Journal articles on the topic 'Pères – Attitudes'

Résumé Le rôle du père à l’égard du développement, de la santé et du bien-être de l’enfant et la place qu’on lui accorde dans les services sont une préoccupation croissante des communautés scientifique et politique. Des milieux de pratiques se sont aussi intéressés au rôle du père dans un contexte où de nombreux changements sont survenus au sein des familles. Les attentes sociales envers les pères sont teintées par des archétypes qui balisent les rôles des parents de même que les services que l’on prévoit à leur endroit. Ces archétypes voient toujours l’apport particulier des mères au développement de l’enfant et relèguent le père au rôle de pourvoyeur. Interroger les intervenants sur la place des pères dans leurs interventions les amène à revoir leurs perceptions sur la contribution de ces derniers au développement de l’enfant, de même que leurs attitudes et leurs approches auprès d’eux. Le transfert des connaissances issu des travaux de l’équipe ProsPère, associée au Groupe de recherche sur la victimisation des enfants, s’est fait de différentes façons. Pour rejoindre les intervenants, des membres de l’équipe ont élaboré, validé et déployé au Québec, au Canada et en France une formation. Une réflexion à partir de notre expérience en tant que chercheur et formateur servira à illustrer certains principes qui favorisent une meilleure prise en compte des besoins des pères dans les services de même que certaines barrières à ce sujet. Cette réflexion servira aussi à proposer des balises pour construire de nouvelles pratiques favorisant l’engagement paternel.

RÉSUMÉ Devant la réaction des parents surpris du geste suicidaire posé par leur adolescent, nous avons été amenées à questionner 380 parents d'adolescents et à constater le réalisme de leurs conceptions à ce sujet. Nous avons noté des divergences d'opinions entre les pères et les mères chez les sujets ayant vécu différentes situations reliées au suicide et chez ceux ayant reçu de l'information en matière de suicide. Ces différents points de vue concernent le caractère impulsif du geste, l'âge des suicidaires, la possibilité d'intervenir et le niveau d'acceptabilité du suicide. Cette étude souligne aussi l'importance d'implanter des programmes de prévention dépassant le simple niveau de l'information.

Historien du Bas Moyen Age et de Gênes au XVe siècle, Jacques Heers s'est déjà essayé à la biographie avec ses deux livres sur Christophe Colomb et sur Marco Polo. Cette fois-ci, changeant de registre, il s'est mesuré avec Machiavel. En s'appuyant sur le Libro di ricordi du père de Nicolas, Bernardo Machiavelli, il a pu consacrer le premier chapitre à la situation de la famille, dont il souligne les difficultés financières, et aux curiosités de lecture de Bernardo. Après quoi, parlant de Florence et des Médicis, il brosse un tableau de la société, des mœurs et des attitudes de l'époque, tableau parfois maniéré mais assez brillant. Enfin, les vicissitudes de la vie de Machiavel, secrétaire et agent diplomatique de la Seigneurie, l'ambiance des lieux où il travaille, ou bien la vie qu'il mène relégué à la campagne pendant sa disgrâce, sont esquissées avec un certain succès.

Este articulo analiza como los autores Félicité Herzog y Marina Picasso refutan la imagen publica de su padre y abuello, el excepcional alpinista Maurice Herzog y el gran artista Pablo Picasso en dos ‘‘récits de filiation’’, Un héros y Grand-père. En primer lugar, demuestro que aunque sus acusaciones revelan un comportamiento cruel de estas figuras famosas con su familia, también le ayudan a comprender su sufrimiento durante su infancia. En segundo lugar, demuestro que ambos autores admiten que Maurice Herzog y Pablo Picasso eran victimas de su celebridad y por lo tanto los disculpan en parte. Al final, aunque los autores rechazan la filiación del hombre corrupto por su celebridad, aceptan la filiación del padre alpinista excepcional y del abuelo artista novator. This paper examines the way in which Félicité Herzog and Marina Picasso challenge the public images of their father and grand-father, the exceptional mountaineer Maurice Herzog and the great artist Pablo Picasso, respectively, in two ‘‘récits de filiation’’, Un Héros and Grand-père. I first show that while the authors’ accusations unveil a cruel attitude from these two renowned figures towards their relatives, they also act as an outlet to help them understand their own suffering as children. Second, I show that both authors recognize that Maurice Herzog and Pablo Picasso were victims of their fame, therefore partly excusing them. Thus, although the authors reject the filiation of those individuals corrupted by their celebrity, they accept the filiation of a father, an exceptional mountaineer, and a grandfather, the unique painter. Este articulo analiza como los autores Félicité Herzog y Marina Picasso refutan la imagen publica de su padre y abuello, el excepcional alpinista Maurice Herzog y el gran artista Pablo Picasso en dos ‘‘récits de filiation’’, Un héros y Grand-père. En primer lugar, demuestro que aunque sus acusaciones revelan un comportamiento cruel de estas figuras famosas con su familia, también le ayudan a comprender su sufrimiento durante su infancia. En segundo lugar, demuestro que ambos autores admiten que Maurice Herzog y Pablo Picasso eran victimas de su celebridad y por lo tanto los disculpan en parte. Al final, aunque los autores rechazan la filiación del hombre corrupto por su celebridad, aceptan la filiación del padre alpinista excepcional y del abuelo artista novator.

Abstract Some of the published or unpublished works of my father, Voltaire Deronne alias Robert Reus (1909-1988), display a strong autobiographical character. Robert Reus thus adopted several attitudes towards the treatment, modest or immodest, reserved or “exhibitionist,” of important elements in his life (his first marriage in 1943, his wife’s death in 1953, and other deaths in his family between 1945 and 1948). This article describes the writer’s strategies, ranging from silence to exhibitionism. His practices (or his conscious choices) as well as his theoretical aesthetic positions send us back to the writer’s personal history and to the way in which he reconstructs or reinvents it several times, in an opaque manner that suits him and which can be deciphered only by a family member exegete-editor.

Si l'on connaît l'adhésion relativement favorable de Trotsky aux idées freudiennes, on ignore par contre l'attitude de Lénine à l'égard de la psychanalyse. A l'encontre de certains historiens qui voient dans le père de la Révolution d'Octobre un adepte des idées freudiennes, l'auteur au contraire montre, documents à l'appui, qu'il rejetait la psychanalyse, surtout sa perspective jugée ‘idéaliste’ et l'importance accordée à la sexualité. La personnalité prude de Lénine, le rôle jouée par sa femme Nadezhda Krupskaya et leur idéologie ne pouvaient qu'exclure la psychanalyse du renouveau de l'homme que le marxisme se proposait d'entreprendre en Russie. While Trotsky's relatively favourable adherence to Freudian ideas is well documented, little is known about Lenin's attitude toward psychoanalysis. The author's extensive researches show that, far from being the follower of Freudian ideas depicted by some historians, the father of the October Revolution rejected psychoanalytic theory and, in particular, the perspective he considered ‘idealistic’ and the importance attributed to sexuality. Lenin's prudish personality, the influence of his wife Nadezhda Krupskaya and their ideology resulted in the exclusion of psychoanalysis from the construction of the New Man that Marxism was planning to undertake in Russia.

L’acte de kénose décrit dans le Carmen Christi (Ph 2,6-11) a été maintes fois et correctement présenté comme une attitude ou une disposition spirituelle assumée par Jésus Christ quand il a accepté de mourir plutôt que d’avoir recours à la violence. De ces exégètes qui ont récemment attiré l’attention sur le caractère politique du langage de l’hymne, au moins deux (Oakes en 2005 et Heen, en 2004) détectent dans sa formulation une critique implicite du pouvoir violent qui fondait et soutenait l’Empire romain. L’auteur du présent article s’inscrit sur cette même trajectoire : il propose une interprétation de Ph 2,6-11 comme l’expression de la théopolitique qui informait la vie commune des ekklēsiai qui déclaraient que Jésus était seigneur. Dans ce passage, l’Église naissante projette une utopie féconde qui prévoit pour le faible un monde formé à l’image de celui qui renonçait aux honneurs divins si convoités de l’élite romaine. Tout en reconnaissant les implications politiques (sociales et matérielles) du message symbolique véhiculé en Ph 2, l’auteur soutient que l’Église qui chantait cet hymne devait voir son destin non seulement dans un monde (terrestre) plus juste, mais ultimement dans un royaume céleste où le Christ régnerait comme un seigneur au service de tous.

Le mouvement insurrectionnel de 1837-38 a été interprété de multiples façons. Certains historiens y ont vu le fruit d'une poussée subite de colère et d'indignation, évidemment non préméditée, qui aurait été déclenchée par les résolutions de Lord Russell qui violaient un principe constitutionnel. Cette vue des choses nous paraît assez peu conforme à la mentalité canadienne-française. Le recours spontané aux armes n'a jamais été le moyen de prédilection utilisé par les Canadiens français pour réaliser leurs objectifs collectifs ou pour faire valoir leurs réclamations. La Fontaine qui les connaissait bien disait que leur arme principale était l'inertie et, ajoutons-le, l'agitation verbale. Les insurrections ne s'expliquent principalement ni par une réaction spontanée ni par le souci de défendre des principes, soit politiques, soit constitutionnels. La masse paysanne ne vivait pas encore à l'âge du libéralisme ni à celui de la démocratie. D'autres historiens, parfois les mêmes, ont parlé d'aboutissement logique d'un long conflit politique et constitutionnel, par conséquent non nationaliste en ses dimensions principales mais ultimement de portée nationale. Quelques-uns cependant, tel Filteau, n'ont pas hésité à postuler le caractère nationaliste des troubles de 1837-38. On a aussi parlé d'explosion de caractère réformiste ; on a opéré un rapprochement avec le mouvement chartiste anglais, avec celui de la démocratie jacksonnienne ; finalement, on a annexé à une même réalité les insurrections des deux Canadas. On a voulu montrer par là qu'il s'agissait en définitive d'abattre des oligarchies coloniales afin de promouvoir un système colonial édifié sur des bases plus libérales. En somme, le phénomène insurrectionnel, pour autant que ses origines réelles, son caractère, son ampleur et ses conséquences sont mis en cause, a été simplifié à l'extrême. On ne doit pas non plus oublier les condamnations systématiques, appuyées sur le droit canon et les préceptes moraux, dont ce mouvement a été l'objet de la part de nombreux historiens. À cet égard, Chapais fait figure de modèle. Il est parvenu à surclasser bien des historiens-clercs sur leur propre terrain, soit, celui de la ferveur moralisante. Que beaucoup de ces interprétations soient partiellement justes, on l'admettra volontiers. Mais ce qui, dans l'ensemble, fait le plus défaut, c'est une perspective globale qui restitue à ce phénomène son sens et sa complexité. Il nous paraît évident que si le mouvement insurrectionnel n'avait eu que des racines politiques, même lointaines, il n'aurait pas eu lieu. Il est non moins clair que s'il n'avait engagé que des principes abstraits, il n'aurait en aucune façon mobilisé la masse rurale, pas plus, du reste, que les professions libérales. La crise qui prépara l'explosion insurrectionnelle était d'abord économique et sociale avant d'être politique. La crise agricole, les tensions démographiques et sociales, la situation particulièrement critique des professions libérales, sont les fondements principaux de la réaction nationaliste qui mobilise certaines élites et rallie une portion importante de la masse. On ne niera pas non plus l'influence des idéologies autres que le nationalisme. Nous avons déjà dit pourquoi elles ont fait intrusion dans la société canadienne-française et quelles fonctions elles y ont assumées. Le libéralisme français et anglais, le radicalisme britannique, la démocratie jeffersonnienne et jacksonnienne ont, tour à tour et à des degrés divers, influencé les élites politiques en fonction même des besoins qui leur étaient propres. Mais ces courants idéologiques n'ont jamais rejoint la masse rurale pas plus que la minorité ouvrière. Au total, on dira que ces systèmes de valeurs et de pensée demeurent tributaires des fins poursuivies par l'idéologie dominante, le nationalisme. Ajoutons qu'avant de s'exprimer dans deux insurrections successives, la réaction nationaliste, parce qu'elle visait au contrôle des structures politiques au profit des professions libérales et de la nationalité canadienne-française, s'affirme au niveau politique. A partir de 1806, les conflits politiques s'enracinent en même temps que les malaises économiques, les pressions démographiques et les tensions sociales. De temps à autre, en regard même des améliorations passagères survenues dans l'un ou l'autre secteur, on assiste à un amenuisement relatif des conflits. Même si l'initiative majeure appartient à l'économique, l'interdépendance des différents niveaux d'activité éclate à chaque instant. Il en est de même de la mentalité et des oscillations de la psychologie collective qui se situent en regard même de ce contexte global. L'heure est au pessimisme, aux visions tragiques et à l'agressivité. G.-J. de Lotbinière écrira en 1852 : « Il me semble que nous sommes dans un âge où l'on sent plus vivement qu'autrefois. Nos Pères savaient conserver jusqu'à la fin leur vivacité et leur gaieté malgré toutes les vicissitudes de la vie, maintenant nous prenons tout au sérieux : vie intime, vie publique. Nos blessures ne se cicatrisent plus. À qui la faute ? ». On ne doit pas oublier non plus le rôle capital des personnalités dominantes, en particulier le rôle de Papineau. Ce dernier est à la fois le reflet de la situation, un de ses principaux définisseurs et l'instrument par lequel s'exprime la réaction nationaliste. Ses ambitions, ses intérêts et surtout sa personnalité en font l'homme de cette réaction Arrivé à la tête du mouvement nationaliste pour toutes sortes de motivations, il parvient à en conserver la direction pendant près de vingt-cinq ans. Après 1830, il forme même le projet de devenir président d'une république canadienne-française indépendante ou rattachée à l'Angleterre par des liens fort ténus. Mais Papineau était l'homme de l'opposition, de l'obstruction systématique et de l'agitation verbale. Il n'était pas taillé pour l'action. Idéaliste, doctrinaire, indécis, profondément tiraillé entre des tendances contraires, son royaume était la Chambre d'Assemblée. Il était davantage un symbole que l'animateur d'un mouvement révolutionnaire. En somme, rien ne le prédisposait, si ce n'est son ambition et la fidélité au mythe qu'il incarnait, à être le chef d'une insurrection et à le demeurer malgré tout. Pourtant ses attitudes politiques conduisaient directement à une prise d'armes. L'obstruction systématique qu'il pratique après 1831-32 et l'intransigeance de ses revendications ne pouvaient avoir d'autre issue à moins que l'Angleterre et la minorité britannique du Bas-Canada ne consentissent à des concessions globales. Or, l'une et l'autre se refusent absolument à envisager cette option. Au moment où débute l'année 1837, les conflits politiques paraissent insolubles. En somme, les insurrections de 1837-38 seraient l'aboutissement logique d'un ensemble de facteurs, dont certains jouaient depuis les premières années du XIXe siècle. Est-ce à dire que cela suffisait à garantir le succès de l'opération ?

Les études linguistiques et sémiotiques en France entre les années soixante et soixante-dix ont laissé un héritage intellectuel, conceptuel considérable qui peine à trouver sa place aujourd’hui, et cela non pas uniquement dans les débats politique, journalistique et médiatique, mais paradoxalement dans les échanges entre les disciplines universitaires mêmes. Une situation paradoxale car un des acquis de cet héritage était précisément sa visée interdisciplinaire. Dans cet article nous aborderons le cas du dialogue difficile, mais pourtant riche entre linguistique, sémiotique et historiographie. Leur réduction aujourd’hui sous l’étiquette un peu trop généralisatrice du structuralisme n’est pas suffisante, et une lecture plus détaillée doit être réalisée. De ce point de vue l’exemple de Greimas est particulièrement intéressant. Le père de la sémiotique narrative tout en étant parmi les premiers à tendre la main et se lancer dans cet échange interdisciplinaire, demeure finalement un des auteurs le moins connu et le moins débattu de ce qu’on appellera par la suite le ‘’tournant narratif’’ de l’historiographie française. En même temps, le sémioticien a toujours exprimé sa réticence et il n’a pas hésité de critiquer toute application approximative et imprécise des notions sémiotiques dans les études historiques. Une attitude ‘’ferme’’ et ‘’ouverte’’ à la fois qui doit être explicitée. En relisant les trois articles rédigés par Greimas dans lesquels il aborde directement cette question, nous cherchons à trouver l’origine de sa réticence malgré son application, en soulignant les enjeux méthodologiques et épistémologiques mobilisés par le sémioticien qui ne sont pas déterminés uniquement par son approche structuraliste, et puis de repérer les points de désaccord qui ont aboutis finalement à une interruption presque totale de tout dialogue, de tout projet interdisciplinaire entre sémiotique et historiographie. Donc enfin, une impasse définitive ou une suspension provisoire, mais à quel prix?

Leila Sebbar, since the beginning of her literary work, has been describing her identity experience connected with her mixed family origins: the writer’s father was Algerian and her mother French. This prevailing thread in her texts demonstrates the weight of the (re)construction of identity, frequently incoherent and delicate, in order to confirm her ethnic and cultural affinity.The author of this article is interested in problems, so close to the writer, of identity and history. The point of departure of the reflection on Sebbar’s attitude towards mother tongues of her parents is the analysis of her autobiographical novel “Je ne parle pas la langue de mon père” (2003). “We are not born with one identity, an identity is always gained, built”, maintains Sebbar and through this statement she confirms the role of the cultural baggage in the broad sense of the word, in the life of an individual coming from a culturally diversified environment. The questions of the ignorance of the Arabic language also lead the writer to define not only the picture of the individual family history but also common history, the history of the inhabitants of Algeria during the French colonization. The Seine Was Red: Paris, October 1961 (1999) is a story in which its author continues to exploit, tirelessly, the issue related to the history of its two countries: Algeria and France. For Leïla Sebbar, to return to the traumatic events of the massacre of dozens of Algerians in Paris on October 17, 1961 means to enter into incessant dialogue with the painful past. It seems that the writer’s will to confront the past is one of characteristic qualities of her works. In an original, far from stereotypical, way she tries to disclose errors and fights the oblivion and repression of uncomfortable events from history. The aim of the article is to analyze the non-stereotyped strategies that Sebbar uses to build his characters and to reflect on the modes of representations of History and identity.

Examiner les modalités actuelles de continuité périnatale dans l’organisation des soins amène à retrouver l’origine du concept « sentiment continu d’exister » à divers moments de l’histoire des idées, puis à celle des pratiques. Socle dans la construction de l’humain, les moyens de l’assurer chez l’enfant en construction mettent en jeu de multiples facteurs. La pénétration de la théorie de l’attachement dans la culture médicale et psychologique en a favorisé la diffusion. D’abord étudié au sein de la dyade mère–bébé, le cadre d’analyse s’est élargi à la place du père, et à l’environnement professionnel dans sa proximité avec les parents et l’enfant aux étapes précoces de la vie, marquées par la médicalisation des décennies précédentes. De ce fait, le monde obstétricopédiatrique s’est complexifié. Les nouvelles technologies de soins ont confronté les équipes à des charges émotionnelles incontournables. C’est dans le rapprochement des disciplines concernées par le devenir de l’enfant, tant sur le plan somatique que psychoaffectif, qu’ont pu se repérer les fossés au sein du monde professionnel. Ces écarts tiennent à la matérialité des organisations, aux conditions d’exercice fort distantes, aux cultures monodisciplinaires jusqu’alors exclusives, ainsi qu’aux langages et aux objectifs distincts. L’impact des attitudes et pratiques médicales et psychosociales en ces moments sensibles est devenu objet de recherche. Chaque terrain développe ses stratégies, aidé selon les sites par une politique de soins telle que la création des réseaux périnatals en France. Une étroite collaboration entre trois équipes française, suisse et belge a permis depuis deux décennies de coanimer l’analyse minutieuse des processus de changement psychoémotionnel chez les futurs parents, et leur retentissement sur l’enfant en devenir, à la lumière des nouvelles modalités d’accompagnement pluriprofessionnel dans la succession des étapes. Même si les politiques de santé diffèrent, un état d’esprit commun s’est dégagé, ménageant l’inventivité et le rythme de chaque site. Un effort de publication et d’enseignement s’est mené ensemble. Le schéma « APRC » (Accompagnement personnalisé en réseau coordonné), élaboré au fil des années grâce aux propositions de praticiens engagés, aux recommandations administratives, aux échanges entre régions et pays, dessine un ensemble de dispositifs légers qui organisent la communication au sein du réseau professionnel. Les éléments de discontinuité sont présents, nécessaires, et témoignent de la diversification des rôles au fil des étapes. Mais ils s’intègrent dans un contexte environnemental toujours en mouvement, formant une toile protectrice et souple autour des personnes qui pourront s’y appuyer. Mis en forme sur le site de Montpellier, l’APRC a bénéficié récemment d’une étude comparative qui en confirme l’efficacité. Il constitue une étape dans l’effort de prévention précoce, susceptible d’améliorations permanentes.

Cadre de la recherche :Dans les sociétés occidentales postmodernes, des hommes adoptent désormais des comportements traditionnellement étiquetés comme féminins, notamment dans la répartition des rôles autour de l’enfant. En Suisse, l’investissement concret des hommes est toutefois caractérisé, globalement et en comparaison des femmes, par une implication moindre dans les tâches domestiques et familiales, qui diminue encore après la naissance d’un enfant.Objectifs :Partant de ce constat, cet article explore le rapport entre l’idéologie genrée et l’engagement des hommes et des pères dans ce domaine.Méthodologie :À l’aide de modèles statistiques multivariés, notre analyse tente de déterminer si les attitudes envers la vie familiale et l’égalité ont une influence sur l’implication domestique et familiale des hommes. Nous mobilisons pour cela plus de 25 000 entretiens téléphoniques effectués entre 2000 et 2011 dans le cadre du Panel suisse de ménages (PSM).Résultats :Les résultats font ressortir quatre formes de masculinité. « L’homme professionnel » construit sa masculinité essentiellement dans l’investissement professionnel sur le marché du travail et financier au sein du ménage. « L’homme orthodoxe » reste le pourvoyeur principal des revenus, sans pour autant dédaigner les tâches ménagères. Néanmoins, il s’occupe surtout de celles qui sont socialement définies comme étant masculines. « Le traditionnel gestionnaire » a un profil similaire, si ce n’est qu’il prend également en charge des tâches dites négociables, les tâches administratives du ménage. « L’homme inclusif » est celui qui partage le plus le temps de travail rémunéré et non rémunéré avec sa compagne.Conclusions :En définitive, ces différents profils s’expliquent moins par la mise en pratique d’une idéologie de genre que par des facteurs institutionnels ou pragmatiques comme le capital économique et humain à disposition des partenaires.Contribution : En proposant une typologie de l’implication dans le travail non rémunéré d’hommes en Suisse et en examinant de manière empirique plusieurs explications des différences constatées, cet article apporte une contribution originale à la connaissance des masculinités en contexte familial.

Dans le cadre d’une étude portant sur l’offre et la recherche d’aide des pères en rupture d’union, et compte tenu de tous les changements législatifs entourant les séparations, il nous est apparu important de connaître plus en détail le point de vue des usagers des organismes de défense des droits sur les rapports entretenus avec la justice et plus particulièrement les professionnels du droit : avocats et juges. L’expérience négative de certains pères avec les acteurs du système de justice provoque l’effritement du sentiment de confiance dans les institutions. Cette attitude procède du sentiment d’avoir perdu une partie de leur contrôle sur ce monde ce qui correspond à la fragilisation de la famille patriarcale, la remise en cause des stéréotypes sexuels, la difficulté de trouver une grille d’orientation rudimentaire dans un monde complexe.

<p>Ecouter, du point de vue biblique, c'est s'engager existentiellement à mettre en pratique la Parole de Dieu au point qu'elle s'incarne dans la vie du croyant. L'écoute dans cette perspective est à la fois obéissante et confiante en ce sens qu'elle est détachée de toute idée de contrainte et de soumission aveugle. Cette compréhension de l'écoute trouve une resonance particulière chez les Pères de l'Eglise qui, dans une perspective plutôt pastorale, invitent à une lecture spirituelle de la Parole de Dieu dans le but d'en être transformé. Dans l'optique d'une réflexion sur l'inculturation, l'écoute comprise comme une attitude obéissante et confiante est une donnée fondamentale pour l'émergence de l'Eglise-famille de Dieu en Afrique. L'avènement effectif de cette dernière exige que les membres de la nouvelle famille de Dieu s'inscrivent dans une démarche d'écoute de type kénotique et extatique.</p>

Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe depicts the adventures of a protagonist named Crusoe who grew up in a family entirely devoted to the teachings of the Holy Bible in a dogmatic wing of Christianity known as puritanism. As he reaches his maturity, the young Crusoe went to sea much against his father, whence he started experiencing such unbearable misfortunes that he always regrets his deed at every single misadventure. This paper intends to elaborate on the relevance of the fourth commandment in the novel of Daniel Defoe by conducting a meticulous analysis upon the adventures of Crusoe in order to propose a new reading of the adventures of Crusoe by pointing out the relevance of experience and self-made-man attitude in the fulfilment of every successful man. Robinson Crusoé de Daniel Defoe est un roman d’aventure dont le personnage principal est Crusoé. Crusoé a grandi dans une famille fortement religieuse de l’aile radicale du christianisme connu sous le nom de puritanisme. Celui-ci dans sa quête de réalisation de soi, désobéit à son père en allant à la mer. Ce choix l’exposa à une pléthore de malheurs qu'il regrettait toujours son choix à chaque mésaventure. Cet article se propose de vérifier la pertinence du quatrième commandement biblique dans le roman de Daniel Defoe en menant une analyse minutieuse sur les aventures de Crusoé afin de proposer une nouvelle lecture des aventures de Crusoé en soulignant la pertinence de l'expérience et du self-made-man dans l'accomplissement de soi. <p> </p><p><strong> Article visualizations:</strong></p><p><img src="/-counters-/edu_01/0778/a.php" alt="Hit counter" /></p>

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