Journal articles on the topic 'Heather gardens'

The Ecological and Heath Gardens at the Royal Botanic Garden Edinburgh were created in 1991 and 1997 respectively. The Ecological Garden started as a naturalistic area of native woodland plants where cryptogams were encouraged to grow. Building on its success other habitat types were created nearby. The Heath Garden replaced an older heather garden and sought to recreate the ‘feel’ of a Scottish upland heathland. In recent years additional wild origin material of conservation concern has been added to each Garden and this paper describes the process along with some of the plants selected.

Heather, Calluna vulgaris (L.) Hull, is a serious invasive weed in the central North Island of New Zealand, especially in Tongariro National Park, a World Heritage Area. Heather beetle, Lochmaea suturalis (Thomson), is a foliage-feeding pest of Calluna in Europe, that was selected as the most promising biological control agent for introduction into New Zealand, because it causes high levels of damage to Calluna in Europe. Host-range tests indicated that L. suturalisposes a negligible threat to native New Zealand plants. Cultivars of Callunagrown as ornamentals are suitable food plants, but are unlikely to be severely affected because L. suturalis requires a damp understorey of moss or litter for successful oviposition and pupation, which is rarely present in gardens. However, mosses and litter occurring under Calluna stands in Tongariro National Park are suitable substrates for eggs and pupae. Lochmaea suturalis released in New Zealand has been freed of parasitoids and a microsporidian disease that attack the beetles in Europe.

The Threatened Species Programme at the South African National Biodiversity Institute, Kirstenbosch National Botanical Garden, is integrated to include both ex situ and in situ conservation activities. Plant conservation is driven by South Africa’s Strategy for Plant Conservation which was developed in response to the Global Strategy for Plant Conservation.
 This case study examines the conservation of Erica verticillata (whorl heath), a flagship for threatened species at Kirstenbosch, and documents the integration of ex situ with in situ conservation at three areas on the Cape Flats. The whorl heath was thought to be extinct by 1950. Horticulturists have since rediscovered eight clones in botanic gardens worldwide, the Heather Society and commercial growers. Ex situ conservation in botanic garden collections and the Millennium Seed Bank has since allowed in situ conservation in the critically endangered Cape Flats Sand Fynbos vegetation type. The process of restoring the whorl heath presented many challenges. Initially attempts were hampered by limited available knowledge on suitable niche habitats. Pioneering work carried out at Rondevlei Nature Reserve identified the suitable habitat and this was applied in subsequent in situ work at Kenilworth Racecourse Conservation Area and at Tokai Park – the only natural areas remaining in or near this species’ historical distribution range. Successful re-establishment of this species depends upon its capacity to recruit after fire, which is an essential ecological process in the fynbos. Many clones have been in cultivation for a long time and are poor seed producers: seed production was first recorded at Rondevlei only after additional clones were planted together. Only one population (Rondevlei) to date has seen a fire and thus has recruited seedlings; however these are competing with vigorous companion plants.
 The study continues and is currently exploring the role of herbivory in the restoration process. The key lesson learnt to date is the need to include sustainable management of the entire ecosystem in the restoration process and not limit it to single species. Success in restoring a species depends upon a healthy stand of the vegetation type in place, along with pollinators and other key fauna and other natural ecosystem processes. It is recommended that successful re- establishment of a species in fynbos requires the reintroduced population to survive three fire cycles.

Treegazing was a public walking event held in the Fitzroy Gardens, Melbourne as part of Melbourne Design Week 2020 inviting the public to lift their gaze, be mindful whilst acknowledging the garden’s aesthetic design and history. This walk created a temporary community of strangers who co-experienced the majestic arboreal canopies of trees and plants, reducing ‘plant blindness’ (Schussler & Wandersee, 1998). Acknowledging the importance of ‘what stories are told’ and ‘making-kin’ (Haraway, 2016), this article explores collaborative visions between yoga and meditation practitioner Amanda Hawkey and artist Heather Hesterman. Investigating the dualities of silence/sound, open/enclosed, empty/busy and built/green spaces as a series of experiences. The act of mindful walking aims to connect the body to green spaces; to provide an embodied experience of nature. How might fundamental practices, as humans walking individually and together in public space be potential acts of transformation, of mindfulness, and environmental awareness - even subtle activism? We argue that encouraging an engagement with nature via haptic and ocular modes of art practice and meditation may facilitate a deeper engagement with and/or increased appreciation for flora. Treegazing implicates the walkers to become part of a connective- fluidity that enacts the space not within as participants, witness nor viewers but offers a shared collective experience of both mobility and stillness with the landscape, a subtle activism that looks up and treads lightly to ‘conspire – with nature.’

Cotula alpina (Hook f.) Hook f. is an Australian herb that has been naturalised in Britain since the 1970s and is now locally abundant in parts of northern England and northwest Scotland. Its method of arrival is unknown but it is likely to have originated from gardens and perhaps also from wool shoddy. It appears to be spreading rapidly due to high seed production and effective dispersal by sheep, humans and vehicles and is now locally abundant on moorland tracks and in adjacent acid grassland and heather moorland managed for grouse. Due to its evergreen and mat-forming habit it can outcompete community dominants such as Agrostis capillaris and Festuca ovina in areas where levels of grazing are high. It appears to be well suited to the British climate and is therefore likely to spread into similar habitats in other regions where it could pose a threat to localized species associated with short grassland on acidic soils. Its overall abundance and ability to regenerate rapidly from seed means it is unlikely to be easily controlled or eradicated, although exclusion of grazing may help to reduce its abundance in some areas.

Urbanization causes alteration of the thermal regime (surface, air, and water) of the environment. Heated stormwater runoff flows into lakes, streams, bays, and estuaries, which potentially increases the base temperature of the surface water. The amount of heat transferred, and the degree of thermal pollution is of great importance to the ecological integrity of receiving waters. This research reports on a controlled laboratory scale test to assess low impact development (LID) stormwater control measure impacts on the thermal characteristics of stormwater runoff. We hypothesize that LID stormwater control measures (SCMs) such as pervious surfaces and rain gardens/bioretention can be used to mitigate the ground level thermal loads from stormwater runoff. Laboratory methods in this study captured and infiltrated simulated stormwater runoff from four infrared heated substrate microcosms (pervious concrete, impervious concrete, permeable concrete pavers, and turf grass), and routed the stormwater through rain garden microcosms. A data logging system with thermistors located on, within, and at exits of the microcosms, recorded resulting stormwater temperature flux. Researchers compared steady state temperatures of the laboratory to previously collected field data and achieved between 30% to 60% higher steady state surface temperatures with indoor than outdoor test sites. This research helps establish baseline data to study heat removal effectiveness of pervious materials when used alone or in combination as a treatment train with other stormwater control measures such as rain gardens/bioretention.

The study of coastal and aquatic tropical flora as part of the conservation of world biodiversity is the main purpose of research in botanical gardens. Conservation of plant collections involves a continuous process of plant reproduction. This means searching for ways of reproduction that are most effective for a particular group of plants and optimal timing of obtaining adult specimens. Generally accepted methods for seed (T. A. Rabotnov) and vegetative reproduction were used; for Nymphaea x daubeniana (viviparous water lily) was used the Sean Stevenson method. During 2017-2020 in the Stavropol Botanical Garden was conducted an experiment to study the reproduction of tropical water lilies in protected ground conditions. An artificial pond with a water mirror area of 85 m2 is located in a greenhouse, heated from October to April. Cross-pollination occurs during the mass flowering period (June-July, with illumination up to 93.5•103 kilolux), seed maturation occurs within 58±4 days, and seedlings bloom in 7-8 months. The moderate correlation was established between the soil composition and the intensity of flowering (p < 0.4) and the formation of nodules (p < 0.4). The absence or short flowering of water lily varieties and the mass of nodules (150-300 g) contributes to the formation of more planting material (up to 12 or more pieces). The vegetation period for 99% of the studied plants is 1478±26 days, for the species Nymphaea gigantea it is 887±15 days. Regardless of the species and variety of tropical water lilies, reproduction by daughter nodules formed at the base of the main tuber occurs throughout the growing season.

The concept of forecast success introduction of herbaceous perennials in the Ukraine steppe, and new approaches to their introduction, which is the basis of introduction and increase environmental capacity of the region. The concept provides a theoretical basis for updates, updating and improving the collection funds of botanical gardens of the steppe zone, the mobilization of new species to expand their range to regions of landscape architecture. The criteria of success of the introduction of species and developed a system of evaluation of their adaptive capacity to the conditions of the introduction of the region, designed to analyze fitness herbaceous perennials both introduced and native flora, taking into account the totality of important adaptive plant signs (44 signs), including morphological and anatomical indicators of vegetative organs and their allometric parameters, correlation of functional traits of plants, the ability of plants to the formation of hybrid seedlings, their allelopathic activity.

AbstractYoung plants, also called “microgreens”, are different kinds of vegetables, grains and herbs grown to the phenological phase of cotyledons, or to the development of the first pair of true leaves. The aim of the work was to study the influence of lighting on the young plants quality in selected 11 vegetables species. The experiment was carried out during the winter time in a heated greenhouse of the Botanical Gardens of SUA in Nitra. For the lighting there were used linear fluorescent lamps FLUORA T8 - L 36W / 77 - G13 during the whole period of cultivation. According to our results, the lighting had a positive impact on the quality of harvested plants. The higher contents of vitamin C, chlorophyllaand chlorophyllbwere estimated in comparison with the control variant without lighting.

This paper explores a new artificial political ecology through a novel digital methodology. The emotional impacts of the replacement of living turfgrass landscapes with synthetic simulacra are researched via a netnography of animated and polarised online discussion. We investigate how the cultural use of domestic lawns has extended into the creation of non-living artificial lawns and how the environmental values of these new landscapes are debated. Synthetic polymer (plastic) grasses are increasingly being used as alternatives to turfgrass in domestic gardens, changing urban ecologies. We examine the emotional landscapes that are reproduced in online discourse. Paul Robbins showed that a certain suite of behaviours constitutes ‘Lawn People’. Here we demonstrate that ‘Artificial Lawn People’ act in reference to cultural expectations of a ‘good’ lawn to produce non-living, homogeneous, green and tidy gardens, yet their actions spark fierce criticism from others who do not value this new synthetic nature. Our research involved analysis of 948 online discussion posts, and introduces a secondary notion of ‘artificial people’ as our subjects were anonymous contributors to virtual public debates on the environment: generating impassioned polyvocal contestation. Mumsnet.com is a space of heated discussion between proponents and opponents of artificial lawns. We identify three topics: (i) emotional responses: artificial grass is polarising, and its social value contested; (ii) bio-physical affects: plastic fibres impact human and non-human life and (iii) environmental values: turfgrass replacement influences local and global political ecologies. The conclusions shed light on the dynamic relationships between the emotional values of living and non-living landscapes.

Rhododendron luteum Sweet of the Heath family Ericaceae is found on the territory of Ukraine both in the wild and is widely cultivated in botanical gardens, parks, squares. Leaves and inflorescences are used to treat heart disease, rheumatism, gout, and disorders of the nervous system. The literature data on the chemical composition relate to the presence of aminoacids, organic acids, essential oils, phenolic and triterpene compounds, andromedol derivatives.
 The aim of the work was to determine the composition and content of fatty and organic acids in the Rhododendron luteum Sweet leaves by gas chromatography-mass spectrometry.
 The object of the study was the leaves of Rhododendron luteum Sweet, collected on the territory of the botanical garden of H. S. Skovoroda Kharkiv National Pedagogical University in 2019. Gas chromatography - mass spectrometric study of the component composition and content of fatty and organic acids in the leaves of the studied plant on an Agilent Technologies 6890 chromatograph with a 5973 mass spectrometric detector was carried out.
 In Rhododendron luteum Sweet leaves 37 substances were found and identified. Fatty acids were represented by 17 compounds. Among saturated fatty acids, palmitic acid (3 276.2 mg/kg) was prevailed, among monounsaturated – oleic (736.78 mg/kg), among polyunsaturated – linolenic (1 617.65 mg/kg). The smallest amounts contained heneukocylic (46.33 mg/kg), lauric (58.17 mg/kg) and caproic (68.17 mg/kg) acids, which belong to saturated fatty acids. The presence of 20 organic acids in the raw material was also established: citric (8 680.30 mg/kg) and iso-citric (4 106.85 mg/kg) acids dominated in terms of quantitative content; oxalic (1 685.65 mg/kg) and malic (1 310.82 mg/kg) acids were contained in significant amounts. Among the derivatives of hydroxybenzoic acid, the greatest amount was presented by gentisic (187.76 mg/kg) acid, among the derivatives of hydroxycinnamic acids – p-coumaric (312.62 mg/kg).
 For the first time, the qualitative composition and quantitative content of fatty and organic acids in Rhododendron luteum Sweet leaves was studied by gas chromatography with a mass spectrometric detector. The obtained results indicate the prospects for further study of raw materials to develop drugs with membrane stabilizing and anti-inflammatory activity.

Ten plants of six species of tree fern were trialled for frost hardiness during the winter of 2005/06 when they were planted outdoors in the ground of an interior courtyard at the Royal Botanic Garden Edinburgh. The species were Culcita macrocarpa, Cyathea dealbata, Cyathea dregei,Cyathea smithii, Dicksonia antarctica and Thyrsopteris elegans. An additional specimen of C. dregei was planted in the main garden. The apex region of each tree fern was fitted with an electric thermometer probe to record weekly minimum and maximum temperatures. These were compared with the air temperatures of the courtyard. For thermal insulation, the trunks and crowns of the three Cyathea species were encased in straw. The prostrate rhizomes of C. macrocarpa and T. elegans were covered respectively with leaf litter, straw and a polystyrene tile. As comparators, three trunked specimens of D. antarctica were given no winter wrapping, since previous experience had shown it to be unnecessary. All ten plants survived the winter of 2005/06 which was colder than average, and put out new growth the following spring. Fronds of D. antarctica and C. macrocarpa stayed green; the fronds of the other species were withered by the coldest exposures when the air temperature reached 4.7°C.Compared with the main botanic garden, the courtyard provided a relatively mild microclimate. It was on average 2.5 °C warmer than the air temperature measured in the screen of the main garden weather station, and 7.7°C warmer than the ‘grass’ temperature in the main garden, which went down to –13°C at its lowest. All tree fern apices registered sub-zero temperatures, the range in different plants being from –0.3 to –3.4°C. The apex regions did not get as cold as the surrounding air temperature, which ranged between 0.5 and 2.3°C. The three D. antarctica (without added insulation) had minimum apical temperatures in the same range as the species that were wrapped for the winter. The insulation effect in the apex regions was also shown by the weekly maximum temperatures, which on average were lower than those of the courtyard air maxima.In conclusion, the combination of the locally favourable microclimate of the courtyard, plus appropriate trunk and crown insulation provided for some species, allowed the planting outdoors, of tree ferns normally grown in Edinburgh under heated glass.

This paper discusses the horticultural history of southern African Erica spp. in Europe, and especially in Britain, during the late eighteenth and the early decades of the nineteenth century . We note evidence for the deliberate hybridization of the so-called Cape heaths by European horticulturists, in particular by the English nursery man William Rollisson and by the Very Rev. William Herbert. We discuss some of the nomenclatural consequences of the naming by miscellaneous botanists and nurserymen of the hundreds of new Erica species and hybrids, emphasizing the proliferation of eponyms. An appendix tabulates eponyms and their numerous orthographic variants published before 1835 within Erica, and provides the correct orthography for these epithets.

While herbaceous perennials continuously gain popularity in southern landscape plantings, the nutrient requirements of many species in this group are still unknown. The business goal of lawn and garden care companies emphasizes aesthetic value of the urban landscape. Improper nutrient management, such as the overapplication of fertilizers, is inefficient and may result in increased pest problems and risks of contaminating ground and surface waters by nutrient runoff. Seven herbaceous perennials (lantana, rudbeckia, purple cone flower, daylily, mexican heather, cigar plant, and guara) were planted in simulated landscape beds. Fertilizers applied included one or two OsmocotePlus 16-8-12 tablets (7.5 g), OsmocotePlus 15-9-12 (5 months) at 0, 33, 66, and 131 g/m2 at planting, or applying OsmocotePlus 15-9-12 (5 months) 33 g/m2 or one OsmocotePlus tablet at the time of planting plus another 33 g/m2 topdressing after flowering. Plant growth of rudbeckis, purple cone flower, and lantana were highest at 131 g/m2 applied at planting, but resulted in similar overall plant quality as with 33 or 66 g/m2 treatments. Daylily growth was similar across fertilization treatments, and overall quality decreased at high fertilization rates with more severe daylily rust observed on these plants. Applying one OsmocotePlus 7.5-g tablet resulted in similar plant quality with applying OsmocotePlus 33 and 66 g/m2, but significantly reduced the amount of fertilizer used. Additional topdressing after flowering did not further increase plant quality in fall, but may affect the overwintering survival of perennial plants.

Relevance. Currently, in many countries of the world, the production of non-season raspberry berry products has become widespread. Recently, interest in this technology has arisen in Russia, which has great prospects for the development of industrial gardening. In our opinion, it is promising to develop elements of technology for the non-seasonal production of red raspberries, propagated by the method of clonal micropropagation with a traditional and remontant type of fruiting in the conditions of winter heated greenhouses.Material and methods. The experiments were carried out in the laboratory of clonal micropropagation of garden plants in the fruit growing laboratory of RGAU-MSHA named after K.A. Timiryazev. The objects of research were varieties of red raspberries with a traditional (variety Volnitsa) and remontant (varieties Orangevoe Chudo and Bryanskoe Divo) type of fruiting. The experimental plants were propagated by the method of clonal micropropagation and grown before distillation in open and protected ground; plants propagated by root offspring served as control. Experimental plants were planted in open ground for growing in mid-May, in mid-October they were transplanted into 10 liter containers and transferred to protected ground conditions. Then put in the refrigerator compartment with a temperature of + 1 ... + 5°C. For distillation, the raspberry repairing plants were exposed in the winter heated greenhouse on January 20, while the shoots of replacing the aboveground system were normalized: without normalization, 3 shoots per plant, complete pruning of the aboveground system. Raspberries with a traditional type of fruiting were exposed in a winter heated greenhouse in three periods on January 20, February 10, March 2. Accounting for the passage of the phenological phases of development and yield was made for 3 months every 5 days.Results. In the conditions of winter heated greenhouses, efficiency has been shown and elements of technology for non-season production of raspberry berries remontant and berries with a traditional type of fruiting, propagated in vitro and grown before open field distillation are developed. It was revealed that it is necessary to normalize the shoots before distillation of raspberry remontant, and the optimal timing for the start of distillation for raspberries with a traditional type of fruiting has been established.

Rodney Phillips Dales was born in Hornchurch, Essex on 15 January 1927. His father Sidney Phillips Dales was a Chartered Architect, his mother Muriel Emily (née Tattersall) kept the family home in the Squirrel’s Heath district, and frequently worked in her husband’s practice. Rodney and his brother Gordon (b. 1922) were raised in a strict Methodist family. They led a modest life, but one full of interest and diversion. Frequent trips to the seaside, and visits to buildings and artist friends of his father, helped shape Rodney’s interests and future career. He became fascinated by the diversity of the natural world and the wonderful architecture he encountered on his frequent bike rides into the Essex countryside.

Abstract The diurnal water use patterns are of interest to hydraulic modellers, as these patterns are required for the design of water distribution systems. An extensive body of literature is available with regard to daily, weekly and seasonal diurnal water use patterns of typical suburban houses. However, the characteristics of South African low-cost houses, the socio-economic status of the consumers and the level of water service to such houses differs from typical western suburban houses reported on elsewhere. Notable differences include the limited access to heated water and negligible garden irrigation at the low-cost houses. Knowledge of water use in low-cost houses, which are prevalent in South Africa, is limited. To reduce this lack of knowledge, approximately 2.5 million flow records were collected over a period of 3 years from a sample of 14 low-cost houses as part of this empirical case study. Subsequently, a diurnal water use pattern was constructed for the selected low-cost houses at 15-minute and 1-hour resolution. The diurnal pattern is useful for hydraulic modellers when data that represent extended period time simulation of water networks in low-cost housing developments is required.

Conservation of endemic rare-threatened plants and sustainable exploitation of biodiversity with emphasis on medicinal-aromatic plants and plants with horticultural/ornamental value can be achieved through ex situ conservation activities. For this purpose, propagation experiments with cuttings were performed on four local Ionian endemic species with conservation priority, Stachys ionica Halácsy, Teucrium halascyanum, Thymus holosericeus Celak and Thymus plasonii Adamovic (all Lamiaceae). For propagation, softwood tip cuttings (3-5 cm) were cut at early autumn from mother plants collected from the wild and maintained in open-air mother plantations. For experimentation, the base of cuttings was immersed for 1 min in solutions of four concentrations of IBA (0, 1000, 2000 and 4000 ppm). Cuttings were placed on a peat:perlite (1:3) substrate in the bench of greenhouse heated mist system. Most suitable treatment for T. halascyanum (3 ½ weeks) proved to be 1000 ppm IBA (32.13 roots 1.72 cm long, 100% rooting). Accordingly, 2000 ppm IBA gave 100% rooting for both S. ionica (28.5 roots 1.56 cm long,) (3 weeks) and Th. holosericeus (4.4 roots 1.76 cm long) (7 weeks). T. plasonii cuttings treated with 2000 ppm IBA gave 85.71% optimum rooting with 8.67 roots 1.78 cm long.

The article presents the results of research of the chemical composition of easily volatile components in the leaves of nine taxa representing species and varieties of the genus Citrus L. cultivated under the conditions of greenhouses of the Central Botanical Garden of the National Academy of Sciences of Belarus as: C. unshiu (Tanaka ex Swingle) Marcow., C. grandis Osbeck cv. Bogatyr, C. sinensis Osbeck cv. Washington Navel, C. medica L. cv. Sarcodactilis, C. medica cv. Pavlovskiy Shishkan, Lemon Skernevitsky (’Ponderosa lemon’) is a clone of the hybrid C. medica L. × C. limon (L.) Burm. f., Citrofortunella microcarpa, C. limon (L.) Osbeck cv. Pavlovskiy, C.meyeri (Ju. Tanaka). The volatile components were extracted using a Supelco™ solid-phase microextractor placed in the vapour-air space above air-dried, finely ground and heated to 40 °C leaf samples. The component composition of the extracts was analyzed by the GC/MS method using the Agilent Technologies 6850 Series II system (Network GC System/5975B (VL MSD). Total 36 components were identified in the leaves of citrus plants: monoterpenes (14), sesquiterpenes (11), and oxygen-containing compounds: terpene alcohols, aldehydes, ethers (11). The studies have shown that the cyclic hydrocarbons monoterpene (Z)-β-trans-Ocimene and 3 sesquiterpenes (β-caryophyllene, (3E, 6E)-α-farnesene, and α-caryophyllene) were detected in the volatile components in leaves in the whole citrus group. While 2 sesquiterpenes: (3E,6E)-α-farnesene and α-caryophyllene are dominant for the most taxa based on their proportions in the total volume of volatile compounds. Sesquiterpene beta-Elemene is present as a dominant component exclusively in species and varieties representing the so-called “sweet citrus” group as it follows from the results of the studies: C. unshiu, C. grandis cv. Bogatyr, C. sinensis× cv. Washington Navel, C. meyeri, which allows one to consider it as a significant feature in the taxonomy of the genus Citrus L.

Streptocarpus formosus (Hilliard & B.L. Burtt) T.J. Edwards is a flowering herbaceous perennial indigenous to South Africa and is part of the rosulate group of herbaceous acaulescent plants within the Gesneriaceae family. According to the National Assessment database for the Red List of South African Plants version 2020.1., the plant is listed as rare. The ornamental use of S. formosus has untapped commercial potential as a flowering indoor pot plant, an outdoor bedding plant for shade and as a cut flower for the vase, all of which are limited by a five-month eco-dormancy period during the late autumn and all through the cold season in the short-day winter months. Viable commercial production will require cultivation techniques that produce flowering plants all year round. This study investigated the effectiveness of applying root zone heating to S. formosus plants grown in deep water culture hydroponics during the eco-dormancy period in preventing abscission layer formation and in encouraging flowering and assessed the growth activity response of the plants. The experiment was conducted over eight weeks during the winter season in the greenhouse at Kirstenbosch Botanical garden in water reservoirs, each maintained at five different experimental temperature treatments (18, 22, 26—control, 30 and 34 °C) applied to 10 sample replicates. The results showed that the lowest hydroponic root zone temperature of 18 °C had the greatest effect on the vegetative growth of S. formosus, with the highest average increases in fresh weight (1078 g), root length (211 cm), overall leaf length (362 cm) and the number of newly leaves formed (177 = n), all noted as statistically significant when compared with the other water temperature treatments, which yielded negative results from reduced vegetative growth. Findings from the study also revealed that while all heated solutions significantly prevented the formation of abscission layers of S. formosus, they had a less significant effect on inflorescence formation, with only 18 °C having the greatest positive effect on flower development.

<p class="03Abstract">Steming from the general trend of the world in the use of products from nature, some basic natural food colorings have been produced, including the red from <em>Momordica cochinchinensis</em> fruits, the yellow from <em>Gardenia jasminoides</em> seeds, and the green from <em>Boehmeria nivea</em> (<em>Ramie</em>) leaves. Unlike industrial techniques with usually using non-edible organic solvents, as well as traditional techniques with using hot or cold water extraction, this study used ethanol as a solvent for extraction. The results showed that the use of ethanol without adding water for extraction have obtained the colorings with the highest efficiency. The other conditions were also investigated and selected such as the use of 50 mL of ethanol for 1.0 g of dry materials, the extraction temperature of 70 <sup>o</sup>C, the extraction time of 60 minutes for the red and yellow colorings, of 90 minutes for the green coloring. All studied colorings were stable at high temperatures, which can be heated to 90 <sup>o</sup>C for 60 minutes without any significant changes. When having been stored in refrigerator at 4 °C, the studied colorings were more stable than having been stored at room temperature with the presence of light. They were also more stable when having been stored in ethanol than having been stored in water. After being stored for 6 days in ethanol, the weight of the red, yellow, and green colorings decreased by 2 %, 0.4 %, and 9.6 %, respectively.</p>

Twenty Peas (Pisum sativum L.) varieties/ lines were evaluated against Fusarium wilt caused by Fusarium oxysporum .Sp.pici by sowing them in sick plot during the year of 2016-17 at the Plant Pathology Research Institute, Faisalabad. Each cultivar/line was planted in a single row of three meter length, with plant to plant and row to row distances of 15cm and 30 cm respectively and replicated thrice by following Randomized Complete Block Design (RCBD). Out of these twenty varieties/ lines 13 including check variety Olympia were found highly susceptible ranging from 53.2 to 83.5% plant mortality. Six varieties/lines were susceptible ranging from 30.3 to 44.1 % plant mortality. Only a single variety Garrow performed as moderately resistant by showing 21% plant mortality in the field. Efficacy of five fungicides against Fusarium oxysporum .Sp.pici, at various concentrations was evaluated in-vitro and significant variations among treatments was observed. 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Tulip (Tulipa gesneriana L.) is an important and highly valuable flower of the cut flower industry. The most critical step in its cultivation is to break dormancy in order to initiate the growth, especially in tropical and sub-tropical areas of the world. Therefore, the current research was conducted to break bulb dormancy and foster the growth of tulip in Potohar region with the help of different primers. The objective of this study was the selection of best primer at appropriate concentration level to enhance growth, yield and vase life of the flower. Tulip bulbs were treated with different primers: T0 (distilled water), T1 (chitosan @ 5 g/L), T2 (gibberellic acid @ 0.15 g/L), T3 (humic acid 160 g/L), T4 (imidacloprid 19 g/L) and T5 (salicylic acid 0.1 g/L) for 24 hours, respectively. The experiment was laid out using Complete Randomized Design (CRD) with three replications. Statistical results revealed that characteristics including early germination, plant height, number of leaves, stalk length, fresh and dry weight of flower, weight of bulbs, diameter of bulbs and number of daughter bulbs were significantly increased in T2. Whereas, leaf area, diameter of stem and flower was maximum in T0. Plants under T3 showed an increase in chlorophyll content of leaves. While floral characteristics like early formation and opening of flower bud, more number of flowers and vase life were improved in T1. Thus, statistical results showed that priming can effectively help to improve morpho-physiological attributes of tulip.Key wordTulip, primers, dormancy, chitosan, gibberellic acid, humic acid, imidacloprid, salicylic acid.INTRODUCTIONTulip (Tulips gesneriana L.) is the most popular and lucrative spring blooming bulbous plant of Liliacae family. It is famous for its distinctive flower shape; size and vibrant color range that make it stand out aesthetically among other ornamental flowers. There are about 150 to 160 species of tulip that can be grown in gardens. In addition to this, they are also used as cut flowers. In cut flower industry, it is ranked as 3rd most desirable flower after rose and chrysanthemum (Singh, 2006; Ahmad et al., 2014). This flower holds a significant importance on societal events like Valentine’s Day, Easter, New Year and Mother’s Day. Along with ornamental uses, its bulb can be used for cooking purposes in place of onions and petals can be used to treat rough skin. As a result of its immense beauty and multiple uses, it is day by day becoming more eminent and favorite among people globally (Buschman, 2004; Jhon and Neelofar, 2006). The demand for cut flowers in Pakistan is also gaining popularity. In Pakistan, where floriculture industry is still struggling to make its way towards development, the annual production of cut flowers is estimated to be 10,000 to 12,000 tons per annum (Younis et al., 2009). Main cut flower crops produced includes: rose, carnation, gerbera, statice, tuberose, narcissus, gladiolus, freesia and lilies (Ahsan et al., 2012). Despite of tulip’s high demand, it is not among the few cut flowers that are produced at commercial level in Pakistan. However, some of the wild species of tulip (Tulipa stellate) are found in the country, as they wildly grow in West and North West Himalayan region of the world. (Nasir et al., 1987). This perennial plant needs several weeks of low temperature (temperature < 50C) to break its dormancy for producing beautiful flowers, as a result, its cultivation is restricted to temperate areas (Koksal et al., 2011). It is widely grown in areas with 5-100C night and 17-200C day temperature throughout the growing season (Singh, 2006). Although, it has high demand worldwide but there are only 15 tulips producing countries in the world. Among few tulip producing countries, Netherlands tops the list due to her favorable climatic conditions. The total production area of tulips in Netherlands is 10,800 hectares that contributes 60% of the world’s total production. The reason behind its limited production in the world is the inability of tulip bulbs to break dormancy under unfavorable climatic conditions. Dormancy is a state in which flower bulbs do not show any physical growth due to physical and physiological barriers. Therefore, dormancy breaking is the utmost important step while growing tulips anywhere in the world (De Klerk et al., 1992). Thus, aforementioned restrictions and sensitivity of crop towards its growth requirements has also affected its production in Pakistan. Its cultivation is restricted to Murree, Abottabad and Swat only. Some other parts of the country, including the Potohar region have great potential to grow tulip by putting in a little effort to cope with the challenge of dormancy breaking due to relatively high temperature. The winter period in Potohar region is from November to March. Moreover, December, January and February are the coldest months with a mean annual temperature between 100C to 150C. As a result, the time of planting is very critical for dormancy breaking and fast growth in such areas, as late planting would cause an abortion of flowers due to a raised field temperature at the time of flowering. In order to grow tulips in areas with mild winters different techniques are adopted that includes: pre- chilling, seed priming and protected cultivation method to achieve early growth and high yield of flowers before the temperature rises. Out of all additional efforts, seed priming can be an effective method for growing tulips in open fields because it promotes early growth and good yield (Anjum et al., 2010; Benschop et al., 2010; Kumar et al., 2013; Ramzan et al., 2014; Sarfaraz et al., 2014; Khan, 2019). Seed priming is a method of soaking seeds in solution with high osmotic potential which provides optimum level of hydration and aggravates the germination process, but don’t show the radical emergence by prolonging the lag phase. Lag phase makes the seed metabolically active and helps to convert the stored food reserves into the available form to be used during germination (Taylor et al., 1998; Reid et al., 2011; Nawaz et al., 2013). Application of different chemicals as primmer including salts (chitosan), growth regulator (gibberellic acid), plant hormone (salicylic acid), organic compounds (humic acid) and insecticides (imidacloprid) can result in a reduced forcing period, enhanced growth, early flowering and high flower yield. Therefore, careful selection of variety and use of priming as dormancy breaking technique is the essential step of Tulip cultivation in the Potohar area (Horii et al., 2007; Shakarami et al., 2013; Nakasha et al., 2014; Baldotto et al., 2016).OBJECTIVES Keeping in view that tulip is an excellent cut flower and its demand is increasing globally, present study was designed to analyze and study the effects of best concentration of different primers on early growth (vegetative and reproductive), yield and vase life of tulip in the Potohar region of Northern Punjab, Pakistan. MATERIALS AND METHODSExperimental site and planting material: The experiment on Tulipa gesneriana L. was conducted at the experimental area, Department of Horticulture, PMAS-Arid Agriculture University, Rawalpindi with longitude 73.070 E and latitude 33.60 N, during the year 2017-2018. Tulipa gesneriana L. was established through bulbs. Tulip bulbs were purchased from reliable sources and were planted by the end of November in pots after priming treatment in open field conditions.Maintenance practice: Regular watering and fortnightly fertilizer application of NPK (Grow more (17:17:17) @ 10g/m2 was done to maintain plant health.Priming treatments: Tulip bulbs were treated with different primers including: T0 (distilled water), T1 (chitosan @ 5 g/L), T2 (gibberellic acid @ 0.15 g/L), T3 (humic acid 160 g/L), T4 (Imidacloprid 19 g/L) and T5 (salicylic acid 0.1 g/L) for 24 hours, respectively.Parameters: Both vegetative and reproductive parameters were analyzed to determine the efficacy of primers including days to sprouting of bulbs (days), plant height (cm), leaf area (cm2), number of leaves, diameter of flower stem (mm), days to flower bud formation (days), days to flower opening stage (days), diameter of flower (mm), number of flowers per plant, stalk length (cm), fresh weight of flower (g), dry weight of flower (g), diameter of bulbs (mm), weight of bulbs (g), number of daughter bulbs per plant and vase life (days).Statistical analysis: Experiment was laid out randomly using Complete Randomized Design (CRD).The collected data was analyzed through appropriate statistical package i.e. MSTAT-C. Statistical significance was compared with LSD test at 5% level of significance (Steel et al., 1997).RESULTS AND DISCUSSIONEffect of priming on vegetative growth attributes: Results were exhibiting significant difference among vegetative growth attributes of the treated plants (table 1). The 0.15 g/L of gibberellic acid treated plants showed early sprouting (25 days) and maximum increase in plant height (33cm), number of leaves (6), stalk length (29.05cm) and diameter of flower stem (9.66mm), followed by 5 g/L of chitosan, 160g/L of humic acid and 19 g/L of Imidacloprid, respectively. Minimum plant height (15.6cm), number of leaves (4), stalk length (12.33cm) diameter of flower stem (6.04mm) and delayed bulb sprouting (31 days) was observed in 0.1 g/L of salicylic acid. Improvement in vegetative characteristics shown by T2 plants revealed that gibberellic acid helped in dormancy breaking, cell division and elongation in actively growing plant parts (Kumar et al., 2013). As further result confirmed that the maximum leaf area (39.07cm2) was observed in control plants and treated plants didn’t show significant increase in leaf area, because of the use of energy in increasing plant height and number of leaves. Previous studies also showed that plants with more number of leaves had a less leaf area and color of the leaves was also lighter (Khangoli, 2001; Janowska and Jerzy, 2004). Moreover, the maximum amount of chlorophyll content (62) was observed in 160 g/L of humic acid followed by 5 g/L of chitosan, 0.15 g/L of gibberellic acid and 19 g/L of Imidacloprid, respectively. Whereas, minimum amount of chlorophyll content was observed in 0.1 g/L of salicylic acid (58). Tulip bulbs treated with Humic acid effectively increased photosynthetic activity of the plant which in result increased the chlorophyll content of the leaves and produced more plant food. Leaf area of the humic acid treated plants was also increased as compared to other treatments that also caused an increase in the chlorophyll content of the leaves (Chanprasert et al., 2012; Salachna and Zawadzińska, 2014). Furthermore, bulb characteristics were also improved under the influence of priming. Maximum diameter (41mm) and weight of bulbs (26g) was observed in 0.15g/L of Gibberellic acid followed by 0.1g/L of salicylic acid, 5 g/L of chitosan, 19 g/L of Imidacloprid and 160 g/L of humic acid respectively. Whereas, minimum diameter (36mm) and weight (21g) of bulbs was observed in control treatment which proved the efficacy of primers in enhancing characteristics of tulip bulbs. Bulb diameter and weight was increased because of the presence of good amount of food in the bulb which helped in its growth (Arteca, 2013). Furthermore the number of daughter bulbs were maximum in 0.15 g/L of gibberellic acid (4.22) and 5 g/L of Chitosan (4.22) followed by 0.1 g/L of salicylic acid and 160 g/L of Humic acid respectively. Minimum number of bulb-lets was observed in 19 g/l of Imidacloprid (3.11). Increased rate of cell division and multiplication, plus availability of good nutrition in bulbs helped to increase the number of daughter bulbs in the treated plants (Shakarami et al., 2013). Thus, results confirmed that 0.15 g/L of gibberellic acid effectively improved both plant (figure 1) and bulb (figure 2) characteristics. Effect of priming on reproductive growth attributes: Results showed significant differences in plants for reproductive growth attributes in response to priming (table 2). Minimum days of bud formation (122 days) and flower opening stage (124 days) were showed by 5 g/L of chitosan followed by 0.15 g/L of gibberellic acid, 160g/L of humic acid and 19 g/L of Imidacloprid, respectively. Whereas, 0.15 g/L of salicylic acid took maximum days in the formation (127 days) and opening (129 days) of flower buds. Chitosan helps plant in maintaining its vegetative and reproductive growth under stress conditions like drought and high temperature. As a result, the plant maintains its growth under stress conditions and give early flowers, because its reproductive growth attributes remain unaffected under any abiotic stress, as previously studied in orchid as well (Saniewska, 2001; Uthairatanakij et al., 2007). Moreover, the number of flowers per plant were maximum in 5 g/L of Chitosan (3.33) and 0.15 g/L of gibberellic acid (3.33), followed by 160 g/L of humic acid. Whereas, 19 g/L of Imidacloprid (2.33) and 0.1 g/L of Salicylic acid (1.44) gave minimum flower yield. Along with enhancing the defense mechanism, chitosan also helped in increasing flower number in Freesia and other flowers, previously (Salachna and Zawadzińska, 2014). Furthermore, maximum fresh weight (33g) and dry weight of flower (2g) were observed in 0.15 g/L, of gibberellic acid followed by 5 g/L of chitosan, 160 g/L of humic acid and 19 g/L of imidacloprid, respectively. Minimum fresh weight of flower (12 g) and dry weight of flower (0.98 g) was observed in 0.1 g/L of salicylic acid. Gibberellic acid effectively increases plant height and diameter of stem that caused an increase in fresh and dry weight of flower due to presence of more plant nutrients and maintenance of turgidity. Diameter of the flower was maximum (40mm) in control plants, this showed priming of tulip bulbs didn’t have any effect on increasing flower size due to increase in flower number (Rashad et al., 2009; Hashemabadi, 2010). Thus, the aforementioned results confirmed that 5 g/L chitosan was most effective in improving floral attributes (figure 3) of tulip.Effect of priming on vase life: According to results (table 3), 5 g/L of Chitosan and 0.1 g/L of salicylic acid showed maximum vase life (8 days) followed by 19 g/L of imidacloprid, 0.15 g/L of gibberellic acid and 160 g/L of humic acid, respectively. Flowers under control treatment showed minimum vase life (6) as compared to treated plants. Chitosan improved the quality of flower by maintaining its size, color and freshness, but most importantly, it provided protection against many pathogenic fungi that can attack tulip and cause senescence of the flower. As a result of fungal protection and resistance against abiotic stresses, Tulip flower showed increased post-harvest quality and vase life (Saniewska, 2001). In Lilium flower it helped to decrease the production of ethylene and respiration rate and helped in increasing its vase life (Kim et al., 2004).CONCLUSIONPresent research proved that treatment of tulip bulbs with different primers at their best selected concentration levels was an effective method of enhancing early growth and yield in an area with relatively high temperature as compared to temperate region. The Tulip plants showed improvement in sprouting, plant height, number of leaves, chlorophyll content of leaf, leaf area, early flowering, flower size, number of flowers, stalk length, stem diameter, bulbs weight and diameter, number of bulb-lets and vase life. Thus, this method can be used in future for the production of Tulips under tropical and sub-tropical areas.CONFLICT OF INTERESTAuthors have no conflict of interest.REFERENCESAhmad, A., H. Rashid, R. Sajjad, S. Mubeen, B. Ajmal and M. Khan, 2014. 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Cuphea hyssopifolia (Mexican heather) is a popular evergreen perennial shrub used for ornamental and medicinal purposes. Due to its high ornamental value, it is often used as a ground cover in parks and gardens in China. During February and March 2019 & 2020, powdery mildew was observed on C. hyssopifolia in the districts of Minhou and Jinshan of Fuzhou, China. Disease incidence was 70% but of low severity with only a few older leaves showing yellowing and wilting. Sparse irregular patches of white superficial powdery mildew observed on both sides of mature and young leaves. The powdery mildew fungal appressoria that occurred on epigenous hyphae, were indistinct to nipple-shaped, hyaline, and smooth. Conidiophores were erect, smooth, 80 to 210 × 10 to 12 µm, and produced two to eight crenate-shaped conidia in chains. Foot-cells of conidiophores were straight, cylindric, and 30 to 65 × 10 to12 µm. Conidia were hyaline, smooth, ellipsoid-ovoid to barrel-shaped, 25 to 38 × 16 to 20 µm with distinct fibrosin bodies. Germ tubes were simple to forked and produced from the lateral position of the germinating conidia. No chasmothecia were observed on the surface of infected leaves. Based on the morphology of the imperfect state, the powdery mildew fungus was identified as Podosphaera xanthii (Castagne) U. Braun & N. Shishkoff (Braun and Cook 2012). To confirm fungal identification, total DNA was extracted (Mukhtar et al., 2018) directly from epiphytic mycelia on infected leaves collected from both districts. Internal transcribed spacer (ITS) regions and the partial large subunit (LSU) rDNA were amplified using primers ITS1/ITS4 and LSU1/LSU2 (Scholin et al. 1994, White et al. 1990), respectively. The sequences were deposited in GenBank (ITS: MW692364, MW692365; LSU: MW699924, MW699925). The ITS and LSU sequences were 99 to 100 % identical to those of P. xanthii in GenBank, (ITS: MT568609, MT472035, MT250855, and AB462800; LSU: AB936276, JX896687, AB936277, and AB936274). Koch’s postulates were completed by gently pressing diseased leaves onto leaves of five healthy potted C. hyssopifolia plants that were held in a greenhouse at 24 to 30°C without humidity control. Five non-inoculated plants served as controls. Inoculated plants developed symptoms after 6 to 10 days, whereas the controls remained symptomless. The morphology of the fungus on the inoculated leaves was identical to that observed on the originally diseased leaves. Previously, Podosphaera sp. has been reported on C. rosea in the United Kingdom (Beales & Cook 2008) and P. xanthii on C. hyssopifolia in Taiwan (Yeh et al. 2021). To our knowledge, this is the first report of powdery mildew caused by P. xanthii on C. hyssopifolia in mainland China. Our field observations suggest that the P. xanthii infections would be a potential threat to the health of C. hyssopifolia in China. References: Beales, P. A., and Cook, R. T. A. 2008. Plant Pathol. 57:778. Braun, U., Cook, R. T. A. 2012. The Taxonomic Manual of the Erysiphales (Powdery Mildews). CBS Biodiversity Series 11: CBS. Utrecht, The Netherlands. Mukhtar, I., et al. 2018. Sydowia.70:155. Scholin, C. A., et al. 1994. J. Phycol. 30:999. White, T. J., et al. 1990. Page 315 in: PCR Protocols: A Guide to Methods and Applications. Academic Press, San Diego, CA. Yeh, Y. W., et al. 2021. Trop. Plant Pathol. 46:44.

AbstractArctic plant growth is predominantly nitrogen (N) limited. This limitation is generally attributed to slow soil microbial processes due to low temperatures. Here, we show that arctic plant-soil N cycling is also substantially constrained by the lack of larger detritivores (earthworms) able to mineralize and physically translocate litter and soil organic matter. These new functions provided by earthworms increased shrub and grass N concentration in our common garden experiment. Earthworm activity also increased either the height or number of floral shoots, while enhancing fine root production and vegetation greenness in heath and meadow communities to a level that exceeded the inherent differences between these two common arctic plant communities. Moreover, these worming effects on plant N and greening exceeded reported effects of warming, herbivory and nutrient addition, suggesting that human spreading of earthworms may lead to substantial changes in the structure and function of arctic ecosystems.

Port Harcourt is known in local parlance as the ‘Garden City’ of Rivers State. This is so tagged because of the overwhelming presence of trees (Green Life) and flowers in the Metropolis. But today, it is different as the streets, gutters, rivers and the environs are littered with all types of plastic waste (MSW). These municipal solid wastes (MSW), are indiscriminately dumped at different locations in the Garden City. Plastics constitute a major component of these wastes; thus, this study was aimed at Investigating the Use and Suitability of plastic waste for molding Interlocking stones in Port Harcourt. In this study, samples of plastic wastes (bottles, cups, plates, spoons, and cellophane bags), were collected randomly at selected locations in Port Harcourt City. The area of study covered GRA Phase 1, 2, and 3, Old GRA, Diobu axis, and Port Harcourt main town. These plastic wastes are (PET-Polyethylene Terephthalate) which after collection were weighed and mixed with fine grains of sand (4 kg). The plastic waste samples of 5, 10 and 15 kg were used to mix with fine grains of sand of 4 kg. The mixture was heated under very high temperatures and melted to form a homogeneous mixture. The resultant homogeneous mixture was then poured into different molds of the same sizes (1.32 x10-3 M3). In another reaction, fine grain of sand of 4 kg was mixed with cement of 5, 10 and 15 kg respectively. The mixtures were poured into molds of the same sizes (1.32 x10-3 M3). The strengths of the two different interlocking stones (paver) were measured and compared to confirm which one of them has a better compressive strength for 7, 14 & 28 days. A total of fifty-four (54) molds were used of which twenty-seven were made from plastic waste and the other twenty-seven from cement. The compressive strength of Interlocks made from the two substances were measured and compared. The result showed the compressive strength of Interlocks made from 5, 10 and 15 kg of plastic wastes and 4 kg of sand for 7, 14, and 28 days being comparable to that of cement. The t-test showed that there is no significant difference between the strength of mold made by cement and that of plastic waste. This implies that Plastic Wastes can act as a suitable alternative material to cement for the making of interlocking stones as it has excellent binding properties like cement. This study recommends proper management and disposal of wastes to reduce environmental degradation.

As the single most successful social-networking Website to date, Facebook has caused a shift in both practice and perception of online socialisation, and its relationship to the offline world. While not the first online social networking service, Facebook’s user base dwarfs its nearest competitors. Mark Zuckerberg’s creation boasts more than 750 million users (Facebook). The currently ailing MySpace claimed a ceiling of 100 million users in 2006 (Cashmore). Further, the accuracy of this number has been contested due to a high proportion of fake or inactive accounts. Facebook by contrast, claims 50% of its user base logs in at least once a day (Facebook). The popular and mainstream uptake of Facebook has shifted social use of the Internet from various and fragmented niche groups towards a common hub or portal around which much everyday Internet use is centred. The implications are many, but this paper will focus on the progress what Mimi Marinucci terms the “Facebook effect” (70) and the evolution of lists as a filtering mechanism representing one’s social zones within Facebook. This is in part inspired by the launch of Google’s new social networking service Google+ which includes “circles” as a fundamental design feature for sorting contacts. Circles are an acknowledgement of the shortcomings of a single, unified friends list that defines the Facebook experience. These lists and circles are both manifestations of the same essential concept: our social lives are, in fact, divided into various zones not defined by an online/offline dichotomy, by fantasy role-play, deviant sexual practices, or other marginal or minority interests. What the lists and circles demonstrate is that even very common, mainstream people occupy different roles in everyday life, and that to be effective social tools, social networking sites must grant users control over their various identities and over who knows what about them. Even so, the very nature of computer-based social tools lead to problematic definitions of identities and relationships using discreet terms, in contrast to more fluid, performative constructions of an individual and their relations to others. Building the Monolith In 1995, Sherry Turkle wrote that “the Internet has become a significant social laboratory for experimenting with the constructions and reconstructions of self that characterize postmodern life” (180). Turkle describes the various deliberate acts of personnae creation possible online in contrast to earlier constraints placed upon the “cycling through different identities” (179). In the past, Turkle argues, “lifelong involvement with families and communities kept such cycling through under fairly stringent control” (180). In effect, Turkle was documenting the proliferation of identity games early adopters of Internet technologies played through various means. Much of what Turkle focused on were MUDs (Multi-User Dungeons) and MOOs (MUD Object Oriented), explicit play-spaces that encouraged identity-play of various kinds. Her contemporary Howard Rheingold focused on what may be described as the more “true to life” communities of the WELL (Whole Earth ‘Lectronic Link) (1–38). In particular, Rheingold explored a community established around the shared experience of parenting, especially of young children. While that community was not explicitly built on the notion of role-play, the parental identity was an important quality of community members. Unlike contemporary social media networks, these early communities were built on discreet platforms. MUDs, MOOs, Bulletin Board Systems, UseNet Groups and other early Internet communication platforms were generally hosted independently of one another, and even had to be dialled into via modem separately in some cases (such as the WELL). The Internet was a truly disparate entity in 1995. The discreetness of each community supported the cordoning off of individual roles or identities between them. Thus, an individual could quite easily be “Pete” a member of the parental WELL group and “Gorak the Destroyer,” a role-player on a fantasy MUD without the two roles ever being associated with each other. As Turkle points out, even within each MUD ample opportunity existed to play multiple characters (183–192). With only a screen name and associated description to identify an individual within the MUD environment, nothing technical existed to connect one player’s multiple identities, even within the same community. As the Internet has matured, however, the tendency has been shifting towards monolithic hubs, a notion of collecting all of “the Internet” together. From a purely technical and operational perspective, this has led to the emergence of the ISP (Internet service provider). Users can make a connection to one point, and then be connected to everything “on the Net” instead of individually dialling into servers and services one at a time as was the case in the early 1980s with companies such as Prodigy, the Source, CompuServe, and America On-Line (AOL). The early information service providers were largely walled gardens. A CompuServe user could only access information on the CompuServe network. Eventually the Internet became the network of choice and services migrated to it. Standards such as HTTP for Web page delivery and SMTP for email became established and dominate the Internet today. Technically, this has made the Internet much easier to use. The services that have developed on this more rationalised and unified platform have also tended toward monolithic, centralised architectures, despite the Internet’s apparent fundamental lack of a hierarchy. As the Internet replaced the closed networks, the wider Web of HTTP pages, forums, mailing lists and other forms of Internet communication and community thrived. Perhaps they required slightly more technological savvy than the carefully designed experience of walled-garden ISPs such as AOL, but these fora and IRC (Internet Relay Chat) rooms still provided the discreet environments within which to role-play. An individual could hold dozens of login names to as many different communities. These various niches could be simply hobby sites and forums where a user would deploy their identity as model train enthusiast, musician, or pet owner. They could also be explicitly about role-play, continuing the tradition of MUDs and MOOs into the new millennium. Pseudo- and polynymity were still very much part of the Internet experience. Even into the early parts of the so-called Web 2.0 explosion of more interactive Websites which allowed for easier dialog between site owner and viewer, a given identity would be very much tied to a single site, blog or even individual comments. There was no “single sign on” to link my thread from a music forum to the comments I made on a videogame blog to my aquarium photos at an image gallery site. Today, Facebook and Google, among others, seek to change all that. The Facebook Effect Working from a psychological background Turkle explored the multiplicity of online identities as a valuable learning, even therapeutic, experience. She assessed the experiences of individuals who were coming to terms with aspects of their own personalities, from simple shyness to exploring their sexuality. In “You Can’t Front on Facebook,” Mimi Marinucci summarizes an analysis of online behaviour by another psychologist, John Suler (67–70). Suler observed an “online disinhibition effect” characterised by users’ tendency to express themselves more openly online than offline (321). Awareness of this effect was drawn (no pun intended) into popular culture by cartoonist Mike Krahulik’s protagonist John Gabriel. Although Krahulik’s summation is straight to the point, Suler offers a more considered explanation. There are six general reasons for the online disinhibition effect: being anonymous, being invisible, the communications being out of sync, the strange sensation that a virtual interlocutor is all in the mind of the user, the general sense that the online world simply is not real and the minimisation of status and authority (321–325). Of the six, the notion of anonymity is most problematic, as briefly explored above in the case of AOL. The role of pseudonymity has been explored in more detail in Ruch, and will be considered with regard to Facebook and Google+ below. The Facebook effect, Marinucci argues, mitigates all six of these issues. Though Marinucci explains the mitigation of each factor individually, her final conclusion is the most compelling reason: “Facebook often facilitates what is best described as an integration of identities, and this integration of identities in turn functions as something of an inhibiting factor” (73). Ruch identifies this phenomenon as the “aggregation of identities” (219). Similarly, Brady Robards observes that “social network sites such as MySpace and Facebook collapse the entire array of social relationships into just one category, that of ‘Friend’” (20). Unlike earlier community sites, Ruch notes “Facebook rejects both the mythical anonymity of the Internet, but also the actual pseudo- or polynonymous potential of the technologies” (219). Essentially, Facebook works to bring the offline social world online, along with all the conventional baggage that accompanies the individual’s real-world social life. Facebook, and now Google+, present a hard, dichotomous approach to online identity: anonymous and authentic. Their socially networked individual is the “real” one, using a person’s given name, and bringing all (or as many as the sites can capture) their contacts from the offline world into the online one, regardless of context. The Facebook experience is one of “friending” everyone one has any social contact with into one homogeneous group. Not only is Facebook avoiding the multiple online identities that interested Turkle, but it is disregarding any multiplicity of identity anywhere, including any online/offline split. David Kirkpatrick reports Mark Zuckerberg’s rejection of this construction of identity is explained by his belief that “You have one identity … having two identities for yourself is an example of a lack of integrity” (199). Arguably, Zuckerberg’s calls for accountability through identity continue a perennial concern for anonymity online fuelled by “on the Internet no one knows you’re a dog” style moral panics. Over two decades ago Lindsy Van Gelder recounted the now infamous case of “Joan and Alex” (533) and Julian Dibbell recounted “a rape in cyberspace” (11). More recent anxieties concern the hacking escapades of Anonymous and LulzSec. Zuckerberg’s approach has been criticised by Christopher Poole, the founder of 4Chan—a bastion of Internet anonymity. During his keynote presentation at South by SouthWest 2011 Poole argued that Zuckerberg “equates anonymity with a lack of authenticity, almost a cowardice.” Yet in spite of these objections, Facebook has mainstream appeal. From a social constructivist perspective, this approach to identity would be satisfying the (perceived?) need for a mainstream, context-free, general social space online to cater for the hundreds of millions of people who now use the Internet. There is no specific, pre-defined reason to join Facebook in the way there is a particular reason to join a heavy metal music message board. Facebook is catering to the need to bring “real” social life online generally, with “real” in this case meaning “offline and pre-existing.” Very real risks of missing “real life” social events (engagements, new babies, party invitations etc) that were shared primarily via Facebook became salient to large groups of individuals not consciously concerned with some particular facet of identity performance. The commercial imperatives towards monolithic Internet and identity are obvious. Given that both Facebook and Google+ are in the business of facilitating the sale of advertising, their core business value is the demographic information they can sell to various companies for target advertising. Knowing a user’s individual identity and tastes is extremely important to those in the business of selling consumers what they currently want as well as predicting their future desires. The problem with this is the dawning realisation that even for the average person, role-playing is part of everyday life. We simply aren’t the same person in all contexts. None of the roles we play need to be particularly scandalous for this to be true, but we have different comfort zones with people that are fuelled by context. Suler proposes and Marinucci confirms that inhibition may be just as much part of our authentic self as the uninhibited expression experienced in more anonymous circumstances. Further, different contexts will inform what we inhibit and what we express. It is not as though there is a simple binary between two different groups and two different personal characteristics to oscillate between. The inhibited personnae one occupies at one’s grandmother’s home is a different inhibited self one plays at a job interview or in a heated discussion with faculty members at a university. One is politeness, the second professionalism, the third scholarly—yet they all restrain the individual in different ways. The Importance of Control over Circles Google+ is Google’s latest foray into the social networking arena. Its previous ventures Orkut and Google Buzz did not fare well, both were variously marred by legal issues concerning privacy, security, SPAM and hate groups. Buzz in particular fell afoul of associating Google accounts with users” real life identities, and (as noted earlier), all the baggage that comes with it. “One user blogged about how Buzz automatically added her abusive ex-boyfriend as a follower and exposed her communications with a current partner to him. Other bloggers commented that repressive governments in countries such as China or Iran could use Buzz to expose dissidents” (Novak). Google+ takes a different approach to its predecessors and its main rival, Facebook. Facebook allows for the organisation of “friends” into lists. Individuals can span more than one list. This is an exercise analogous to what Erving Goffman refers to as “audience segregation” (139). According to the site’s own statistics the average Facebook user has 130 friends, we anticipate it would be time-consuming to organise one’s friends according to real life social contexts. Yet without such organisation, Facebook overlooks the social structures and concomitant behaviours inherent in everyday life. Even broad groups offer little assistance. For example, an academic’s “Work People” list may include the Head of Department as well as numerous other lecturers with whom a workspace is shared. There are things one might share with immediate colleagues that should not be shared with the Head of Department. As Goffman states, “when audience segregation fails and an outsider happens upon a performance that was not meant for him, difficult problems in impression management arise” (139). By homogenising “friends” and social contexts users are either inhibited or run the risk of some future awkward encounters. Google+ utilises “circles” as its method for organising contacts. The graphical user interface is intuitive, facilitated by an easy drag and drop function. Use of “circles” already exists in the vocabulary used to describe our social structures. “List” by contrast reduces the subject matter to simple data. The utility of Facebook’s friends lists is hindered by usability issues—an unintuitive and convoluted process that was added to Facebook well after its launch, perhaps a reaction to privacy concerns rather than a genuine attempt to emulate social organisation. For a cogent breakdown of these technical and design problems see Augusto Sellhorn. Organising friends into lists is a function offered by Facebook, but Google+ takes a different approach: organising friends in circles is a central feature; the whole experience is centred around attempting to mirror the social relations of real life. Google’s promotional video explains the centrality of emulating “real life relationships” (Google). Effectively, Facebook and Google+ have adopted two different systemic approaches to dealing with the same issue. Facebook places the burden of organising a homogeneous mass of “friends” into lists on the user as an afterthought of connecting with another user. In contrast, Google+ builds organisation into the act of connecting. Whilst Google+’s approach is more intuitive and designed to facilitate social networking that more accurately reflects how real life social relationships are structured, it suffers from forcing direct correlation between an account and the account holder. That is, use of Google+ mandates bringing online the offline. Google+ operates a real names policy and on the weekend of 23 July 2011 suspended a number of accounts for violation of Google’s Community Standards. A suspension notice posted by Violet Blue reads: “After reviewing your profile, we determined the name you provided violates our Community Standards.” Open Source technologist Kirrily Robert polled 119 Google+ users about their experiences with the real names policy. The results posted to her on blog reveal that users desire pseudonymity, many for reasons of privacy and/or safety rather than the lack of integrity thought by Zuckerberg. boyd argues that Google’s real names policy is an abuse of power and poses danger to those users employing “nicks” for reasons including being a government employment or the victim of stalking, rape or domestic abuse. A comprehensive list of those at risk has been posted to the Geek Feminism Wiki (ironically, the Wiki utilises “Connect”, Facebook’s attempt at a single sign on solution for the Web that connects users’ movements with their Facebook profile). Facebook has a culture of real names stemming from its early adopters drawn from trusted communities, and this culture became a norm for that service (boyd). But as boyd also points out, “[r]eal names are by no means universal on Facebook.” Google+ demands real names, a demand justified by rhetoric of designing a social networking system that is more like real life. “Real”, in this case, is represented by one’s given name—irrespective of the authenticity of one’s pseudonym or the complications and dangers of using one’s given name. Conclusion There is a multiplicity of issues concerning social networks and identities, privacy and safety. This paper has outlined the challenges involved in moving real life to the online environment and the contests in trying to designate zones of social context. Where some earlier research into the social Internet has had a positive (even utopian) feel, the contemporary Internet is increasingly influenced by powerful and competing corporations. As a result, the experience of the Internet is not necessarily as flexible as Turkle or Rheingold might have envisioned. Rather than conducting identity experimentation or exercising multiple personnae, we are increasingly obligated to perform identity as it is defined by the monolithic service providers such as Facebook and Google+. This is not purely an indictment of Facebook or Google’s corporate drive, though they are obviously implicated, but has as much to do with the new social practice of “being online.” So, while there are myriad benefits to participating in this new social context, as Poole noted, the “cost of failure is really high when you’re contributing as yourself.” Areas for further exploration include the implications of Facebook positioning itself as a general-purpose user authentication tool whereby users can log into a wide array of Websites using their Facebook credentials. If Google were to take a similar action the implications would be even more convoluted, given the range of other services Google offers, from GMail to the Google Checkout payment service. While the monolithic centralisation of these services will have obvious benefits, there will be many more subtle problems which must be addressed. References Blue, Violet. “Google Plus Deleting Accounts en Masse: No Clear Answers.” zdnet.com (2011). 10 Aug. 2011 ‹http://www.zdnet.com/blog/violetblue/google-plus-deleting-accounts-en-masse-no-clear-answers/56›. boyd, danah. “Real Names Policies Are an Abuse of Power.” zephoria.org (2011). 10 Aug. 2011 ‹http://www.zephoria.org/thoughts/archives/2011/08/04/real-names.html›. Cashmore, Pete. “MySpace Hits 100 Million Accounts.” mashable.com (2006). 10 Aug. 2011 ‹http://mashable.com/2006/08/09/myspace-hits-100-million-accounts›. Dibble, Julian. My Tiny Life: Crime and Passion in a Virtual World. New York: Henry Holt & Company, 1998. Facebook. “Fact Sheet.” Facebook (2011). 10 Aug. 2011 ‹http://www.facebook.com/press/info.php?statistic›. Geek Feminism Wiki. “Who Is Harmed by a Real Names Policy?” 2011. 10 Aug. 2011 ‹http://geekfeminism.wikia.com/wiki/Who_is_harmed_by_a_%22Real_Names%22_policy› Goffman, Erving. The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. London: Penguin, 1959. Google. “The Google+ Project: Explore Circles.” Youtube.com (2011). 10 Aug. 2011 ‹http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ocPeAdpe_A8›. Kirkpatrick, David. The Facebook Effect. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2010. Marinucci, Mimi. “You Can’t Front on Facebook.” Facebook and Philosophy. Ed. Dylan Wittkower. Chicago & La Salle, Illinois: Open Court, 2010. 65–74. Novak, Peter. “Privacy Commissioner Reviewing Google Buzz.” CBC News: Technology and Science (2010). 10 Aug. 2011 ‹http://www.cbc.ca/news/technology/story/2010/02/16/google-buzz-privacy.html›. Poole, Christopher. Keynote presentation. South by SouthWest. Texas, Austin, 2011. Robards, Brady. “Negotiating Identity and Integrity on Social Network Sites for Educators.” International Journal for Educational Integrity 6.2 (2010): 19–23. Robert, Kirrily. “Preliminary Results of My Survey of Suspended Google Accounts.” 2011. 10 Aug. 2011 ‹http://infotrope.net/2011/07/25/preliminary-results-of-my-survey-of-suspended-google-accounts/›. Rheingold, Howard. The Virtual Community: Homesteading on the Electronic Frontier. New York: Harper Perennial, 1993. Ruch, Adam. “The Decline of Pseudonymity.” Posthumanity. Eds. Adam Ruch and Ewan Kirkland. Oxford: Inter-Disciplinary.net Press, 2010: 211–220. Sellhorn, Augusto. “Facebook Friend Lists Suck When Compared to Google+ Circles.” sellmic.com (2011). 10 Aug. 2011 ‹http://sellmic.com/blog/2011/07/01/facebook-friend-lists-suck-when-compared-to-googleplus-circles›. Suler, John. “The Online Disinhibition Effect.” CyberPsychology and Behavior 7 (2004): 321–326. Turkle, Sherry. Life on the Screen: Identity in the Age of the Internet. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1995. Van Gelder, Lindsy. “The Strange Case of the Electronic Lover.” Computerization and Controversy: Value Conflicts and Social Choices Ed. Rob Kling. New York: Academic Press, 1996: 533–46.

I first came across etoy in Linz, Austria in 1995. They turned up at Ars Electronica with their shaved heads, in their matching orange bomber jackets. They were not invited. The next year they would not have to crash the party. In 1996 they were awarded Arts Electronica’s prestigious Golden Nica for web art, and were on their way to fame and bitterness – the just rewards for their art of self-regard. As founding member Agent.ZAI says: “All of us were extremely greedy – for excitement, for drugs, for success.” (Wishart & Boschler: 16) The etoy story starts on the fringes of the squatters’ movement in Zurich. Disenchanted with the hard left rhetorics that permeate the movement in the 1980s, a small group look for another way of existing within a commodified world, without the fantasy of an ‘outside’ from which to critique it. What Antonio Negri and friends call the ‘real subsumption’ of life under the rule of commodification is something etoy grasps intuitively. The group would draw on a number of sources: David Bowie, the Sex Pistols, the Manchester rave scene, European Amiga art, rumors of the historic avant gardes from Dada to Fluxus. They came together in 1994, at a meeting in the Swiss resort town of Weggis on Lake Lucerne. While the staging of the founding meeting looks like a rerun of the origins of the Situationist International, the wording of the invitation might suggest the founding of a pop music boy band: “fun, money and the new world?” One of the – many – stories about the origins of the name Dada has it being chosen at random from a bilingual dictionary. The name etoy, in an update on that procedure, was spat out by a computer program designed to make four letter words at random. Ironically, both Dada and etoy, so casually chosen, would inspire furious struggles over the ownership of these chancey 4-bit words. The group decided to make money by servicing the growing rave scene. Being based in Vienna and Zurich, the group needed a way to communicate, and chose to use the internet. This was a far from obvious thing to do in 1994. Connections were slow and unreliable. Sometimes it was easier to tape a hard drive full of clubland graphics to the underside of a seat on the express train from Zurich to Vienna and simply email instructions to meet the train and retrieve it. The web was a primitive instrument in 1995 when etoy built its first website. They launched it with a party called etoy.FASTLANE, an optimistic title when the web was anything but. Coco, a transsexual model and tabloid sensation, sang a Japanese song while suspended in the air. She brought media interest, and was anointed etoy’s lifestyle angel. As Wishart and Bochsler write, “it was as if the Seven Dwarfs had discovered their Snow White.” (Wishart & Boschler: 33) The launch didn’t lead to much in the way of a music deal or television exposure. The old media were not so keen to validate the etoy dream of lifting themselves into fame and fortune by their bootstraps. And so etoy decided to be stars of the new media. The slogan was suitably revised: “etoy: the pop star is the pilot is the coder is the designer is the architect is the manager is the system is etoy.” (Wishart & Boschler: 34) The etoy boys were more than net.artists, they were artists of the brand. The brand was achieving a new prominence in the mid-90s. (Klein: 35) This was a time when capitalism was hollowing itself out in the overdeveloped world, shedding parts of its manufacturing base. Control of the circuits of commodification would rest less on the ownership of the means of production and more on maintaining a monopoly on the flows of information. The leading edge of the ruling class was becoming self-consciously vectoral. It controlled the flow of information about what to produce – the details of design, the underlying patents. It controlled the flows of information about what is produced – the brands and logos, the slogans and images. The capitalist class is supplanted by a vectoral class, controlling the commodity circuit through the vectors of information. (Wark) The genius of etoy was to grasp the aesthetic dimension of this new stage of commodification. The etoy boys styled themselves not so much as a parody of corporate branding and management groupthink, but as logical extension of it. They adopted matching uniforms and called themselves agents. In the dada-punk-hiphop tradition, they launched themselves on the world as brand new, self-created, self-named subjects: Agents Zai, Brainhard, Gramazio, Kubli, Esposto, Udatny and Goldstein. The etoy.com website was registered in 1995 with Network Solutions for a $100 fee. The homepage for this etoy.TANKSYSTEM was designed like a flow chart. As Gramazio says: “We wanted to create an environment with surreal content, to build a parallel world and put the content of this world into tanks.” (Wishart & Boschler: 51) One tank was a cybermotel, with Coco the first guest. Another tank showed you your IP number, with a big-brother eye looking on. A supermarket tank offered sunglasses and laughing gas for sale, but which may or may not be delivered. The underground tank included hardcore photos of a sensationalist kind. A picture of the Federal Building in Oklamoma City after the bombing was captioned in deadpan post-situ style “such work needs a lot of training.” (Wishart & Boschler: 52) The etoy agents were by now thoroughly invested in the etoy brand and the constellation of images they had built around it, on their website. Their slogan became “etoy: leaving reality behind.” (Wishart & Boschler: 53) They were not the first artists fascinated by commodification. It was Warhol who said “good art is good business.”(Warhol ) But etoy reversed the equation: good business is good art. And good business, in this vectoral age, is in its most desirable form an essentially conceptual matter of creating a brand at the center of a constellation of signifiers. Late in 1995, etoy held another group meeting, at the Zurich youth center Dynamo. The problem was that while they had build a hardcore website, nobody was visiting it. Agents Gooldstein and Udatny thought that there might be a way of using the new search engines to steer visitors to the site. Zai and Brainhard helped secure a place at the Vienna Academy of Applied Arts where Udatny could use the computer lab to implement this idea. Udatny’s first step was to create a program that would go out and gather email addresses from the web. These addresses would form the lists for the early examples of art-spam that etoy would perpetrate. Udatny’s second idea was a bit more interesting. He worked out how to get the etoy.TANKSYSTEM page listed in search engines. Most search engines ranked pages by the frequency of the search term in the pages it had indexed, so etoy.TANKSYSTEM would contain pages of selected keywords. Porn sites were also discovering this method of creating free publicity. The difference was that etoy chose a very carefully curated list of 350 search terms, including: art, bondage, cyberspace, Doom, Elvis, Fidel, genx, heroin, internet, jungle and Kant. Users of search engines who searched for these terms would find dummy pages listed prominently in their search results that directed them, unsuspectingly, to etoy.com. They called this project Digital Hijack. To give the project a slightly political aura, the pages the user was directed to contained an appeal for the release of convicted hacker Kevin Mitnick. This was the project that won them a Golden Nica statuette at Ars Electronica in 1996, which Gramazio allegedly lost the same night playing roulette. It would also, briefly, require that they explain themselves to the police. Digital Hijack also led to the first splits in the group, under the intense pressure of organizing it on a notionally collective basis, but with the zealous Agent Zai acting as de facto leader. When Udatny was expelled, Zai and Brainhard even repossessed his Toshiba laptop, bought with etoy funds. As Udatny recalls, “It was the lowest point in my life ever. There was nothing left; I could not rely on etoy any more. I did not even have clothes, apart from the etoy uniform.” (Wishart & Boschler: 104) Here the etoy story repeats a common theme from the history of the avant gardes as forms of collective subjectivity. After Digital Hijack, etoy went into a bit of a slump. It’s something of a problem for a group so dependent on recognition from the other of the media, that without a buzz around them, etoy would tend to collapse in on itself like a fading supernova. Zai spend the early part of 1997 working up a series of management documents, in which he appeared as the group’s managing director. Zai employed the current management theory rhetoric of employee ‘empowerment’ while centralizing control. Like any other corporate-Trotskyite, his line was that “We have to get used to reworking the company structure constantly.” (Wishart & Boschler: 132) The plan was for each member of etoy to register the etoy trademark in a different territory, linking identity to information via ownership. As Zai wrote “If another company uses our name in a grand way, I’ll probably shoot myself. And that would not be cool.” (Wishart & Boschler:: 132) As it turned out, another company was interested – the company that would become eToys.com. Zai received an email offering “a reasonable sum” for the etoy.com domain name. Zai was not amused. “Damned Americans, they think they can take our hunting grounds for a handful of glass pearls….”. (Wishart & Boschler: 133) On an invitation from Suzy Meszoly of C3, the etoy boys traveled to Budapest to work on “protected by etoy”, a work exploring internet security. They spent most of their time – and C3’s grant money – producing a glossy corporate brochure. The folder sported a blurb from Bjork: “etoy: immature priests from another world” – which was of course completely fabricated. When Artothek, the official art collection of the Austrian Chancellor, approached etoy wanting to buy work, the group had to confront the problem of how to actually turn their brand into a product. The idea was always that the brand was the product, but this doesn’t quite resolve the question of how to produce the kind of unique artifacts that the art world requires. Certainly the old Conceptual Art strategy of selling ‘documentation’ would not do. The solution was as brilliant as it was simple – to sell etoy shares. The ‘works’ would be ‘share certificates’ – unique objects, whose only value, on the face of it, would be that they referred back to the value of the brand. The inspiration, according to Wishart & Boschsler, was David Bowie, ‘the man who sold the world’, who had announced the first rock and roll bond on the London financial markets, backed by future earnings of his back catalogue and publishing rights. Gramazio would end up presenting Chancellor Viktor Klima with the first ‘shares’ at a press conference. “It was a great start for the project”, he said, “A real hack.” (Wishart & Boschler: 142) For this vectoral age, etoy would create the perfect vectoral art. Zai and Brainhard took off next for Pasadena, where they got the idea of reverse-engineering the online etoy.TANKSYSTEM by building an actual tank in an orange shipping container, which would become etoy.TANK 17. This premiered at the San Francisco gallery Blasthaus in June 1998. Instant stars in the small world of San Francisco art, the group began once again to disintegrate. Brainhard and Esposito resigned. Back in Europe in late 1998, Zai was preparing to graduate from the Vienna Academy of Applied Arts. His final project would recapitulate the life and death of etoy. It would exist from here on only as an online archive, a digital mausoleum. As Kubli says “there was no possibility to earn our living with etoy.” (Wishart & Boschler: 192) Zai emailed eToys.com and asked them if them if they would like to place a banner ad on etoy.com, to redirect any errant web traffic. Lawyers for eToys.com offered etoy $30,000 for the etoy.com domain name, which the remaining members of etoy – Zai, Gramazio, Kubli – refused. The offer went up to $100,000, which they also refused. Through their lawyer Peter Wild they demanded $750,000. In September 1999, while etoy were making a business presentation as their contribution to Ars Electronica, eToys.com lodged a complaint against etoy in the Los Angeles Superior Court. The company hired Bruce Wessel, of the heavyweight LA law firm Irell & Manella, who specialized in trademark, copyright and other intellectual property litigation. The complaint Wessel drafted alleged that etoy had infringed and diluted the eToys trademark, were practicing unfair competition and had committed “intentional interference with prospective economic damage.” (Wishart & Boschler: 199) Wessel demanded an injunction that would oblige etoy to cease using its trademark and take down its etoy.com website. The complaint also sought to prevent etoy from selling shares, and demanded punitive damages. Displaying the aggressive lawyering for which he was so handsomely paid, Wessel invoked the California Unfair Competition Act, which was meant to protect citizens from fraudulent business scams. Meant as a piece of consumer protection legislation, its sweeping scope made it available for inventive suits such as Wessel’s against etoy. Wessel was able to use pretty much everything from the archive etoy built against it. As Wishart and Bochsler write, “The court papers were like a delicately curated catalogue of its practices.” (Wishart & Boschler: 199) And indeed, legal documents in copyright and trademark cases may be the most perfect literature of the vectoral age. The Unfair Competition claim was probably aimed at getting the suit heard in a Californian rather than a Federal court in which intellectual property issues were less frequently litigated. The central aim of the eToys suit was the trademark infringement, but on that head their claims were not all that strong. According to the 1946 Lanham Act, similar trademarks do not infringe upon each other if there they are for different kinds of business or in different geographical areas. The Act also says that the right to own a trademark depends on its use. So while etoy had not registered their trademark and eToys had, etoy were actually up and running before eToys, and could base their trademark claim on this fact. The eToys case rested on a somewhat selective reading of the facts. Wessel claimed that etoy was not using its trademark in the US when eToys was registered in 1997. Wessel did not dispute the fact that etoy existed in Europe prior to that time. He asserted that owning the etoy.com domain name was not sufficient to establish a right to the trademark. If the intention of the suit was to bully etoy into giving in, it had quite the opposite effect. It pissed them off. “They felt again like the teenage punks they had once been”, as Wishart & Bochsler put it. Their art imploded in on itself for lack of attention, but called upon by another, it flourished. Wessel and eToys.com unintentionally triggered a dialectic that worked in quite the opposite way to what they intended. The more pressure they put on etoy, the more valued – and valuable – they felt etoy to be. Conceptual business, like conceptual art, is about nothing but the management of signs within the constraints of given institutional forms of market. That this conflict was about nothing made it a conflict about everything. It was a perfectly vectoral struggle. Zai and Gramazio flew to the US to fire up enthusiasm for their cause. They asked Wolfgang Staehle of The Thing to register the domain toywar.com, as a space for anti-eToys activities at some remove from etoy.com, and as a safe haven should eToys prevail with their injunction in having etoy.com taken down. The etoy defense was handled by Marcia Ballard in New York and Robert Freimuth in Los Angeles. In their defense, they argued that etoy had existed since 1994, had registered its globally accessible domain in 1995, and won an international art prize in 1996. To counter a claim by eToys that they had a prior trademark claim because they had bought a trademark from another company that went back to 1990, Ballard and Freimuth argued that this particular trademark only applied to the importation of toys from the previous owner’s New York base and thus had no relevance. They capped their argument by charging that eToys had not shown that its customers were really confused by the existence of etoy. With Christmas looming, eToys wanted a quick settlement, so they offered Zurich-based etoy lawyer Peter Wild $160,000 in shares and cash for the etoy domain. Kubli was prepared to negotiate, but Zai and Gramazio wanted to gamble – and raise the stakes. As Zai recalls: “We did not want to be just the victims; that would have been cheap. We wanted to be giants too.” (Wishart & Boschler: 207) They refused the offer. The case was heard in November 1999 before Judge Rafeedie in the Federal Court. Freimuth, for etoy, argued that federal Court was the right place for what was essentially a trademark matter. Robert Kleiger, for eToys, countered that it should stay where it was because of the claims under the California Unfair Competition act. Judge Rafeedie took little time in agreeing with the eToys lawyer. Wessel’s strategy paid off and eToys won the first skirmish. The first round of a quite different kind of conflict opened when etoy sent out their first ‘toywar’ mass mailing, drawing the attention of the net.art, activism and theory crowd to these events. This drew a report from Felix Stalder in Telepolis: “Fences are going up everywhere, molding what once seemed infinite space into an overcrowded and tightly controlled strip mall.” (Stalder ) The positive feedback from the net only emboldened etoy. For the Los Angeles court, lawyers for etoy filed papers arguing that the sale of ‘shares’ in etoy was not really a stock offering. “The etoy.com website is not about commerce per se, it is about artist and social protest”, they argued. (Wishart & Boschler: 209) They were obliged, in other words, to assert a difference that the art itself had intended to blur in order to escape eToy’s claims under the Unfair Competition Act. Moreover, etoy argued that there was no evidence of a victim. Nobody was claiming to have been fooled by etoy into buying something under false pretences. Ironically enough, art would turn out in hindsight to be a more straightforward transaction here, involving less simulation or dissimulation, than investing in a dot.com. Perhaps we have reached the age when art makes more, not less, claim than business to the rhetorical figure of ‘reality’. Having defended what appeared to be the vulnerable point under the Unfair Competition law, etoy went on the attack. It was the failure of eToys to do a proper search for other trademarks that created the problem in the first place. Meanwhile, in Federal Court, lawyers for etoy launched a counter-suit that reversed the claims against them made by eToys on the trademark question. While the suits and counter suits flew, eToys.com upped their offer to settle to a package of cash and shares worth $400,000. This rather puzzled the etoy lawyers. Those choosing to sue don’t usually try at the same time to settle. Lawyer Peter Wild advised his clients to take the money, but the parallel tactics of eToys.com only encouraged them to dig in their heels. “We felt that this was a tremendous final project for etoy”, says Gramazio. As Zai says, “eToys was our ideal enemy – we were its worst enemy.” (Wishart & Boschler: 210) Zai reported the offer to the net in another mass mail. Most people advised them to take the money, including Doug Rushkoff and Heath Bunting. Paul Garrin counseled fighting on. The etoy agents offered to settle for $750,000. The case came to court in late November 1999 before Judge Shook. The Judge accepted the plausibility of the eToys version of the facts on the trademark issue, which included the purchase of a registered trademark from another company that went back to 1990. He issued an injunction on their behalf, and added in his statement that he was worried about “the great danger of children being exposed to profane and hardcore pornographic issues on the computer.” (Wishart & Boschler: 222) The injunction was all eToys needed to get Network Solutions to shut down the etoy.com domain. Zai sent out a press release in early December, which percolated through Slashdot, rhizome, nettime (Staehle) and many other networks, and catalyzed the net community into action. A debate of sorts started on investor websites such as fool.com. The eToys stock price started to slide, and etoy ‘warriors’ felt free to take the credit for it. The story made the New York Times on 9th December, Washington Post on the 10th, Wired News on the 11th. Network Solutions finally removed the etoy.com domain on the 10th December. Zai responded with a press release: “this is robbery of digital territory, American imperialism, corporate destruction and bulldozing in the way of the 19th century.” (Wishart & Boschler: 237) RTMark set up a campaign fund for toywar, managed by Survival Research Laboratories’ Mark Pauline. The RTMark press release promised a “new internet ‘game’ designed to destroy eToys.com.” (Wishart & Boschler: 239) The RTMark press release grabbed the attention of the Associated Press newswire. The eToys.com share price actually rose on December 13th. Goldman Sachs’ e-commerce analyst Anthony Noto argued that the previous declines in the Etoys share price made it a good buy. Goldman Sachs was the lead underwriter of the eToys IPO. Noto’s writings may have been nothing more than the usual ‘IPOetry’ of the time, but the crash of the internet bubble was some months away yet. The RTMark campaign was called ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’. It used the Floodnet technique that Ricardo Dominguez used in support of the Zapatistas. As Dominguez said, “this hysterical power-play perfectly demonstrates the intensions of the new net elite; to turn the World Wide Web into their own private home-shopping network.” (Wishart & Boschler: 242) The Floodnet attack may have slowed the eToys.com server down a bit, but it was robust and didn’t crash. Ironically, it ran on open source software. Dominguez claims that the ‘Twelve Days’ campaign, which relied on individuals manually launching Floodnet from their own computers, was not designed to destroy the eToys site, but to make a protest felt. “We had a single-bullet script that could have taken down eToys – a tactical nuke, if you will. But we felt this script did not represent the presence of a global group of people gathered to bear witness to a wrong.” (Wishart & Boschler: 245) While the eToys engineers did what they could to keep the site going, eToys also approached universities and businesses whose systems were being used to host Floodnet attacks. The Thing, which hosted Dominguez’s eToys Floodnet site was taken offline by The Thing’s ISP, Verio. After taking down the Floodnet scripts, The Thing was back up, restoring service to the 200 odd websites that The Thing hosted besides the offending Floodnet site. About 200 people gathered on December 20th at a demonstration against eToys outside the Museum of Modern Art. Among the crowd were Santas bearing signs that said ‘Coal for eToys’. The rally, inside the Museum, was led by the Reverend Billy of the Church of Stop Shopping: “We are drowning in a sea of identical details”, he said. (Wishart & Boschler: 249-250) Meanwhile etoy worked on the Toywar Platform, an online agitpop theater spectacle, in which participants could act as soldiers in the toywar. This would take some time to complete – ironically the dispute threatened to end before this last etoy artwork was ready, giving etoy further incentives to keep the dispute alive. The etoy agents had a new lawyer, Chris Truax, who was attracted to the case by the publicity it was generating. Through Truax, etoy offered to sell the etoy domain and trademark for $3.7 million. This may sound like an insane sum, but to put it in perspective, the business.com site changed hands for $7.5 million around this time. On December 29th, Wessel signaled that eToys was prepared to compromise. The problem was, the Toywar Platform was not quite ready, so etoy did what it could to drag out the negotiations. The site went live just before the scheduled court hearings, January 10th 2000. “TOYWAR.com is a place where all servers and all involved people melt and build a living system. In our eyes it is the best way to express and document what’s going on at the moment: people start to about new ways to fight for their ideas, their lifestyle, contemporary culture and power relations.” (Wishart & Boschler: 263) Meanwhile, in a California courtroom, Truax demanded that Network Solutions restore the etoy domain, that eToys pay the etoy legal expenses, and that the case be dropped without prejudice. No settlement was reached. Negotiations dragged on for another two weeks, with the etoy agents’ attention somewhat divided between two horizons – art and law. The dispute was settled on 25th January. Both parties dismissed their complaints without prejudice. The eToys company would pay the etoy artists $40,000 for legal costs, and contact Network Solutions to reinstate the etoy domain. “It was a pleasure doing business with one of the biggest e-commerce giants in the world” ran the etoy press release. (Wishart & Boschler: 265) That would make a charming end to the story. But what goes around comes around. Brainhard, still pissed off with Zai after leaving the group in San Francisco, filed for the etoy trademark in Austria. After that the internal etoy wranglings just gets boring. But it was fun while it lasted. What etoy grasped intuitively was the nexus between the internet as a cultural space and the transformation of the commodity economy in a yet-more abstract direction – its becoming-vectoral. They zeroed in on the heart of the new era of conceptual business – the brand. As Wittgenstein says of language, what gives words meaning is other words, so too for brands. What gives brands meaning is other brands. There is a syntax for brands as there is for words. What etoy discovered is how to insert a new brand into that syntax. The place of eToys as a brand depended on their business competition with other brands – with Toys ‘R’ Us, for example. For etoy, the syntax they discovered for relating their brand to another one was a legal opposition. What made etoy interesting was their lack of moral posturing. Their abandonment of leftist rhetorics opened them up to exploring the territory where media and business meet, but it also made them vulnerable to being consumed by the very dialectic that created the possibility of staging etoy in the first place. By abandoning obsolete political strategies, they discovered a media tactic, which collapsed for want of a new strategy, for the new vectoral terrain on which we find ourselves. Works Cited Negri, Antonio. Time for Revolution. Continuum, London, 2003. Warhol, Andy. From A to B and Back Again. Picador, New York, 1984. Stalder, Felix. ‘Fences in Cyberspace: Recent events in the battle over domain names’. 19 Jun 2003. <http://felix.openflows.org/html/fences.php>. Wark, McKenzie. ‘A Hacker Manifesto [version 4.0]’ 19 Jun 2003. http://subsol.c3.hu/subsol_2/contributors0/warktext.html. Klein, Naomi. No Logo. Harper Collins, London, 2000. Wishart, Adam & Regula Bochsler. Leaving Reality Behind: etoy vs eToys.com & Other Battles to Control Cyberspace Ecco Books, 2003. Staehle, Wolfgang. ‘<nettime> etoy.com shut down by US court.’ 19 Jun 2003. http://amsterdam.nettime.org/Lists-Archives/nettime-l-9912/msg00005.html Links http://amsterdam.nettime.org/Lists-Archives/nettime-l-9912/msg00005.htm http://felix.openflows.org/html/fences.html http://subsol.c3.hu/subsol_2/contributors0/warktext.html Citation reference for this article Substitute your date of access for Dn Month Year etc... MLA Style Wark, McKenzie. "Toywars" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture< http://www.media-culture.org.au/0306/02-toywars.php>. APA Style Wark, M. (2003, Jun 19). Toywars. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture, 6,< http://www.media-culture.org.au/0306/02-toywars.php>

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.


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