé avant la période des Han Orientaux, auquel cas certains parallèles avec le Lunyu dans le Mengzi pourraient refléter un contexte Han. La section finale examine les implications de la connexion Lunyu→Mengzi pour l’étude de la pensée chinoise ancienne.

Les citations coraniques figurant dans les documents papyrologiques légaux et privés n’ont pas suffisamment attiré l’attention des spécialistes du Coran qui les intègrent rarement dans leur recherche. Dans cette perspective nous nous sommes intéressé aux deux versets de la sourate 65 cités dans une lettre familiale datée du tout début du iie siècle de l’hégire : « Man yattaqi Llāha yaǧʿal lahu [min amrihi] maḫraǧan (2) wa-yarzuqhu min ḥayṯu lā yaḥtasibu (3) ». Au regard de cette date qui se trouve être l’une des plus reculées qu’ait porté un document mentionnant des passages coraniques, s’est imposée à nous l’éventualité d’une lecture coranique excentrique, probablement abandonnée par la codification ultérieure du Coran. Tout en tenant compte du contexte discursif de la citation, cette étude s’efforce de vérifier cette hypothèse en recourant aussi bien aux sources traditionnelles traitant des sciences coraniques (tafsīr, qirāʾāt, asbāb al-nuzūl, etc.) qu’aux dernières publications des fragments du Coran récemment mis au jour.

À partir de démarches récentes, mais aussi de pratiques plus anciennes, cet article interroge la notion de répertoire en étendant son acception dramatique d’usage à une application scénique. Au théâtre, comme à l’opéra, en danse et dans la performance, il est des gestes artistiques et des processus créateurs qui, étroitement liés aux notions voisines de reprise, de variation, de citation et, désormais, de reenactment, permettent de valider l’hypothèse que ne revient pas au seul texte l’apanage de se constituer en mémoire – une mémoire vive, susceptible d’être ranimée et rejouée, c’est-à-dire interprétée.

Comment écrire pour le clavecin seul aujourd’hui ? Plus d’un siècle après sa redécouverte, celui-ci est ancré dans son répertoire ancien. En se mettant à la création d’une oeuvre pour cet instrument, le compositeur exprime un certain regard sur l’histoire de la musique en général et de cet instrument en particulier. Le Tombeau de Rameau de Gérard Pesson interroge l’enjeu de l’hommage à travers l’écriture pour cet instrument historique. Excluant l’emploi de la citation directe, c’est par l’intégration intime de techniques d’écriture et de genres anciens que Gérard Pesson incorpore l’histoire à son oeuvre.

« Tout cela pour souligner que si la monnaie, comme il apparaît, est née non point comme l'instrument de mesure arithmétique de la valeur des biens échangés dans le commerce, mais d'abord comme un élément de rapports sociaux où le quantitatif n'était au fond qu'un aspect matériel de rapports irrationnels de puissance, puis comme un instrument, parmi d'autres, de codification de ces rapports, elle n'a pas pu ne point conserver à travers toute son histoire, un reflet de cette irrationalité des structures sociologiques primitives ». Cette citation d'Edouard Will, placée en exergue à la contribution d'André Orléan, résume assez bien les intentions du collectif qui a signé cet ouvrage. Leur objectif est en effet de montrer que la monnaie n'est pas le produit de processus exclusivement liés à l'échange marchand et à la mesure des valeurs, comme le prétend la pensée économique orthodoxe. De son aveu même, cette dernière ne comprend pas grand-chose au fait monétaire et, du coup, elle a tendance à n'accorder qu'un rôle mineur — ou pour mieux dire transparent — à la monnaie. Les auteurs de La monnaie souveraine entendent au contraire montrer que la monnaie est au sens fort une institution humaine, ce qui signifie à la fois qu'elle est toujours le reflet d'une certaine totalité sociale et qu'elle intègre des composantes que les auteurs qualifient d'irrationnelles. De ce fait, une analyse pertinente de la monnaie, actuelle ou ancienne, ne peut pas être qu'économique. Bien plus, même pour un économiste, un point de vue sur la monnaie suppose que le chercheur se situe d'abord à l'extérieur de sa discipline, exigence fortement rappelée dès l'introduction : « La monnaie n'est pas une entité économique, y compris dans nos sociétés, car elle est ce par quoi l'économique est pensable, ce qui ne peut se faire que d'un ailleurs non économique » (p. 20).

When we begin the task of telling time in the Fourth Gospel, we bring something not found in any previous study, namely, a model of time articulated by cross- ultural anthropologists (Bordieu, in Pitt-Rivers 1963:55-72, Ayoade, in Wright 1984:71-89). As much as we admire Davies’ study, she has no notes to her chapter on time nor any citations in her bibliography to indicate that she has any conversation partners, much less cultural experts, a deficit to be filled in this study. Learning to tell time entails three theoretical considerations: a definition of time, key classifications of it, and special attention to what the ancients meant by past, present and future. With these lenses we are prepared to do as thorough a study as we can on telling time in the Fourth Gospel. As we consider each classification, we will suggest a brief meaning of it from the experts on time, then present a body of Greco-Roman materials illustrative of the classification, and finally use it to gather and interpret data in John. Proving the native existence of these classifications for telling time in antiquity is essential for readers to have a background against which to compare their usage with that of the Fourth Gospel.

L’expression « procréation médicalement assistée (PMA) » est utilisée pour désigner les techniques médicales permettant la manipulation des gamètes – ovules et sperme – hors du corps humain dans le but d’engendrer un nouvel être humain, et, par extension, le domaine de la médecine qui a pour but de traiter l’infertilité. Les techniques de base comprennent l’insémination de sperme, la fécondation in vitro (FIV), ainsi que la congélation de gamètes ou d’embryons. En ouvrant les processus biologiques de la procréation à l’intervention médicale et à la contribution biologique de tiers – par exemple dans le don de sperme, d’ovules ou la grossesse pour autrui (GPA) – elles ouvrent des possibilités inédites de division du travail reproductif. On parle également de Nouvelles Techniques de Reproduction (NTR) (Tain 2015) ou de Techniques de Reproduction Assistée (TRA) en référence au terme anglais Assisted Reproductive Technologies (ART) (Courduriès et Herbrand 2014) pour désigner ces techniques. Depuis la naissance du premier « bébé éprouvette » en 1978 en Grande-Bretagne, leur liste ne cesse de s’étendre, marquant ainsi une technologisation croissante des processus de création de la vie humaine, mais également sa normalisation et standardisation (Franklin 2013a), ainsi que son inscription dans un marché globalisé de la procréation en pleine expansion (Waldby et Mitchell 2006). Dès ses débuts, l’anthropologie s’est intéressée aux différentes représentations qui entourent la création de la vie, ainsi qu’à son organisation sociale et à sa régulation. Cet intérêt s’est manifesté dans l’étude de la parenté, domaine ayant occupé une place centrale dans la discipline au point qu’il en est devenu un emblème. Dès les travaux de Lewis Henry Morgan (1871) sur les systèmes de parenté et la distinction qu’il établit entre systèmes classificatoires et descriptifs, on trouve les traces d’un questionnement sur ce qui fonde les liens de parenté et la place des liens de sang. Comment comprendre, toutefois, que la contribution physiologique masculine à la procréation n’apparaisse pas comme nécessaire au fondement de la paternité chez les Trobriandais étudiés par Malinowski (2010) ? Cette question qui a généré un débat de plusieurs décennies sur l’« immaculée conception (virgin birth) » et la supposée ignorance des peuples dits « primitifs » quant aux « faits de la vie (facts of life) » (Delaney 1986 ; Franklin 1997) montre à quel point l’étude de la parenté s’est construite sur une distinction implicite entre les faits biologiques de la procréation et les catégories sociales et culturelles de la parenté. Cette distinction se retrouve également au cœur de la célèbre analyse de Levi-Strauss (1949) sur les interdits et prescriptions qui régulent le choix de partenaires reproductifs et qui marqueraient le passage même de la nature à la culture. L’anthropologue américain Schneider (1984) a critiqué la distinction implicite entre parenté sociale et biologique qui sous-tend l’étude classique de la parenté, en montrant à quel point elle est façonnée par le modèle de parenté prévalant aux États-Unis. Cependant, l’apport majeur des travaux anthropologiques plus anciens à l’étude de la procréation médicalement assistée est de montrer que le biologique n’est jamais suffisant à faire des enfants, ou en d’autres termes que la procréation est toujours assistée, et que les systèmes de parenté et l’institution du mariage figurent parmi les premières techniques de reproduction permettant de diriger la transmission de la substance reproductive (Franklin 2013a). En suivant la critique de Schneider et sous l’impulsion des études féministes qui se développent dans les années 1970, les études de la parenté prennent alors une nouvelle orientation plus critique, en se rapprochant des études sur le genre, et en mettant la reproduction au cœur de la recherche anthropologique. L’essor de la procréation médicalement assistée auquel on assiste dans les années 1980 contribue grandement à ce renouvellement en raison des questions qu’elle pose pour ces domaines d’études. On distingue généralement deux grandes phases dans l’orientation des recherches sur la PMA (Thompson 2005). Ces techniques ont, dans une première phase qui couvre grosso modo les années 1980 et le début des années 1990, suscité beaucoup de débats. Elles ont été fortement critiquées tant dans les milieux féministes français (Testard 1990 ; Lesterpt et Doat 1989), qu’anglo-saxons (Spallone et Steinberg 1987). La critique produite dans cette première phase peut se lire à la lumière des débats générés par le mouvement féministe des années 1970 sur les inégalités entre les hommes et les femmes, la problématique médicalisation du corps des femmes et plus généralement l’invisibilisation de leur travail reproductif (Tabet 1985). Elle met notamment en avant le risque d’exploitation et de contrôle du corps des femmes soumises à l’injonction normative à la maternité (Rouch 2002). Elle vise également la fausse promesse faite par la PMA d’apporter une réponse médicale à l’infertilité, tout en dissimulant des taux de succès très bas et en parlant d’infertilité « de couple », alors que toutes les interventions ont lieu sur le corps des femmes (Van der Ploeg 1999). Si la critique féministe demeure présente, une attention croissante à la complexité de la PMA et de son vécu se développe dans une deuxième phase qui couvre grosso modo la deuxième moitié des années 1990 et les années 2000. En effet, alors que le recours à la PMA s’est de plus en plus normalisé, ces techniques ne cessent d’interroger les catégories de parenté et les représentations de la création de la vie qui semblent le plus tenues pour acquises. Ce qui est mis en avant c’est la dimension paradoxale de la PMA, notamment en raison de sa capacité à reproduire du même et imiter la nature, tout en produisant de l’entièrement nouveau (Franklin 2013b ; McKinnon 2015). Par exemple, ces techniques sont mises au service de la parenté génétique, et tendent à la naturaliser, mais la dénaturalisent également en mettant en lumière le travail nécessaire à sa réalisation (Thompson 2005). Ce faisant, elles déplacent et brouillent les frontières entre nature et culture, privé et public, local et global, passivité et agentivité, offrant ainsi un terrain fertile au développement de la réflexion anthropologique. Actuellement, deux grandes lignes de recherche se développent. La première – les New Kinship Studies ou Nouvelles Études de la Parenté – poursuit le questionnement de l’anthropologie de la parenté. Ces études cherchent, d’une part, à comprendre comment les techniques de procréation médicalement assistée troublent la distinction entre nature et culture et contribuent à transformer la notion même du biologique (Strathern 1992 ; Franklin 2013a). Elles investiguent, d’autre part, l’émergence de nouvelles configurations familiales rendues possibles par ces techniques. Elles s’interrogent notamment sur les transformations des conceptions de la maternité, de la paternité, et du modèle familial bilatéral, en se penchant sur les expériences vécues des couples ou sur les appareils juridiques qui les encadrent (Porqueres i Gené 2009). La division de la maternité entre ses dimensions éducative, gestationnelle et génétique, rendue possible par le don d’ovules et la GPA, est particulièrement discutée (Kirkmann 2008). La question de l’anonymat des donneurs de sperme et donneuses d’ovules (Konrad 2005) et de la ressemblance (Becker et al. 2005) font aussi l’objet d’analyses socio-anthropologiques, ainsi que, de manière émergente, les communautés de « frères » et « sœurs » qui peuvent se constituer autour d’un même donneur (Edwards 2015). De plus, tout un pan de la recherche s’intéresse aux manières de faire famille dans les couples gays, lesbiens, et trans, et à la manière dont le modèle de famille hétéronormatif est renforcé ou au contraire, contesté et transformé (Mamo 2007 ; Herbrand 2012). Une deuxième lignée de recherche – l’étude sociale de la reproduction – se focalise plutôt sur la médicalisation de l’expérience reproductive et de l’infertilité et sur ses conséquences pour les femmes. Elle s’interroge sur sa stratification (Ginsburg et Rapp 1991) et met en lumière l’imbrication de processus situés à différents niveaux allant du corporel – niveau cellulaire, génétique – au culturel, historique et structurel – comprenant par exemple l’État, le marché, et la religion (Almeling 2015). Adoptant une perspective globale et sortant du cadre national, tout un pan de recherche s’intéresse à la circulation des gamètes, des donneurs et donneuses, des couples en recherche d’enfants et à la constitution d’un marché et d’un « tourisme » de la reproduction (Waldby et Mitchell 2006 ; Kroløkke 2012). Cherchant à remédier à la focalisation générale des études sur les femmes, un nombre croissant de recherches se penche sur les expériences masculines de l’infertilité et de la PMA (Inhorn 2004). Finalement, suivant le développement récent de techniques permettant de congeler des ovules, d’anticiper la baisse de la réserve ovarienne et de préserver la possibilité d’avoir un enfant génétique dans le futur, on assiste à l’émergence d’études focalisant sur la biomédicalisation de l’infertilité liée à l’âge (Martin 2010 ; Baldwin et al. 2014 ; Bühler 2014 ; Waldby 2015). Alors que la technologisation de la procréation ne cesse de s’étendre, comme le montre la récente naissance d’un bébé conçu grâce à une technique de transfert mitochondrial, appelée couramment « FIV à trois parents » (génétiques) (Couzin-Frankel 2016), elle continue à aiguiser la réflexion anthropologique en offrant un « miroir au travers duquel nous pouvons nous regarder » (traduction de la citation en épigraphe, Franklin 2013a :1).

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>.

La Bibliothèque d’Apollodore, probablement composée au IIe ou au IIIe s. ap. J.-C., vise à rassembler les légendes et les mythes grecs en un système cohérent organisé selon un plan généalogique. Son auteur fonde son travail sur les écrits qui faisaient autorité en la matière, en particulier ceux des grands mythographes en prose du Ve s., parmi lesquels Phérécyde et Acousilaos sont les plus souvent nommés par Apollodore. Ce travail se propose d’analyser les rapports entre ces deux mythographes anciens et la Bibliothèque. Il examine chaque mention de leur nom dans cet ouvrage, et confronte tous leurs fragments au texte de la Bibliothèque, afin de comprendre pourquoi Apollodore choisit de les nommer ou, au contraire, de ne pas le faire ; pourquoi il les suit ou pourquoi il s’en écarte ; quelle place ils occupent réellement dans son traité. Plus largement, ce travail présente une réflexion sur les liens génériques entre la Bibliothèque et les mythographes anciens, en examinant en particulier la question de leur écriture, afin de comprendre comment Apollodore se situe par rapport aux premiers traités mythographiques grecs
Apollodorus’ Library, probably written during the 2nd or 3rd century A. D., aims at gathering Greek legends and myths in a coherent system based upon a genealogical structure. Its author bases his work on the most authoritative sources, including prestigious 5th-century mythographers as Pherecydes and Acusilaus, whose names are the most mentioned ones in Apollodorus’ treatise, along with Hesiod’s. This work analyses the links between those two ancient mythographers and the Library. It takes a close look at every mention of their name, and compares all their fragments to Apollodorus’ text, in order to understand how and why he cites them or not ; why he draws on them or chooses other sources ; what is their real influence on his treatise. This study also offers a reflection about the links between the Library and the ancient mythographical tradition as a genre, mainly on the basis of their respective style

Ce travail décrit les différentes formes que prennent les emprunts à l'épopée dans les comédies d'Aristophane afin de définir le rapport construit par la comédie entre les deux genres littéraires, entre dérision comique et hommage littéraire, ruptures et continuités idéologiques, filiations et innovations poétiques
This study tries to describe the various forms of Aristophanic borrowing to epic poetry, in order to define the relationship between the two genres: mockery or homage to the poet, ideological break or continuity, poetic filiation or innovation?

Aah! If our old man Śākyamuni lit the Sŏn lamp in the mind of Mahākāśyapa and spilled the sea of doctrinal teachings into the mouth of Ānanda, then it is a certainty that Sŏn and the teachings were related by him on different days. But when those who are responsible for the doctrinal teachings hear talk of the [Sŏn] “special transmission outside the teachings,” their faces become flushed [with surprise and anger] and their eyes white, saying: “What kind of talk is this! Bah! This is where egotism gets you!” Therefore, disappointed, I tried to find the courage to use the calabash dipper to measure the sea, the hollow tube to steal a peek at the heavens. I will lay out the fundamentals via three gates. What are the three gates? What is brimming over with confusion is [the relationship between] Sŏn and the teachings. Therefore, the first fascicle of this book sets up “the gate of comparison between Sŏn and the teachings.” Those doing the slandering are lecturers on the teachings. Therefore, the middle fascicle sets up “the gate of the submission of textual lecturers [to Sŏn].” Those who spread [dharma] are the sovereign and his vassals. Therefore, the last fascicle sets up “the gate in which the sovereign and his vassals show esteem and confidence [in Sŏn].” The textual citations in these three gates are all the serious words of the ancients—not mere conjectures. Since they are not conjectural, it is natural that people will come to have confidence in this work. The name of this work is ...