Journal articles on the topic 'Eeyore Loses A Tail'

The electron ejected from a molecule by an energetic impact moves away from the resultant ion and loses energy to the molecules with which it collides. The distance such electrons travel away from their ions during thermalization can be estimated by measuring the free-ion yields as a function of electric-field strength. This was done in gaseous and liquid carbon disulfide and hexafluorobenzene over wide ranges of densities. The electron thermalization-distance distribution in C6F6 was the same as that in most other liquids; it was a Gaussian distribution with a power tail. However in liquid CS2 the distribution was different, an exponential with a power tail, as in liquid nitrogen and liquid carbon monoxide. The different distributions reflect differences in the thermalization processes. The thermalizing ability of both CS2 and C6F6 is less in the liquid than in the gas. There is an especially sharp decrease in the thermalizing ability of CS2 at the highest densities.

The location of autocrine interactions between the v-sis protein and PDGF receptors remains uncertain and controversial. To examine whether receptor-ligand interactions can occur intracellularly, we have constructed fusion proteins that anchor v-sis to specific intracellular membranes. Fusion of a cis-Golgi retention signal from a coronavirus E1 glycoprotein to v-sis protein completely abolished its transforming ability when transfected into NIH3T3 cells. Fusion proteins incorporating mutations in this retention signal were not retained within the Golgi complex but instead were transported to the cell surface, resulting in efficient transformation. All chimeric proteins were shown to dimerize properly. Derivatives of some of these constructs were also constructed bearing the cytoplasmic tail from the glycoprotein of vesicular stomatitis virus (VSV-G). These constructs allowed examination of subcellular localization by double-label immunofluorescence, using antibodies that distinguish between the extracellular PDGF-related domain and the VSV-G cytoplasmic tail. Colocalization of sis-E1-G with Golgi markers confirmed its targeting to the early Golgi complex. The sis-E1 constructs, targeted to the early Golgi complex, exhibited no proteolytic processing whereas the mutant forms of sis-E1 exhibited normal proteolytic processing. Treatment with suramin, a polyanionic compound that disrupts ligand/receptor interactions at the cell surface, was able to revert the transformed phenotype induced by the mutant sis-E1 constructs described here. Our results demonstrate that autocrine interactions between the v-sis oncoprotein and PDGF receptors within the early Golgi complex do not result in functional signal transduction. Another v-sis fusion protein was constructed by attaching the transmembrane domain and COOH-terminus of TGN38, a protein that localizes to the trans-Golgi network (TGN). This construct was primarily retained intracellularly, although some of the fusion protein reached the surface. Deletion of the COOH-terminal region of the TGN38 retention signal abrogated the TGN-localization, as evidenced by very prominent cell surface localization, and resulted in increased transforming activity. The behavior of the sis-TGN38 derivatives is discussed within the context of the properties of TGN38 itself, which is known to recycle from the cell surface to the TGN.

AbstractThe courtship of the Chinese fire-bellied newt, Cynops orientalis (David 1873), resembles that of Japanese congeneric taxa but shows significant temporal differences: the tail-fanning and creeping stages are of relatively short duration and one spermatophore is deposited a few seconds after the male starts to creep. The female loses interest in the male soon after the first spermatophore deposition. Instances of prolonged biting after spermatophore deposition are recorded. Successful insemination was a relatively rare event. In encounters with a potential rival present, a male may slightly alter the timing of his courtship. Observed behaviour patterns are compared to the sexual behaviour of other species of Cynops and Triturus.

Abstract The modeling of large-amplitude internal waves (LAIWs) propagating in the Strait of Gibraltar is carried out using a fully nonlinear nonhydrostatic numerical model. The focus of the modeling efforts was on three-dimensional peculiarities of LAIW evolution, namely, cross-strait variability, interaction with lateral boundaries (including wave breaking and water mixing), radiation of secondary waves from orographic features, and interaction of secondary scattered internal waves. The along-channel propagation of packets of LAIWs reveals remarkable three-dimensional behavior. Due to the Coriolis force and multiple reflections from the lateral boundaries, the largest leading LAIW loses its energy much faster than that in the packet tail, which captures the scattered energy from the leading wave as it propagates and grows in amplitude. As a result of the energy transfer, the initially rank-ordered wave packet loses its regular structure to evolve into a non-rank-ordered wave train. In situ data collected in the eastern part of the Strait of Gibraltar confirm the idea that the non-rank-ordered structure is a common feature of internal wave packets emerging from the strait into the Alboran Sea.

Abstract The analysis of transport protocols, along with queue management policies, forms an important aspect of performance evaluation for the Internet. In this article, we study Compound TCP (C-TCP), the default TCP in the Windows operating system, along with the Exponential-RED (E-RED) queue policy and the widely used Drop-Tail queue policy. We consider queuing delay, link utilization and the stability of the queue size as the performance metrics. We first analyse the stability properties of a nonlinear model for C-TCP coupled with the E-RED queue policy. We observe that this system, in its current form, may be difficult to stabilize as the feedback delay gets large. Further, using an exogenous and non-dimensional parameter, we show that the system loses local stability via a Hopf bifurcation, which gives rise to limit cycles. Employing Poincaré normal forms and the center manifold theory, we outline an analytical framework to characterize the type of the Hopf bifurcation and to determine the orbital stability of the emerging limit cycles. Numerical examples, stability charts and bifurcation diagrams complement our analysis. We also conduct packet-level simulations, with E-RED and Drop-Tail, in small and large buffer-sizing regimes. With large buffers, E-RED can achieve small queue sizes compared with Drop-Tail. However, it is difficult to maintain the stability of the E-RED policy as the feedback delay gets large. On the other hand, with small buffers, E-RED offers no clear advantage over the simple Drop-Tail queue policy. Our work can offer insights for the design of queue policies that can ensure low latency and stability.

Nuclear speckles (NSs) serve as splicing factor storage sites. In this study, we unexpectedly found that many endogenous intronless mRNAs, which do not undergo splicing, associate with NSs. These associations do not require transcription, polyadenylation, or the polyA tail. Rather, exonic splicing enhancers present in intronless mRNAs and their binding partners, SR proteins, promote intronless mRNA localization to NSs. Significantly, speckle targeting of mRNAs promotes the recruitment of the TREX export complex and their TREX-dependent nuclear export. Furthermore, TREX, which accumulates in NSs, is required for releasing intronless mRNAs from NSs, whereas NXF1, which is mainly detected at nuclear pores, is not. Upon NXF1 depletion, the TREX protein UAP56 loses speckle concentration but coaccumulates with intronless mRNAs and polyA RNAs in the nucleoplasm, and these RNAs are trapped in NSs upon UAP56 codepletion. We propose that the export-competent messenger RNP assembly mainly occurs in NSs for intronless mRNAs and that entering NSs serves as a quality control step in mRNA export.

Despite significant progress in identifying the guidance pathways that control cell migration, how a cell starts to move within an intact organism, acquires motility, and loses contact with its neighbors is poorly understood. We show that activation of the G protein–coupled receptor (GPCR) trapped in endoderm 1 (Tre1) directs the redistribution of the G protein Gβ as well as adherens junction proteins and Rho guanosine triphosphatase from the cell periphery to the lagging tail of germ cells at the onset of Drosophila melanogaster germ cell migration. Subsequently, Tre1 activity triggers germ cell dispersal and orients them toward the midgut for directed transepithelial migration. A transition toward invasive migration is also a prerequisite for metastasis formation, which often correlates with down-regulation of adhesion proteins. We show that uniform down-regulation of E-cadherin causes germ cell dispersal but is not sufficient for transepithelial migration in the absence of Tre1. Our findings therefore suggest a new mechanism for GPCR function that links cell polarity, modulation of cell adhesion, and invasion.

Ionizing radiation passing through a fluid produces an ion–electron pair by knocking an electron off a molecule. The electron possesses excess energy, which it loses in collisions with molecules as it moves away from the ion. These are stochastic processes. The distance travelled during thermalization determines the probability that the electron ultimately escapes the Coulombic field of the ion to form freely diffusing ions. Free-ion yields were measured in X-irradiated sulfur hexafluoride at 5.7 ≤ d(kg m−3) ≤ 1860, corresponding to the vapor and liquid at 202.8 ≤ T(K) ≤ 324.1. (The critical fluid has dc = 730 kg m−3 and Tc = 318.7 K). The electric field dependence of the yield was best fitted using an electron thermalization distance distribution function F(y) that was Gaussian with a power tail. The most probable thermalization distance bGP was estimated at each density. The density-normalized electron-thermalizing ability of the fluid decreased with increasing gas density and was independent of density in the liquid phase. The dependence is different from those observed in hydrocarbons and might reflect a density effect on the energy dependence of the electron-attachment reaction.

Abstract. Flood frequency analysis (FFA) entails the estimation of the upper tail of a probability density function (PDF) of annual peak flows obtained from either the annual maximum series or partial duration series. In hydrological practice, the properties of various methods of upper quantiles estimation are identified with the case of known population distribution function. In reality, the assumed hypothetical model differs from the true one and one cannot assess the magnitude of error caused by model misspecification in respect to any estimated statistics. The opinion about the accuracy of the methods of upper quantiles estimation formed from the case of known population distribution function is upheld. The above-mentioned issue is the subject of the paper. The accuracy of large quantile assessments obtained from the four estimation methods is compared to two-parameter log-normal and log-Gumbel distributions and their three-parameter counterparts, i.e., three-parameter log-normal and GEV distributions. The cases of true and false hypothetical models are considered. The accuracy of flood quantile estimates depends on the sample size, the distribution type (both true and hypothetical), and strongly depends on the estimation method. In particular, the maximum likelihood method loses its advantageous properties in case of model misspecification.

Over two decades ago, some numerical studies and laboratory experiments identified the phenomenon of leapfrogging internal solitary waves located on separated pycnoclines. We revisit this problem to explore the behaviour of the near resonance phenomenon. We have developed a numerical code to follow the long-time inviscid evolution of isolated mode-two disturbances on two separated pycnoclines in a three-layer stratified fluid bounded by rigid horizontal top and bottom walls. We study the dependence of the solution on input system parameters, namely the three fluid densities and the two interface thicknesses, for fixed initial conditions describing isolated mode-two disturbances on each pycnocline. For most parameter values, the initial disturbances separate immediately and evolve into solitary waves, each with a distinct speed. However, in a narrow region of parameter space, the waves pair up and oscillate for some time in leapfrog fashion with a nearly equal average speed. The motion is only quasi-periodic, as each wave loses energy into its respective dispersive tail, which causes the spatial oscillation magnitude and period to increase until the waves eventually separate. We record the separation time, oscillation period and magnitude, and the final amplitudes and celerity of the separated waves as a function of the input parameters, and give evidence that no perfect periodic solutions occur. A simple asymptotic model is developed to aid in interpretation of the numerical results.

ABSTRACTPseudomonas aeruginosaexoenzyme S (ExoS) ADP-ribosylates multiple eukaryotic targets to promote cytopathology and bacterial colonization. ADP-ribosylation of the small GTPase Rab5 has previously been shown to block fluid-phase endocytosis and trafficking of plasma membrane receptors to the early endosomes as well as inhibit phagocytosis of the bacterium. In this study, ExoS is shown to be capable of ADP-ribosylating 6 candidate arginine residues that are located in the effector binding region or in the C terminus of Rab5. Two Rab5 derivatives were engineered, which contained Arg→Ala mutations at four Arg residues within the effector binding region (EF) or two Arg residues within the C-terminal tail (TL). Expression of Rab5(TL) does not affect the ability of ExoS to modify intracellular trafficking, while expression of Rab5(EF) rescued the ability of ExoS to inhibit intracellular trafficking. ADP-ribosylation of effector arginines likely uncouples Rab5 signaling to downstream effectors. This is a different mechanism for inhibition than observed for the ADP-ribosylation of Ras by ExoS, where ADP-ribosylated Ras loses the ability to bind guanine nucleotide exchange factor (GEF). Other experiments showed that expression of dominant negative Rab5(Ser34Asn) does not inhibit ExoS trafficking to the perinuclear region of intoxicated cells. This study provides insight into a mechanism for how ExoS ADP-ribosylation of Rab5 inhibits Rab5 function.

Cell separation regulates basic developmental processes such as abscission and dehiscence and is one of the horticultural traits first to be selected by mankind. Abscission is characterized by an active cell separation process where organs are detached from the main body of the plant through the dissolution of the middle lamella. Crops with early abscission can have significant reduction in yield. For example, canola, Brassica napus, loses 5% to 10% of crop due to early pod shatter. By screening T-DNA mutagenized populations of A. thaliana for delayed abscission, we have identified several genes that regulate cell separation, slm1-1 (slender lasting inflorescence and meristem) is one such genes. During our investigation of slm1-1 we have employed phenotypic, physiological, genetic, and molecular assays. Phenotypically, slm1-1 displays traits such as delayed abscission of floral organs, lack of anther pollen dehiscence (making slm1-1 functionally male sterile), delayed meristem arrest, and strong apical dominance. Phenotypic characterization includes scanning electron microscopy, bright field microscopy, and stereoscope microscopy. Physiological assays include reporter gene expression and break strength analyses. Genetically, slm1-1 is regulated by a single recessive gene. Molecular assays characterizing slm1-1 include TAIL-PCR, RT-PCR, and preliminary microarray of abscission zones. We have also begun to map based cloning of slm1-1. We believe that understanding genes that regulate cell separation in A. thaliana will contribute to crop improvement. Applications could include reducing loss during harvesting, regulation of pollination, changes in branching patterns, and longevity of flowering.

ABSTRACT A requisite step in reovirus infection of the murine intestine is proteolysis of outer-capsid proteins to yield infectious subvirion particles (ISVPs). When converted to ISVPs by intestinal proteases, virions of reovirus strain type 3 Dearing (T3D) lose 90% of their original infectivity due to cleavage of viral attachment protein ς1. In an analysis of eight field isolate strains of type 3 reovirus, we identified one additional strain, type 3 clone 31 (T3C31), that loses infectivity and undergoes ς1 cleavage upon conversion of virions to ISVPs. We examined the ς1 deduced amino acid sequences of T3D and the eight field isolate strains for a correlation between sequence variability and ς1 cleavage. The ς1 proteins of T3D and T3C31 contain a threonine at amino acid position 249, whereas an isoleucine occurs at this position in the ς1 proteins of the remaining strains. Thr249 occupies the d position of a heptad repeat motif predicted to stabilize ς1 oligomers through α-helical coiled-coil interactions. This region of sequence comprises a portion of the fibrous tail domain of ς1 known as the neck. Substitution of Thr249 with isoleucine or leucine resulted in resistance to cleavage by trypsin, whereas replacement with asparagine did not affect cleavage susceptibility. These results demonstrate that amino acid position 249 is an independent determinant of T3D ς1 cleavage susceptibility and that an intact heptad repeat is required to confer cleavage resistance. We performed amino-terminal sequence analysis on the ς1 cleavage product released during trypsin treatment of T3D virions to generate ISVPs and found that trypsin cleaves ς1 after Arg245. Thus, the sequence polymorphism at position 249 controls cleavage at a nearby site in the neck region. The relevance of these results to reovirus infection in vivo was assessed by treating virions with the contents of a murine intestinal wash under conditions that result in generation of ISVPs. The pattern of ς1 cleavage susceptibility generated by using purified protease was reproduced in assays using the intestinal wash. These results provide a mechanistic explanation for ς1 cleavage during exposure of virions to intestinal proteases and may account for certain strain-dependent patterns of reovirus pathogenesis.

While costs are traditionally dealt with at the tail end of proceedings and invariably in the concluding segment of a court’s judgment, they nevertheless continue to be consequential. This is especially so in respect of how access to constitutional justice is pursued and levered. The outlines of the progressive costs awards jurisprudence in constitutional and public interest litigation are encapsulated in Biowatch Trust v Registrar Genetic Resources (2009 (6) SA 232 (CC) (Biowatch)). Biowatch established the general proposition that in litigation between the State and private parties seeking to assert a fundamental right, the State should ordinarily pay costs if it loses. The Biowatch shield seeks to mitigate the “chilling effects” cost orders could have on parties seeking to assert their constitutional rights – even where unsuccessful. The threat of hefty costs orders may chill constitutional assertiveness. It may deter parties from challenging questionable practices of the State. This is particularly so in a society characterised by disparities in resources and inequality of opportunities. The vindication of fundamental rights is inseparably linked to the transformative process the Constitution envisages. It is now established that the general rule in constitutional litigation is that an unsuccessful litigant in proceedings against the State ought not to be ordered to pay costs. On the other hand, the Biowatch principle also permits exceptions and does not go so far as to immunise all constitutional litigation from the risk of an adverse costs order. A worthy cause or worthy motive cannot immunise a litigant from an adverse costs order for abuse of process or engaging in frivolous or vexatious proceedings.The case note addresses the application of the Biowatch principle in respect of cost orders where a public interest litigant has conducted the proceedings in an abusive, vexatious or frivolous manner, as well as in crossfire litigation. The first-tier question that arises is: can a court impose adverse costs awards on a constitutional litigant where a suit is unmeritorious or there is impropriety in the manner in which the litigation has been undertaken? There is also the delicate issue of costs awards in crossfire disputes. In pith and substance, crossfire disputes involve litigation between a private party and the State, provoked by the latter’s failure to perform its regulatory role but adversely affecting the interests of other private parties. In effect, the knotty question is: can adverse costs orders be made against interveners or parties who become involved in proceedings?

A retrospective analysis evaluated pregnancy rates and embryo losses with in vitro-produced embryos in a commercial embryo transfer program on 15 different beef farms. Recipients were beef cows and heifers (n = 1841) that were synchronized with 5 different protocols and transferred at a fixed-time (FTET). Recipients were examined by ultrasonography on Day 0, and those with a corpus luteum (CL) or a follicle ≥8 mm in diameter and with body condition score 2 to 4 (1 to 5 scale) were synchronized. The synchronization treatments were as follows. (T1) Recipients received an intravaginal device with 0.5 g of progesterone plus 2 mg of oestradiol benzoate on Day 0; device removal, plus 500 μg of cloprostenol (prostaglandin F2α), 400 IU of eCG, and 0.5 mg of oestradiol cypionate on Day 8; and FTET on Day 17. (T2) This treatment was similar to T1 but 1 mg of oestradiol cypionate was injected at device removal instead of 0.5 mg of oestradiol cypionate. (T3) This treatment was similar to T1 except that animals were tail-painted on Day 8 and observed on Day 10. Those with the tail-paint intact on Day 10 received 100 μg of gonadorelin (gonadotropin-releasing hormone) and all recipients were FTET on Day 17. (T4) Recipients received a progesterone device on Day 0; device removal, prostaglandin F2α, and eCG on Day 5; gonadotropin-releasing hormone on Day 8; and FTET on Day 15. (T5) Recipients received a progesterone device and 2 mg of oestradiol benzoate on Day 0; device removal, prostaglandin F2α, and eCG on Day 6; gonadotropin-releasing hormone on Day 9; and FTET on Day 16. On the day of FTET all recipients with CL ≥18 mm in diameter (G1), ≥16 and <18 mm in diameter (G2), and ≥14 mm and <16 mm in diameter (G3) received in vitro-produced fresh embryos. Pregnancy was diagnosed by ultrasonography at 30 and 60 days of gestation, and data were analysed by logistic regression. The overall proportion of recipients synchronized that were FTET was 80.8% (1487/1841), with a 30-day pregnancy rate to FTET (P/FTET) of 45.6% (678/1487) and the rate of 30- to 60-day embryo/fetal loses on the 528 recipients that were re-checked at 60 days was 12.8% (68/528). There were no significant differences in P/FTET among operators, animal category, time of the year, embryo stage, or body condition score; however, there was a significant effect of farm (P < 0.001) and CL diameter (P < 0.05), but no interaction between CL diameter and farm or treatment (P > 0.1). Recipients with G1 (443/953, 46%) and G2 (221/462, 47%) CL had higher pregnancy rates than those with G3 CL (23/71, 32%). There was a significant effect of synchronization treatment on the proportion of recipients transferred and on P/FTET (P < 0.01) that was highly influenced by farm (farm by treatment interaction P < 0.01). The proportions of recipients selected for embryo transfer were as follows: T1: 386/486, 79.4%; T2: 233/331, 70.3%; T3: 342/377, 90.7%; T4: 126/160, 78.7%; and T5: 400/487, 82.1%. The P/FTET were as follows: T1: 190/386, 49.2%; T2: 96/233, 41.2%; T3: 175/342, 51.1%; T4: 49/126, 38.8%; and T5: 168/400, 42.0%. Although 30- to 60-day embryo/fetal losses were not influenced by synchronization treatments, they were highly influenced by farm (P < 0.001) and ranged from 0 to 34.5%. In conclusion, P/FTET in a commercial program with beef in vitro-produced embryos was influenced by factors related to the recipient (CL diameter) and the environment (farm), whereas embryo/fetal losses were influenced by farm but not treatment or recipient factors.

Background Ligation injury of the L5/L6 nerve roots in rats produces behavioral signs representative of clinical conditions of neuropathic pain, including tactile allodynia and thermal and mechanical hyperalgesia. In this model, intrathecal morphine shows no antiallodynic activity, as well as decreased antinociceptive potency and efficacy. This study was designed to explore the antinociceptive activity of intrathecal clonidine alone or in combination with intrathecal morphine (1:3 fixed ratio) in nerve-injured rats. The aims, with this study, were to use nerve-injured animals to determine: (1) whether the antinociceptive potency and efficacy of intrathecal clonidine was altered, and (2) whether the combination of intrathecal morphine and clonidine would act synergistically to produce antinociception. Methods Unilateral nerve injury was produced by ligation of the L5 and L6 spinal roots of male Sprague-Dawley rats. Sham-operated rats underwent a similar surgical procedure but without nerve ligation. Morphine and clonidine were given intrathecally through implanted catheters alone or in a 1:3 fixed ratio. Nociceptive responses were measured by recording tail withdrawal latency from a 55 degrees C water bath, and data were calculated as % maximal possible effect (%MPE). Results Morphine produced a dose-dependent antinociceptive effect in both sham-operated and nerve-injured rats. The doses calculated to produce a 50 %MPE (i.e., A50) (+/-95% confidence intervals [CI]) were 15 +/- 4.9 micrograms and 30 +/- 18 micrograms, respectively. Though morphine was able to produce a maximal response (100%) in sham-operated rats, the maximal response achieved in nerve-injured animals was only 69 +/- 21.9 %MPE. Clonidine produced a dose-dependent effect, with an A50 (+/-95% CI) of 120 +/- 24 micrograms in sham-operated rats. In nerve-ligated rats, clonidine produced a maximal effect that reached a plateau of 55 +/- 10.9 %MPE and 49 +/- 10.2 %MPE at 100 and 200 micrograms, respectively, preventing the calculation of an A50. In sham-operated rats, a morphine-clonidine mixture produced maximal efficacy, with an A50 (+/-95% CI) of 15 +/- 9.2 micrograms (total dose), significantly less than the theoretical additive A50 of 44 +/- 10 micrograms. In L5/L6 nerve-ligated rats, the morphine-clonidine combination produced maximal efficacy, with an A50 (+/-95% CI) of 11 +/- 5.4 micrograms (total dose), which was significantly less than the theoretical additive A50 of 118 +/- 73 micrograms, indicating a synergistic antinociceptive interaction. The intrathecal injection of [D-Ala2, NMePhe4, Gly-ol]enkephalin (DAMGO) produced A50 values of 0.23 microgram (range, 0.09-0.6) and 0.97 microgram (range, 0.34-2.7) in sham-operated and ligated rats, respectively. Phentolamine (4 mg/kg, intraperitoneally) produced no antinociceptive effect alone and attenuated, rather than enhanced, the effect of morphine in both groups of rats. Conclusions These data show that: (1) clonidine, like morphine, loses antinociceptive potency and efficacy after nerve ligation injury, and (2) strongly suggest that a spinal combination of morphine and clonidine synergize under conditions of nerve injury to elicit a significant antinociceptive action when either drug alone may be lacking in efficacy. It is unlikely that the synergy of morphine with clonidine is due to an attenuation of spinal sympathetic outflow by clonidine, because the sympatholytic agent phentolamine produced an opposing effect on morphine antinociception. The data suggest that combinations of morphine and clonidine may prove useful in controlling pain in patients with neuropathic conditions.

Delays in flights have negative socio-economics effects on passengers, airlines and airports, resulting to huge economic loses. Therefore, their prediction is crucial during the decision-making process for all players of aviation industry for proper management. The development of accurate prediction models for flight delays depend on the complexity of air transport system and airport infrastructure, hence may be country specific. However, there exists no prediction models tailored to Kenyan aviation industry. Hence there is need to develop prediction models amenable to Kenya aviation conditions. The objective of this study was to compare the prediction power of the developed models. Secondary data from Jomo Kenya International Airport (JKIA) was used in this study. The data collected included the day of the flight (Monday to Sunday), the month (January to December), the airline, the flight class (domestic or international), season (summer or winter), capacity of the aircraft, flight ID (tail number) and whether the flight had flown at night or during the day. The analysis of the data was done using R- software. Three models, Logistic model, Support Vector Machine model and Random Forest model, were fitted. The strength and utility of the models was determined using bias-variance learning curves. The study revealed that the models predicted delays with different accuracies. The Random Forest model had a prediction accuracy of 68.99% while the Support Vector Machine model (SVM) had an accuracy of 68.62% and the Logistic Regression model had an accuracy of 66.18%. The Random Forest model outperformed the SVM and Logistic Regression with accuracies of 0.37% and 2.71% respectively. The SVM and Random Forest do not assume probability distribution of the response under investigation, probably indicating why they performed better than the logistic regression. The study recommends application of Random Forest model to predict flight delays at JKIA.

Abstract Background In Camponotus sericeus (Fabricius), foraging ants are recruited mostly as individuals but occasionally as small groups that move in a single file. We studied the structure and organization of these small foraging groups and attempted to understand the process through which the cohesiveness of the moving file is maintained. Results The recruited group moves in a single file as if steered by a leader at the moving tip. Ants in the group were found to exhibit certain fidelity to their respective positions in the file, despite the occasional breakdown of the cohesiveness due to disturbance and or obstructions on their path. This fidelity decreases from both ends towards the middle part of the file. Accordingly, three segments could be recognized in the moving file: (a) the leading ant that almost always maintains its position and steers the group, (b) a short tail part with a few ants that always trail the file and, (c) the mid part that binds the group; ants in this segment always tend to follow the leader through a cascading chain of tactile communication. If the leader ant is removed, entire group loses its orientation and enters into a chaotic search state. But removing any other ant does not affect the cohesiveness; rather it’s position is occupied by the member preceding it and thus maintains the link in the group. Conclusions The cohesiveness of the moving group appeared to result from (a) regulation of the movement of the group by the leading ant, and, (b) an interactive process among the rest of the ants. Based on these two elements, a simple automated model of the group’s movement was developed that could effectively mimic the observed pattern. We also provide evidence to suggest that recruitment of groups occurs in the direction of, and in response to, the information received by the colony on, the resource rich patches.

Introduction: Ischemic postconditioning (IPo) protects against myocardial ischemia reperfusion (MI/R) injury by activating mitochondrial signal transducer and activator of transcription 3 (mitoSTAT3) through adiponectin (APN) in non-diabetes, but losses its effectiveness in diabetes whose cardiac APN is reduced. We postulated that malfunction of APN is the key mechanism whereby IPo losses cardioprotection in diabetes. Methods and Results: Four-week (4w) or eight-week (8w) streptozotocin-induced diabetic rats were treated with APN adenovirus (tail vein injection, 1*109 pfu) 1-week before inducing MI/R (30 minutes of left coronary artery ligation followed by 2 hours of reperfusion) with or without IPo (3 cycles of 10s of ischemia and 10s of reperfusion, n=6 per group). At the end of reperfusion, myocardial injury was more severe in both 4w and 8w diabetic rats evidenced as increased infarct size than age-matched control (43.4±3.3 in 4w diabetic vs. 30.6±2.2 in control, 55.4±2.0 in 8w diabetic vs. 38.0±1.9 in control, all P<0.05) concomitant with increased plasma CK-MB release and worse cardiac function (lower dP/dtmax and ejection fraction), and more severely impaired mitochondrial function (decrease in complex I, II+III, and IV activities), more severe reduction of activated mitoSTAT3 and colocolization of APN receptor-1(AdipoR1) and caveolin-3(Cav3), a molecule essential for APN signaling. These changes cannot be reversed by IPo alone in both 4w and 8w diabetic rats, while IPo in combination with APN significantly attenuated all the abovementioned changes in 4w diabetic but not in 8w diabetic rats whose baseline and post-ischemic cardiac AdipoR1 and Cav3 expression were more severely reduced than that in 4 w diabetic rats. The protective effects of joint IPo and APN treatment in 4w diabetes were abolished by inhibition of STAT3 irrespectiove of IPo and APN induced enhancement of AdipoR1 and Cav3 expression and colocalization. Conclusion: IPo loses cardioprotection in diabetes due to reduced APN and impaired AdipoR1/Cav3 signaling. APN supplementation by activating mitoSTAT3 restores IPo cardioprotection in 4w diabetic where AdipoR1 and Cav3 are functionally interactive, but not in 8w diabetic rats whose AdipoR1/Cav3 signaling impaired.

Introduction When a text is said to be re-appropriated, it is at times unclear to what extent this appropriation is secondary, repeated, new; certainly, the difference between a reiteration and an iteration has more to do with emphasis than any (re)duplication. And at a moment in the development of crime fiction in France when the retranslation of now apparently dated French translations of the works of classic American hardboiled novels (especially those of authors like Dashiell Hammett, whose novels were published in Marcel Duhamel’s Série Noire at Gallimard in the decades following the end of the Second World War) is being undertaken with the ostensible aim of taking the French reader back (closer) to the American original, one may well ask where the emphasis now lies. In what ways, for example, is this new form of re-production, of re-imagining the text, more intimately bound to the original, and thus in itself less ‘original’ than its translated predecessors? Or again, is this more reactionary ‘re-’ in fact really that different from those more radical uses that cleaved the translation from its original text in those early, foundational years of twentieth-century French crime fiction? (Re-)Reading: Critical Theory and Originality My juxtaposition of the terms ‘reactionary’ and ‘radical’, and the attempted play on the auto-antonymy of the verb ‘to cleave’, are designed to prompt a re(-)read of the analysis that so famously took the text away from the author in the late-1960s through to the 1990s, which is to say the critical theory of poststructuralism and deconstruction. Roland Barthes’s work (especially 69–77) appropriated the familiar terms of literary analysis and reversed them, making of them perhaps a re-appropriation in the sense of taking them into new territory: the text, formerly a paper-based platform for the written word, was now a virtual interface between the word and its reader, the new locus of the production of meaning; the work, on the other hand, which had previously pertained to the collective creative imaginings of the author, was now synonymous with the physical writing passed on by the author to the reader. And by ‘passed on’ was meant ‘passed over’, achevé (perfected, terminated, put to death)—completed, then, but only insofar as its finite sequence of words was set; for its meaning was henceforth dependent on its end user. The new textual life that surged from the ‘death of the author’ was therefore always already an afterlife, a ‘living on’, to use Jacques Derrida’s term (Bloom et al. 75–176). It is in this context that the re-reading encouraged by Barthes has always appeared to mark a rupture a teasing of ‘reading’ away from the original series of words and the ‘Meaning’ as intended by the author, if any coherence of intention is possible across the finite sequence of words that constitute the written work. The reader must learn to re-read, Barthes implored, or otherwise be condemned to read the same text everywhere. In this sense, the ‘re-’ prefix marks an active engagement with the text, a reflexivity of the act of reading as an act of transformation. The reader whose consumption of the text is passive, merely digestive, will not transform the words (into meaning); and crucially, that reader will not herself be transformed. For this is the power of reflexive reading—when one reads text as text (and not ‘losing oneself’ in the story) one reconstitutes oneself (or, perhaps, loses control of oneself more fully, more productively); not to do so, is to take an unchanged constant (oneself) into every textual encounter and thus to produce sameness in ostensible difference. One who rereads a text and discovers the same story twice will therefore reread even when reading a text for the first time. The hyphen of the re-read, on the other hand, distances the reader from the text; but it also, of course, conjoins. It marks the virtual space where reading occurs, between the physical text and the reading subject; and at the same time, it links all texts in an intertextual arena, such that the reading experience of any one text is informed by the reading of all texts (whether they be works read by an individual reader or works as yet unencountered). Such a theory of reading appears to shift originality so far from the author’s work as almost to render the term obsolete. But the thing about reflexivity is that it depends on the text itself, to which it always returns. As Barbara Johnson has noted, the critical difference marked by Barthes’s understandings of the text, and his calls to re-read it, is not what differentiates it from other texts—the universality of the intertext and the reading space underlines this; instead, it is what differentiates the text from itself (“Critical Difference” 175). And while Barthes’s work packages this differentiation as a rupture, a wrenching of ownership away from the author to a new owner, the work and text appear less violently opposed in the works of the Yale School deconstructionists. In such works as J. Hillis Miller’s “The Critic as Host” (1977), the hyphenation of the re-read is less marked, with re-reading, as a divergence from the text as something self-founding, self-coinciding, emerging as something inherent in the original text. The cleaving of one from and back into the other takes on, in Miller’s essay, the guise of parasitism: the host, a term that etymologically refers to the owner who invites and the guest who is invited, offers a figure for critical reading that reveals the potential for creative readings of ‘meaning’ (what Miller calls the nihilistic text) inside the transparent ‘Meaning’ of the text, by which we recognise one nonetheless autonomous text from another (the metaphysical text). Framed in such terms, reading is a reaction to text, but also an action of text. I should argue then that any engagement with the original is re-actionary—my caveat being that this hyphenation is a marker of auto-antonymy, a link between the text and otherness. Translation and Originality Questions of a translator’s status and the originality of the translated text remain vexed. For scholars of translation studies like Brian Nelson, the product of literary translation can legitimately be said to have been authored by its translator, its status as literary text being equal to that of the original (3; see also Wilson and Gerber). Such questions are no more or less vexed today, however, than they were in the days when criticism was grappling with translation through the lens of deconstruction. To refer again to the remarkable work of Johnson, Derrida’s theorisation of textual ‘living on’—the way in which text, at its inception, primes itself for re-imagining, by dint of the fundamental différance of the chains of signification that are its DNA—bears all the trappings of self-translation. Johnson uses the term ‘self-différance’ (“Taking Fidelity” 146–47) in this respect and notes how Derrida took on board, and discussed with him, the difficulties that he was causing for his translator even as he was writing the ‘original’ text of his essay. If translation, in this framework, is rendered impossible because of the original’s failure to coincide with itself in a transparently meaningful way, then its practice “releases within each text the subversive forces of its own foreignness” (Johnson, “Taking Fidelity” 148), thereby highlighting the debt owed by Derrida’s notion of textual ‘living on’—in (re-)reading—to Walter Benjamin’s understanding of translation as a mode, its translatability, the way in which it primes itself for translation virtually, irrespective of whether or not it is actually translated (70). In this way, translation is a privileged site of textual auto-differentiation, and translated text can, accordingly, be considered every bit as ‘original’ as its source text—simply more reflexive, more aware of its role as a conduit between the words on the page and the re-imagining that they undergo, by which they come to mean, when they are re-activated by the reader. Emily Apter—albeit in a context that has more specifically to do with the possibilities of comparative literature and the real-world challenges of language in war zones—describes the auto-differentiating nature of translation as “a means of repositioning the subject in the world and in history; a means of rendering self-knowledge foreign to itself; a way of denaturalizing citizens, taking them out of the comfort zone of national space, daily ritual, and pre-given domestic arrangements” (6). In this way, translation is “a significant medium of subject re-formation and political change” (Apter 6). Thus, translation lends itself to crime fiction; for both function as highly reflexive sites of transformation: both provide a reader with a heightened sense of the transformation that she is enacting on the text and that she herself embodies as a reading subject, a subject changed by reading. Crime Fiction, Auto-Differention and Translation As has been noted elsewhere (Rolls), Fredric Jameson made an enigmatic reference to crime fiction’s perceived role as the new Realism as part of his plenary lecture at “Telling Truths: Crime Fiction and National Allegory”, a conference held at the University of Wollongong on 6–8 December 2012. He suggested, notably, that one might imagine an author of Scandi-Noir writing in tandem with her translator. While obvious questions of the massive international marketing machine deployed around this contemporary phenomenon come to mind, and I suspect that this is how Jameson’s comment was generally understood, it is tempting to consider this Scandinavian writing scenario in terms of Derrida’s proleptic considerations of his own translator. In this way, crime fiction’s most telling role, as one of the most widely read contemporary literary forms, is its translatability; its haunting descriptions of place (readers, we tend, perhaps precipitously, to assume, love crime fiction for its national, regional or local situatedness) are thus tensely primed for re-location, for Apter’s ‘subject re-formation’. The idea of ‘the new Realism’ of crime, and especially detective, fiction is predicated on the tightly (self-)policed rules according to which crime fiction operates. The reader appears to enter into an investigation alongside the detective, co-authoring the crime text in real (reading) time, only for authorial power to be asserted in the unveiling scene of the denouement. What masquerades as the ultimately writerly text, in Barthes’s terms, turns out to be the ultimate in transparently meaningful literature when the solution is set in stone by the detective. As such, the crime novel is far more dependent on descriptions of the minutiae of everyday life (in a given place in time) than other forms of fiction, as these provide the clues on which its intricate plot hinges. According to this understanding, crime fiction records history and transcribes national allegories. This is not only a convincing way of understanding crime fiction, but it is also an extremely powerful way of harnessing it for the purposes of cultural history. Claire Gorrara, for example, uses the development of French crime fiction plots over the course of the second half of the twentieth century to map France’s coming to terms with the legacy of the Second World War. This is the national allegory written in real time, as the nation heals and moves on, and this is crime fiction as a reaction to national allegory. My contention here, on the other hand, is that crime fiction, like translation, has at its core an inherent, and reflexive, tendency towards otherness. Indeed, this is because crime fiction, whose origins in transnational (and especially Franco-American) literary exchange have been amply mapped but not, I should argue, extrapolated to their fullest extent, is forged in translation. It is widely considered that when Edgar Allan Poe produced his seminal text “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” (1841) he created modern crime fiction. And yet, this was made possible because the text was translated into French by Charles Baudelaire and met with great success in France, far more so indeed than in its original place of authorship. Its original setting, however, was not America but Paris; its translatability as French text preceded, even summoned, its actualisation in the form of Baudelaire’s translation. Furthermore, the birth of the great armchair detective, the exponent of pure, objective deduction, in the form of C. Auguste Dupin, is itself turned on its head, a priori, because Dupin, in this first Parisian short story, always already off-sets objectivity with subjectivity, ratiocination with a tactile apprehension of the scene of the crime. He even goes as far as to accuse the Parisian Prefect of Police of one-dimensional objectivity. (Dupin undoes himself, debunking the myth of his own characterisation, even as he takes to the stage.) In this way, Poe founded his crime fiction on a fundamental tension; and this tension called out to its translator so powerfully that Baudelaire claimed to be translating his own thoughts, as expressed by Poe, even before he had had a chance to think them (see Rolls and Sitbon). Thus, Poe was Parisian avant la lettre, his crime fiction a model for Baudelaire’s own prose poetry, the new voice of critical modernity in the mid-nineteenth century. If Baudelaire went on to write Paris in the form of Paris Spleen (1869), his famous collection of “little prose poems”, both as it is represented (timelessly, poetically) and as it presents itself (in real time, prosaically) at the same time, it was not only because he was spontaneously creating a new national allegory for France based on its cleaving of itself in the wake of Georges-Eugène Haussmann’s massive programme of urbanisation in Paris in the 1800s; it was also because he was translating Poe’s fictionalisation of Paris in his new crime fiction. Crime fiction was born therefore not only simultaneously in France and America but also in the translation zone between the two, in the self-différance of translation. In this way, while a strong claim can be made that modern French crime fiction is predicated on, and reacts to, the auto-differentiation (of critical modernity, of Paris versus Paris) articulated in Baudelaire’s prose poems and therefore tells the national allegory, it is also the case, and it is this aspect that is all too often overlooked, that crime fiction’s birth in Franco-American translation founded the new French national allegory. Re-imagining America in (French) Crime Fiction Pierre Bayard has done more than any other critic in recent years to debunk the authorial power of the detective in crime fiction, beginning with his re-imagining of the solution to Agatha Christie’s The Murder of Roger Ackroyd and continuing with that of Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Hound of the Baskervilles (1998 and 2008, respectively). And yet, even as he has engaged with poststructuralist re-readings of these texts, he has put in place his own solutions, elevating them away from his own initial premise of writerly engagement towards a new metaphysics of “Meaning”, be it ironically or because he has fallen prey himself to the seduction of detectival truth. This reactionary turn, or sting-lessness in the tail, reaches new heights (of irony) in the essay in which he imagines the consequences of liberating novels from their traditional owners and coupling them with new authors (Bayard, Et si les œuvres changeaient d’auteur?). Throughout this essay Bayard systematically prefers the terms “work” and “author” to “text” and “reader”, liberating the text not only from the shackles of traditional notions of authorship but also from the terminological reshuffling of his and others’ critical theory, while at the same time clinging to the necessity for textual meaning to stem from authorship and repackaging what is, in all but terminology, Barthes et al.’s critical theory. Caught up in the bluff and double-bluff of Bayard’s authorial redeployments is a chapter on what is generally considered the greatest work of parody of twentieth-century French crime fiction—Boris Vian’s pseudo-translation of black American author Vernon Sullivan’s novel J’irai cracher sur vos tombes (1946, I Shall Spit on Your Graves). The novel was a best seller in France in 1946, outstripping by far the novels of the Série Noire, whose fame and marketability were predicated on their status as “Translations from the American” and of which it appeared a brazen parody. Bayard’s decision to give credibility to Sullivan as author is at once perverse, because it is clear that he did not exist, and reactionary, because it marks a return to Vian’s original conceit. And yet, it passes for innovative, not (or at least not only) because of Bayard’s brilliance but because of the literary qualities of the original text, which, Bayard argues, must have been written in “American” in order to produce such a powerful description of American society at the time. Bayard’s analysis overlooks (or highlights, if we couch his entire project in a hermeneutics of inversion, based on the deliberate, and ironic, re-reversal of the terms “work” and “text”) two key elements of post-war French crime fiction: the novels of the Série Noire that preceded J’irai cracher sur vos tombes in late 1945 and early 1946 were all written by authors posing as Americans (Peter Cheyney and James Hadley Chase were in fact English) and the translations were deliberately unfaithful both to the original text, which was drastically domesticated, and to any realistic depiction of America. While Anglo-Saxon French Studies has tended to overlook the latter aspect, Frank Lhomeau has highlighted the fact that the America that held sway in the French imaginary (from Liberation through to the 1960s and beyond) was a myth rather than a reality. To take this reasoning one logical, reflexive step further, or in fact less far, the object of Vian’s (highly reflexive) novel, which may better be considered a satire than a parody, can be considered not to be race relations in the United States but the French crime fiction scene in 1946, of which its pseudo-translation (which is to say, a novel not written by an American and not translated) is metonymic (see Vuaille-Barcan, Sitbon and Rolls). (For Isabelle Collombat, “pseudo-translation functions as a mise en abyme of a particular genre” [146, my translation]; this reinforces the idea of a conjunction of translation and crime fiction under the sign of reflexivity.) Re-imagined beneath this wave of colourful translations of would-be American crime novels is a new national allegory for a France emerging from the ruins of German occupation and Allied liberation. The re-imagining of France in the years immediately following the Second World War is therefore not mapped, or imagined again, by crime fiction; rather, the combination of translation and American crime fiction provide the perfect storm for re-creating a national sense of self through the filter of the Other. For what goes for the translator, goes equally for the reader. Conclusion As Johnson notes, “through the foreign language we renew our love-hate intimacy with our mother tongue”; and as such, “in the process of translation from one language to another, the scene of linguistic castration […] is played on center stage, evoking fear and pity and the illusion that all would perhaps have been well if we could simply have stayed at home” (144). This, of course, is just what had happened one hundred years earlier when Baudelaire created a new prose poetics for a new Paris. In order to re-present (both present and represent) Paris, he focused so close on it as to erase it from objective view. And in the same instance of supreme literary creativity, he masked the origins of his own translation praxis: his Paris was also Poe’s, which is to say, an American vision of Paris translated into French by an author who considered his American alter ego to have had his own thoughts in an act of what Bayard would consider anticipatory plagiarism. In this light, his decision to entitle one of the prose poems “Any where out of the world”—in English in the original—can be considered a Derridean reflection on the translation inherent in any original act of literary re-imagination. Paris, crime fiction and translation can thus all be considered privileged sites of re-imagination, which is to say, embodiments of self-différance and “original” acts of re-reading. References Apter, Emily. The Translation Zone: A New Comparative Literature. Princeton: Princeton UP, 2006. Barthes, Roland. Le Bruissement de la langue. Paris: Seuil, 1971. Baudelaire, Charles. Le Spleen de Paris. Trans. Louise Varèse. New York: New Directions, 1970 [1869]. Bayard, Pierre. Qui a tué Roger Ackroyd? Paris: Les Éditions de Minuit, 1998. ———. L’Affaire du chien des Baskerville. Paris: Les Éditions de Minuit, 2008. ———. Et si les œuvres changeaient d’auteur? Paris: Les Éditions de Minuit, 2010. Benjamin, Walter. “The Task of the Translator.” Illuminations. Trans. Harry Zohn. New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, Inc., 1968. 69–82. Bloom, Harold, et al. Deconstruction and Criticism. New York: The Seabury Press, 1979. Collombat, Isabelle. “Pseudo-traduction: la mise en scène de l’altérité.” Le Langage et l’Homme 38.1 (2003): 145–56. Gorrara, Claire. French Crime Fiction and the Second World War: Past Crimes, Present Memories. Manchester: Manchester UP, 2012. Johnson, Barbara. “Taking Fidelity Philosophically.” Difference in Translation. Ed. Joseph F. Graham. Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1985. 142–48. ———. “The Critical Difference.” Critical Essays on Roland Barthes. Ed. Diana Knight. New York: G.K. Hall, 2000. 174–82. Lhomeau, Frank. “Le roman ‘noir’ à l’américaine.” Temps noir 4 (2000): 5–33. Miller, J. Hillis. “The Critic as Host.” Critical Inquiry 3.3 (1977): 439–47. Nelson, Brian. “Preface: Translation Lost and Found.” Australian Journal of French Studies 47.1 (2010): 3–7. Poe, Edgar Allan. “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.” Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe. New York: Vintage Books, [1841]1975. 141–68. Rolls, Alistair. “Editor’s Letter: The Undecidable Lightness of Writing Crime.” The Australasian Journal of Popular Culture 3.1 (2014): 3–8. Rolls, Alistair, and Clara Sitbon. “‘Traduit de l’américain’ from Poe to the Série Noire: Baudelaire’s Greatest Hoax?” Modern and Contemporary France 21.1 (2013): 37–53. Vuaille-Barcan, Marie-Laure, Clara Sitbon, and Alistair Rolls. “Jeux textuels et paratextuels dans J’irai cracher sur vos tombes: au-delà du canular.” Romance Studies 32.1 (2014): 16–26. Wilson, Rita, and Leah Gerber, eds. Creative Constraints: Translation and Authorship. Melbourne: Monash UP, 2012.

I wake up early, questions buzzing through my mind. While I sip my morning cup of tea and read The Guardian online, the writer, restless because I’m ignoring her, walks around firing questions.“Expecting the patriarchy to want to share its enormous wealth and power with women is extremely naïve.”I nod. Outside the window pieces of sky are framed by trees, fluffy white clouds alternate with bright patches of blue. The sweet, heady first wafts of lavender and citrus drift in through the open window. Spring has come to Hvar. Time to get to work.The more I understand about narcissism, the more I understand the world. I didn’t understand before. In the 1990s.“No—you knew, but you didn’t know at the same time.”I kept telling everybody The River Ophelia wasn’t about sex, (or the sex wasn’t about sex), it was about power. Not many people listened or heard, though. Only some readers.I’ve come here to get away. To disappear. To write.I can’t find the essay I want for my article about the 1990s. I consider the novel I’m reading, I Love Dick by Chris Kraus and wonder whether I should write about it instead? It’s just been reprinted, twenty years after its initial release. The back cover boasts, “widely considered to be the most important feminist novel of the past two decades.” It was first published in the 1990s. So far it’s about a woman named Chris who’s addictively obsessed with an unavailable man, though I’m yet to unravel Kraus’s particular brand of feminism—abjection? Maybe, maybe … while I think, I click through my storage folder. Half way through, I find a piece I wrote about Kathy Acker in 1997, a tribute of sorts that was never published. The last I’d heard from Kathy before this had been that she was heading down to Mexico to try shark cartilage for her breast cancer. That was just before she died.When I was first introduced to the work of Foucault and Deleuze, it was very political; it was about what was happening to the economy and about changing the political system. By the time it was taken up by the American academy, the politics had gone to hell. (Acker qtd. in Friedman 20)Looking back, I’d have to say my friendship with Kathy Acker was intense and short-lived.In the original I’d written “was a little off and on.” But I prefer the new version. I first met Kathy in person in Sydney, in 1995. We were at a World Art launch at Ariel bookshop and I remember feeling distinctly nervous. As it turned out, I needn’t have been. Nervous, that is.Reading this now brings it all back: how Kathy and I lost touch in the intervening two years and the sudden fact of her death. I turn to the end and read, “She died tragically, not only because she was much too young, but because American literature seems rather frumpy without her, of cancer on the 30th November 1997, aged 53.”The same age as I am now. (While some believe Kathy was 50 when she died, Kathy told me she lied about her age even to the point of changing her passport. Women who lie about their age tend to want to be younger than they are, so I’m sticking with 53.) This coincidence spooks me a little.I make a cup of tea and eat some chocolate.“This could work …” the writer says. My reasons for feeling nervous were historical. I’d spoken to Kathy once previously (before the publication of The River Ophelia on the phone from Seattle to San Francisco in 1993) and the conversation had ended abruptly. I’d wanted to interview Kathy for my PhD on American fiction but Kathy wouldn’t commit. Now I was meeting her face to face and trying to push the past to the back of my mind.The evening turned out to be a memorable one. A whole bunch of us—a mixture of writers, publishers, academics and literati—went out to dinner and then carried on drinking well into the night. I made plans to see Kathy again. She struck me as a warm, generous, sincere and intensely engaging person. It seemed we might become friends. I hesitated: should I include the rest? Or was that too much?The first thing Kathy had said when we were introduced was, “I loved your book, The River Ophelia. I found it as soon as I arrived. I bought it from the bookshop at the airport. I saw your amazing cover and then I read on the back that it was influenced by the work of Kathy Acker. I was like, wow, no one in America has ever put that on the back cover of a novel. So I read it immediately and I couldn’t put it down. I love the way you’ve deconstructed the canon but still managed to put a compelling narrative to it. I never did that.”Why didn’t I include that? It had given me more satisfaction than anything anyone else had said.I remember how quickly I abandoned my bestselling life in Sydney, sexual harassment had all but ruined my career, and exchanged it for an uncertain future in London. My notoriety as an author was damaging my books and my relationship with my publisher had become toxic. The first thing I did in London was hire a lawyer, break my contract with Picador and take both novels out of print.Reality intrudes in the form of a phone call from my mother. Terminally ill with cancer, she informs me that she’s off her food. For a retired chef, the loss of appetite is not inconsiderable. Her dying is a dull ache, a constant tiredness and sadness in me. She’s just arrived in London. I will go there next week to meet her.(1)I first came across Kathy’s work in 1991. I’d just finished my MA thesis on postmodernism and parody and was rewarding myself with some real reading (i.e. not related to my thesis) when I came across the novel Don Quixote. This novel had a tremendous impact on me. Those familiar with DQ may recall that it begins with an abortion that transforms its female narrator into a knight.When she was finally crazy because she was about to have an abortion, she conceived of the most insane idea that any woman can think of. Which is to love. How can a woman love? By loving someone other than herself. (Acker Quixote 9)Kathy’s opening sentences produced a powerful emotional response in me and her bold confronting account of an abortion both put me in touch with feelings I was trying to avoid and connected these disturbing feelings with a broader political context. Kathy’s technique of linking the personal and emotional with the political changed the way I worked as a writer.I’d submitted the piece as an obituary for publication to an Australian journal; the editor had written suggestions in the margin in red. All about making the piece a more conventional academic essay. I hadn’t been sure that was what I wanted to do. Ambitious, creative, I was trying to put poststructuralist theory into practice, to write theoretical fiction. It’s true, I hadn’t been to the Sorbonne, but so what? What was the point of studying theory if one didn’t put it into practice? I was trying to write like French theorists, not to write about them. The editor’s remarks would have made a better academic essay, it’s just I’m not sure that’s where I wanted to go. I never rewrote it and it was never published.I first encountered I Love Dick (2017) during a film course at the AFTVRS when the lecturer presented a short clip of the adaptation for the class to analyse. When I later saw the novel in a bookshop I bought a copy. Given my discovery of the unpublished obituary it is also a bit spooky that I’m reading this book as both Chris Kraus and Kathy Acker had relationships with academic and Semiotext(e) publisher Sylvère Lotringer. Chris as his wife, Kathy as his lover. Kraus wrote a biography of Acker called After Kathy Acker: A Biography, which seems fairly unsympathetic according to the review I read in The Guardian. (Cooke 2017) Intrigued, I add Kraus’s biography to my growing pile of Acker related reading, the Acker/Wark letters I’m Very Into You and Olivia Laing’s novel, Crudo. While I’ve not read the letters yet, Crudo’s breathless yet rhythmic layering of images and it’s fragmented reflections upon war, women and politics reminded me less of Acker and more of Woolf; Mrs Dalloway, in fact.(2)What most inspired me, and what makes Kathy such a great writer, is her manner of writing politically. For the purposes of this piece, when I say Kathy writes politically, I’m referring to what happens when you read her books. That is, your mind—fuelled by powerful feelings—makes creative leaps that link everyday things and ideas with political discourses and debates (for Kathy, these were usually critiques of bourgeois society, of oedipal culture and of the patriarchy).In the first pages of Don Quixote, for example, an abortion becomes synonymous with the process of becoming a knight. The links Kathy makes between these two seemingly unrelated events yields a political message for the creative reader. There is more at stake than just gender-bending or metamorphoses here: a reversal of power seems to have taken place. A relatively powerless woman (a female victim except for the fact that in having an abortion she’s exerting some measure of control over her life), far from being destroyed by the experience of aborting her foetus, actually gains power—power to become a knight and go about the world fulfilling a quest. In writing about an abortion in this way, Kathy challenges our assumptions about this controversial topic: beyond the moral debate, there are other issues at stake, like identity and power. An abortion becomes a birth, rather than a banal tragedy.When I think about the 1990s, I automatically think of shoulder pads, cocktails and expense accounts (the consumption of the former, in my case, dependent on the latter). But on reflection, I think about the corporatisation of the publishing industry, the Backlash and films like Thelma and Louise, (1991) Basic Instinct (1992) and Single White Female (1992). It occurs to me that the Hollywood movie star glamorous #MeToo has its origin in the turbulent 1990s Backlash. When I first saw each of these films I thought they were exciting, controversial. I loved the provocative stance they took about women. But looking back I can’t help wondering: whose stories were they really, why were we hearing them and what was the political point?It was a confusing time in terms of debates about gender equality.Excluding the premise for Thelma and Louise, all three films present as narrative truth scenarios that ran in stark contrast to reality. When it came to violence and women, most domestic homicide and violence was perpetrated by men. And violence towards women, in the 1990s, was statistically on the rise and there’s little improvement in these statistics today.Utter chaos, having a British passport never feels quite so wonderful as it does in the arrivals hall at Heathrow.“Perhaps these films allow women to fantasise about killing the men who are violent towards them?”Nyah, BI is chick killing chick … and think about the moral to the story. Fantasy OK, concrete action painful, even deadly.“Different story today …”How so?“Violent female protagonists are all the rage and definitely profitable. Killing Eve (2018) and A Simple Favour (2018).”I don’t have an immediate answer here. Killing Eve is a TV series, I think aloud, A Simple Favour structurally similar to Single White Female … “Why don’t you try self-publishing? It’ll be 20 years since you took The River Ophelia out of print, bit of an anniversary, maybe it’s time?”Not a bad idea. I’m now on the tube to meet mum at her bed and breakfast but the writer is impatient to get back to work. Maybe I should just write the screenplay instead?“Try both. If you don’t believe in your writing, who else will?”She has a point. I’m not getting anywhere with my new novel.A message pips through on Facebook. Want to catch up?What? Talk about out of the blue. I haven’t heard from Sade in twenty years … and how on earth did he get through my privacy settings?After meeting mum, the next thing I do is go to the doctor. My old doctor from West Kensington, she asks me how I’m going and I say I’m fine except that mum’s dying and this awful narcissistic ex-partner of mine has contacted me on Facebook. She recommends I read the following article, “The Highly Sensitive Person and the Narcissist” (Psychology Today).“Sometimes being a kind caring person makes you vulnerable to abusers.”After the appointment I can’t get her words out of my head.I dash into a Starbucks, I’m in Notting Hill just near the tube station, and read the article on my laptop on wifi. I highlight various sections. Narcissists “have a complete lack of empathy for others including their own family and friends, so that they will take advantage of people to get their own needs and desires met, even if it hurts someone.” That sounds about right, Sade could always find some way of masking his real motives in charm, or twisting reality around to make it look like things weren’t his fault, they were mine. How cleverly he’d lied! Narcissists, I read, are attracted to kind, compassionate people who they then use and lie to without remorse.But the bit that really makes me sit up is towards the end of the article. “For someone on the outside looking at a relationship between a highly sensitive person and a narcissist, it’s all too easy to blame the HSP. How and why would anyone want to stay in such a relationship?” Narcissists are incredibly good at making you doubt yourself, especially the part of you that says: this has happened before, it’ll happen again. You need to leave.The opening paragraph of the psychology textbook I read next uses Donald Trump as an example. Trump is also Patrick Bateman’s hero, the misogynistic serial killer protagonist of Bret Easton Ellis’s notorious American Psycho. Despite an earlier version that broadly focused on New York fiction of the 1990s, Ellis’s novel and the feminist outcry it provoked became the central topic of my PhD.“Are you alright mum?”I’ve just picked Mum up and I’m driving her to Paris for a night and then on to Switzerland where she’s going to have voluntary euthanasia. Despite the London drizzle and the horrific traffic the whole thing has a Thelma and Louise feel about it. I tell mum and she laughs.“We should watch it again. Have you seen it since it first came out?”“Sounds like a good idea.”Mum, tiny, pointy-kneed and wearing an out-of-character fluoro green beanie given to her at the oncology clinic in Sydney, is being very stoic but I can tell from the way she constantly wrings her hands that she’s actually quite terrified.“OK Louise,” she says as I unfold her Zimmer frame later that evening.“OK Thelma,” I reply as she walks off towards the hotel.Paris is a treat. My brother is waiting inside and we’re hoping to enjoy one last meal together.Mum didn’t want to continue with chemo at 83, but she’s frightened of dying a horrific death. As we approach hotel reception Mum can’t help taking a detour to inspect the dinner menu at the hotel restaurant.“Oysters naturel. That sounds nice.”I smile, wait, and take her by the elbow.I’ve completely forgotten. The interview/review I wrote of Acker’s Pussy, King of the Pirates, in 1995 for Rolling Stone. Where is it? I open my laptop and quickly click through the endless publicity and reviews of The River Ophelia, the interview/review came out around the same time the novel was published, but I can’t find it. I know I had it out just a few months ago, when I was chasing up some freelance book reviews.I make a fresh pot of tea from the mini bar, green, and return to my Acker tribute. Should I try to get it published? Here, or back in Australia? Ever the émigré’s dilemma. I decide I like the Parisian sense of style in this room, especially the cotton-linen sheets.Finally, I find it, it’s in the wrong folder. Printing it out, I remember how Kathy had called her agent and publisher in New York, and her disbelief when I’d told her the book hadn’t been picked up overseas. Kathy’s call resulted in my first New York agent. I scrutinise its pages.Kathy smiles benign childlike creativity in the larger photo, and gestures in passionate exasperation in the smaller group, her baby face framed by countless metal ear piercings. The interview takes place—at Kathy’s insistence—on her futon in her hotel room. My memories clarify. It wasn’t that we drifted apart, or rather we did, but only after men had come between us first. Neither of us had much luck in that department.(4)Kathy’s writing is also political because her characters don’t act or speak the way you’d expect them to. They don’t seem to follow the rules or behave in the way your average fictional character tends to do. From sentence to sentence, Kathy’s characters either change into different people, or live revolutionary lives, or even more radical still, live impossible lives.When the narrator of DQ transforms herself into a knight (and lives an impossible life); she turns a situation in which she is passive and relatively powerless—she is about to be operated on and drugged—into an empowering experience (and lives a creative revolutionary life). Ironically, getting power means she turns herself into a male knight. But Kathy gets around the problem that power is male by not letting things rest there. The female, aborting Kathy isn’t actually replaced by a male knight, bits of him are just grafted onto her. Sure, she sets out on a quest, but the other aspects of her empowerment are pretty superficial: she does adopt a new name (which is more like a disguise), and identity (appearance); and picks up a bad habit or two—a tendency to talk in the language used by knights.“But who’s the father?” the writer wants to know. “I mean isn’t that the real question here?”No, that is exactly not the real question here and not the point. It is not about who the father is—it’s about what happens to a woman who has an unwanted unplanned pregnancy.The phone rings. It’s my brother. Mum’s waiting for me downstairs and the oysters are beckoning.(5)The idea that writing could be political was very appealing. The transformation between my first novel, Marilyn’s Almost Terminal New York Adventure and my second, The River Ophelia (Picador insisted on publishing them in reverse chronology) was partly a result of my discovery of Kathy’s work and the ideas it set off in me. Kathy wasn’t the first novelist to write politically, but she was the first female novelist to do so in a way that had an immediate impact on me at an emotional level. And it was this powerful emotional response that inspired me as a writer—I wanted to affect my readers in a similar way (because reading Kathy’s work, I felt less alone and that my darkest experiences, so long silenced by shame and skirted around in the interests of maintaining appearances, could be given a voice).We’re driving through Switzerland and I’m thinking about narcissism and the way the narcissists in my personal and professional life overshadowed everything else. But now it’s time to give the rest of the world some attention. It’s also one way of pulling back the power from the psychopaths who rule the world.As we approach Zurich, my mother asks to pull over so she can use the ladies. When she comes out I can see she’s been crying. Inside the car, she reaches for my hand and clasps it. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough to say goodbye.”“It’s alright Mum,” I say and hold her while we both cry.A police car drives by and my mother’s eyes snag. Harassed by the police in Australia and unable to obtain Nembutal in the UK, Mum has run out of options.To be a woman in this society is to find oneself living outside the law. Maybe this is what Acker meant when she wrote about becoming a pirate, or a knight?Textual deconstruction can be a risky business and writers like Acker walk a fine line when it comes to the law. Empire of the Senseless ran into a plagiarism suit in the UK and her publishers forced Acker to sign an apology to Harold Robbins (Acker Hannibal Lecter 13). My third novel Dependency similarly fell foul of the law when I discovered that in deconstructing gossip and myths about celebrities, drawing on their lives and then making stuff up, the result proved prophetic. When my publisher, Harper Collins, refused to indemnify me against potential unintended defamation I pulled the book from its contract on the advice of a lawyer. I was worth seven million pounds on paper at that point, the internet travel site my then husband and I had founded with Bob Geldof had taken off, and the novel was a radical hybrid text comprised of Rupert Murdoch’s biography, Shakespeare’s King Lear and Hello Magazine and I was worried that Murdoch might come after me personally. I’d fictionalised him as a King Lear type, writing his Cordelia out of his will and leaving everything to his Goneril and Reagan.Recent theoretical studies argue that Acker’s appropriation and deconstruction constitute a feminist politics as “fragmentation” (June 2) and as “agency” (Pitchford 22). As Acker puts it. “And then it’s like a kid: suddenly a toy shop opens up and the toy shop was called culture.” (Acker Hannibal Lecter 11).We don’t easily fit in a system that wasn’t ever designed to meet our needs.(6)By writing about the most private parts of women’s lives, I’ve tried to show how far there is to go before women and men are equal on a personal level. The River Ophelia is about a young woman whose public life might seem a success from the outside (she is a student doing an honours year at university in receipt of a scholarship), but whose private life is insufferable (she knows nothing about dealing with misogyny on an intimate level and she has no real relationship-survival skills, partly as a result of her family history, partly because the only survival skills she has have been inscribed by patriarchy and leave her vulnerable to more abuse). When Justine-the-character learns how to get around sexism of the personal variety (by re-inventing her life through parodies of classic texts about oedipal society) she not only changes her life, but she passes on her new-found survival skills to the reader.A disturbing tale about a young university student who loses herself in a destructive relationship, The River Ophelia is a postmodern novel about domestic violence and sexual harassment in the academy, contrary to its marketing campaign at the time. It’s protagonist, Justine, loves Sade but Sade is only interested in sex; indeed, he’s a brutish sex addict. Despite this, Justine can’t seem to leave: for all her education, she’s looking for love and commitment in all the wrong places. While the feminist lore of previous generations seems to work well in theory, Justine can’t seem to make it work in practise. Owning her power and experimenting with her own sexuality only leaves her feeling more despairing than before. Unconventional, compelling and controversial, The River Ophelia became an instant best-seller and is credited with beginning the Australian literary movement known as grunge/dirty realism.But there is always the possibility, given the rich intertextuality and self referentiality, that The River Ophelia is Justine’s honours thesis in creative writing. In this case, Sade, Juliette, Ophelia, Hamlet, Bataille, Simone, Marcelle and Leopold become hybrids made up from appropriated canonical characters, fragments of Justine’s turbulent student’s world and invented sections. But The River Ophelia is also a feminist novel that partly began as a dialogue with Ellis whose scandalous American Psycho it parodies even as it reinvents. This creative activity, which also involves the reader by inviting her to participate in the textual play, eventually empowers Justine over the canon and over her perpetrator, Sade.Another hotel room. This one, just out of Zürich, is tiny. I place my suitcase on the rack beneath the window overlooking the narrow street and start to unpack.“Hasn’t this all been said before, about The River Ophelia?” The writer says, trying out the bed. I’m in the middle of an email about self-publishing a new edition of TRO.Some of it. While the grunge label has been refuted, Acker’s influence has been underplayed.Acker often named her protagonists after herself, so losing the Acker part of my textual filiation plays into the whole grunge/dirty realism marketing campaign. I’ve talked about how I always name protagonists after famous women but not linked this to Acker. Bohemia Beach has a protagonist named after Cathy as in Wuthering Heights. Justine of The River Ophelia was doubly an Acker trait: firstly, she was named Justine after De Sade’s character and is a deconstruction of that character, and secondly she was named Justine self-reflexively after me, as a tribute to Kathy as in Kathy Goes to Haiti.The other context for The River Ophelia that has been lost is to do with the early work of Mary Gaitskill, and Catherine Texier. The narcissists were so destructive and so powerful they left no time for the relatively more subtle Gaitskill or Texier. Prototypes for Sex in the City, the 1990s was also a time when Downtown New York women writers explored the idea that gender equality meant women could do anything men did sexually, that they deserved the full gamut of libertine sexual freedoms. Twenty years on it should also be said that women who push the envelope by writing women protagonists who are every bit as sexually transgressive as men, every bit as addictively self-destructive as male protagonists deserve not to be shamed for that experimentation. They deserve to be celebrated and read.AfterwordI’d like to remember Kathy as I knew her briefly in Sydney. A bottle-blonde with a number two haircut, a leopard-skin bikini and a totally tattooed body, she swam a surprisingly genteel breast-stroke in the next lane in one of the world’s most macho lap-swimming pools.ReferencesA Simple Favour. Dir. Paul Feig. Lionsgate, 2018.Acker, Kathy. Don Quixote. London: Collins, 1986.———. Empire of the Senseless. New York: Grove, 1988.———. Hannibal Lecter, My Father. New York: Semiotext(e), 1991.———. Kathy Goes to Haiti. New York: Grove Press/Atlantic Monthly, 1994.——— and McKenzie Wark. I’m Very into You: Correspondence 1995-1996. New York: Semiotext(e), 2015.Basic Instinct. Dir. Paul Verhoeven. TriStar Pictures, 1992.Brontë, Emily. Wuthering Heights. New York: Norton and Co, 2003.Bushnell, Candace. Sex in the City. United States: Grand Central Publishing, 1996.Cooke, Rachel. “Review of After Kathy Acker: A Biography by Chris Kraus—Baffling Life Study.” The Guardian 4 Sep. 2017. 4 Dec. 2018 <https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/sep/04/after-kathy-acker-a-biography-chris-kraus-review>.Deleuze, Gilles, and Felix Guattari. A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1987.Ellis, Bret Easton. American Psycho. New York: Vintage, 1991.Ettler, Justine. Bohemia Beach. Melbourne: Transit Lounge. 2018.———. “Kathy Acker: King of the Pussies.” Review of Pussy, King of the Pirates, by Kathy Acker. Rolling Stone. Nov. 1995: 60-61.———. Marilyn’s Almost Terminal New York Adventure. Sydney: Picador, 1996.———. “La Trobe University Essay: Bret Easton Ellis’s Glamorama, and Catherine Texier’s Break Up.” Australian Book Review, 1995.———. The Best Ellis for Business: A Re-Examination of the Mass Media Feminist Critique of “American Psycho.” PhD. Sydney: University of Sydney, 2013.———. The River Ophelia. Sydney: Picador, 1995.Faludi, Susan. Backlash: The Undeclared War against American Women. New York: Crown, 1991.Friedman, Ellen G. “A Conversation with Kathy Acker.” The Review of Contemporary Fiction 9.3 (Fall 1989): 20-21.Gaitskill, Mary. Bad Behaviour. New York: Random House, 1988.I Love Dick. Dir. Jill Soloway. Amazon Video, 2017.June, Pamela B. The Fragmented Female Body and Identity: The Postmodern Feminist and Multiethnic Writings of Toni Morrison, Therese Huk, Kyung Cha, Phyllis Alesia Perry, Gayl Jones, Emma Perez, Paula Gunn Allen, and Kathy Acker. New York: Peter Lang Publishing, 2010.Killing Eve. Dir. Phoebe Waller-Bridge. BBC America, 2018.Kraus, Chris. After Kathy Acker: A Biography. London: Penguin, 2017.———. I Love Dick. London: Serpent’s Tail, 2016.Laing, Olivia. Crudo. London: Picador, 2018.Lee, Bandy. The Case of Donald Trump: 27 Psychiatrists and Mental Health Experts Assess a President. New York: St Martin’s Press. 2017.Lombard, Nancy, and Lesley McMillan. “Introduction.” Violence against Women. Eds. Nancy Lombard and Lesley McMillan. London: Jessica Kingsley Publishers, 2013.Pitchford, Nicola. Tactical Readings: Feminist Postmodernism in the Novels of Kathy Acker and Angela Carter. London: Associated Uni Press, 2002.Schiffrin, André. The Business of Books: How International Conglomerates Took Over Publishing and Changed the Way We Read. London and New York: Verso, 2000.Shakespeare, William. King Lear. London: Penguin Classics, 2015.Siegle, Robert. Suburban Ambush: Downtown Writing and the Fiction of Insurgency. United States: John Hopkins Press, 1989.Single White Female. Dir. Barbet Schroeder. Columbia Pictures, 1992.Texier, Catherine. Panic Blood. London: Collins, 1991.Thelma and Louise. Dir. Ridley Scott. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, 1991.Ward, Deborah. “Sense and Sensitivity: The Highly Sensitive Person and the Narcissist.” Psychology Today (16 Jan. 2012). 4 Dec. 2018 <https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/sense-and-sensitivity/201201/the-highly-sensitive-person-and-the-narcissist>.