Journal articles on the topic 'Le Dieu caché'

Cet article se pmpose d'examiner quelques textes de Thomas d'Aquin, qui laissent entrevoir une pensée du divin semblable à celle de Heidegger, lorsque ce dernier aborde le concept de « Gôttliche » qui dépasse les catégories de la scolastique et ne s 'attache pas à une « étantité » particulière. La métaphysique devient alors une échelle qui n 'est pas seulement à gravir — ce qui fut le cas des deux « Summa » — mais aussi à laisser tomber, une fois que l'accès à une pensée autre de Dieu devient possible, à l'instar de l'apophatisme oriental. Et si l'Aquinate sonde le caché, le secret et l'indicible, il ouvre cependant le chemin au sens de la chose, thème central chez Heidegger, vu comme le lien privilégié entre les hommes et la divinité. L'étude de ces textes laissent alors entrevoir une nouvelle théologie, dépassant la positive et la négative. Elle se profile à l'horizon des derniers écrits de Thomas, tout en étant présente derrière les indications formelles des travaux de Heidegger sur le divin.

Summary This article attempts to delineate the religious dimension of Arnold Schönberg’s literary texts. The question about the role of religion in his creative work has been discussed at great length, though almost always with reference to his musical compositions. His literary texts, however, do not deserve such neglect as they address a number of fundamental religious concerns. The author is perplexed by the elusiveness of the divine presence, his inability to express the experience of Nothingness and Absolute Abstraction, the necessity of praying treated as an act of defiance against the void. The article also discusses Schönberg’s libretti to his major musical works (Die Jakobsleiter, Moses und Aron, and Moderne Psalmen) and his drama Der biblische Weg. It is there that the composer shows how the modern man’s religious experience gets tainted by negativity and a sense of God’s absence. The only way to cope with the problem of Le Dieu caché is to enter the path of apophatic theology, that is to try to approach Him through negation, adopt the attitude of ‘deliberate incomprehension’ and puts one’s trust in paradoxes

Résumé L’espace de Fontenelle est d’abord un espace cosmique. Trois principes l’organisent : l’empirisme, hérité de la scolastique, l’éternité et la divisibilité de la matière, l’assimilation de l’univers à une machine, dont le mouvement a été donné et est surveillé par Dieu. Fontenelle, dans les Pastorales et dans ses opéras, est un poète du ciel et du mouvement des planètes. Cette splendeur se ramène aux grands principes que nous avons mis en évidence et surtout au mécanisme et aux tourbillons cartésiens. Ainsi l’univers est comparable à une montre. Il y a la beauté d’une scène d’opéra et l’éclat d’une « feuille d’or ». Mais le philosophe enlève la feuille et discerne dans les merveilles théâtrales le jeu des poids et des contrepoids. Ce serait triste : la littérature pare le mécanisme, comme Dieu le cache sous les beautés de la nature. Il en est de même en morale : notre vie serait fort triste sans les plaisirs qui l’animent.

La fragilité du « vivre » au quotidien nous oblige à prendre au sérieux « l’étrangéité ontologique » qui nous caractérise en tant qu’hommes et femmes cherchant à entrer en relation avec l’Autre/autre. Cette étrangéité exprime d’abord la diversité irréductible par rapport à « l’autre que moi », mais aussi par rapport « à l’autre moi » (la face cachée de notre identité) qu’on a parfois du mal à accepter et à accueillir, pour pouvoir, finalement, l’offrir en don aux autres. L’institution d’une pensée à partir de cette condition d’étrangéité, qui est principe d’humanisation, peut devenir un véritable « lieu théologique », une véritable catégorie de la Révélation, à savoir un contexte favorable pour saisir des traits essentiels du Dieu de notre foi, qui se manifeste librement au coeur de l’humanité en sollicitant l’hospitalité. Celle-ci s’ancre dans l’étrangeté ontologique, elle est la norme suprême de la coexistence et elle implique une sacramentalité de l’autre.

Avant de devenir musicien, Serge Gainsbourg préparait une carrière d’artiste-peintre. Bien que cette première vocation se soit estompée, ses vestiges restent dans la seconde. Le jeune pianiste des bars de Montmartre se cache, ou se métamorphose, derrière une série de pseudonymes. On voit la même jeu d’identité dans les trois chansons de cette étude – « Poupée de cire , poupée de son », « L’Homme à tête de chou », « Ecce homo ». Elles peuvent toutes être lues comme des autoportraits, et comme des impostures. Dans chacune l’auteur-interprète se présente par une figure empruntée dont les éléments représentent une double métaphore : une poupée de cire ou de son ; un homme « moitié mec, moitié légume » ; un homme-dieu qui souffre. « Où et qui suis-je », se pose-t-il la question, en effet, à la fin de chacun de ces textes. Cette étude examinera la mécanique et la thématique de la création gainsbourienne.

In the present study, potential molecular biomarkers of NASH hepatocarcinogenesis were investigated using the STAM mice NASH model, characterized by impaired insulin secretion and development of insulin resistance. In this model, 2-days-old C57BL/6N mice were subjected to a single subcutaneous (s.c.) injection of 200 μg streptozotocin (STZ) to induce diabetes mellitus (DM). Four weeks later, mice were administered high-fat diet (HFD) HFD-60 for 14 weeks (STAM group), or fed control diet (STZ group). Eighteen-week-old mice were euthanized to allow macroscopic, microscopic, histopathological, immunohistochemical and proteome analyses. The administration of HFD to STZ-treated mice induced significant fat accumulation and fibrosis development in the liver, which progressed to NASH, and rise of hepatocellular adenomas (HCAs) and carcinomas (HCCs). In 18-week-old animals, a significant increase in the incidence and multiplicity of HCAs and HCCs was found. On the basis of results of proteome analysis of STAM mice HCCs, a novel highly elevated protein in HCCs, cache domain-containing 1 (CACHD1), was chosen as a potential NASH-HCC biomarker candidate. Immunohistochemical assessment demonstrated that STAM mice liver basophilic, eosinophilic and mixed-type altered foci, HCAs and HCCs were strongly positive for CACHD1. The number and area of CACHD1-positive foci, and cell proliferation index in the area of foci in mice of the STAM group were significantly increased compared to that of STZ group. In vitro siRNA knockdown of CACHD1 in human Huh7 and HepG2 liver cancer cell lines resulted in significant inhibition of cell survival and proliferation. Analysis of the proteome of knockdown cells indicated that apoptosis and autophagy processes could be activated. From these results, CACHD1 is an early NASH-associated biomarker of liver preneoplastic and neoplastic lesions, and a potential target protein in DM/NASH-associated hepatocarcinogenesis.

AbstractWe analyzed intestinal contents of two late-glacial mastodons preserved in lake sediments in Ohio (Burning Tree mastodon) and Michigan (Heisler mastodon). A multi-proxy suite of macrofossils and microfossils provided unique insights into what these individuals had eaten just before they died and added significantly to knowledge of mastodon diets. We reconstructed the mastodons’ habitats with similar multi-proxy analyses of the embedding lake sediments. Non-pollen palynomorphs, especially spores of coprophilous fungi differentiated intestinal and environmental samples. The Burning Tree mastodon gut sample originates from the small intestine. The Heisler mastodon sample is part of the large intestine to which humans had added clastic material to anchor parts of the carcass under water to cache the meat. Both carcasses had been dismembered, suggesting that the mastodons had been hunted or scavenged, in line with other contemporaneous mastodon finds and the timing of early human incursion into the Midwest. Both mastodons lived in mixed coniferous-deciduous late-glacial forests. They browsed tree leaves and twigs, especiallyPicea. They also ate sedge-swamp plants and drank the lake water. Our multi-proxy estimates for a spring/summer season of death contrast with autumn estimates derived from prior tusk analyses. We document the recovered fossil remains with photographs.

<p>Hace exactamente cuatro meses se publicaba el último número correspondiente al año 2018. Esto es significativo ya que con ello podemos observar que hemos acortado el plazo de publicación en dos meses por número permitiéndonos alcanzar el objetivo planteado durante el año 2018 que era poder cambiar la periodicidad de la revista a tres número al año. Esto implica un mayor volumen de trabajos que permitan diseminar investigaciones originales en el campo de la antropología, expresada en todas sus ramas y vertientes. Por otro lado también muestra un compromiso ante la tarea editorial con el fin de poder brindar un servicio de calidad a los autores y la posibilidad de un acceso abierto a las publicaciones desde el momento en que son publicadas. Esto implica el esfuerzo constante de instituciones y personas que en conjunto permiten el crecimiento de esta revista.</p><p>En este número presentamos diez artículos originales, una traducción y un comentario de libro que se suman a una cada vez más extensa colección de trabajos antropológicos. Ocho corresponden a la Sección Arqueología; uno a la Sección Museología; y tres a Antropología Social.</p><p>En el primer trabajo de la Sección Arqueología los autores Mónica Alejandra Berón y Manuel Pedro Carrera Aizpitarte discuten la posibilidad de considerar al chert silíceo como un indicador de movilidad e interacciones a larga distancia para la región occidental pampeana. Jimena Doval y Alicia Haydé Tapia presentan los resultados del análisis efectuado a fragmentos de cuero recuperados en contextos arqueológicos de fines del siglo XIX en la actual provincia de La Pampa. María Victoria Fernández, Pablo Rodrigo Leal, Claudia Della Negra, Catherine Klesner, Brandi Lee MacDonald, Michael Glascock y Ramiro Barberena dan a conocer los muestreos realizados en el valle del río Varvarco, su contexto geológico y geomorfológico, la presencia de obsidiana, la caracterización del tipo de yacimiento, la forma de presentación, distribución y abundancia de la misma con el fin de caracterizar esta nueva fuente de importancia arqueológica. Paula Elisabet Galligani, Gustavo Barrientos y María Rosario Feuillet Terzaghi tienen como objetivo de su trabajo estimar, a partir de la medición de la concentración de fósforo extraíble (Pe) y del modelado espacial con técnicas de interpolación, la extensión probable del área de entierro detectada en el sitio Río Salado-Coronda II (RSCII), localizado en la ciudad de Santo Tomé, en el centro-este de la provincia de Santa Fe. María Gabriela Musaubach y María del Pilar Babot analizan el estado del arte del conocimiento sobre los usos pasados y presentes de las gramíneas en el desierto de altura puneño a través del estudio de microfósiles. Por otro lado, Anahí Re y Juan Bautista Belardi abordan el análisis de las representaciones rupestres de los sitios Bloque 1 del Campo de Bloques 1 y Alero con Manos del Río Chalía, relevados en los sectores bajos asociados a la cuenca de los lagos Tar y San Martín (sudoeste de la provincia de Santa Cruz). El autor Federico Restifo presenta el análisis de atributos cualitativos y cuantitativos de un conjunto de artefactos Saladillo recuperado en el sector Norte del valle Calchaquí, el cual se encuentra disponible en el Museo Arqueológico de Cachi, provincia de Salta (Argentina). Cerrando la sección, Miguel Ángel Zubimendi, Alicia Castro, Pablo Ambrústolo y Carolina Contreras presentan la descripción de un diente fósil de tiburón, así como los estudios que sustentan la identificación de las modificaciones antrópicas que confirman su caracterización como objeto adorno-colgante para contextos arqueológicos de la costa norte de la provincia de Santa Cruz.</p><p>En la Sección de Museología, Luis Adrián Galindo analiza el Museo de Quai Branly-Jean Chirac a través de un “discurso normativo de la museología eurocentrista”…” [que] ... ”logra imponerse a partir de la concepción de su estructura narrativa, la selección de sus objetos de exhibición y la puesta en escena, fortaleciendo así el pensamiento neoliberal que promulga la diversidad cultural como la sumatoria de culturas que comparten un mismo territorio, sin contradicciones, sin asimetrías, sin tensiones sociales, en una “paz social” aparente y en una relación natural con el entorno”</p><p>Cerrando este número presentamos un trabajo, una traducción y una Reseña bibliográfica incluida en la Sección Antropología Social. En el primer trabajo, Gastón Julián Gil propone un abordaje del fenómeno del running en la Argentina a partir del análisis de las carreras urbanas organizadas en las principales ciudades del país. Continúa una traducción realizada por Diego Roldán (CONICET) y Paul Hathazy (CIECS CONICET/UNC) del trabajo de Loic Wacquant “Por una Sociología de carne y sangre”, siendo ésta la primera versión publicada en español de este texto. Por último, Mariano Bussi presenta una reseña bibliográfica del trabajo de Renzo Taddei llamado Meteorologistas e profetas da chuva. Conhecimentos, práticas e políticas da atmosfera.</p><p>Con esto cerramos esta editorial invitando, como es usual, a disfrutar de la lectura crítica de este material que ponemos a disposición de los interesados.</p><p>Córdoba, 30 de Abril de 2019</p>

RÉSUMÉ. Depuis les années trente, plusieurs œuvres de la littérature négro-africaine vont se se détacher progressivement de l’éloge de la métropole et matérialiser une forme de résistance assimilable au chauvinisme qui apparait, non seulement, tel un désir de reconnaissance et d’affirmation identitaire mais également, au-delà, comme un bouclier permettant de s’opposer ou d’atténuer l’influence des ondes culturelles venant d’ailleurs. La Femme parfum du romancier et philosophe sénégalais Abdoulaye Kane (2009), fait partie de ces textes qui, avec finesse et profondeur, expriment cet état de fait en s’intéressant aux qualités intrinsèques de communautés négro-africaines, souvent minoritaires, en exposant leurs valeurs puisées de la tradition dont elles continuent, non sans difficultés, à pérenniser les fondements et les contours dans un contexte particulier où la mondialisation tend vers une uniformisation culturelle au détriment de la diversité des modes de vie. Il s’agit, ici, en s’inspirant de l’approche sociocritique de Lucien Goldman dans Dieu caché (1956), d’analyser les indices d’un certain chauvinisme ou la manière dont la résistance culturelle s’organise dans ce roman. Ce qui nous permettra de cerner ses modalités, son mécanisme et sa portée. Mots-clés : chauvinisme, conservatisme, culture, négro-africaine, parfum, résistance, Sinthiou ABSTRACT. Since the 1930s, several works of Negro-African literature have gradually become detached from the praise of the metropolis and materialize a form of resistance comparable to chauvinism that appears not only as a desire for recognition and affirmation of identity but also Beyond, as a shield to oppose or mitigate the influence of cultural waves from elsewhere. The Femme parfum of the Senegalese novelist and philosopher Abdoulaye Kane (2009), is one of those texts which, with finesse and depth, express this state of affairs by focusing on the intrinsic qualities of Black-African communities, often minority, by exposing their These values are derived from the tradition of which they continue, not without difficulties, to perpetuate the foundations and outlines in a particular context where globalization tends towards a cultural standardization to the detriment of the diversity of lifestyles. It is here, inspired by the sociocritical approach of Lucien Goldman in Dieu caché (1956), to analyze the signs of a certain chauvinism or the way in which cultural resistance is organized in this novel. This will allow us to define its modalities, mechanism and scope. Keywords: chauvinism,conservatism, culture, flavour, négro-african, résistance, Sinthiou

The article deals with the way the figures of Author and Reader are represented in the plot of the novel “Kys” by T. Tolstaya. The discreditation of the figures is proved to have the features of postmodernist literature. In the novel events which are narrated about, occurred after atomic Explosion, which thrown off humanity in cultural and social evolution to late Stone Age. In this future exists race named “golubchiki” – mutants who were born after Explosion and who are spiritual degraded. The main character is Benedict. He rewrites texts allegedly written by the chief of represented society – Fedor Kuzmich Kablukov. Benedict is trying to interpret the written in his own way, which brings to birth of Reader, turning according to post-modernism into new “Dieu cache”. However Benedict’s intellection as the most “golubchiks” is primitive. The character invariably compares what is read to his own experience, his associations are concretely ignorant and remain within the framework of native environment. But Benedict himself fully believes in post-modern way that he is Reader, standing above Author. Demonstrative is also Benedict’s perception of Pushkin : he does not see in Pushkin anything sacral or mythological. In his opinion the poet is nothing but a common wooden statuette, engraved therewith by himself. So, Benedict is not the admirer but ingenuous maker, the creator of Pushkin, in other words, a God for his creation. There is also another “author” in the novel – Fedor Kuzmich, who takes the advantage of the situation when Author dies (all true authors have died before or after an Explosion). Kablukov recopies somebody else’s text zealously. Thereby usurping Author’s role, being only the typical scripter indeed, who have replaced the author in post-modern study. Accordingly, in the novel “Kys” already on the plotline level is designed post-modern situation of author’s death: all literary texts are written very long ago, in the modernity of “golubchiks” is nothing new created; the only “author” – Fedor Kuzmich appears to be just a scripter, who recopies another’s compositions. Author’s figure in that way turns into figment and is almost completely leveled. In “Kys” is also disconsidered the meaning of born Reader, who imagined himself Dieu cache, though he is not capable making any adequate interpretation of a text.

ABSTRACTStacking multiple device strata can improve system performance of a microprocessor (μP) by reducing interconnect length. This enables latency improvement, power reduction, and improved memory bandwidth. In this paper we review some of our recent design analysis and process results which quantitatively show the benefits of stacking applied to μPs.We report on two applications for stacking which take advantage of reduced wire length- “logic+logic” stacking and “logic+memory” stacking. In addition to optimizing minimum wire length, we considered carefully the thermal ramifications of the new designs. For the logic+memory application, we considered the case of reducing off-die wiring by stacking a DRAM cache (32 to 64MB) onto a high performance μP. Simulations showed 3x reduced off-die bandwidth, Cycles Per Memory Access (CPMA) reduction of 13%, and a 66% average bus power reduction. For logic+logic applications, we considered a high performance μP where the unit blocks were repartitioned into two strata. For this case, simulations showed that stacking can simultaneously reduce power by 15% while increasing performance by 15% with a minor 14° C increase in peak temperature compared to the planar design. Using voltage scaling, this translates to 34% power reduction and 8% performance improvement with no temperature increase. We found that these results can be further improved by a secondary splitting of the individual blocks. As an example, we split a 32KB first level data cache resulting in 25% power reduction, 10% latency reduction, and 20% area reduction.We also discuss the fabrication of stacked structures with two complimentary process flows. In one case, we developed a 300mm wafer stacking process using Cu-Cu bonding, wafer thinning, and through-silicon vias (TSVs). This technology provides reliable bonding with non-detectable bonding-interface resistance and inter-strata via pitch below 8μm. We investigated the impact of this wafer stacking process to the transistor and interconnect layers built using a 65nm strained-Si/Cu-Low-K process technology and found no impact to either discrete N- and P-MOS devices or to thin 4Mb SRAMs. We verified fully functional SRAMs on thinned wafers with thicknesses down to 5μm. Although wafer stacking leads itself well to tight-pitch same-die-size stacking, die stacking enables integration of different size dies and includes opportunity to improve yield by stacking known good dies. We demonstrated a die stack process flow with 75μm thinned die, TSV, and inter-strata via pitch below 100μm. We also found negligible impact to transistors using this process flow. Multiple stacks of up to seven 75μm thin dies with TSVs were fabricated and tested. Prospects for high volume integration of 3D into μPs are discussed.

Charles Herbert Lankester (1879-1969) was without a doubt the most dominant figure of Central American orchidology during his time. Better known as ‘Don Carlos’, Lankester was born in Southampton, England, on June 14 1879. It was in London that he read an announcement offering a position to work as an assistant to the recently founded Sarapiquí Coffee Estates Company in Costa Rica, he applied and was hired. Surely influenced by his uncle’s zoological background, Lankester was at first interested in birds and butterflies. However, living in Cachí, at that time one of the regions with the greatest botanical diversity, he must have fallen under the spell of the plant world as he soon began collecting orchids in the nearby woods. Many of the plants he collected at this time proved to be new species. With no literature at his hand to determine the plants he collected, Lankester started corresponding with the assistant director of the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew, Arthur Hill in 1910, and somewhat later with Robert Allen Rolfe, Kew’s most eminent authority on orchids. At the same time, Lankester began his collection of living plants that would become so famous years later. He returned to England in 1920 to enroll his five children in English schools. Lankester traveled to Africa from 1920 to 1922, hired by the British Government to do research on coffee plantations in Uganda. When returning to England, he found that Rolfe had died the year before. Many orchids that he had brought to Kew were left without identification. Lankester was back in Costa Rica in 1922, the year that was a turning point in his career as an orchidologist: it brought the first correspondence with Oakes Ames. Over the next fifteen years, Ames would discover more than 100 new species among the specimens he received from Costa Rica. In 1922, Ames began a series of publications on orchids, which he named Schedulae Orchidianae. In its third fascicle, in January 1923, Ames started to describe many of the Lankester orchids, which were deposited at Kew and had been left unidentified. Ames kept asking Lankester to send more and more specimens. After 1930, Lankester and Ames seem to drift slowly apart. Ames was taken in more by administrative work at Harvard, and Lankester traveled abroad more frequently. In 1955, after his wife’s death and already 76 years old, Lankester decided to sell his farm but retained the small part which contained his garden, a piece of land called “El Silvestre”. Lankester moved to a house he had bought in Moravia, one of the suburbs of the capital, San José. On a section of this farm called “El Silvestre”, Lankester began his wonderful collections of orchids and plants of other families, which formed the basis of the Charles H. Lankester Botanical Garden of the University of Costa Rica.

While exploring the virtual world Second Life one day, I received a group message across the in-world communication system – “there’s a griefer on the beach. Stay away from the beach till we catch him.” There was no need to explain; everyone receiving the message knew what a griefer was and had a general idea of the kinds of things that could be happening. We’d all seen griefers at work before – someone monopolising the chat channel so no one else can communicate, people being “caged” at random, or even weapons fire causing so much “overhead” that all activity in the area slows to a crawl. These kinds of attacks are not limited to virtual worlds. Most people have experienced griefing in their everyday lives, which might best be defined as having fun at someone else’s expense. More commonly seen examples of this in the real world include teasing, bullying, and harassment; playground bullies have long made other children’s free time miserable. More destructive griefing includes arson and theft. Griefing activities happen in all kinds of games and virtual worlds. Griefers who laugh at new users and “yell” (so that all players can hear) that they stink, have followed new users of Disney’s tween-popular ToonTown. Griefers pose as friendly, helpful players who offer to show new users a path through difficult parts of a game, but then who abandon the new user in a spot where he or she does not have the skills to proceed. In World of Warcraft, a popular massively multiplayer online role playing game (MMORPG) created by Blizzard with more than seven million registered, if not active, users, griefers engage in what is known as corpse camping; they sit by a corpse, killing it over and over every time the player tries to get back into the game. The griefer gets a small number of experience points; the player being killed gets aggravated and has to wait out the griefing to play the game again (Warner & Raiter). Griefing in World of Warcraft was featured in an award nominated episode of the television program South Park, in which one character killed every other player he met. This paper considers different types of griefing, both in online games and virtual worlds, and then looks at the actions other players, those being griefed, take against griefers. A variety of examples from Second Life are considered because of the open-structure of the world and its developing nature. Definitions and Types Griefing in online environments such as video games and virtual worlds has been defined as “purposefully engaging in activities to disrupt the gaming experience of other players” (Mulligan & Patrovsky 250). The “purposeful” part of the definition means that accidental bumping and pushing, behaviours often exhibited by new users, are not griefing (Warner & Raiter). Rossingol defines a griefer as, “a player of malign intentions. They will hurt, humiliate and dishevel the average gamer through bending and breaking the rules of online games. ...They want glory, gain or just to partake in a malignant joy at the misfortune of others.” Davis, who maintains a gaming blog, describes Second Life as being populated by “those who build things and those who like to tear them down,” with the latter being the griefers who may be drawn to the unstructured anything-goes nature of the virtual world (qtd. in Girard). Definitions of griefing differ based on context. For instance, griefing has been examined in a variety of multi-player online games. These games often feature missions where players have to kill other players (PvP), behaviour that in other contexts such as virtual worlds would be considered griefing. Putting a monster on the trail of a player considered rude or unskilled might be a way to teach a lesson, but also an example of griefing (Taylor). Foo and Koivisto define griefing in MMORPGs as “play styles that disrupt another player’s gaming experience, usually with specific intention. When the act is not specifically intended to disrupt and yet the actor is the sole beneficiary, it is greed play, a subtle form of grief play” (11). Greed play usually involves actions that disrupt the game play of others but without technically breaking any game rules. A different way of looking at griefing is that it is a sign that the player understands the game or virtual world deeply enough to take advantage of ambiguities in the rules by changing the game to something new (Koster). Many games have a follow option; griefers pick a victim, stand near them, get as naked as possible, and then just follow them around without talking or explaining their actions (Walker). Another example is the memorial service in World of Warcraft for a player who died in real life. The service was interrupted by an attack from another clan; everyone at the memorial service was killed. It is not clear cut who the griefers actually were in this case – the mourners who chose to have their peaceful service in an area marked for player combat or the attackers following the rules for that area and working to earn points and progress in the game. In the case of the mourners, they were changing the rules of the game to suit them, to create something unique – a shared space to mourn a common friend. But they were definitely not playing by the rules. The attackers, considered griefers by many both in and outside of the game, did nothing that broke any rules of the game, though perhaps they broke rules of common decency (“World”); what they did does not fit into the definition of griefing, as much as do the actions of the mourners (Kotaku). Reshaping the game can be done to embed a new, sometimes political, message into the game. A group named Velvet Strike formed to protest US military action. They went into Counter Strike to bring a “message of peace, love and happiness to online shooters by any means necessary” (King). They placed spray painted graphics containing anti-war messages into the game; when confronted with people from other teams the Velvet Strike members refused to shoot (King). The group website contains “recipes” for non-violent game play. One “recipe” involved the Velvet Strike member hiding at the beginning of a mission and not moving for the rest of the game. The other players would shoot each other and then be forced to spend the rest of the game looking for the last survivor in order to get credit for the win. Similar behaviour has been tried inside the game America’s Army. Beginning March, 2006, deLappe, an artist who opposes the U.S. government’s involvement in Iraq, engaged in griefing behaviour by filling (spamming) the in-game text channel with the names of the people killed in the war; no one else can communicate on that channel. Even his character name, dead-in-Iraq, is an anti-war protest (deLappe). “I do not participate in the proscribed mayhem. Rather, I stand in position and type until I am killed. After death, I hover over my dead avatar’s body and continue to type. Upon being re-incarnated in the next round, I continue the cycle” (deLappe n.p.). What about these games and virtual worlds might lead people to even consider griefing? For one thing, they seem anonymous, which can lead to irresponsible behaviour. Players use fake names. Characters on the screen do not seem real. Another reason may be that rules can be broken in videogames and virtual worlds with few consequences, and in fact the premise of the game often seems to encourage such rule breaking. The rules are not always clearly laid out. Each game or world has a Terms of Service agreement that set out basic acceptable behaviour. Second Life defines griefing in terms of the Terms of Service that all users agree to when opening accounts. Abuse is when someone consciously and with malicious intent violates those terms. On top of that limited set of guidelines, each landowner in a virtual world such as Second Life can also set rules for their own property, from dress code, to use of weapons, to allowable conversation topics. To better understand griefing, it is necessary to consider the motivations of the people involved. Early work on categorising player types was completed by Bartle, who studied users of virtual worlds, specifically MUDs, and identified four player types: killers, achievers, socialisers, and explorers. Killers and achievers seem most relevant in a discussion about griefing. Killers enjoy using other players to get ahead. They want to do things to other people (not for or with others), and they get the most pleasure if they can act without the consent of the other player. Knowing about a game or a virtual world gives no power unless that knowledge can be used to gain some advantage over others and to enhance your standing in the game. Achievers want power and dominance in a game so they can do things to the game and master it. Griefing could help them feel a sense of power if they got people to do their will to stop the griefing behavior. Yee studied the motivations of people who play MMORPGs. He found that people who engage in griefing actually scored high in being motivated to play by both achieving and competition (“Facets”). Griefers often want attention. They may want to show off their scripting skills in the hope of earning respect among other coders and possibly be hired to program for others. But many players are motivated by a desire to compete and to win; these categories do not seem to be adequate for understanding the different types of griefing (Yee, “Faces of Grief”). The research on griefing in games has also suggested ways to categorise griefers in virtual worlds. Suler divides griefers into two types (qtd. in Becker). The first is those who grief in order to make trouble for authority figures, including the people who create the worlds. A few of the more spectacular griefing incidents seem designed to cause trouble for Linden Lab, the creators of Second Life. Groups attacked the servers that run Second Life, known as the grid, in October of 2005; this became known as the “gray goo attack” (Second Life; Wallace). Servers were flooded with objects and Second Life had to be taken off line to be restored from backups. More organised groups, such as the W-hats, the SL Liberation Army, and Patriotic Nigas engage in more large scale and public griefing. Some groups hope to draw attention to the group’s goals. The SL Liberation Army wants Linden Lab to open up the governance of the virtual world so that users can vote on changes and policies being implemented and limit corporate movement into Second Life (MarketingVox). Patriotic Nigas, with about 35 active members, want to slow the entry of corporations into Second Life (Cabron, “Who are Second Life’s”). One often discussed griefer attack in Second Life included a flood of pink flying penises directed against land owner and the first person to have made a profit of more than one million United States dollars in a virtual world, Anshe Chung, during a well-publicised and attended interview in world with technology news outlet CNET (Walsh, “Second Life Millionaire” ). The second type proposed by Suler is the griefer who wants to hurt and victimise others (qtd. in Becker). Individual players often go naked into PG-rated areas to cause trouble. Weapons are used in areas where weapons are banned. Second Life publishes a police blotter, which lists examples of minor griefing and assigned punishment, including incidents of disturbing the peace and violating community standards for which warnings and short bans have been issued. These are the actions of individuals for the most part, as were the people who exploited security holes to enter the property uninvited during the grand opening of Endemol’s Big Brother island in Second Life; guests to the opening were firebombed and caged. One of the griefers explained her involvement: Well I’m from The Netherlands, and as you might know the tv concept of big brother was invented here, and it was in all the newspapers in Holland. So I thought It would be this huge event with lots of media. Then I kinda got the idea ‘hey I could ruin this and it might make the newspaper or tv. So that’s what set me off, lol. (qtd. in Sklar) Some groups do grief just to annoy. The Patriotic Nigas claim to have attacked the John Edwards headquarters inside SL wearing Bush ‘08 buttons (Cabron, “John Edwards Attackers”), but it was not a political attack. The group’s founder, Mudkips Acronym (the name of his avatar in SL) said, “I’m currently rooting for Obama, but that doesn’t mean we won’t raid him or anything. We’ll hit anyone if it’s funny, and if the guy I want to be president in 2008’s campaign provides the lulz, we’ll certainly not cross him off our list” (qtd. in Cabron, “John Edwards Attackers”). If they disrupt a high profile event or site, the attack will be covered by media that can amplify the thrill of the attack, enhance their reputation among other griefers, and add to their enjoyment of the griefing. Part of the definition of griefing is that the griefer enjoys causing other players pain and disrupting their game. One resident posted on the SL blog, “Griefers, for the most part, have no other agenda other than the thrill of sneaking one past and causing a big noise. Until a spokesperson comes forward with a manifesto, we can safely assume that this is the work of the “Jackass” generation, out to disrupt things to show that they can“ (Scarborough). Usually to have fun, griefers go after individuals, rather than the owners and administrators of the virtual world and so fit into Suler’s second type of griefing. These griefers enjoy seeing others get angry and frustrated. As one griefer said: Understanding the griefer mindset begins with this: We don’t take the game seriously at all. It continues with this: It’s fun because you react. Lastly: We do it because we’re jerks and like to laugh at you. I am the fly that kamikazes into your soup. I am the reason you can’t have nice things … . If I make you cry, you’ve made my day. (Drake) They have fun by making the other players mad. “Causing grief is the name of his game. His objective is simple: Make life hell for anyone unlucky enough to be playing with him. He’s a griefer. A griefer is a player bent on purposely frustrating others during a multiplayer game” (G4). “I’m a griefer. It’s what I do,” the griefer says. “And, man, people get so pissed off. It’s great” (G4). Taking Action against Griefers Understanding griefing from the griefer point of view leads us to examine the actions of those being griefed. Suler suggests several pairs of opposing actions that can be taken against griefers, based on his experience in an early social environment called Palace. Many of the steps still being used fit into these types. He first describes preventative versus remedial action. Preventative steps include design features to minimise griefing. The Second Life interface includes the ability to build 3D models and to create software; it also includes a menu for land owners to block those features at will, a design feature that helps prevent much griefing. Remedial actions are those taken by the administrators to deal with the effects of griefing; Linden Lab administrators can shut down whole islands to keep griefer activities from spreading to nearby islands. The second pair is interpersonal versus technical; interpersonal steps involve talking to the griefers to get them to stop ruining the game for others, while technical steps prevent griefers from re-entering the world. The elven community in Second Life strongly supports interpersonal steps; they have a category of members in their community known as guardians who receive special training in how to talk to people bent on destroying the peacefulness of the community or disturbing an event. The creators of Camp Darfur on Better World island also created a force of supporters to fend off griefer attacks after the island was destroyed twice in a week in 2006 (Kenzo). Linden Lab also makes use of technical methods; they cancel accounts so known griefers can not reenter. There were even reports that they had created a prison island where griefers whose antics were not bad enough to be totally banned would be sent via a one-way teleporter (Walsh, “Hidden Virtual World Prison”). Some users of Second Life favour technical steps; they believe that new users should be held a fixed amount of time on the Orientation island which would stop banned users from coming back into the world immediately. The third is to create tools for average users or super users (administrators); both involve software features, some of which are available to all users to help them make the game good for them while others are available only to people with administrator privileges. Average users who own land have a variety of tools available to limit griefing behaviour on their own property. In Second Life, the land owner is often blamed because he or she did not use the tools provided to landowners by Linden Lab; they can ban individual users, remove users from the land, mute their conversation, return items left on the property, and prevent people from building or running scripts. As one landowner said, “With the newbies coming in there, I’ve seen their properties just littered with crap because they don’t know protective measures you need to take as far as understanding land control and access rights” (qtd. in Girard). Super users, those who work for Linden Lab, can remove a player from the game for a various lengths of time based on their behaviour patterns. Responses to griefers can also be examined as either individual or joint actions. Individual actions include those that land owners can take against individual griefers. Individual users, regardless of account type, can file abuse reports against other individuals; Linden Lab investigates these reports and takes appropriate action. Quick and consistent reporting of all griefing, no matter how small, is advocated by most game companies and user groups as fairly successful. Strangely, some types of joint actions have been not so successful. Landowners have tried to form the Second Life Anti-Griefing Guild, but it folded because of lack of involvement. Groups providing security services have formed; many event organisers use this kind of service. (Hoffman). More successful efforts have included the creation of software, such as SLBanLink.com, Karma, and TrustNet that read lists of banned users into the banned list on all participating property. A last category of actions to be taken against griefers, and a category used by most residents of virtual worlds, is to leave them alone—to ignore them, to tolerate their actions. The thinking is that, as with many bullies in real life, griefers want attention; when deprived of that, they will move on to find other amusements. Yelling and screaming at griefers just reinforces their bad behaviour. Users simply teleport to other locations or log off. They warn others of the griefing behaviour using the various in-world communication tools so they too can stay away from the griefers. Most of the actions described above are not useful against griefers for whom a bad reputation is part of their credibility in the griefer community. The users of Second Life who staged the Gray Goo denial of service attack in October, 2005 fit into that category. They did nothing to hide the fact that they wanted to cause massive trouble; they named the self-replicating object that they created Grief Spawn and discussed ways to bring down the world on griefer forums (Wallace) Conclusion The most effective griefing usually involves an individual or small group who are only looking to have fun at someone else’s expense. It’s a small goal, and as long as there are any other users, it is easy to obtain the desired effect. In fact, as word spreads of the griefing and users feel compelled to change their behaviour to stave off future griefer attacks, the griefers have fun and achieve their goal. The key point here is that everyone has the same goal – have fun. Unfortunately, for one group – the griefers – achieving their goal precludes other users from reaching theirs. Political griefers are less successful in achieving their goals. Political creative play as griefing, like other kinds of griefing, is not particularly effective, which is another aspect of griefing as error. Other players react with frustration and violence to the actions of griefers such as deLappe and Velvet-Strike. If griefing activity makes people upset, they are less open to considering the political or economic motives of the griefers. Some complaints are relatively mild; “I’m all for creative protest and what not, but this is stupid. It’s not meaningful art or speaking out or anything of the type, its just annoying people who are never going to change their minds about how awesome they think war is” (Borkingchikapa). Others are more negative: “Somebody really needs to go find where that asshole lives and beat the shit out of him. Yeah, it’s a free country and he can legally pull this crap, but that same freedom extends to some patriot kicking the living shit out of him” (Reynolds). In this type of griefing no one’s goals for using the game are satisfied. The regular users can not have fun, but neither do they seem to be open to or accepting of the political griefer’s message. This pattern of success and failure may explain why there are so many examples of griefing to disrupt rather then the politically motivated kind. It may also suggest why efforts to curb griefing have been so ineffective in the past. Griefers who seek to disrupt for fun would see it as a personal triumph if others organised against them. Even if they found themselves banned from one area, they could quickly move somewhere else to have their fun since whom or where they harass does not really matter. Perhaps not all griefing is in error, rather, only those griefing activities motivated by any other goal than have fun. People invest their time and energy in creating their characters and developing skills. The behaviour of people in these virtual environments has a definite bearing on the real world. And perhaps that explains why people in these virtual worlds react so strongly to the behaviour. So, remember, stay off the beach until they catch the griefers, and if you want to make up the game as you go along, be ready for the other players to point at you and say “Bad, Bad Avatar.” References Bartle, Richard. “Players Who Suit MUDs.” Journal of MUD Research 1.1 (June 1996). 10 Sep. 2007 http://www.mud.co.uk/richard/hcds.htm>. Becker, David. Inflicting Pain on “Griefers.” 13 Dec. 2004. 10 Oct. 2007 http://www.news.com/Inflicting-pain-on-griefers/2100-1043_3-5488403.html>. Borkingchikapa. Playing America’s Army. 30 May 2006. 10 Aug. 2007 http://www.metafilter.com/51938/playing-Americas-Army>. Cabron, Lou. John Edwards Attackers Unmasked. 5 Mar. 2007. 29 Apr. 2007 http://www.10zenmonkeys.com/2007/03/05/john-edwards-virtual-attackers-unmasked/>. Cabron, Lou. Who Are Second Life’s “Patriotic Nigas”? 8 Mar. 2007. 30 Apr. 2007 http://www.10zenmonkeys.com/2007/03/08/patriotic-nigras-interview-john-edwards-second-life/>. DeLappe, Joseph. Joseph deLappe. 2006. 10 Aug. 2007. http://www.unr.edu/art/DELAPPE/DeLappe%20Main%20Page/DeLappe%20Online%20MAIN.html>. Drake, Shannon. “Jerk on the Internet.” The Escapist Magazine 15 Nov. 2005: 31-32. 20 June 2007 http://www.escapistmagazine.com/issue/19/31>. Foo, Chek Yang. Redefining Grief Play. 2004. 10 Oct. 2007 http://64.233.167.104/search?q=cache:1mBYzWVqAsIJ:www.itu.dk/op/papers/ yang_foo.pdf+foo+koivisto&hl=en&ct=clnk&cd=7&gl=us&client=firefox-a>. Foo, Chek Yang, and Elina Koivisto. Grief Player Motivations. 2004. 15 Aug. 2007 http://www.itu.dk/op/papers/yang_foo_koivisto.pdf>. G4. Confessions of a Griefer. N.D. 21 June 2007 http://www.g4tv.com/xplay/features/42527/Confessions_of_a_Griefer.html>. Girard, Nicole. “Griefer Madness: Terrorizing Virtual Worlds.”_ Linux Insider_ 19 Sep. 2007. 3 Oct. 2007 http://www.linuxinsider.com/story/59401.html>. Hoffman, E. C. “Tip Sheet: When Griefers Attack.” Business Week. 2007. 21 June 2007 http://www.businessweek.com/playbook/07/0416_1.htm>. Kenzo, In. “Comment: Has Plastic Duck Migrated Back to SL?” Second Life Herald Apr. 2006. 10 Oct. 2007 http://www.secondlifeherald.com/slh/2006/04/has_plastic_duc.html>. King, Brad. “Make Love, Not War.” Wired June 2002. 10 Aug. 2007 http://www.wired.com/gaming/gamingreviews/news/2002/06/52894>. Koster, Raph. A Theory of Fun for Game Design. Scotsdale, AZ: Paraglyph, 2005. Kotaku. _WoW Funeral Party Gets Owned. _2006. 15 Aug. 2007 http://kotaku.com/gaming/wow/wow-funeral-party-gets-owned-167354.php>. MarketingVox. Second Life Liberation Army Targets Brands. 7. Dec. 2006. 10 Aug. 2007 http://www.marketingvox.com/archives/2006/12/07/second-life-liberation-army-targets-brands/>. 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N.D. 10 Aug. 2007 http://www.opensorcery.net/velvet-strike/nonflame.html>. Walker, John. “How to Be a Complete Bastard.” PC Gamer 13 Mar. 2007. 10 Aug. 2007 http://www.computerandvideogames.com/article.php?id=159883&site=pcg>. Wallace, Mark. “The Day the Grid Disappeared.” Escapist Magazine 15 Nov. 2005: 11. 20 June 2007 http://www.escapistmagazine.com/issue/19/11>. Walsh, Tony. Hidden Virtual-World Prison Revealed. 3 Jan. 2006. 10 Oct. 2007 http://www.secretlair.com/index.php?/clickableculture/entry/hidden_virtual_world_prison_revealed/>. Walsh, Tony. Second Life Millionaire Interview Penis-Bombed. 20 Dec. 2006. 10 Oct. 2007 http://www.secretlair.com/index.php?/clickableculture/entry/second_life_millionaire_interview_penis_bombed/>. Warner, Dorothy, and Mike Raiter. _Social Context in Massively-Multiplayer Online Games. _2005. 20 Aug. 2007 http://www.i-r-i-e.net/inhalt/004/Warner-Raiter.pdf>. “World of Warcraft: Funeral Ambush.” 2006. YouTube. 15 Aug. 2007 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=31MVOE2ak5w>. Yee, Nicholas. Facets: 5 Motivational Factors for Why People Play MMORPG’s. 2002. 10 Oct. 2007 http://www.nickyee.com/facets/home.html>. Yee, Nicholas. Faces of Grief. 2005. June 2007 http://www.nickyee.com/daedalus/archives/000893.php?page=1>. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Gregson, Kimberly. "Bad Avatar!: Griefing in Virtual Worlds." M/C Journal 10.5 (2007). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0710/06-gregson.php>. APA Style Gregson, K. (Oct. 2007) "Bad Avatar!: Griefing in Virtual Worlds," M/C Journal, 10(5). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0710/06-gregson.php>.

IntroductionIn the contemporary West, experiences of time are shaped by—and inextricably linked to—the nature of media production and consumption. In Derrida and Steigler’s estimation, teletechnologies bring time “into play” and thus produce time as an “artifact”, that is, a knowable product (3). How and why time becomes “artifactually” produced, according to these thinkers, is a result of the various properties of media production; media ensure that “gestures” (which can be understood here as the cultural moments marked as significant in some way, especially public ones) are registered. Being so, time is constrained, “formatted, initialised” by the matrix of the media system (3). Subsequently, because the media apparatus undergirds the Western imaginary, so too, the media apparatus undergirds the Western concept of time. We can say, in the radically changing global mediascape then, digital culture performs and generates ontological shifts that rewrite the relationship between media, time, and experience. This point lends itself to the significance of the role of both new media platforms and new media texts in reconfiguring understandings between past, present, and future timescapes.There are various ways in which new media texts and platforms work upon experiences of time. In the following, I will focus on just one of these ways: narrativity. By examining a ‘new media’ text, I elucidate how new media narratives imagine timescapes that are constructed through metaphors of ‘confetti’ or ‘snow’, as opposed to more traditional lineal metaphors like ‘rivers’ or ‘streams’ (see Augustine Sedgewick’s “Against Flows” for more critical thinking on the relationship between history, narrative, and the ‘flows’ metaphor). I focus on the revisioning of narrative structure in the Netflix series The Haunting of Hill House (2018) from its original form in the 1959 novel by Shirley Jackson. The narrative revisioning from the novel to the televisual both demonstrates and manifests emergent conceptualisations of time through the creative play of temporal multi-flows, which are contemporaneous yet fragmented.The first consideration is the shift in textual format. However, the translocation of the narrative from a novel to a televisual text is important, but not the focus here. Added to this, I deliberately move toward a “general narrative analysis” (Cobley 28), which has the advantage of focusing onmechanisms which may be integral to linguistically or visually-based genres without becoming embroiled in parochial questions to do with the ‘effectiveness’ of given modes, or the relative ‘value’ of different genres. This also allows narrative analysis to track the development of a specified process as well as its embodiment in a range of generic and technological forms. (Cobley 28)It should be also be noted from the outset that I am not suggesting that fragmented narrative constructions and representations were never imagined or explored prior to this new media age. Quite the contrary if we think of Modernist writers such as Virginia Woolf (Lodwick; Haggland). Rather, it is to claim that this abstraction is emerging in the mainstream entertainment media in greater contest with the dominant and more historically entrenched version of ‘time as a construct’ that is characterised through Realist narratology as linear and flowing only one way. As I will explore below, the reasons for this are largely related to shifts in everyday media consumption brought about by digital culture. There are two reasons why I specifically utilise Netflix’s series The Haunting of Hill House as a fulcrum from which to lever arguments about new media and the contemporary experience of time. First, as a web series, it embodies some of the pertinent conventions of the digital media landscape, both diegetically and also through practices of production and consumption by way of new time-shifting paradigms (see Leaver). I focus on the former in this article, but the latter is fruitful ground for critical consideration. For example, Netflix itself, as a platform, has somewhat destabilised normative temporal routines, such as in the case of ‘binge-watching’ where audiences ‘lose’ time similarly to gamblers in the casino space. Second, the fact that there are two iterations of the same story—one a novel and one a televisual text—provide us with a comparative benchmark from which to make further assertions about the changing nature of media and time from the mid-century to a post-millennium digital mediascape. Though it should be noted, my discussion will focus on the nature and quality of the contemporary framework, and I use the 1959 novel as a frame of reference only rather than examining its rich tapestry in its own right (for critique on the novel itself, see Wilson; see Roberts).Media and the Production of Time-SenseThere is a remarkable canon of literature detailing the relationship between media and the production of time, which can help us place this discussion in a theoretical framework. I am limited by space, but I will engage with some of the most pertinent material to set out a conceptual map. Markedly, from here, I refer to the Western experience of time as a “time-sense” following E.P. Thompson’s work (80). Following Thompson’s language, I use the term “time-sense” to refer to “our inward notation of time”, characterised by the rhythms of our “technological conditioning” systems, whether those be the forces of labour, media, or otherwise (80). Through the textual analysis of Hill House to follow, I will offer ways in which the technological conditioning of the new media system both constructs and shapes time-sense in terms related to a constellation of moments, or, to use a metaphor from the Netflix series itself, like “confetti” or “snow” (“Silence Lay Steadily”).However, in discussing the production of time-sense through new media mechanisms, note that time-sense is not an abstraction but is still linked to our understandings of the literal nature of time-space. For example, Alvin Toffler explains that, in its most simple construction, “Time can be conceived as the intervals during which events occur” (21). However, we must be reminded that events must first occur within the paradigm of experience. That is to say that matters of ‘duration’ cannot be unhinged from the experiential or phenomenological accounts of those durations, or in Toffler’s words, in an echo of Thompson, “Man’s [sic] perception of time is closely linked with his internal rhythms” (71). In the 1970s, Toffler commented upon the radical expansion of global systems of communications that produces the “twin forces of acceleration and transience”, which “alter the texture of existence, hammering our lives and psyches into new and unfamiliar shapes” (18). This simultaneous ‘speeding up’ (which he calls acceleration) and sense of ‘skipping’ (which he calls transience) manifest in a range of modern experiences which disrupt temporal contingencies. Nearly two decades after Toffler, David Harvey commented upon the Postmodern’s “total acceptance of ephemerality, fragmentation, discontinuity, and the chaotic” (44). Only a decade ago, Terry Smith emphasised that time-sense had become even more characterised by the “insistent presentness of multiple, often incompatible temporalities” (196). Netflix had not even launched in Australia and New Zealand until 2015, as well as a host of other time-shifting media technologies which have emerged in the past five years. As a result, it behooves us to revaluate time-sense with this emergent field of production.That being said, entertainment media have always impressed itself upon our understanding of temporal flows. Since the dawn of cinema in the late 19th century, entertainment media have been pivotal in constructing, manifesting, and illustrating time-sense. This has largely (but not exclusively) been in relation to the changing nature of narratology and the ways that narrative produces a sense of temporality. Helen Powell points out that the very earliest cinema, such as the Lumière Brothers’ short films screened in Paris, did not embed narrative, rather, “the Lumières’ actualities captured life as it happened with all its contingencies” (2). It is really only with the emergence of classical mainstream Hollywood that narrative became central, and with it new representations of “temporal flow” (2). Powell tells us that “the classical Hollywood narrative embodies a specific representation of temporal flow, rational and linear in its construction” reflecting “the standardised view of time introduced by the onset of industrialisation” (Powell 2). Of course, as media production and trends change, so does narrative structure. By the late 20th century, new approaches to narrative structure manifest in tropes such as ‘the puzzle film,’ as an example, which “play with audiences” expectations of conventional roles and storytelling through the use of the unreliable narrator and the fracturing of linearity. In doing so, they open up wider questions of belief, truth and reliability” (Powell 4). Puzzle films which might be familiar to the reader are Memento (2001) and Run Lola Run (1999), each playing with the relationship between time and memory, and thus experiences of contemporaneity. The issue of narrative in the construction of temporal flow is therefore critically linked to the ways that mediatic production of narrative, in various ways, reorganises time-sense more broadly. To examine this more closely, I now turn to Netflix’s The Haunting of Hill House.Narratology and Temporal FlowNetflix’s revision of The Haunting of Hill House reveals critical insights into the ways in which media manifest the nature and quality of time-sense. Of course, the main difference between the 1959 novel and the Netflix web series is the change of the textual format from a print text to a televisual text distributed on an Internet streaming platform. This change performs what Marie-Laure Ryan calls “transfictionality across media” (385). There are several models through which transfictionality might occur and thus transmogrify textual and narratival parametres of a text. In the case of The Haunting of Hill House, the Netflix series follows the “displacement” model, which means it “constructs essentially different versions of the protoworld, redesigning its structure and reinventing its story” (Doležel 206). For example, in the 2018 television remake, the protoworld from the original novel retains integrity in that it conveys the story of a group of people who are brought to a mansion called Hill House. In both versions of the protoworld, the discombobulating effects of the mansion work upon the group dynamics until a final break down reveals the supernatural nature of the house. However, in ‘displacing’ the original narrative for adaptation to the web series, the nature of the group is radically reshaped (from a research contingent to a nuclear family unit) and the events follow radically different temporal contingencies.More specifically, the original 1959 novel utilises third-person limited narration and follows a conventional linear temporal flow through which events occur in chronological order. This style of storytelling is often thought about in metaphorical terms by way of ‘rivers’ or ‘streams,’ that is, flowing one-way and never repeating the same configuration (very much unlike the televisual text, in which some scenes are repeated to punctuate various time-streams). Sean Cubitt has examined the relationship between this conventional narrative structure and time sensibility, stating thatthe chronological narrative proposes to us a protagonist who always occupies a perpetual present … as a point moving along a line whose dimensions have however already been mapped: the protagonist of the chronological narrative is caught in a story whose beginning and end have already been determined, and which therefore constructs story time as the unfolding of destiny rather than the passage from past certainty into an uncertain future. (4)I would map Cubitt’s characterisation onto the original Hill House novel as representative of a mid-century textual artifact. Although Modernist literature (by way of Joyce, Woolf, Eliot, and so forth) certainly ‘played’ with non-linear or multi-linear narrative structures, in relation to time-sense, Christina Chau reminds us that Modernity, as a general mood, was very much still caught up in the idea that “time that moves in a linear fashion with the future moving through the present and into the past” (26). Additionally, even though flashbacks are utilised in the original novel, they are revealed using the narrative convention of ‘memories’ through the inner dialogue of the central character, thus still occurring in the ‘present’ of the novel’s timescape and still in keeping with a ‘one-way’ trajectory. Most importantly, the original novel follows what I will call one ‘time-stream’, in that events unfold, and are conveyed through, one temporal flow.In the Netflix series, there are obvious (and even cardinal) changes which reorganise the entire cast of characters as well as the narrative structure. In fact, the very process of returning to the original novel in order to produce a televisual remake says something about the nature of time-sense in itself, which is further sophisticated by the recognition of Netflix as a ‘streaming service’. That is, Netflix encapsulates this notion of ‘rivers-on-demand’ which overlap with each other in the context of the contemporaneous and persistent ‘now’ of digital culture. Marie-Laure Ryan suggests that “the proliferation of rewrites … is easily explained by the sense of pastness that pervades Postmodern culture and by the fixation of contemporary thought with the textual nature of reality” (386). While the Netflix series remains loyal to the mood and basic premise (i.e., that there is a haunted house in which characters endure strange happenings and enter into psycho-drama), the series instead uses fractured narrative convention through which three time-streams are simultaneously at work (although one time-stream is embedded in another and therefore its significance is ‘hidden’ to the viewer until the final episode), which we will examine now.The Time-Streams of Hill HouseIn the Netflix series, the central time-stream is, at first, ostensibly located in the characters’ ‘present’. I will call this time-stream A. (As a note to the reader here, there are spoilers for those who have not watched the Netflix series.) The viewer assumes they are, from the very first scene, following the ‘present’ time-stream in which the characters are adults. This is the time-stream in which the series opens, however, only for the first minute of viewing. After around one minute of viewing time, we already enter into a second time-stream. Even though both the original novel and the TV series begin with the same dialogue, the original novel continues to follow one time-stream, while the TV series begins to play with contemporaneous action by manifesting a second time-stream (following a series of events from the characters past) running in parallel action to the first time-stream. This narrative revisioning resonates with Toffler’s estimation of shifting nature of time-sense in the later twentieth century, in which he cites thatindeed, not only do contemporary events radiate instantaneously—now we can be said to be feeling the impact of all past events in a new way. For the past is doubling back on us. We are caught in what might be called a ‘time skip’. (16)In its ‘displacement’ model, the Hill House televisual remake points to this ongoing fascination with, and re-actualisation of, the exaggerated temporal discrepancies in the experience of contemporary everyday life. The Netflix Hill House series constructs a dimensional timescape in which the timeline ‘skips’ back and forth (not only for the viewer but also the characters), and certain spaces (such as the Red Room) are only permeable to some characters at certain times.If we think about Toffler’s words here—a doubling back, or, a time-skip—we might be pulled toward ever more recent incarnations of this effect. In Helen Powell’s investigation of the relationship between narrative and time-sense, she insists that “new media’s temporalities offer up the potential to challenge the chronological mode of temporal experience” (152). Sean Cubitt proposes that with the intensification of new media “we enter a certain, as yet inchoate, mode of time. For all the boasts of instantaneity, our actual relations with one another are mediated and as such subject to delays: slow downloads, periodic crashes, cache clearances and software uploads” (10). Resultingly, we have myriad temporal contingencies running at any one time—some slow, frustrating, mundane, in ‘real-time’ and others rapid to the point of instantaneous, or even able to pull the past into the present (through the endless trove of archived media on the web) and again into other mediatic dimensions such as virtual reality. To wit, Powell writes that “narrative, in mirroring these new temporal relations must embody fragmentation, discontinuity and incomplete resolution” (153). Fragmentation, discontinuity, and incompleteness are appropriate ways to think through the Hill House’s narrative revision and the ways in which it manifests some of these time-sensibilities.The notion of a ‘time-skip’ is an appropriate way to describe the transitions between the three temporal flows occurring simultaneously in the Hill House televisual remake. Before being comfortably seated in any one time-stream, the viewer is translocated into a second time-stream that runs parallel to it (almost suggesting a kind of parallel dimension). So, we begin with the characters as adults and then almost immediately, we are also watching them as children with the rapid emergence of this second time-stream. This ‘second time-stream’ conveys the events of ‘the past’ in which the central characters are children, so I will call this time-stream B. While time-stream B conveys the scenes in which the characters are children, the scenes are not necessarily in chronological order.The third time-stream is the spectral-stream, or time-stream C. However, the viewer is not fully aware that there is a totally separate time stream at play (the audience is made to think that this time-stream is the product of mere ghost-sightings). This is until the final episode, which completes the narrative ‘puzzle’. That is, the third time-stream conveys the events which are occurring simultaneously in both of the two other time-streams. In a sense, time-stream C, the spectral stream, is used to collapse the ontological boundaries of the former two time-streams. Throughout the early episodes, this time-stream C weaves in and out of time-streams A and B, like an intrusive time-stream (intruding upon the two others until it manifests on its own in the final episode). Time-stream C is used to create a 'puzzle' for the viewer in that the viewer does not fully understand its total significance until the puzzle is completed in the final episode. This convention, too, says something about the nature of time-sense as it shifts and mutates with mediatic production. This echoes back to Powell’s discussion of the ‘puzzle’ trend, which, as I note earlier, plays with “audiences’ expectations of conventional roles and storytelling through the use of the unreliable narrator and the fracturing of linearity” which serves to “open up wider questions of belief, truth and reliability” (4). Similarly, the skipping between three time-streams to build the Hill House puzzle manifests the ever-complicating relationships of time-management experiences in everyday life, in which pasts, presents, and futures impinge upon one another and interfere with each other.Critically, in terms of plot, time-stream B (in which the characters are little children) opens with the character Nell as a small child of 5 or 6 years of age. She appears to have woken up from a nightmare about The Bent Neck Lady. This vision traumatises Nell, and she is duly comforted in this scene by the characters of the eldest son and the father. This provides crucial exposition for the viewer: We are told that these ‘visitations’ from The Bent Neck Lady are a recurring trauma for the child-Nell character. It is important to note that, while these scenes may be mistaken for simple memory flashbacks, it becomes clearer throughout the series that this time-stream is not tied to any one character’s memory but is a separate storyline, though critical to the functioning of the other two. Moreover, the Bent Neck Lady recurs as both (apparent) nightmares and waking visions throughout the course of Nell’s life. It is in Episode Five that we realise why.The reason why The Bent Neck Lady always appears to Nell is that she is Nell. We learn this at the end of Episode Five when the storyline finally conveys how Nell dies in the House, which is by hanging from a noose tied to the mezzanine in the Hill House foyer. As Nell drops from the mezzanine attached to this noose, her neck snaps—she is The Bent Neck Lady. However, Nell does not just drop to the end of the noose. She continues to drop five more times back into the other two time streams. Each time Nell drops, she drops into a different moment in time (and each time the neck snapping is emphasised). The first drop she appears to herself in a basement. The second drop she appears to herself on the road outside the car while she is with her brother. The third is during (what we have been told) is a kind of sleep paralysis. The fourth and fifth drops she appears to herself as the small child on two separate occasions—both of which we witness with her in the first episode. So not only is Nell journeying through time, the audience is too. The viewer follows Nell’s journey through her ‘time-skip’. The result of the staggered but now conjoined time-streams is that we come to realise that Nell is, in fact, haunting herself—and the audience now understands they have followed this throughout not as a ghost-sighting but as a ‘future’ time-stream impinging on another.In the final episode of season one, the siblings are confronted by Ghost-Nell in the Red Room. This is important because it is in this Red Room through which all time-streams coalesce. The Red Room exists dimensionally, cutting across disparate spaces and times—it is the spatial representation of the spectral time-stream C. It is in this final episode, and in this spectral dimension, that all the three time-streams collapse upon each other and complete the narrative ‘puzzle’ for the viewer. The temporal flow of the spectral dimension, time-stream C, interrupts and interferes with the temporal flow of the former two—for both the characters in the text and viewing audience.The collapse of time-streams is produced through a strategic dialogic structure. When Ghost-Nell appears to the siblings in the Red Room, her first line of dialogue is a non-sequitur. Luke emerges from his near-death experience and points to Nell, to which Nell replies: “I feel a little clearer just now. We have. All of us have” ("Silence Lay Steadily"). Nell’s dialogue continues but, eventually, she returns to the same statement, almost like she is running through a cyclic piece of text. She states again, “We have. All of us have.” However, this time around, the phrase is pre-punctuated by Shirley’s claim that she feels as though she had been in the Red Room before. Nell’s dialogue and the dialogue of the other characters suddenly align in synchronicity. The audience now understands that Nell’s very first statement, “We have. All of us have” is actually a response to the statement that Shirley had not yet made. This narrative convention emphasises the ‘confetti-like’ nature of the construction of time here. Confetti is, after all, sheets of paper that have been cut into pieces, thrown into the air, and then fallen out of place. Similarly, the narrative makes sense as a whole but feels cut into pieces and realigned, if only momentarily. When Nell then loops back through the same dialogue, it finally appears in synch and thus makes sense. This signifies that the time-streams are now merged.The Ghost of Nell has travelled through (and in and out of) each separate time-stream. As a result, Ghost-Nell understands the nature of the Red Room—it manifests a slippage of timespace that each of the siblings had entered during their stay at the Hill House mansion. It is with this realisation that Ghost-Nell explains:Everything’s been out of order. Time, I mean. I thought for so long that time was like a line, that ... our moments were laid out like dominoes, and that they ... fell, one into another and on it went, just days tipping, one into the next, into the next, in a long line between the beginning ... and the end.But I was wrong. It’s not like that at all. Our moments fall around us like rain. Or... snow. Or confetti. (“Silence Lay Steadily”)This brings me to the titular concern: The emerging abstraction of time as a mode of layering and fracturing, a mode performed through this analogy of ‘confetti’ or ‘snow’. The Netflix Hill House revision rearranges time constructs so that any one moment of time may be accessed, much like scrolling back and forth (and in and out) of social media feeds, Internet forums, virtual reality programs and so forth. Each moment, like a flake of ‘snow’ or ‘confetti’ litters the timespace matrix, making an infinite tapestry that exists dimensionally. In the Hill House narrative, all moments exist simultaneously and accessing each moment at any point in the time-stream is merely a process of perception.ConclusionNetflix is optimised as a ‘streaming platform’ which has all but ushered in the era of ‘time-shifting’ predicated on geospatial politics (see Leaver). The current media landscape offers instantaneity, contemporaneity, as well as, arbitrary boundedness on the basis of geopolitics, which Tama Leaver refers to as the “tyranny of digital distance”. Therefore, it is fitting that Netflix’s revision of the Hill House narrative is preoccupied with time as well as spectrality. Above, I have explored just some of the ways that the televisual remake plays with notions of time through a diegetic analysis.However, we should take note that even in its production and consumption, this series, to quote Graham Meikle and Sherman Young, is embedded within “the current phase of television [that] suggests contested continuities” (67). Powell problematises the time-sense of this media apparatus further by reminding us that “there are three layers of temporality contained within any film image: the time of registration (production); the time of narration (storytelling); and the time of its consumption (viewing)” (3-4). Each of these aspects produces what Althusser and Balibar have called a “peculiar time”, that is, “different levels of the whole as developing ‘in the same historical time’ … relatively autonomous and hence relatively independent, even in its dependence, of the ‘times’ of the other levels” (99). When we think of the layers upon layers of different time ‘signatures’ which converge in Hill House as a textual artifact—in its production, consumption, distribution, and diegesis—the nature of contemporary time reveals itself as complex but also fleeting—hard to hold onto—much like snow or confetti.ReferencesAlthusser, Louis, and Étienne Balibar. Reading Capital. London: NLB, 1970.Cobley, Paul. Narrative. Hoboken: Taylor and Francis, 2013.Cubitt, S. “Spreadsheets, Sitemaps and Search Engines.” New Screen Media: Cinema/Art/Narrative. Eds. Martin Rieser and Andrea Zapp. London: BFI, 2002. 3-13.Derrida, Jacques, and Bernard Stiegler. Echographies of Television: Filmed Interviews. 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