Journal articles on the topic 'Fred W. Riggs'

F. W. Riggs initiated seminal areas of enquiry and research right from the beginning of his journey as an author and a theorist in public administration. His lifetime publications testify to a search for an ‘authentic’ model for analysing the administrative structures and behaviour of developing countries since the 1960s. Riggs pursued what is known as the ‘ecological’ study of public administration which presumes that public administration, functioning in different environments, influences and is influenced by the environment in which it functions. Scholars of comparative public administration have long been familiar with the ‘fused– prismatic–diffracted model’, which was later reformulated by Riggs to exert enormous influence on the understanding of public administration and organisational behaviour in different parts of the world. In the wake of the tremendous transformation with diverse developmental strategies in the Third World and South Asia in particular, in the last fifty years, it becomes important to re-examine Riggs’ models both in the Indian and other developing country contexts today.

Abstract This study aimed at identifying the implementation of bureaucratic reforms and trying to offer some solutions for improvement of administrative services licensing. This study applied qualitative approach using a case study design. Techniques of data collection used three kinds of instrument, namely: observation, in-depth interviews, and office documentation. The data were analyzed through the stages of data reduction, data presentation, and conclusions and verification. The results found that the implementation of the bureaucratic reform of administration service licensing on the Institutional aspects in Bone regency have shaped the One Stop-Integrated Service; on the aspects of human resources found that the qualification of existing employees were not appropriate to the needs of the organization which lack of employees’ disciplines and responsibilities; on the aspects of systems and procedures indicated that the licensing generally resolved exceeds the specified time of period as well as discrimination and inconsistencies. Through this study, the researcher made verification in some of the concepts and theories in the form of formalism as one of the characteristics of prismatic society proposed by Fred W. Riggs in those phenomena which called “Heresy Regulation”.

This study aims to identify the implementation of bureaucratic reforms, as well as to offer several solutions for the improvement of licensing administration services. This study used a qualitative approach with the type of instrumental case study research. The location of the research was conducted at Integrated Licensing Service Agency (BP2T) in Kabupaten Bone.Teknik data collection used, namely: in-depth interviews, document studies and observation. Data are analyzed through data reduction stages, data presentation, conclusion and verification. The results showed that the implementation of bureaucratic reform in the administration of licensing services, from the Institutional aspect that the licensing service of Bone Regency has been in the form of One Stop Service; Human Resources aspects that the existing employee qualifications are not in accordance with organizational needs, discipline and responsibilities of employees is still relatively low; aspects of the System and Procedures that generally permits are completed beyond the prescribed timeframe, the existence of discrimination and inconsistency. Through this research, verification of several concepts and theories, namely formalism as one of the characteristics of prismatic society proposed by Fred W Riggs on justified in this study, which in the phenomenon the author calls it by the term "Regulation of the Tongue.

AbstractTo each field F of characteristic not 2, one can associate a certain Galois group 𝒢F, the so-called W-group of F, which carries essentially the same information as the Witt ring W(F) of F. In this paper we show that direct products of Witt rings correspond to free products of these Galois groups (in the appropriate category), group ring construction of Witt rings corresponds to semidirect products of W-groups, and the basic part of W(F) is related to the center of 𝒢F. In an appendix we provide a complete list of Witt rings and corresponding w-groups for fields F with |Ḟ/Ḟ2| ≤ 16.

Molodtsov introduced the theory of soft sets, which can be seen as an effective mathematical tool to deal with uncertainties, since it is free from the difficulties that the usual theoretical approaches have troubled. In this paper, we apply the definitions proposed by Ali et al. [M. I. Ali, F. Feng, X. Liu, W. K. Min and M. Shabir, On some new operations in soft set theory, Comput. Math. Appl. 57 (2009), 1547-1553] to the concept of soft near- rings and substructures of soft near-rings, proposed by Atag?n and Sezgin [A. O. Atag?n and A. Sezgin, Soft Near-rings, submitted] and show them with illustrating examples. Moreover, we investigate the properties of idealistic soft near-rings with respect to the near-ring mappings and we show that the structure is preserved under the near-ring epimorphisms. Main purpose of this paper is to extend the study of soft near-rings from a theoretical aspect.

AbstractIn the woodworking industry, detection of annual rings and location of pith in relation to timber board cross sections, and how these properties vary in the longitudinal direction of boards, is relevant for many purposes such as assessment of shape stability and prediction of mechanical properties of timber. The current work aims at developing a fast, accurate and operationally simple deep learning-based algorithm for automatic detection of surface growth rings and pith location along knot-free clear wood sections of Norway spruce boards. First, individual surface growth rings that are visible along the four longitudinal sides of the scanned boards are detected using trained conditional generative adversarial networks (cGANs). Then, pith locations are determined, on the basis of the detected growth rings, by using a trained multilayer perceptron (MLP) artificial neural network. The proposed algorithm was solely based on raw images of board surfaces obtained from optical scanning and applied to a total of 104 Norway spruce boards with nominal dimensions of $$45\times 145\times 4500\,\hbox {mm}^{3}$$ 45 × 145 × 4500 mm 3 . The results show that optical scanners and the proposed automatic method allow for accurate and fast detection of individual surface growth rings and pith location along boards. For boards with the pith located within the cross section, median errors of 1.4 mm and 2.9 mm, in the x- and y-direction, respectively, were obtained. For a sample of boards with the pith located outside the board cross section in most positions along the board, the median discrepancy between automatically estimated and manually determined pith locations was 3.9 mm and 5.4 mm in the x- and y-direction, respectively.

In 1954, McLain [M] applied some well-known arguments of linear algebra on triangular matrices to establish the existence of characteristically simple, locally finitep-groups, now known as McLain groups [Rob, pp. 347–349]. His groups, having a trivial centre, illustrated sharply the difference between finite and locally finitep-groups. The construction of McLain groups depends on the dense linear ordering (ℚ,≤) and a fieldFpofpelements. It was immediately clear that the parametersFp, ℚ of the McLain groupG(Fp, ℚ) could be replaced by other linearly ordered, dense setsSand by other fieldsFwithout doing much harm to the construction. IfFhas characteristic 0, thenG(F, S) is still locally nilpotent but torsion-free. Wilson [W] investigatedG(Fp, S) for other orderings and Roseblade[R] deeply studied the automorphism group AutG(Fp, S) in his dissertation at Cambridge in 1963.

Background: accumulating evidence suggests that natural compounds and specifically monoterpenes exert a vasodilator action. Objetive: to investigate the vascular effects of isoespintanol (2-isopropil-3,6- dimetoxi-5-metilfenol, ISO) monoterpene isolated from the leaves of Oxandra cf xylopioides. Methods: thoracic aortic rings isolated from Wistar rats were contracted with KCl 80 mM and then relaxed by exposure to Ca2+-free solution in absence and in presence of ISO 0.6 mg/mL. The force/tissue ratio (F/W) and the time to obtain 50% of relaxation (T-50) were used to assess the maximal contractile response and the relaxation, respectively. To examine the participation of NO additional experiments were performed under inhibition of nitric oxide synthase with L-NAME (L-NG-Nitroarginine methyl ester). Results: ISO significantly decreased the F/W ratio (257 ± 19 vs. 360 ± 18) and did not change T-50. In presence of L-NAME the effects of ISO on contractile response was abolished. Conclusions: these results demonstrate that ISO exerts a vasodilator effect through NO- dependent pathways and suggest that an inhibition of calcium influx could be the involved mechanism.

The 13C NMR parameters of several cyclobutabenzenes ( 1a - 1e ) and their corresponding complexes (cyclobutabenzene)M(CO)3 (M = Cr, Mo, W, 2 - 4 ) are presented and discussed. Two cyclobutabenzenes 1b and 1d and their chromium tricarbonyl complexes 2b and 2d have been examined in greater detail: the signal assignments have been confirmed by 2 D-INADEQUATE and the one bond coupling constants 1J(13C ,13C) measured at natural abundance using 1 D-INADEQUATE . Although the results provide no insight into why the chromium complex of 1,2 - dioxocyclobutabenzene (1e) is much more reactive at the keto groups than 1e itself, they do reveal a weak but not negligible alternation of the carbon s-character in the C - C bonds of the 6-membered rings both in the free cyclobutabenzenes and in the complexes, thus providing evidence for slight bond fixation (Mills-Nixon effect).

SUMMARYAlthough considerable progress has been made within the last decade in experimental hydrodynamic analyses of aquatic locomotion using two-dimensional digital particle image velocimetry (two-dimensional DPIV), data have been limited to simultaneous calculation of two out of the three flow velocity variables: downstream (U), vertical (V) and lateral(W). Here, we present the first biological application of stereo-DPIV, an engineering technique that allows simultaneous calculation of U, V and W velocity vectors. We quantified the wakes of rainbow trout (Oncorhynchus mykiss, 16.5-21.5 cm total body length, BL), swimming steadily in a recirculating flow tank at a slow cruising speed of 1.2 BL s-1. These data extend the comparative basis of current hydromechanical data on the wakes of free-swimming fishes to the salmoniforms and are used to test current hypotheses of fin function by calculations of mechanical performance and Froude efficiency.Stereo-DPIV wake images showed three-dimensional views of oscillating jet flows high in velocity relative to free-stream values. These jet flows are consistent with the central momentum jet flows through the cores of shed vortex rings that have been previously viewed for caudal fin swimmers using two-dimensional DPIV. The magnitude and direction of U, V and W flows in these jets were determined over a time series of 6-8 consecutive strokes by each of four fish.Although the fish swam at the same relative speed, the absolute magnitudes of U, V and W were dependent on individual because of body size variation. Vertical flows were small in magnitude (<1 cm s-1) and variable in direction, indicating limited and variable vertical force production during slow, steady, forward swimming. Thus, in contrast to previous data from sunfish (Lepomis macrochirus) and mackerel (Scomber japonicus), the trout homocercal caudal fin does not appear to generate consistent vertical forces during steady swimming. U flows were of the order of 3-6 cm s-1; lateral flows were typically strongest, with W magnitudes of 4-6 cm s-1. Such strong lateral flows have also been shown for more derived euteleosts with homocercal caudal fins.The ratios of the magnitudes of wake flow, U/(U+V+W), which is a flow equivalent to mechanical performance, were also dependent on individual and ranged from 0.32 to 0.45, a range similar to the range of mechanical performance values previously determined using standard two-dimensional DPIV methods for caudal fin locomotion by more derived euteleosts. Strong lateral jet flow appears to be a general feature of caudal fin locomotion by teleosts and may reflect the nature of undulatory propulsion as a posteriorly propagated wave of bending. Froude efficiency (ηp) was independent of individual; meanη p was 0.74, which is similar to previous findings for trout.

Endophilin 1 is a presynaptically enriched protein which binds the GTPase dynamin and the polyphosphoinositide phosphatase synptojanin. Perturbation of endophilin function in cell-free systems and in a living synapse has implicated endophilin in endocytic vesicle budding (Ringstad, N., H. Gad, P. Low, G. Di Paolo, L. Brodin, O. Shupliakov, and P. De Camilli. 1999. Neuron. 24:143–154; Schmidt, A., M. Wolde, C. Thiele, W. Fest, H. Kratzin, A.V. Podtelejnikov, W. Witke, W.B. Huttner, and H.D. Soling. 1999. Nature. 401:133–141; Gad, H., N. Ringstad, P. Low, O. Kjaerulff, J. Gustafsson, M. Wenk, G. Di Paolo, Y. Nemoto, J. Crun, M.H. Ellisman, et al. 2000. Neuron. 27:301–312). Here, we show that purified endophilin can directly bind and evaginate lipid bilayers into narrow tubules similar in diameter to the neck of a clathrin-coated bud, providing new insight into the mechanisms through which endophilin may participate in membrane deformation and vesicle budding. This property of endophilin is independent of its putative lysophosphatydic acid acyl transferase activity, is mediated by its NH2-terminal region, and requires an amino acid stretch homologous to a corresponding region in amphiphysin, a protein previously shown to have similar effects on lipid bilayers (Takei, K., V.I. Slepnev, V. Haucke, and P. De Camilli. 1999. Nat. Cell Biol. 1:33–39). Endophilin cooligomerizes with dynamin rings on lipid tubules and inhibits dynamin's GTP-dependent vesiculating activity. Endophilin B, a protein with homology to endophilin 1, partially localizes to the Golgi complex and also deforms lipid bilayers into tubules, underscoring a potential role of endophilin family members in diverse tubulovesicular membrane-trafficking events in the cell.

Nucleoside phosphorylases catalyze the reversible phosphorolysis of nucleosides to heterocyclic bases, giving α-d-ribose-1-phosphate or α-d-2-deoxyribose-1-phosphate. These enzymes are involved in salvage pathways of nucleoside biosynthesis. The level of these enzymes is often elevated in tumors, which can be used as a marker for cancer diagnosis. This review presents the analysis of conformations of nucleosides and their analogues in complexes with nucleoside phosphorylases of the first (NP-1) family, which includes hexameric and trimeric purine nucleoside phosphorylases (EC 2.4.2.1), hexameric and trimeric 5′-deoxy-5′-methylthioadenosine phosphorylases (EC 2.4.2.28), and uridine phosphorylases (EC 2.4.2.3). Nucleosides adopt similar conformations in complexes, with these conformations being significantly different from those of free nucleosides. In complexes, pentofuranose rings of all nucleosides are at the W region of the pseudorotation cycle that corresponds to the energy barrier to the N↔S interconversion. In most of the complexes, the orientation of the bases with respect to the ribose is in the high-syn region in the immediate vicinity of the barrier to syn ↔ anti transitions. Such conformations of nucleosides in complexes are unfavorable when compared to free nucleosides and they are stabilized by interactions with the enzyme. The sulfate (or phosphate) ion in the active site of the complexes influences the conformation of the furanose ring. The binding of nucleosides in strained conformations is a characteristic feature of the enzyme–substrate complex formation for this enzyme group.

A similarity reduction of the Navier–Stokes equations for the motion of an infinite rotating disk above an air-bearing table yields a coupled pair of ordinary differential equations governed by a Reynolds number $Re=Wh/{\it\nu}$ and a rotation parameter $S=\sqrt{2}h{\it\Omega}/W$, where $h$ is the float height, $W$ is the air levitation velocity, ${\it\Omega}$ is the disk rotation rate, and ${\it\nu}$ is the kinematic viscosity of air. After deriving the small- and large-Reynolds-number behaviour of solutions, the equations are numerically integrated over a wide range of $Re{-}S$ parameter space. Zero-lift boundaries are computed as well as the boundaries separating pure outward flow from counter-flow in the gap. The theory is used to model the steady float height of a finite-radius air hockey disk under the assumption that the float height is small relative to the diameter of the disk and the flow is everywhere laminar. The steady results are tested against direct numerical simulation (DNS) of the unsteady axisymmetric Navier–Stokes equations for the cases where the disk rotates at constant angular velocity but is either at a fixed height or free to move axially. While a constant shift in the gap pressure conforms closely to that found using steady theory, the interaction of the radial jet emanating from the gap with a vertical transpiration field produces vortex rings which themselves propagate around to interact with the jet. Although these structures diffuse as they propagate up and away from the gap, they induce a departure from the steady-flow assumption of atmospheric pressure at the gap exit, thus inducing small irregular axial oscillations of the floating disk.

A panel of nitro substituted 5,15-diaryl-porphyrins, featuring nitro groups either on the phenyl rings or on one of the two free meso-positions, was synthesized. In the former category, compounds 5-(3-nitrophenyl)-15-phenylporphyrin, 5,15-di(3-nitrophenyl)porphyrin and 5-(4-nitrophenyl)-15-phenylporphyrin were obtained following standard procedures by reacting dipyrromethane and aromatic aldehydes. In the latter category, porphyrins 10-nitro-5,15-diphenylporphyrin, 10-nitro-5-(3-methoxyphenyl)-15-phenylporphyrin and 10-nitro-5,15-di(3-methoxyphenyl)porphyrin were generated by nitration of 5,15-diarylporphyrins with trifluoroacetic acid/sodium nitrite under particularly mild conditions. The new molecules bearing one or two nitro-groups were tested as photosensitizers during in vitro experiments on a human colon adenocarcinoma cell line (HCT116), and their effects were compared with those induced by temoporfin, porfimer sodium and by some previously published electron-rich diarylporphyrins. The results, expressed as IC50 values obtained by the MTT test following 24 h incubation with the photosensitizers and 2 h irradiation with a 500 W tungsten-halogen lamp, indicate that the presence of an electron withdrawing substituent, on a meso-position, decreases the photodynamic activity of the compound. Conversely, 5-(3-nitrophenyl)-15-phenylporphyrin, a non symmetrically substituted diarylporphyrin bearing both one electron-deficient and one lipophilic moiety, resulted in high phototoxic activity.

Photoionization of single-charged heavy ions has been proposed recently by Rubbia (1989) as a non-Liouvillean injection scheme from the linac into the storage rings of a driver accelerator for inertial confinement fusion. The main idea of this scheme is the accumulation of high currents of heavy ions without the usually inevitable increase of phase space. Here we suggest the use of the photoionization idea in an alternative scheme: if it is applied at the final stage of pulse compression (replacing the conventional bunch compression by an rf voltage, which always increases the momentum spread), there is a significant advantage in the performance of the accelerator. We show, in particular, that this new compression scheme can potentially relax the tough stability limitations, which were identified in the heavy-ion fusion reactor study HIBALL (Badger et al. 1984). Moreover, it is promising for achieving higher beam power, which is suitable for indirectly driven fusion targets (1016 W/g, in contrast with 1014 W/g for the directly driven targets in HIBALL).The idea of non-Liouvillean bunch compression is to stack a large number of bunches (typically 50–100) in the same phase-space volume during a change of charge state of the ion. A particular feature of this scheme with regard to beam dynamics is its transient nature, since the time required is one revolution per bunch. After the stacking the intense bunch is ejected and directly guided to the target. The present study is a first step in exploring the possibly limiting effect of space charge under the parameter conditions of a full-size driver accelerator. Preliminary results indicate that there is a limit to the effective stacking number (non-Liouvillean “compression factor”), which is, however, not prohibitive. Requirements on the power of the photon beam from a free-electron laser are also discussed. It is seen that resonant cross sections of the order of 10−15 cm2 lead to photon beam powers of a few megawatts.

In mid-November 2009, thin, yellow, and irregular-shaped scalloped rings 10 to 25 cm in diameter were observed on 5 to 10% of a golf course putting green in Charles Town, WV. The 20-year-old USGA-specification sand-based green was mowed at 3.1-mm height and consisted of 60% annual bluegrass (Poa annua L.) and 40% creeping bentgrass (Agrostis stoloniferous L. ‘Putter’). Minimum and maximum daily air temperature ranged from 2 to 22°C, respectively, with 38 mm of rainfall during the appearance of rings symptoms. Only affected annual bluegrass plants exhibited a peculiar yellow chlorosis of the upper and lower leaves. A single fungal isolate was obtained from active mycelium found within symptomatic annual bluegrass leaves and grown on potato dextrose agar (PDA) amended with chloramphenicol (0.1 g/liter). Fungal colony morphology (i.e., light yellow with irregular-shaped 2- to 4-mm-diameter sclerotia first appearing off-white but progressing to brown by 21 to 28 days in culture) and sequencing of the internal transcribed spacer (ITS) 5.8S rDNA region with primers ITS1 and ITS4 confirmed the isolate as Waitea circinata var. circinata (Warcup & Talbot) with ≥99% sequence identity with GenBank Accession No. FJ755889 (1,2,4). To confirm pathogenicity, a 6-mm-diameter plug of the isolate was removed from the expanding edge of a 4-day-old culture grown on PDA and placed in contact with the lower leaves of 12-week-old annual bluegrass (0.001 g of surface-sterilized seed per cm2) grown in 5- × 5-cm plastic pots of autoclaved 85% sand and 15% potting soil. Six pots were inoculated with the isolate and six pots were inoculated with an isolate-free agar plug and then placed in a moist chamber at 28°C. Leaf chlorosis and aerial mycelium was observed in all six inoculated pots 8 to 10 days after inoculation, and symptoms were similar to those expressed in the field. All noninoculated plants remained healthy and asymptomatic. W. circinata var. circinata was reisolated from symptomatic leaves and again confirmed by colony traits and sequencing of the ITS-5.8S rDNA region and submitted as GenBank Accession No. HM807582. To our knowledge, this is the first report of brown ring patch in West Virginia and could be economically important because of intensive fungicide practices used to maintain high-quality putting greens on golf courses (3). References: (1) C. Chen et al. Plant Dis. 91:1687, 2007. (2) K. de la Cerda et al. Plant Dis. 91:791, 2007. (3) J. Kaminski and F. Wong. Golf Course Manage. 75:98, 2007. (4) T. Toda et al. Plant Dis. 89:536, 2005.

Cercospora leaf blotch disease of potato (Solanum tuberosum L.) caused by Cercospora concors (Casp.) Sacc (synonym Mycovellosiella concors (Casp.) Deighton) occurs worldwide but mainly has been reported in the cool and temperate climates of Europe, Asia, North America, and eastern Africa. Cercospora leaf blotch is usually a minor disease and may go unnoticed since it commonly occurs simultaneously with other potato leaf diseases such as late blight (caused by Phytophthora infestans) and early blight (caused by Alternaria solani) (2). Symptoms of Cercospora leaf blotch first appear on lower leaves as small, yellowish green, irregular blotches and later may appear on middle and upper leaves. As the leaves expand, the blotches enlarge and become purplish brown or black. Conidiophores and conidia form on the underside of the lesions, giving the lesions a mildewed appearance similar to late blight. Necrotic lesions are distinguished from those caused by the early blight pathogen A. solani by the lack of concentric rings (1). In more severe epidemics of Cercospora leaf blotch, potato leaves may be killed, stem lesions become dark and entire plants die, but no resulting yield loss from the disease has been documented. Potato tubers are not infected. From August to September of 2005, yellow-brown lesions appeared on the upper side of potato leaves (cv. Zihuabai, certified virus free) and gray mildew developed on the underside of leaves in potato field trials conducted in Jining County, 41°N, 113°E of Inner Mongolia, North China. The infections were observed mostly on lower and middle leaves of plants; 20 to 30% of plants were infected. In the laboratory, the mildew was scraped with a sterile scalpel and examined microscopically. The conidiophores were irregular in width, grayish, and highly branched. The conidia were numerous, light to dark, straight or slightly bent, cylindrical or obclavate, with conspicuous scars, and zero to six septa. The mature spores were from 16 to 59 μm long and 4 to 6 μm wide. The teleomorph of the fungus was not found. On the basis of the morphological characters, the causal agent was identified as C. concors. C. concors has been previously identified from potato leaves in the Engshi District of Hubei Province, China (3), but to our knowledge, this is the first report of the fungus causing Cercospora leaf blotch of potato in Inner Mongolia, North China. References: (1) G. D. Franc and B. I. Christ. Page 22 in: Compendium of Potato Diseases. 2nd ed. W. R. Stevenson et al., eds. American Phytopathological Society, St. Paul, MN, 2001. (2) E. R. French. Page 19 in: Compendium of Potato Diseases. 2nd ed. W. R. Stevenson et al., eds. American Phytopathological Society, St. Paul, MN, 2001. (3) S. M. Tian et al. China Potato J. 1:13, 1997.

During recent growing seasons, a new leaf blight was observed on potatoes (Solanum tuberosum L.) in various production regions in South Africa. Symptoms were observed before early blight, from 50 to 60 days after emergence of the potato plants. Typical leaf symptoms were small, circular, brown lesions, first visible on the abaxial sides of leaves. Lesions resembled those of early blight, but were smaller and did not show concentric rings. During favorable environmental conditions, severe infections were seen as coalesced lesions and blighted leaves and stems. Such severe infections occurred in seasons when high humidity, leaf wetness, and warm temperatures were present. Yield losses as much as 40% were reported on approximately 50 20-ha pivots in various potato-growing regions, particularly Ceres, Eastern Free State, KwaZulu Natal, and Mpumalanga, due to this leaf blight because conventional fungicidal spray programs did not adequately control the disease. Isolations from leaf lesions were made on V8 juice agar under aseptic conditions. The fungus, Alternaria alternata (Fr.) Kreissler, was consistently isolated and preliminarily identified on the basis of morphological characteristics. Dark brown conidia were produced in chains on conidiophores. Conidia had short beaks and ranged from 20 to 60 × 9 to 18 μm. Morphological identification was confirmed by amplification of the internal transcribed spacer (ITS) region. Primers used were AAF2 (5′-TGCAATCAGCGTCAGTAACAAAT-3′) and AAR3 (5′-ATGGATGCTAGACCTTTGCTGAT-3′), specifically designed for identification of A. alternata (4). PCR products were sequenced and the identity of isolates confirmed by a BLAST search on the GenBank database. Koch's postulates were conducted by inoculation of healthy potato leaves of cv. BP1. Spores at a concentration of 106 spores per ml were suspended in an oil/surfactant mixture and sprayed onto leaves until runoff. Control plants were sprayed with a sterile oil/surfactant mixture until runoff. Plants were covered by polyethylene bags for 2 days to achieve high humidity levels and maintained in a greenhouse at 25 ± 2°C. Three days after inoculation, plants were exposed to a moisture regimen simulating that of in-field irrigation. Plants were placed in a fogging chamber twice a week for 1 h at a time. Leaf blight symptoms similar to those observed on diseased potato plants in the field began to develop 3 weeks after inoculation. Isolations made from these lesions consistently yielded A. alternata. Control plants did not develop any symptoms. Five plants were used for each treatment and the experiment was repeated twice. Leaf blight on potatoes caused by A. alternata has previously been reported in Israel, (2), Brazil (1), and North America (3). To our knowledge, this is the first report of A. alternata causing leaf blight on potatoes in South Africa. Future research will focus primarily on management of this disease. References: (1) L. S. Boiteux and F. J. B. Reifschneider. Plant Dis. 78:101. 1994. (2) S. Droby et al. Phytopathology 74:537, 1984. (3) W. W. Kirk et al. Plant Dis. Manage. Rep. 2:V065:1, 2007. (4) P. Konstantinova et al. Mycol. Res. 106:23, 2002.

In late May and early June of 2008, bright yellow, thin, irregular-shaped rings that were 10 to 15 cm in diameter were observed on 30% of an annual bluegrass (Poa annua L.) putting green in Coopersburg, PA. The 46-year-old silt-loam soil green was mowed at a 3.1-mm height and consisted of 80% annual bluegrass and 20% creeping bentgrass (Agrostis stolonifera L., unknown cultivar). During the appearance of ring symptoms, the overall minimum and maximum daily air temperature ranged from 19.9 to 31.1°C, respectively, along with 40.3 mm of total rain accumulation. In late May, only individual affected annual bluegrass plants exhibited a bright yellow chlorosis of upper and lower leaf blades and crown. By early June, affected annual bluegrass plants appeared dark brown and water soaked, turning reddish brown and then tan as they dessicated, wilted, and died. Fungal mycelium, similar in appearance to Rhizoctonia spp., was found among affected leaf blades and within the thatch layer. A single fungal isolate was obtained from affected annual bluegrass tissue and grown on potato dextrose agar (PDA) plus 0.1 g of chloramphenicol per liter. Fungal colony morphology and sequencing of the ITS1F/ITS4-amplified rDNA internal transcribed spacer (ITS) region confirmed the isolate as Waitea circinata var. circinata, with ≥90% similar homology match to published W. circinata var. circinata ITS sequences (GenBank Accession No. DQ900586) (2,4). To confirm pathogenicity, the isolate was inoculated onto 6-week-old annual bluegrass (0.001 g of surface-sterilized seed per cm2) grown in 5- × 5-cm2 plastic pots containing autoclaved 70% sand and 30% potting soil. Plants were maintained daily at a 4.0-mm height using a hand-held scissors. One 6-mm-diameter plug of the isolate was removed from the active edge of a 5-day-old culture grown on PDA and placed in contact with the lower leaf blades of the target plants. Four pots were inoculated with the isolate and four pots were inoculated with an isolate-free agar plug for each of two experimental runs. After inoculation, all pots were placed in a moist chamber at 28°C. In both experiments leaf blade chlorosis and a modest amount of aerial mycelium was observed in all four isolate-introduced pots at 5 to 7 days after inoculation. Symptoms were similar to those expressed in the field, and by 21 to 28 days, all isolate-infected plants died, whereas the noninoculated plants remained healthy and nonsymptomatic. W. circinata var. circinata was reisolated from symptomatic tissue of those inoculated plants and again confirmed by colony traits and rDNA ITS region sequences. This pathogen was reported previously as the causal agent of brown ring patch on annual bluegrass and rough bluegrass (Poa trivialis L.) in the western United States. (1,2). To our knowledge, this is the first report of brown ring patch in Pennsylvania. The economic impact of this disease could be significant since intensive fungicide practices are used to produce high-quality putting green surfaces in the region (3). References: (1) C. Chen et al. Plant Dis. 91:1687, 2007. (2) K. de la Cerda et al. Plant Dis. 91:791, 2007. (3) J. Kaminski and F. Wong. Golf Course Mgmt. 75(9):98, 2007. (4) T. Toda et al. Plant Dis. 89:536, 2005.

Sharka or plum pox disease is one of the most economically important virus diseases of stone fruits. Plum pox virus (PPV), the causal agent, is a member of the genus Potyvirus of the family Potyviridae transmitted by aphids in a non-persistent manner and by grafting. To date, nine PPV strains have been described on the basis of their biological, serological, and molecular properties: M and D are the most widespread and economically important strains, PPV-Rec and PPV-C have been reported mainly in Europe, PPV-EA confined to Egypt, PPV-T to Turkey, PPV-W from Canada, Ukraine, Latvia, and Russia, PPV-CR detected in Russia, and finally a putative PPV strain infecting plum in Albania described as the ancestor of the M. PPV-M is responsible for major epidemics in many Italian regions and despite phytosanitary measures, the infection rate increases each year. The D and Rec isolates are sporadically reported while PPV-C, once signaled in Apulia, has been successfully eradicated. Except for a report from the 1980s, which is no longer traceable, Sicily was considered free from the virus (2). In 2012, two new foci of sharka in a coastal area of Catania in Sicily were first reported by the national plant protection service to the European Commission (DG-SANCO). In spring 2013, plants of different varieties of apricot (Prunus armeniaca) and peach (P. persica) showing typical symptoms of flower color break, yellowing and leaf deformation, chlorotic spots or rings, and malformation on fruits were tested positive to PPV by DAS-ELISA using polyclonal antibodies. In order to characterize two isolates from apricot varieties (Carmen Top and Ninfa), total RNAs, extracted using the RNeasy Plant Mini Kit (Qiagen) from ELISA-positive samples, were analyzed by RT-PCR with primers P1/P2, targeting the 3′-terminal region of the coat protein (CP) gene (5) followed by RFLP analysis after digestion with Rsa1. Subsequently total RNAs were analyzed with the type-specific primers P1/PM and P1/PD (3), P3M/P4b and P3D/P4b amplifying the N-terminal region of the CP gene (1) and, finally, with primers mD5/mD3, mM5/mM3, and mD5/mM3, amplifying the region 3′NIb-5′CP, including the recombination site of Rec isolates (4). Only primer pairs P1/P2, P1/PM, P3M/P4b, and mM5/mM3 produced amplicons of the expected size (243, 198, 466, and 459 bp, respectively). The RFLP assay confirmed both isolates belonging to the M strain. Moreover, no reaction was obtained with primer pair mD5/mM3, excluding isolates belonging to Rec-type. Isolate characterization was completed by direct sequencing in both directions of the of P1/P2 and P3M/P4b amplicons obtained from apricot samples L9-1 (Carmen Top isolate) and 9-335 (Ninfa isolate). The P1/P2 sequences (KJ994235, KJ994237) showed 98% similarity with PPV-M or PPV-Rec isolates. The P3M/P4b sequences (KJ994236, KJ994238) confirmed that Sicilian isolates belong to the PPV-M strain showing 99% similarity with those already present in GenBank, thus ruling out the possibility of an infection with a PPV-Rec isolate. This outbreak of the Marcus strain of PPV in Sicily represents a high risk for the expanding production of stone fruit in southern Italy. An eradication plan was quickly activated by the regional phytosanitary service. References: (1) T. Candresse et al. Phytopathology 101:611, 2011. (2) EPPO. PQR-EPPO database on quarantine pests (available online). http://www.eppo.int , 2014. (3) A. Olmos et al. J. Virol. Methods 68:127, 1997. (4) Z. Subr et al. Acta Virol. 48:173, 2004. (5) T. Wetzel et al. J. Virol. Methods 33:355, 1991.

AbstractLet $$E*G$$ E ∗ G be a crossed product of a division ring E and a locally indicable group G. Hughes showed that up to $$E*G$$ E ∗ G -isomorphism, there exists at most one Hughes-free division $$E*G$$ E ∗ G -ring. However, the existence of a Hughes-free division $$E*G$$ E ∗ G -ring $${\mathcal {D}}_{E*G}$$ D E ∗ G for an arbitrary locally indicable group G is still an open question. Nevertheless, $${\mathcal {D}}_{E*G}$$ D E ∗ G exists, for example, if G is amenable or G is bi-orderable. In this paper we study, whether $${\mathcal {D}}_{E*G}$$ D E ∗ G is the universal division ring of fractions in some of these cases. In particular, we show that if G is a residually-(locally indicable and amenable) group, then there exists $${\mathcal {D}}_{E[G]}$$ D E [ G ] and it is universal. In Appendix we give a description of $${\mathcal {D}}_{E[G]}$$ D E [ G ] when G is a RFRS group.

Abstract Given a tensor category $\mathcal{C}$ over an algebraically closed field of characteristic zero, we may form the wreath product category $\mathcal{W}_n(\mathcal{C})$. It was shown in [10] that the Grothendieck rings of these wreath product categories stabilise in some sense as $n \to \infty $. The resulting “limit” ring, $\mathcal{G}_\infty ^{\mathbb{Z}}(\mathcal{C})$, is isomorphic to the Grothendieck ring of the wreath product Deligne category $S_t(\mathcal{C})$ as defined by [9] (although it is also related to $FI_G$-modules). This ring only depends on the Grothendieck ring $\mathcal{G}(\mathcal{C})$. Given a ring $R$ that is free as a $\mathbb{Z}$-module, we construct a ring $\mathcal{G}_\infty ^{\mathbb{Z}}(R)$ that specialises to $\mathcal{G}_\infty ^{\mathbb{Z}}(\mathcal{C})$ when $R = \mathcal{G}(\mathcal{C})$. We give a description of $\mathcal{G}_\infty ^{\mathbb{Z}}(R)$ using generators very similar to the basic hooks of [5]. We also show that $\mathcal{G}_\infty ^{\mathbb{Z}}(R)$ is a $\lambda $-ring wherever $R$ is and that $\mathcal{G}_\infty ^{\mathbb{Z}}(R)$ is (unconditionally) a Hopf algebra. Finally, we show that $\mathcal{G}_\infty ^{\mathbb{Z}}(R)$ is isomorphic to the Hopf algebra of distributions on the formal neighbourhood of the identity in $(W\otimes _{\mathbb{Z}} R)^\times $, where $W$ is the ring of Big Witt Vectors.

Since the late 1990s, W. G. Sebald’s innovative contribution to the genre of prose fiction has been the source of much academic scrutiny. His books Vertigo, The Rings of Saturn, The Emigrants and Austerlitz have provoked interest from diverse fields of inquiry: visual communication (Kilbourn; Patt; Zadokerski), trauma studies (Denham and McCulloh; Schmitz), and travel writing (Blackler; Zisselsberger). His work is also claimed to be a bastion for both modernist and postmodernist approaches to literature and history writing (Bere; Fuchs and Long; Long). This is in addition to numerous “guide to” type books, such as Mark McCulloh’s Understanding Sebald, Long and Whitehead’s W. G. Sebald—A Critical Companion, and the comprehensive Saturn’s Moons: A W. G. Sebald Handbook. Here I have only mentioned works available in English. I should point out that Sebald wrote in German, the country of his birth, and as one would expect much scholarship dealing with his work is confined to this language. In this article I focus on what is perhaps Sebald’s prototypical work, The Rings of Saturn. Of all Sebald’s prose fictional works The Rings of Saturn seems the example that best exhibits his innovative literary forms, including the use of lists. This book is the work of an author who is purposefully and imaginatively concerned with the nature of his vocation: what is it to be a writer? Crucially, he addresses this question not only from the perspective of a subject facing an existential crisis, but from the perspective of the documents created by writers. His works demonstrate a concern with the enabling role documents play in the thinking and writing process; how, for example, pen and paper are looped in with our capacity to reason in certain ways. Despite taking the form of fictional narratives, his books are as much motivated by a historical interest in how ideas and forms of organisation are transmitted, and how they evolve as part of an ecology; how humans become articulate within their surrounds, according to the contingencies of specific epochs and places. The Sebald critic J. J. Long accounts for this in some part in his description “archival consciousness,” which recommends that conscious experience is not simply located in the mind of a knowing, human subject, but is rather distributed between the subject and different technologies (among which writing and archives are exemplary).The most notable peculiarity of Sebald’s books lies in their abundant use of “non-syntactical” kinds of writing or inscription. My use of the term “non-syntactical” has its origins in the anthropological work of Jack Goody, who emphasises the importance of list making and tabulation in pre-literate or barely literate cultures. In Sebald’s texts, kinds of non-syntactical writing include lists, photographic images, tables, signatures, diagrams, maps, stamps, dockets and sketches. As I stress throughout this article, Sebald’s shifts between syntactical and non-syntactical forms of writing allows him to build up highly complex schemes of internal reference. Massimo Leone identifies something similar, when he notes that Sebald “orchestrates a multiplicity of voices and text-types in order to produce his own coherent discourse” (91). The play between multiplicity and coherence is at once a thematic and poetic concern for Sebald. This is to say, his texts are formal experiments with these contrasting tendencies, in addition to discussing specific historical situations in which they feature. The list is perhaps Sebald’s most widely used and variable form of non-syntactical writing, a key part of his formal and stylistic peculiarity. His lengthy sentences frequently spill over into catalogues and inventories, and the entire structure of his narratives is list-like. Discrete episodes accumulate alongside each other, rather than following a narrative arc where episodes of suspenseful gravity overshadow the significance of minor events. The Rings of Saturn details the travels of Sebald’s trademark, nameless, first person narrator, who recounts his trek along the Suffolk coastline, from Lowestoft to Ditchingham, about two years after the event. From the beginning, the narrative is framed as an effort to organise a period of time that lacks a coherent and durable form, a period of time that is in pieces, fading from the narrator’s memory. However, the movement from the chaos of forgetting to the comparatively distinct and stable details of the remembered present does not follow a continuum. Rather, the past and present are both constituted by the force of memory, which is continually crystallising and dissolving. Each event operates according to its own specific arrangement of emphasis and forgetting. Our experience of memory in the present, or recollective memory, is only one kind of memory. Sebald is concerned with a more pervasive kind of remembering, which includes the vectorial existence of non-conscious, non-human perceptual events; memory as expressed by crystals, tree roots, glaciers, and the nested relationship of fuel, fire, smoke, and ash. The Rings of Saturn is composed of ten chapters, each of which is outlined in table form at the book’s beginning. The first chapter appears as: “In hospital—Obituary—Odyssey of Thomas Browne’s skull—Anatomy lecture—Levitation—Quincunx—Fabled creatures—Urn burial.” The Rings of Saturn is of course hardly exceptional in its use of this device. Rather, it is exemplary concerning the repeated emphasis on the tension between syntactical and non-syntactical forms of writing, among which this chapter breakdown is included. Sebald continually uses the conventions of bookmaking in subtle though innovative ways. Each of these horizontally linked and divided indices might put the reader in mind of Thomas Browne’s urns, time capsules from the past, the unearthing of which is discussed in the book’s first chapter (25). The chapter outlines (and the urns) are containers that preserve a fragmentary and suggestive history. Each is a perspective on the narrator’s travels that abstracts, arranges, and uniquely refers to the narrative elaborations to come.As I have already stressed, Sebald is a writer concerned with forms of organisation. His works account for a diverse range of organisational forms, some of which instance an overt, chronological, geometric, or metrical manipulation of space and time, such as grids, star shapes, and Greenwich Mean Time. This contrasts with comparatively suggestive, insubstantial, mutable forms, including various meteorological phenomena such as cloudbanks and fog, dust and sand, and as exemplified in narrative form by the haphazard, distracted assemblage of events featured in dreams or dream logic. The relationship between these supposedly opposing tendencies is, however, more complex and paradoxical than might at first glance appear. As Sebald warily reminds us in his essay “A Little Excursion to Ajaccio,” despite our wishes to inhabit periods of complete freedom, where we follow our distractions to the fullest possible extent, we nonetheless “must all have some more or less significant design in view” (Sebald, Campo 4). It is not so much that we must choose, absolutely, between form and formlessness. Rather, the point is to understand that some seemingly inevitable forms are in fact subject to contingencies, which certain uses deliberately or ignorantly mask, and that simplicity and intricacy are often co-dependent. Richard T. Gray is a Sebald critic who has picked up on the element in Sebald’s work that suggests a tension between different forms of organisation. In his article “Writing at the Roche Limit,” Gray notes that Sebald’s tendency to emphasise the decadent aspects of human and natural history “is continually counterbalanced by an insistence on order and by often extremely subtle forms of organization” (40). Rather than advancing the thesis that Sebald is exclusively against the idea of systematisation or order, Gray argues that The Rings of Saturn models in its own textual make-up an alternative approach to the cognitive order(ing) of things, one that seeks to counter the natural tendency toward entropic decline and a fall into chaos by introducing constructive forces that inject a modicum of balance and equilibrium into the system as a whole. (Gray 41)Sebald’s concern with the contrasting energies exemplified by different forms extends to his play with syntactical and non-syntactical forms of writing. He uses lists to add contrast to his flowing, syntactically intricate sentences. The achievement of his work is not the exclusive privileging of either the list form or the well-composed sentence, but in providing contexts whereby the reader can appreciate subtle modulations between the two, thus experiencing a more dynamic and complex kind of narrative time. His works exhibit an astute awareness of the fact that different textual devices command different experiences of temporality, and our experience of temporality in good part determines our metaphysics. Here I consider two lists featured in The Rings of Saturn, one from the first chapter, and one from the last. Each shows contrasting tendencies concerning systems of organisation. Both are attributable to the work of Thomas Browne, “who practiced as a doctor in Norwich in the seventeenth century and had left a number of writings that defy all comparison” (Sebald, Rings 9). The Rings of Saturn is in part a dialogue across epochs with the sentiments expressed in Browne’s works, which, according to Bianca Theisen, preserve a kind of reasoning that is lost in “the rationalist and scientific embrace of a devalued world of facts” (Theisen 563).The first list names the varied “animate and inanimate matter” in which Browne identifies the quincuncial structure, a lattice like arrangement of five points and intersecting lines. The following phenomena are enumerated in the text:certain crystalline forms, in starfish and sea urchins, in the vertebrae of mammals and the backbones of birds and fish, in the skins of various species of snake, in the crosswise prints left by quadrupeds, in the physical shapes of caterpillars, butterflies, silkworms and moths, in the root of the water fern, in the seed husks of the sunflower and the Caledonian pine, within young oak shoots or the stem of the horse tail; and in the creations of mankind, in the pyramids of Egypt and the mausoleum of Augustus as in the garden of King Solomon, which was planted with mathematical precision with pomegranate trees and white lilies. (Sebald, Rings 20-21)Ostensibly quoting from Browne, Sebald begins the next sentence, “Examples might be multiplied without end” (21). The compulsion to list, or the compulsiveness expressed by listing, is expressed here in a relationship of dual utility with another, dominant or overt, kind of organisational form: the quincunx. It is not the utility or expressiveness of the list itself that is at issue—at least in the version of Browne’s work preserved here by Sebald. In W. G. Sebald: Image, Archive, Modernity, Long notes the historical correspondences and divergences between Sebald and Michel Foucault (2007). Long interprets Browne’s quincunx as exemplifying a “hermeneutics of resemblance,” whereby similarities among diverse phenomena are seen as providing proof of “the universal oneness of all things” (33). This contrasts with the idea of a “pathological nature, autonomous from God,” which, according to Long, informs Sebald’s transformation of Browne into “an avatar of distinctly modern epistemology” (38). Long follows Foucault in noting the distinction between Renaissance and modern epistemology, a distinction in good part due to the experimental, inductive method, the availability of statistical data, and probabilistic reasoning championed in the latter epoch (Whitehead; Hacking). In the book’s final chapter, Sebald includes a list from Browne’s imaginary library, the “Musæum Clausium.” In contrast to the above list, here Sebald seems to deliberately problematise any efforts to suggest an abstract uniting principle. There is no evident reason for the togetherness of the discrete things, beyond the mere fact that they happen to be gathered, hypothetically, in the text (Sebald, Rings 271-273). Among the library’s supposed contents are:an account by the ancient traveller Pytheas of Marseilles, referred to in Strabo, according to which all the air beyond thule is thick, condensed and gellied, looking just like sea lungs […] a dream image showing a prairie or sea meadow at the bottom of the Mediterranean, off the coat of Provence […] and a glass of spirits made of æthereal salt, hermetically sealed up, of so volatile a nature that it will not endure by daylight, and therefore shown only in winter or by the light of a carbuncle or Bononian stone. (Sebald, Rings 272-73)Unlike the previous example attributed to Browne, here the list coheres according to the tensions of its own coincidences. Sebald uses the list to create spontaneous organisations in which history is exhibited as a complex mix of fact and fantasy. More important than the distinction between the imaginary and the real is the effort to account for the way things uniquely incorporate aspects of the world in order to be what they are. Human knowledge is a perspective that is implicated in, rather than excluded from, this process.Lists move us to puzzle over the criteria that their togetherness implies. They might be used inthe service of a specific paradigm, or they might suggest an imaginable but as yet unknown kind of systematisation; a specific kind of relationship, or simply the possibility of a relationship. Take, for example, the list-like accumulation of architectural details in the following description of the decadent Sommerleyton Hall, featured in chapter II: There were drawing rooms and winter gardens, spacious halls and verandas. A corridor might end in a ferny grotto where fountains ceaselessly plashed, and bowered passages criss-crossed beneath the dome of a fantastic mosque. Windows could be lowered to open the interior onto the outside, and inside the landscape was replicated on the mirror walls. Palm houses and orangeries, the lawn like green velvet, the baize on the billiard tables, the bouquets of flowers in the morning and retiring rooms and in the majolica vases on the terrace, the birds of paradise and the golden peasants on the silken tapestries, the goldfinches in the aviaries and the nightingales in the garden, the arabesques in the carpets and the box-edged flower beds—all of it interacted in such a way that one had the illusion of complete harmony between the natural and the manufactured. (Sebald, Rings 33-34)This list shifts emphasis away from preconceived distinctions between the natural and the manufactured through the creation of its own unlikely harmony. It tells us something important about the way perception and knowledge is ordered in Sebald’s prose. Each encounter, or historically specific situation, is considered as though it were its own microworld, its own discrete, synecdochic realisation of history. Rather than starting from the universal or the meta-level and scaling down to the local, Sebald arranges historically peculiar examples that suggest a variable, contrasting and dynamic metaphysics, a motley arrangement of ordering systems that each aspire to but do not command universal applicability. In a comparable sense, Browne’s sepulchral urns of his 1658 work Urn Burial, which feature in chapter I, are time capsules that seem to create their own internally specific kind of organisation:The cremated remains in the urns are examined closely: the ash, the loose teeth, some long roots of quitch, or dog’s grass wreathed about the bones, and the coin intended for the Elysian ferryman. Browne records other objects known to have been placed with the dead, whether as ornament or utensil. His catalogue includes a variety of curiosities: the circumcision knives of Joshua, the ring which belonged to the mistress of Propertius, an ape of agate, a grasshopper, three-hundred golden bees, a blue opal, silver belt buckles and clasps, combs, iron pins, brass plates and brazen nippers to pull away hair, and a brass Jews harp that last sounded on the crossing over black water. (Sebald, Rings 25-26)Regardless of our beliefs concerning the afterlife, these items, preserved across epochs, solicit a sense of wonder as we consider what we might choose for company on our “last journey” (25). In death, the human body is reduced to a condition of an object or thing, while the objects that accompany the corpse seem to acquire a degree of potency as remnants that transcend living time. Life is no longer the paradigm through which to understand purpose. In their very difference from living things these objects command our fascination. Eric Santner coins the term “undeadness” to name the significance of this non-living agency in Sebald’s prose (Santner xx). Santner’s study places Sebald in a linage of German-Jewish writers, including Walter Benjamin, Franz Kafka, and Paul Celan, whose understanding of “the human” depends crucially on the concept of “the creature” or “creatureliness” (Santner 38-41). Like the list of items contained within Sommerleyton Hall, the above list accounts for a context in which ornament and utensil, nature and culture, are read according to their differentiated togetherness, rather than opposition. Death, it seems, is a universal leveller, or at least a different dimension in which symbol and function appear to coincide. Perhaps it is the unassuming and convenient nature of lists that make them enduring objects of historical interest. Lists are a form of writing to which we appeal for immediate mnemonic assistance. They lack the artifice of a sentence. While perhaps not as interesting in the present that is contemporary with their usefulness (a trip to the supermarket), with time lists acquire credibility due to the intimacy they share with mundane, diurnal concerns—due to the fact that they were, once upon a time, so useful. The significance of lists arrives anachronistically, when we look back and wonder what people were really up to, or what our own concerns were, relatively free from fanciful, stylistic adornment. Sebald’s democratic approach to different forms of writing means that lists sit alongside the esteemed poetic and literary efforts of Joseph Conrad, Algernon Swinburne, Edward Fitzgerald, and François René de Chateaubriand, all of whom feature in The Rings of Saturn. His books make the exclusive differences between literary and non-literary kinds of writing less important than the sense of dynamism that is elicited through a play of contrasting kinds of syntactical and non-syntactical writing. The book’s closing chapter includes a revealing example that expresses these sentiments. After tracing over a natural history of silk, with a particular focus on human greed and naivety, the narrative arrives at a “pattern book” that features strips of colourful silk kept in “the small museum of Strangers Hall” (Sebald, Rings 283). The narrator notes that the silks arranged in this book “were of a truly fabulous variety, and of an iridescent, quite indescribable beauty as if they had been produced by Nature itself, like the plumage of birds” (283). This effervescent declamation continues after a double page photograph of the pattern book, which is described as a “catalogue of samples” and “leaves from the only true book which none of our textual and pictorial works can even begin to rival” (286). Here we witness Sebald’s inclusive and variable understanding as to the kinds of thing a book, and writing, can be. The fraying strips of silk featured in the photograph are arranged one below the other, in the form of a list. They are surrounded by ornate handwriting that, like the strips of silk, seems to fray at the edges, suggesting the specific gestural event that occasioned the moment of their inscription—something which tends to be excluded in printed prose. Sebald’s remarks here are not without a characteristic irony (“the only true book”). However, in the greatercontext of the narrative, this comment suggests an important inclination. Namely, that there is much scope yet for innovative literary forms that capture the nuances and complexity of collective and individual histories. And that writing always includes, though to varying degrees obscures, contrasting tensions shared among syntactical and non-syntactical elements, including material and gestural contingencies. Sebald’s works remind us of what potentials might lay ahead for books if the question of what writing can be is asked continually as part of a writer’s enterprise.ReferencesBere, Carol. “The Book of Memory: W. G. Sebald’s The Emigrants and Austerlitz.” Literary Review, 46.1 (2002): 184-92.Blackler, Deane. Reading W. G. Sebald: Adventure and Disobedience. Rochester, New York: Camden House, 2007. Catling Jo, and Richard Hibbitt, eds. Saturn’s Moons: A W. G. Sebald Handbook. Oxford: Legenda, 2011.Denham, Scott and Mark McCulloh, eds. W. G. Sebald: History, Memory, Trauma. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2006. Fuchs, Anne and J. J. Long, eds. W. G. Sebald and the Writing of History. Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2007. Goody, Jack. The Logic of Writing and the Organization of Society. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1986. Gray, Richard T. “Writing at the Roche Limit: Order and Entropy in W. G. Sebald’s The Rings of Saturn.” The German Quarterly 83.1 (2010): 38-57. Hacking, Ian. The Emergence of Probability: A Philosophical Study of Early Ideas about Probability, Induction and Statistical Inference. London: Cambridge UP, 1977.Kilbourn, Russell J. A. “Architecture and Cinema: The Representation of Memory in W. G. Sebald’s Austerlitz.” W. G. Sebald—A Critical Companion. Ed. J. J. Long and Anne Whitehead. Edinburgh: Edinburgh UP, 2004.Leone, Massimo. “Textual Wanderings: A Vertiginous Reading of W. G. Sebald.” W. G. Sebald—A Critical Companion. Ed. J. J. Long and A. Whitehead. Edinburgh: Edinburgh UP, 2004.Long, J. J. W. G. Sebald: Image, Archive, Modernity. New York: Columbia UP, 2007.Long, J. J., and Anne Whitehead, eds. W. G. Sebald—A Critical Companion. Edinburgh: Edinburgh U P, 2004. McCulloh, Mark. Understanding W. G. Sebald. Columbia, S. C.: U of South Carolina P, 2003.Patt, Lise, ed. Searching for Sebald: Photography After W. G. Sebald. Los Angeles: The Institute of Critical Inquiry and ICI Press, 2007. Sadokierski, Zoe. “Visual Writing: A Critique of Graphic Devices in Hybrid Novels from a Visual Communication Design Perspective.” Diss. University of Technology Sydney, 2010. Santner, Eric. On Creaturely Life: Rilke, Benjamin, Sebald. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 2006. Schmitz, Helmut. “Catastrophic History, Trauma and Mourning in W. G. Sebald and Jörg Friedrich.” The German Monitor 72 (2010): 27-50.Sebald, W. G. The Rings of Saturn. Trans. Michael Hulse. London: Harvill Press, 1998.---. Vertigo. Trans. Michael Hulse. London: Harvill Press, 1999.---. Campo Santo. Trans. Anthea Bell. London: Penguin Books, 2005. Print. Theisen, Bianca. “A Natural History of Destruction: W. G. Sebald’s The Rings of Saturn.” MLN, 121. The John Hopkins U P (2006): 563-81.Whitehead, Alfred North. Science and The Modern World. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1932.Zisselsberger, Markus. The Undiscover’d Country: W. G. Sebald and the Poetics of Travel. Rochester, NY: Camden House, 2010.

Abstract The communication network based on the optical system requires more precise and efficient devices and equipment. Optical ring resonator is a versatile device used as a filter, delay line, add/drop multiplexer, switch, sensor and analyzer etc. We modelled the new symmetrical quadrature optical ring resonator (SQORR) and proposed four different topologies architecture for the multiple optical ring resonator. The performance of the proposed symmetrical quadrature optical ring resonator is assessed using regression based machine learning (ML) approach utilizing an Artificial neural network (ANN) with various checks are done to validate the approximations like error histogram, time series response, error autocorrelation, input-error correlation and mean-square-error (MSE). The best validation performance is 8.8486e-9 stopped at 103 for rhombus topology, 8.347e-9 stopped at 242 epochs, 8.8486e-9 stopped at 311 epochs for horizontal topology and 5.8012e-09 stopped at 373 epochs for square topology. The significance of the work is to increase FSR (free spectral range) by adding rings and wide FSR achieved 299.79 THz (maximum) and throughput of 0.027 W/m for rhombus topology and other performance parameters of the optical ring resonator using symmetrical rings. Such structure is small in the size and easy to fabricate. Even by the same number of rings using different topologies structure, we can vary the performance parameters as per the different applications.

This essay combines life writing with meditations on the significance of walking as integral to the ritual practice of pilgrimage, where the individual improves her soul or health through the act of walking to a shrine containing healing relics of a saint. Braiding together insights from medieval literature, contemporary ecocriticism, and memory studies, I reflect on my own pilgrimage practice as it impacts the land itself. Canterbury, England serves as the central shrine for four pilgrimages over decades: 1966, 1994, 1997, and 2003.The act of memory was not invented in the Anthropocene. Rather, the nonhuman world has taught humans how to remember. From ice-core samples retaining the history of Europe’s weather to rocks embedded with fossilized extinct species, nonhuman actors literally petrifying or freezing the past—from geologic sites to frozen water—become exposed through the process of anthropocentric discovery and human interference. The very act of human uncovery and analysis threatens to eliminate the nonhuman actor which has hospitably shared its own experience. How can humans script nonhuman memory?As for the history of memory studies itself, a new phase is arguably beginning, shifting from “the transnational, transcultural, or global to the planetary; from recorded to deep history; from the human to the nonhuman” (Craps et al. 3). Memory studies for the Anthropocene can “focus on the terrestrialized significance of (the historicized) forms of remembrance but also on the positioning of who is remembering and, ultimately, which ‘Anthropocene’ is remembered” (Craps et al. 5). In this era of the “self-conscious Anthropocene” (Craps et al. 6), narrative itself can focus on “the place of nonhuman beings in human stories of origins, identity, and futures point to a possible opening for the methods of memory studies” (Craps et al. 8). The nonhuman on the paths of this essay range from the dirt on the path to the rock used to build the sacred shrine, the ultimate goal. How they intersect with human actors reveals how the “human subject is no longer the one forming the world, but does indeed constitute itself through its relation to and dependence on the object world” (Marcussen 14, qtd. in Rodriguez 378). Incorporating “nonhuman species as objects, if not subjects, of memory [...] memory critics could begin by extending their objects to include the memory of nonhuman species,” linking both humans and nonhumans in “an expanded multispecies frame of remembrance” (Craps et al. 9). My narrative—from diaries recording sacred journey to a novel structured by pilgrimage—propels motion, but also secures in memory events from the past, including memories of those nonhuman beings I interact with.Childhood PilgrimageThe little girl with brown curls sat crying softly, whimpering, by the side of the road in lush grass. The mother with her soft brown bangs and an underflip to her hair told the story of a little girl, sitting by the side of the road in lush grass.The story book girl had forgotten her Black Watch plaid raincoat at the picnic spot where she had lunched with her parents and two older brothers. Ponchos spread out, the family had eaten their fresh yeasty rolls, hard cheese, apples, and macaroons. The tin clink of the canteen hit their teeth as they gulped metallic water, still icy cold from the taps of the ancient inn that morning. The father cut slices of Edam with his Swiss army knife, parsing them out to each child to make his or her own little sandwich. The father then lay back for his daily nap, while the boys played chess. The portable wooden chess set had inlaid squares, each piece no taller than a fingernail paring. The girl read a Junior Puffin book, while the mother silently perused Agatha Christie. The boy who lost at chess had to play his younger sister, a fitting punishment for the less able player. She cheerfully played with either brother. Once the father awakened, they packed up their gear into their rucksacks, and continued the pilgrimage to Canterbury.Only the little Black Watch plaid raincoat was left behind.The real mother told the real girl that the story book family continued to walk, forgetting the raincoat until it began to rain. The men pulled on their ponchos and the mother her raincoat, when the little girl discovered her raincoat missing. The story book men walked two miles back while the story book mother and girl sat under the dripping canopy of leaves provided by a welcoming tree.And there, the real mother continued, the storybook girl cried and whimpered, until a magic taxi cab in which the father and boys sat suddenly appeared out of the mist to drive the little girl and her mother to their hotel.The real girl’s eyes shone. “Did that actually happen?” she asked, perking up in expectation.“Oh, yes,” said the real mother, kissing her on the brow. The girl’s tears dried. Only the plops of rain made her face moist. The little girl, now filled with hope, cuddled with her mother as they huddled together.Without warning, out of the mist, drove up a real magic taxi cab in which the real men sat. For magic taxi cabs really exist, even in the tangible world—especially in England. At the very least, in the England of little Susie’s imagination.Narrative and PilgrimageMy mother’s tale suggests how this story echoes in yet another pilgrimage story, maintaining a long tradition of pilgrimage stories embedded within frame tales as far back as the Middle Ages.The Christian pilgrim’s walk parallels Christ’s own pilgrimage to Emmaus. The blisters we suffer echo faintly the lash Christ endured. The social relations of the pilgrim are “diachronic” (Alworth 98), linking figures (Christ) from the past to the now (us, or, during the Middle Ages, William Langland’s Piers Plowman or Chaucer’s band who set out from Southwark). We embody the frame of the vera icon, the true image, thus “conjur[ing] a site of simultaneity or a plane of immanence where the actors of the past [...] meet those of the future” (Alworth 99). Our quotidian walk frames the true essence or meaning of our ambulatory travail.In 1966, my parents took my two older brothers and me on the Pilgrims’ Way—not the route from London to Canterbury that Chaucer’s pilgrims would have taken starting south of London in Southwark, rather the ancient trek from Winchester to Canterbury, famously chronicled in The Old Road by Hilaire Belloc. The route follows along the south side of the Downs, where the muddy path was dried by what sun there was. My parents first undertook the walk in the early 1950s. Slides from that pilgrimage depict my mother, voluptuous in her cashmere twinset and tweed skirt, as my father crosses a stile. My parents, inspired by Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, decided to walk along the traditional Pilgrims’ Way to Canterbury. Story intersects with material traversal over earth on dirt-laden paths.By the time we children came along, the memories of that earlier pilgrimage resonated with my parents, inspiring them to take us on the same journey. We all carried our own rucksacks and walked five or six miles a day. Concerning our pilgrimage when I was seven, my mother wrote in her diary:As good pilgrims should, we’ve been telling tales along the way. Yesterday Jimmy told the whole (detailed) story of That Darn Cat, a Disney movie. Today I told about Stevenson’s Travels with a Donkey, which first inspired me to think of walking trips and everyone noted the resemblance between Stevenson’s lovable, but balky, donkey and our sweet Sue. (We hadn’t planned to tell tales, but they just happened along the way.)I don’t know how sweet I was; perhaps I was “balky” because the road was so hard. Landscape certainly shaped my experience.As I wrote about the pilgrimage in my diary then, “We went to another Hotel and walked. We went and had lunch at the Boggly [booglie] place. We went to a nother hotel called The Swan with fether Quits [quilts]. We went to the Queens head. We went to the Gest house. We went to aother Hotle called Srping wells and my tooth came out. We saw some taekeys [turkeys].” The repetition suggests how pilgrimage combines various aspects of life, from the emotional to the physical, the quotidian (walking and especially resting—in hotels with quilts) with the extraordinary (newly sprung tooth or the appearance of turkeys). “[W]ayfaring abilities depend on an emotional connection to the environment” (Easterlin 261), whether that environment is modified by humans or even manmade, inhabited by human or nonhuman actors. How can one model an “ecological relationship between humans and nonhumans” in narrative (Rodriguez 368)? Rodriguez proposes a “model of reading as encounter [...] encountering fictional story worlds as potential models” (Rodriguez 368), just as my mother did with the Magic Taxi Cab story.Taxis proliferate in my childhood pilgrimage. My mother writes in 1966 in her diary of journeying along the Pilgrims’ Way to St. Martha’s on the Hill. “Susie was moaning and groaning under her pack and at one desperate uphill moment gasped out, ‘Let’s take a taxi!’ – our highborn lady as we call her. But we finally made it.” “Martha’s”, as I later learned, is a corruption of “Martyrs”, a natural linguistic decay that developed over the medieval period. Just as the vernacular textures pilgrimage poems in the fourteeth century, the common tongue in all its glorious variety seeps into even the quotidian modern pilgrim’s journey.Part of the delight of pilgrimage lies in the characters one meets and the languages they speak. In 1994, the only time my husband and I cheated on a strictly ambulatory sacred journey occurred when we opted to ride a bus for ten miles where walking would have been dangerous. When I ask the bus driver if a stop were ours, he replied, “I'll give you a shout, love.” As though in a P. G. Wodehouse novel, when our stop finally came, he cried out, “Cheerio, love” to me and “Cheerio, mate” to Jim.Language changes. Which is a good thing. If it didn’t, it would be dead, like those martyrs of old. Like Latin itself. Disentangling pilgrimage from language proves impossible. The healthy ecopoetics of languages meshes with the sustainable vibrancy of the land we traverse.“Nettles of remorse…”: Derek Walcott, The Bounty Once my father had to carry me past a particularly tough patch of nettles. As my mother tells it, we “went through orchards and along narrow woodland path with face-high nettles. Susie put a scarf over her face and I wore a poncho though it was sunny and we survived almost unscathed.” Certain moments get preserved by the camera. At age seven in a field outside of Wye, I am captured in my father’s slides surrounded by grain. At age thirty-five, I am captured in film by my husband in the same spot, in the identical pose, though now quite a bit taller than the grain. Three years later, as a mother, I in turn snap him with a backpack containing baby Sarah, grumpily gazing off over the fields.When I was seven, we took off from Detling. My mother writes, “set off along old Pilgrims’ Way. Road is paved now, but much the same as fifteen years ago. Saw sheep, lambs, and enjoyed lovely scenery. Sudden shower sent us all to a lunch spot under trees near Thurnham Court, where we huddled under ponchos and ate happily, watching the weather move across the valley. When the sun came to us, we continued on our way which was lovely, past sheep, etc., but all on hard paved road, alas. Susie was a good little walker, but moaned from time to time.”I seem to whimper and groan a lot on pilgrimage. One thing is clear: the physical aspects of walking for days affected my phenomenological response to our pilgrimage which we’d undertaken both as historical ritual, touristic nature hike, and what Wendell Berry calls a “secular pilgrimage” (402), where the walker seeks “the world of the Creation” (403) in a “return to the wilderness in order to be restored” (416). The materiality of my experience was key to how I perceived this journey as a spiritual, somatic, and emotional event. The link between pilgrimage and memory, between pilgrimage poetics and memorial methods, occupies my thoughts on pilgrimage. As Nancy Easterlin’s work on “cognitive ecocriticism” (“Cognitive” 257) contends, environmental knowledge is intimately tied in with memory (“Cognitive” 260). She writes: “The advantage of extensive environmental knowledge most surely precipitates the evolution of memory, necessary to sustain vast knowledge” (“Cognitive” 260). Even today I can recall snatches of moments from that trip when I was a child, including the telling of tales.Landscape not only changes the writer, but writing transforms the landscape and our interaction with it. As Valerie Allen suggests, “If the subject acts upon the environment, so does the environment upon the subject” (“When Things Break” 82). Indeed, we can understand the “road as a strategic point of interaction between human and environment” (Allen and Evans 26; see also Oram)—even, or especially, when that interaction causes pain and inflames blisters. My relationship with moleskin on my blasted and blistered toes made me intimately conscious of my body with every step taken on the pilgrimage route.As an adult, my boots on the way from Winchester to Canterbury pinched and squeezed, packed dirt acting upon them and, in turn, my feet. After taking the train home and upon arrival in London, we walked through Bloomsbury to our flat on Russell Square, passing by what I saw as a new, less religious, but no less beckoning shrine: The London Foot Hospital at Fitzroy Square.Now, sadly, it is closed. Where do pilgrims go for sole—and soul—care?Slow Walking as WayfindingAll pilgrimages come to an end, just as, in 1966, my mother writes of our our arrival at last in Canterbury:On into Canterbury past nice grassy cricket field, where we sat and ate chocolate bars while we watched white-flannelled cricketers at play. Past town gates to our Queen’s Head Inn, where we have the smallest, slantingest room in the world. Everything is askew and we’re planning to use our extra pillows to brace our feet so we won’t slide out of bed. Children have nice big room with 3 beds and are busy playing store with pounds and shillings [that’s very hard mathematics!]. After dinner, walked over to cathedral, where evensong was just ending. Walked back to hotel and into bed where we are now.Up to early breakfast, dashed to cathedral and looked up, up, up. After our sins were forgiven, we picked up our rucksacks and headed into London by train.This experience in 1966 varies slightly from the one in 1994. Jim and I walk through a long walkway of tall, slim trees arching over us, a green, lush and silent cloister, finally gaining our first view of Canterbury with me in a similar photo to one taken almost thirty years before. We make our way into the city through the West Gate, first passing by St. Dunstan’s Church where Henry II had put on penitential garb and later Sir Thomas More’s head was buried. Canterbury is like Coney Island in the Middle Ages and still is: men with dreadlocks and slinky didjeridoos, fire tossers, mobs of people, tourists. We go to Mercery Lane as all good pilgrims should and under the gate festooned with the green statue of Christ, arriving just in time for evensong.Imagining a medieval woman arriving here and listening to the service, I pray to God my gratefulness for us having arrived safely. I can understand the fifteenth-century pilgrim, Margery Kempe, screaming emotionally—maybe her feet hurt like mine. I’m on the verge of tears during the ceremony: so glad to be here safe, finally got here, my favorite service, my beloved husband. After the service, we pass on through the Quire to the spot where St. Thomas’s relic sanctuary was. People stare at a lit candle commemorating it. Tears well up in my eyes.I suppose some things have changed since the Middle Ages. One Friday in Canterbury with my children in 2003 has some parallels with earlier iterations. Seven-year-old Sarah and I go to evensong at the Cathedral. I tell her she has to be absolutely quiet or the Archbishop will chop off her head.She still has her head.Though the road has been paved, the view has remained virtually unaltered. Some aspects seem eternal—sheep, lambs, and stiles dotting the landscape. The grinding down of the pilgrimage path, reflecting the “slowness of flat ontology” (Yates 207), occurs over vast expanses of time. Similarly, Easterlin reflects on human and more than human vitalism: “Although an understanding of humans as wayfinders suggests a complex and dynamic interest on the part of humans in the environment, the surround itself is complex and dynamic and is frequently in a state of change as the individual or group moves through it” (Easterlin “Cognitive” 261). An image of my mother in the 1970s by a shady tree along the Pilgrims’ Way in England shows that the path is lower by 6 inches than the neighboring verge (Bright 4). We don’t see dirt evolving, because its changes occur so slowly. Only big time allows us to see transformative change.Memorial PilgrimageOddly, the erasure of self through duplication with a precursor occurred for me while reading W.G. Sebald’s pilgrimage novel, The Rings of Saturn. I had experienced my own pilgrimage to many of these same locations he immortalizes. I, too, had gone to Somerleyton Hall with my elderly mother, husband, and two children. My memories, sacred shrines pooling in familial history, are infused with synchronic reflection, medieval to contemporary—my parents’ periodic sojourns in Suffolk for years, leading me to love the very landscape Sebald treks across; sadness at my parents’ decline; hope in my children’s coming to add on to their memory palimpsest a layer devoted to this land, to this history, to this family.Then, the oddest coincidence from my reading pilgrimage. After visiting Dunwich Heath, Sebald comes to his friend, Michael, whose wife Anne relays a story about a local man hired as a pallbearer by the local undertaker in Westleton. This man, whose memory was famously bad, nevertheless reveled in the few lines allotted him in an outdoor performance of King Lear. After her relating this story, Sebald asks for a taxi (Sebald 188-9).This might all seem unremarkable to the average reader. Yet, “human wayfinders are richly aware of and responsive to environment, meaning both physical places and living beings, often at a level below consciousness” (Easterlin “Cognitive” 265). For me, with a connection to this area, I startled with recollection emerging from my subconscience. The pallbearer’s name in Sebald’s story was Mr Squirrel, the very same name of the taxi driver my parents—and we—had driven with many times. The same Mr Squirrel? How many Mr Squirrels can there be in this small part of Suffolk? Surely it must be the same family, related in a genetic encoding of memory. I run to my archives. And there, in my mother’s address book—itself a palimpsest of time with names and addressed scored through; pasted-in cards, names, and numbers; and looseleaf memoranda—there, on the first page under “S”, “Mr. Squirrel” in my mother’s unmistakable scribble. She also had inscribed his phone number and the village Saxmundum, seven miles from Westleton. His name had been crossed out. Had he died? Retired? I don’t know. Yet quick look online tells me Squirrell’s Taxis still exists, as it does in my memory.Making KinAfter accompanying a class on a bucolic section of England’s Pilgrims’ Way, seven miles from Wye to Charing, we ended up at a pub drinking a pint, with which all good pilgrimages should conclude. There, students asked me why I became a medievalist who studies pilgrimage. Only after the publication of my first book on women pilgrims did I realize that the origin of my scholarly, long fascination with pilgrimage, blossoming into my professional career, began when I was seven years old along the way to Canterbury. The seeds of that pilgrimage when I was so young bore fruit and flowers decades later.One story illustrates Michel Serres’s point that we should not aim to appropriate the world, but merely act as temporary tenants (Serres 72-3). On pilgrimage in 1966 as a child, I had a penchant for ant spiders. That was not the only insect who took my heart. My mother shares how “Susie found a beetle up on the hill today and put him in the cheese box. Jimmy put holes in the top for him. She named him Alexander Beetle and really became very fond of him. After supper, we set him free in the garden here, with appropriate ceremony and a few over-dramatic tears of farewell.” He clearly made a great impression on me. I yearn for him today, that beetle in the cheese box. Though I tried to smuggle nature as contraband, I ultimately had to set him free.Passing through cities, landscape, forests, over seas and on roads, wandering by fields and vegetable patches, under a sky lit both by sun and moon, the pilgrim—even when in a group of fellow pilgrims—in her lonesome exercise endeavors to realize Serres’ ideal of the tenant inhabitant of earth. Nevertheless, we, as physical pilgrims, inevitably leave our traces through photos immortalizing the journey, trash left by the wayside, even excretions discretely deposited behind a convenient bush. Or a beetle who can tell the story of his adventure—or terror—at being ensconced for a time in a cheese box.On one notorious day of painful feet, my husband and I arrived in Otford, only to find the pub was still closed. Finally, it became time for dinner. We sat outside, me with feet ensconced in shoes blessedly inert and unmoving, as the server brought out our salads. The salad cream, white and viscous, was presented in an elegantly curved silver dish. Then Jim began to pick at the salad cream with his fork. Patiently, tenderly, he endeavored to assist a little bug who had gotten trapped in the gooey sauce. Every attempt seemed doomed to failure. The tiny creature kept falling back into the gloppy substance. Undaunted, Jim compassionately ministered to our companion. Finally, the little insect flew off, free to continue its own pilgrimage, which had intersected with ours in a tiny moment of affinity. Such moments of “making kin” work, according to Donna Haraway, as “life-saving strateg[ies] for the Anthropocene” (Oppermann 3, qtd. in Haraway 160).How can narrative avoid the anthropocentric centre of writing, which is inevitable given the human generator of such a piece? While words are a human invention, nonhuman entities vitally enact memory. The very Downs we walked along were created in the Cretaceous period at least seventy million years ago. The petrol propelling the magic taxi cab was distilled from organic bodies dating back millions of years. Jurassic limestone from the Bathonian Age almost two hundred million years ago constitutes the Caen stone quarried for building Canterbury Cathedral, while its Purbeck marble from Dorset dates from the Cretaceous period. Walking on pilgrimage propels me through a past millions—billions—of eons into the past, dwarfing my speck of existence. Yet, “if we wish to cross the darkness which separates us from [the past] we must lay down a little plank of words and step delicately over it” (Barfield 23). Elias Amidon asks us to consider how “the ground we dig into and walk upon is sacred. It is sacred because it makes us neighbors to each other, whether we like it or not. Tell this story” (Amidon 42). And, so, I have.We are winding down. Time has passed since that first pilgrimage of mine at seven years old. Yet now, here, I still put on my red plaid wollen jumper and jacket, crisp white button-up shirt, grey knee socks, and stout red walking shoes. Slinging on my rucksack, I take my mother’s hand.I’m ready to take my first step.We continue our pilgrimage, together.ReferencesAllen, Valerie. “When Things Break: Mending Rroads, Being Social.” Roadworks: Medieval Britain, Medieval Roads. Eds. Valerie Allen and Ruth Evans. Manchester: Manchester UP, 2016.———, and Ruth Evans. Introduction. Roadworks: Medieval Britain, Medieval Roads. Eds. Valerie Allen and Ruth Evans. Manchester: Manchester UP, 2016.Alworth, David J. Site Reading: Fiction, Art, Social Form. Princeton: Princeton UP, 2016.Amidon, Elias. “Digging In.” Dirt: A Love Story. Ed. Barbara Richardson. Lebanon, NH: ForeEdge, 2015.Barfield, Owen. History in English Words. Grand Rapids: William B. Eerdmans Publishing, 1967.Berry, Wendell. “A Secular Pilgrimage.” The Hudson Review 23.3 (1970): 401-424.Bright, Derek. “The Pilgrims’ Way Revisited: The Use of the North Downs Main Trackway and the Medway Crossings by Medieval Travelers.” Kent Archaeological Society eArticle (2010): 4-32.Craps, Stef, Rick Crownshaw, Jennifer Wenzel, Rosanne Kennedy, Claire Colebrook, and Vin Nardizzi. “Memory Studies and the Anthropocene: A Roundtable.” Memory Studies 11.4 (2017) 1-18.Easterlin, Nancy. A Biocultural Approach to Literary Theory and Interpretation. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 2012.———. “Cognitive Ecocriticism: Human Wayfinding, Sociality, and Literary Interpretation.” Introduction to Cognitive Studies. Ed. Lisa Zunshine. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 2010. 257-274.Haraway, Donna. “Anthropocene, Capitalocene, Plantationocene, Chthulucene: Making Kin.” Environmental Humanities 6 (2015): 159-65.James, Erin, and Eric Morel. “Ecocriticism and Narrative Theory: An Introduction.” English Studies 99.4 (2018): 355-365.Marcussen, Marlene. Reading for Space: An Encounter between Narratology and New Materialism in the Works of Virgina Woolf and Georges Perec. PhD diss. University of Southern Denmark, 2016.Oppermann, Serpil. “Introducing Migrant Ecologies in an (Un)Bordered World.” ISLE 24.2 (2017): 243–256.Oram, Richard. “Trackless, Impenetrable, and Underdeveloped? Roads, Colonization and Environmental Transformation in the Anglo-Scottish Border Zone, c. 1100 to c. 1300.” Roadworks: Medieval Britain, Medieval Roads. Eds. Valerie Allen and Ruth Evans. Manchester: Manchester UP, 2016.Rodriquez, David. “Narratorhood in the Anthropocene: Strange Stranger as Narrator-Figure in The Road and Here.” English Studies 99.4 (2018): 366-382.Savory, Elaine. “Toward a Caribbean Ecopoetics: Derek Walcott’s Language of Plants.” Postcolonial Ecologies: Literatures of the Environment. Eds. Elizabeth DeLoughrey and George B. Handley. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2011. 80-96.Sebald, W.G. The Rings of Saturn. Trans. Michael Hulse. New York: New Directions, 1998.Serres, Michel. Malfeasance: Appropriating through Pollution? Trans. Anne-Marie Feenberg-Dibon. Stanford: Stanford UP, 2011.Walcott, Derek. Selected Poems. Ed. Edward Baugh. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1997. 3-16.Yates, Julian. “Sheep Tracks—A Multi-Species Impression.” Animal, Vegetable, Mineral: Ethics and Objects. Ed. Jeffrey Jerome Cohen. Washington, D.C.: Oliphaunt Books, 2012.

If the home is traditionally considered to be a space of safety associated with the warm and cosy feeling of the familial hearth, it is also continuously portrayed as a space under threat from the outside from which we must secure ourselves and our families. Securing the home entails a series of material, discursive and performative strategies, a host of precautionary measures aimed at regulating and ultimately producing security. When I was eleven my family returned home from the local fruit markets to find our house had been ransacked. Clothes were strewn across the floor, electrical appliances were missing and my parents’ collection of jewellery – wedding rings and heirlooms – had been stolen. Few things remained untouched and the very thought of someone else’s hands going through our personal belongings made our home feel tainted. My parents were understandably distraught. As Filipino immigrants to Australia the heirlooms were not only expensive assets from both sides of my family, but also signifiers of our homeland. Added to their despair was the fact that this was our first house – we had rented prior to that. During the police interviews, we discovered that our area, Sydney’s Western suburbs, was considered ‘high-risk’ and we were advised to install security. In their panic my parents began securing their home. Grills were installed on every window. Each external wooden door was reinforced by a metal security door. Movement detectors were installed at the front of the house, which were set to blind intruders with floodlights. Even if an intruder could enter the back through a window a metal grill security door was waiting between the backroom and the kitchen to stop them from getting to our bedrooms. In short, through a series of transformations our house was made into a residential fortress. Yet home security had its own dangers. A series of rules and regulations were drilled into me ‘in case of an emergency’: know where your keys are in case of a fire so that you can get out; remember the phone numbers for an emergency and the work numbers of your parents; never let a stranger into the house; and if you need to speak to a stranger only open the inside door but leave the security screen locked. Thus, for my Filipino-migrant family in the 1990s, a whole series of defensive behaviours and preventative strategies were produced and disseminated inside and around the home to regulate security risks. Such “local knowledges” were used to reinforce the architectural manifestations of security at the same time that they were a response to the invasion of security systems into our house that created a new set of potential dangers. This article highlights “the interplay of material and symbolic geographies of home” (Blunt and Varley 4), focusing on the relation between urban fears circulating around and within the home and the spatial practices used to negotiate such fears. In exploring home security systems it extends the exemplary analysis of home technologies already begun in Lynn Spigel’s reading of the ‘smart home’ (381-408). In a similar vein, David Morley’s analysis of mediated domesticity shows how communications technology has reconfigured the inside and outside to the extent that television actually challenges the physical boundary that “protects the privacy and solidarity of the home from the flux and threat of the outside world” (87). Television here serves as a passage in which the threat of the outside is reframed as news or entertainment for family viewing. I take this as a point of departure to consider the ways that this mediated fear unfolds in the technology of our homes. Following Brian Massumi, I read the home as “a node in a circulatory network of many dimensions (each corresponding to a technology of transmission)” (85). For Massumi, the home is an event-space at the crossroads of media technologies and political technologies. “In spite of the locks on the door, the event-space of the home must be seen as one characterized by a very loose regime of passage” (85). The ‘locked door’ is not only a boundary marker that defines the inside from the outside but another technology that leads us outside the home into other domains of inquiry: the proliferation of security technologies and the mundane, fearful intimacies of the home. In this context, we should heed Iris Marion Young’s injunction to feminist critics that the home does provide some positives including a sense of privacy and the space to build relationships and identities. Yet, as Colomina argues, the traditional domestic ideal “can only be produced by engaging the home in combat” (20). If, as Colomina’s comment suggests, ontological security is at least partially dependent on physical security, then this article explores the ontological effects of our home security systems. Houses at War: Targeting the Family As Beatriz Colomina reminds us, in times of war we leave our homelands to do battle on the front line, but battle lines are also being drawn in our homes. Drawing inspiration from Virilio’s claim that contemporary war takes place without fighting, Colomina’s article ‘Domesticity at War’ contemplates the domestic interior as a “battlefield” (15). The house, she writes, is “a mechanism within a war where the differences between defense [sic] and attack have become blurred” (17). According to the Home Security Precautions, New South Wales, October 1999 report conducted by the Australian Bureau of Statistics, 47% of NSW dwellings were ‘secure’ (meaning that they either had a burglar alarm, or all entry points were secured or they were inside a security block) while only 9% of NSW households had no home security devices present (Smith 3). In a similar report for Western Australia conducted in October 2004, an estimated 71% of WA households had window security of some sort (screens, locks or shutters) while 67% had deadlocks on at least one external door (4). An estimated 27% had a security alarm installed while almost half (49%) had sensor lights (Hubbard 4-5). This growing sense of insecurity means big business for those selling security products and services. By the end of June 1999, there were 1,714 businesses in Australia’s security services industry generating $1,395 million of income during 1998-99 financial year (McLennan 3; see also Macken). This survey did not include locksmith services or the companies dealing with alarm manufacturing, wholesaling or installing. While Colomina’s article focuses on the “war with weather” and the attempts to control environmental conditions inside the home through what she calls “counterdomesticity” (20), her conceptualisation of the house as a “military weapon” (17) provides a useful tool for thinking the relation between the home, architecture and security. Conceiving of the house as a military weapon might seem like a stretch, but we should recall that the rhetoric of war has already leaked into the everyday. One hears of the ‘war on drugs’ and the ‘war on crime’ in the media. ‘War’ is the everyday condition of our urban jungles (see also Diken and Lausten) and in order to survive, let alone feel secure, one must be able to defend one’s family and home. Take, for example, Signal Security’s website. One finds a panel on the left-hand side of the screen to all webpages devoted to “Residential Products”. Two circular images are used in the panel with one photograph overlapping the other. In the top circle, a white nuclear family (stereotypical mum, dad and two kids), dressed in pristine white clothing bare their white teeth to the internet surfer. Underneath this photo is another photograph in which an arm clad in a black leather jacket emerges through a smashed window. In the foreground a black-gloved hand manipulates a lock, while a black balaclava masks an unrecognisable face through the broken glass. The effect of their proximity produces a violent juxtaposition in which the burglar visually intrudes on the family’s domestic bliss. The panel stages a struggle between white and black, good and bad, family and individual, security and insecurity, recognisability and unidentifiability. It thus codifies the loving, knowable family as the domestic space of security against the selfish, unidentifiable intruder (presumed not to have a family) as the primary reason for insecurity in the family home – and no doubt to inspire the consumption of security products. Advertisements of security products thus articulate the family home as a fragile innocence constantly vulnerable from the outside. From a feminist perspective, this image of the family goes against the findings of the National Homicide Monitoring Program, which shows that 57% of the women killed in Australia between 2004 and 2005 were killed by an intimate partner while 17% were killed by a family member (Mouzos and Houliaras 20). If, on the one hand, the family home is targeted by criminals, on the other, it has emerged as a primary site for security advertising eager to exploit the growing sense of insecurity – the family as a target market. The military concepts of ‘target’ and ‘targeting’ have shifted into the benign discourse of strategic advertising. As Dora Epstein writes, “We arm our buildings to arm ourselves from the intrusion of a public fluidity, and thus our buildings, our architectures of fortification, send a very clear message: ‘avoid this place or protect yourself’” (1997: 139). Epstein’s reference to ‘architectures of fortification’ reminds us that the desire to create security through the built environment has a long history. Nan Ellin has argued that fear’s physical manifestation can be found in the formation of towns from antiquity to the Renaissance. In this sense, towns and cities are always already a response to the fear of foreign invaders (Ellin 13; see also Diken and Lausten 291). This fear of the outsider is most obviously manifested in the creation of physical walls. Yet fortification is also an effect of spatial allusions produced by the configuration of space, as exemplified in Fiske, Hodge and Turner’s semiotic reading of a suburban Australian display home without a fence. While the lack of a fence might suggest openness, they suggest that the manicured lawn is flat so “that eyes can pass easily over it – and smooth – so that feet will not presume to” (30). Since the front garden is best viewed from the street it is clearly a message for the outside, but it also signifies “private property” (30). Space is both organised and lived, in such a way that it becomes a medium of communication to passers-by and would-be intruders. What emerges in this semiotic reading is a way of thinking about space as defensible, as organised in a way that space can begin to defend itself. The Problematic of Defensible Space The incorporation of military architecture into civil architecture is most evident in home security. By security I mean the material systems (from locks to electronic alarms) and precautionary practices (locking the door) used to protect spaces, both of which are enabled by a way of imagining space in terms of risk and vulnerability. I read Oscar Newman’s 1972 Defensible Space as outlining the problematic of spatial security. Indeed, it was around that period that the problematic of crime prevention through urban design received increasing attention in Western architectural discourse (see Jeffery). Newman’s book examines how spaces can be used to reinforce human control over residential environments, producing what he calls ‘defensible space.’ In Newman’s definition, defensible space is a model for residential environments which inhibits crime by creating the physical expression of a social fabric that defends itself. All the different elements which combine to make a defensible space have a common goal – an environment in which latent territoriality and sense of community in the inhabitants can be translated into responsibility for ensuring a safe, productive, and well-maintained living space (3). Through clever design space begins to defend itself. I read Newman’s book as presenting the contemporary problematic of spatialised security: how to structure space so as to increase control; how to organise architecture so as to foster territorialism; how to encourage territorial control through amplifying surveillance. The production of defensible space entails moving away from what he calls the ‘compositional approach’ to architecture, which sees buildings as separate from their environments, and the ‘organic approach’ to architecture, in which the building and its grounds are organically interrelated (Newman 60). In this approach Newman proposes a number of changes to space: firstly, spaces need to be multiplied (one no longer has a simple public/private binary, but also semi-private and semi-public spaces); secondly, these spaces must be hierarchised (moving from public to semi-public to semi-private to private); thirdly, within this hierarchy spaces can also be striated using symbolic or material boundaries between the different types of spaces. Furthermore, spaces must be designed to increase surveillance: use smaller corridors serving smaller sets of families (69-71); incorporate amenities in “defined zones of influence” (70); use L-shaped buildings as opposed to rectangles (84); use windows on the sides of buildings to reveal the fire escape from outside (90). As he puts it, the subdivision of housing projects into “small, recognisable and comprehensible-at-a-glance enclaves is a further contributor to improving the visual surveillance mechanism” (1000). Finally, Newman lays out the principle of spatial juxtaposition: consider the building/street interface (positioning of doors and windows to maximise surveillance); consider building/building interface (e.g. build residential apartments next to ‘safer’ commercial, industrial, institutional and entertainment facilities) (109-12). In short, Newman’s book effectively redefines residential space in terms of territorial zones of control. Such zones of influence are the products of the interaction between architectural forms and environment, which are not reducible to the intent of the architect (68). Thus, in attempting to respond to the exigencies of the moment – the problem of urban crime, the cost of housing – Newman maps out residential space in what Foucault might have called a ‘micro-physics of power’. During the mid-1970s through to the 1980s a number of publications aimed at the average householder are printed in the UK and Australia. Apart from trade publishing (Bunting), The UK Design Council released two small publications (Barty, White and Burall; Design Council) while in Australia the Department of Housing and Construction released a home safety publication, which contained a small section on security, and the Australian Institute of Criminology published a small volume entitled Designing out Crime: Crime prevention through environmental design (Geason and Wilson). While Newman emphasised the responsibility of architects and urban planners, in these publications the general concerns of defensible space are relocated in the ‘average homeowner’. Citing crime statistics on burglary and vandalism, these publications incite their readers to take action, turning the homeowner into a citizen-soldier. The householder, whether he likes it or not, is already in a struggle. The urban jungle must be understood in terms of “the principles of warfare” (Bunting 7), in which everyday homes become bodies needing protection through suitable architectural armour. Through a series of maps and drawings and statistics, the average residential home is transformed into a series of points of vulnerability. Home space is re-inscribed as a series of points of entry/access and lines of sight. Simultaneously, through lists of ‘dos and don’ts’ a set of precautionary behaviours is inculcated into the readers. Principles of security begin codifying the home space, disciplining the spatial practices of the intimate, regulating the access and mobility of the family and guests. The Architectural Nervous System Nowadays we see a wild, almost excessive, proliferation of security products available to the ‘security conscious homeowner’. We are no longer simply dealing with security devices designed to block – such as locks, bolts and fasteners. The electronic revolution has aided the production of security devices that are increasingly more specialised and more difficult to manipulate, which paradoxically makes it more difficult for the security consumer to understand. Detection systems now include continuous wiring, knock-out bars, vibration detectors, breaking glass detectors, pressure mats, underground pressure detectors and fibre optic signalling. Audible alarm systems have been upgraded to wire-free intruder alarms, visual alarms, telephone warning devices, access control and closed circuit television and are supported by uninterruptible power supplies and control panels (see Chartered Institution of Building Service Engineers 19-39). The whole house is literally re-routed as a series of relays in an electronic grid. If the house as a security risk is defined in terms of points of vulnerability, alarm systems take these points as potential points of contact. Relays running through floors, doors and windows can be triggered by pressure, sound or dislocation. We see a proliferation of sensors: switching sensors, infra-red sensors, ultrasonic sensors, microwave radar sensors, microwave fence sensors and microphonic sensors (see Walker). The increasing diversification of security products attests to the sheer scale of these architectural/engineering changes to our everyday architecture. In our fear of crime we have produced increasingly more complex security products for the home, thus complexifying the spaces we somehow inherently feel should be ‘simple’. I suggest that whereas previous devices merely reinforced certain architectural or engineering aspects of the home, contemporary security products actually constitute the home as a feeling, architectural body capable of being affected. This recalls notions of a sensuous architecture and bodily metaphors within architectural discourse (see Thomsen; Puglini). It is not simply our fears that lead us to secure our homes through technology, but through our fears we come to invest our housing architecture with a nervous system capable of fearing for itself. Our eyes and ears become detection systems while our screams are echoed in building alarms. Body organs are deterritorialised from the human body and reterritorialised on contemporary residential architecture, while our senses are extended through modern security technologies. The vulnerable body of the family home has become a feeling body conscious of its own vulnerability. It is less about the physical expression of fear, as Nan Ellin has put it, than about how building materialities become capable of fearing for themselves. What we have now are residential houses that are capable of being more fully mobilised in this urban war. Family homes become bodies that scan the darkness for the slightest movements, bodies that scream at the slightest possibility of danger. They are bodies that whisper to each other: a house can recognise an intrusion and relay a warning to a security station, informing security personnel without the occupants of that house knowing. They are the newly produced victims of an urban war. Our homes are the event-spaces in which mediated fear unfolds into an architectural nervous system. If media plug our homes into one set of relations between ideologies, representations and fear, then the architectural nervous system plugs that back into a different set of relations between capital, fear and the electronic grid. The home is less an endpoint of broadcast media than a node in an electronic network, a larger nervous system that encompasses the globe. It is a network that plugs architectural nervous systems into city electronic grids into mediated subjectivities into military technologies and back again, allowing fear to be disseminated and extended, replayed and spliced into the most banal aspects of our domestic lives. 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