Journal articles on the topic 'Tausk, Victor, in fiction'

O presente artigo trata de "O inconsciente", texto metapsicológico escrito por Freud em 1915. Viso, aqui, indicar as diferentes abordagens e fontes que o influenciaram na elaboração deste conceito, assim como os impasses que precisou resolver e a importância da transferência no âmbito da clínica e da teoria. Discutirei cada um dos sete capítulos do referido trabalho.

Résumé Depuis son essai consacré à Victor Hugo en 1970, Victor-Lévy Beaulieu a multiplié les biographies d’écrivains. Ces essais entremêlant souvent l’écriture biographique et l’écriture de fiction, il devient possible de questionner la place qu’ils occupent dans l’oeuvre de Beaulieu et le rôle qu’ils jouent dans l’élaboration de ses textes de fiction. Dans cet article, l’auteur analyse les rapports entre l’écriture biographique et l’écriture de fiction chez Beaulieu, principalement dans Monsieur Melville. Dans un premier temps, il dégage la dialectique de la biographie et de la fiction chez Beaulieu, notamment à la lumière de l’inscription de la figure du golem dans Monsieur Melville. Dans un deuxième temps, à partir des thèmes de la filiation et de l’héritage, l’auteur mesure l’impact de Monsieur Melville sur l’élaboration de l’oeuvre littéraire de Beaulieu dans les années quatre-vingt et quatre-vingt-dix.

As the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY) nears its end, questions about victimhood and restorative justice remain salient. Can the law adequately attend to victim trauma? Focusing on the remedial notion of “making whole” a victim of atrocity, this article looks to Aleksandar Hemon’s first novel, The Question of Bruno (2000), to illuminate legal limitations to facilitating human recovery. Hemon is a Bosnian immigrant who departed Sarajevo in 1992 and began writing in English several years later. Exhibiting the fragmentation typical in postmodern fiction, Hemon’s work can be situated in a distinct literary moment. Yet the novel also creates new narrative forms that incorporate the reader in a restorative task. While considering the gaps in the remedial procedures at the ICTY, I argue that The Question of Bruno implores its reader to reconstruct a new kind of historical record that heals, while acknowledging the liminal spaces from which many victims speak and write.

The author attempts a ‘Roazenesque’ interpretation of Paul Roazen's life and work, and situates his career vis-à-vis that of other revisionist critics of Freud. To these ends, the essay charts the highs and lows of Roazen's long career as a biographer-historian of psychoanalysis. His career is divided into four phases, the first of which is arguably the most important. It was also the most controversial, producing classic books on Victor Tausk and on Freud's followers. Roazen's later work fares less well, even undermining his standing among scholars. If there is a commonality to the work of all four phases, it is Roazen's fairly constant recourse to interviews he conducted in the mid-1960s with many people intimate with Freud. On the good side, these interviews provided him unique access to details about Freud's everyday life and practice. Roazen thus became known as the historian of the arcane detail. On the bad side, Roazen came to rely too heavily on these interviews and on his own singular role as interviewer. As a result his work became increasingly self-regarding and nostalgic, and thus less original, interesting, or discerning. His legacy is therefore mixed, although secure enough that future scholars will not easily ignore his contribution in a handful of good books.

John Banville's The Untouchable functions as a critique of subjectivity after modernism, specifically theories of the decentred subject. The narrator of the book, Victor Maskell, is a fictionalized version of English art historian and Soviet spy Anthony Blunt, and through this fictional memoir, Banville offers a portrait of the self with a terrible absence at its centre, implicating modernism's suspicion that the subject, or cogito, is a discursive fiction as the source of Maskell's treason and nihilism. At the heart of Maskell's identity is the death drive, the ‘blind automatism of repetition beyond pleasure seeking’ (in Slavoj Zizek's terms) that confounds the subject such as Maskell, in search of a ‘true self’, and makes life an absurd black comedy. Through his original narrator, who represents a fiction of a fiction of a fiction – Maskell/Blunt/cogito – Banville suggests that the only authentic existence may indeed lie in deception.

Résumé Poser la question de la sexuation du discours en bordure du réel impos-sessible, dans le hors-champ de la différence et non dans le champ des différences, même sexuelles, telles est l'ambition de cet article qui voudrait saisir le sujet d'énonciation dans l'aliénation qui le traverse et l'expulse hors des lieux dits de son identité, dans l'espace métapborisant de sa fiction. Dans le récit-fleuve que sont Les Voyageries de Victor-Lévy Beaulieu, l'auteure essaie de lire -le désenchantement' du " si pauvre Abel- dont l'écriture semble se conjuguer au futur antérieur, tout entière entre regret et promesse, en plein coeur du désir.

Purpose: to trace how the representative Russian science fiction texts reflect the process of the exploration of the Earths satellite, both in scientific/technical and socio-philosophical aspects. Methods: comparative-historical, mythopoetic, socio-historical, hermeneutical, structural analysis. Results: Konstantin Tsiolkovsky, the outstanding rocket scientist and pioneer of the astronautic theory, in his story On the Moon conjectured in detail the impression of an observer on its surface. The Soviet science fiction writer Alexander Belyaev developed Tsiolkovskys hypotheses in the story The Star KETs in which the Moon becomes accessible due to the construction of a space station in Earths orbit, named after the scientist: Star K(onstantin) E(duardovich) Ts(iolkovsky). In the Soviet Union, which was actively engaged in the research of the Moon, the interest in it was so great that it was reflected even in childrens literature. Simultaneously with the deployment of the Soviet lunar program, a fairy-tale novel by Nikolai Nosov Dunno on the Moon appeared. The novel shows the atmosphere of rivalry between the USSR and the United States in the exploration of the Moon. The science fiction vector is unfolded in the picaresque genre. In Victor Pelevins novel Omon Ra the question is raised not only of the research prospects of lunar landings, but also of the spiritual price of scientific search which implies the active participation of the state: is a free intellectual and technical search possible for astrophysicists, engineers, and cosmonauts under the pressure of acute political necessities?

This article examines Peter Ackroyd’s popular Gothic novel The Casebook of Victor Frankenstein (2008), which is a reimagining of Mary Shelley’s famous Gothic novel Frankenstein, or, The Modern Prometheus ([1818] 2003). The basic premise of Ackroyd’s narrative seemingly resembles Shelley’s own, as Victor Frankenstein woefully reflects on the events that have brought about his mysterious downfall, and like the original text the voice of the Monster interrupts his creator to recount passages from his own afterlife. However, Ackroyd’s adaption is instead set within the historical context of the original story’s creation in the early nineteenth century. Ackroyd’s Frankenstein studies at Oxford, befriends radical Romantic poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, moves to London to conduct his reanimation experiments and even accompanies the Shelleys, Byron and Polidori on that fateful holiday when the original novel was conceived. This article explores how Ackroyd’s novel, as a form of the contemporary ‘popular’ Gothic, functions as an uncanny doppelgänger of Shelley’s Frankenstein. By blurring the boundaries between history and fiction, the original text and the context of its creation haunt Ackroyd’s adaptation in uncannily doubled and self-reflexive ways that speak to Frankenstein’s legacy for the Gothic in popular culture. The dénouement of Ackroyd’s narrative reveals that the Monster is Frankenstein’s psychological doppelgänger, a projection of insanity, and thus Frankenstein himself is the Monster. This article proposes that this final twist is an uncanny reflection of the narrative’s own ‘Frankenstein-ian’ monstrous metafictional construction, for it argues that Ackroyd’s story is a ‘strange case(book)’ haunted by the ghosts of its Gothic literary predecessors.

Résumé Un rêve québécois de Victor-Lévy Beaulieu est un texte qui travaille à sa propre insanité, c'est-à-dire qui pousse à son comble l'expression ou l'expérience de l'abjection, du manque et de l'aliénation. C'est un « roman scié » qui délibérément se livre à l'horreur pour mieux ressaisir — en négatif — la voix catastrophée de son « romancier ». Ainsi, ce n'est pas que l'histoire d'un homme humilié qui expurge sa rage en fantasmant qu'il sacrifie et mutile sa femme infidèle. C'est surtout la métaphore d'un rêve d'écriture qui tourne mal, d'une main toujours gauche à écrire une Oeuvre qui s'objecte et qui manifestement ne peut s'écrire sans combat ni perte, sans dommage ni ravage. Fiction d'une (con)quête éperdue et d'une écriture suppliciante, Un rêve québécois porte en sa déficience l'écho d'une littérature malaisée et attentatoire et porte au corps les traces de ses violences.

Actuality. The modern study of literature now does not give the answer for a question, if it is possible to create a character of a man from the life by facilities of nonfiction narration, however, it is convincing and full-blooded in the reader’s perception as an artistic image. Stating the Subject of the Study: forming of character-image of writer V. Petrov-Domontovych in the circle of the Ukrainian emigrants of the post-war wave due to their remembrances, letters, and essays. Research methodology: through the comparative hermeneutic interpretation of texts, and also later fiction texts that formed the character-image of V. Petrov. Stating the Aim of the Study. Other mechanisms of reader reception work in nonfiction genres, then in fiction, id est it becomes possible another result – the character of real V. Petrov. Results of the Study and originality. The image of Victor Petrov, formed in the memory of representatives of Ukrainian literary emigration and recorded in their memoirs and correspondence, is no less ambivalent, than images of characters in the fictional works of Victor Domontovych. Expatriate contemporaries saw their colleague differently and remembered in different situations, however, it is significant that people, in many respects disagree with moral assessments, hostile to others (as Ihor Kachurovsky, who always biased towards Yuri Sherekh-Shevelov and even repeated stereotyped allegations against him after his death) they were largely controversial in the estimation of V. Petrov. On the one hand, V. Domontovych deserved respect as a talented prose writer; on the other hand, V. Petrov was a mystery as a person. His collaboration with the Soviet special services did not cause unequivocal condemnation, since the circumstances of his "disappearance" from Munich in 1949 remained unclear. Most of those people who spoke about this event immediately after it was treated to the disappeared man with compassion because they suspected the "human beings"-brothers (Yuriy Lavrinenko) from the Soviet side. Image of V. Petrov mostly appears "split", as well as images of characters in the novels of V. Domontovich. The practical significance. In non-fictional texts, the researcher can trace the path of the formation of the image and stereotype, returning and approaching the prototype.

Following his Columbia Anthology of Traditional Chinese Literature (1994) and the Shorter Columbia Anthology of Traditional Chinese Literature (2000), the Columbia History of Chinese Literature intends to complement these two widely used readers. Edited by Victor H. Mair, the 55 chapters of this single-volume history of Chinese literature are chronologically arranged with thematic chapters interspersed. Indeed, a closer look at the chapters reveals that the book at hand follows the traditional dictum of wen shi zhe bu fenjia, i.e. that literature, history and philosophy should not be separated but regarded as one field of studies. Hence the scope of this history goes far beyond the scope of what is traditionally subsumed under the heading of literature. In addition to the topics (all genres and periods of poetry, prose, fiction, and drama) that one expects in a book of this sort, wit and humour, proverbs and rhetoric, historical and philosophical writings, classical exegesis, literary theory and criticism, traditional fiction commentary, as well as popular culture, the impact of religion upon literature, the role of women, and the relationship with non-Chinese languages and peoples (ethnic minorities, Korea, Japan, Vietnam) feature as topics of individual chapters.Most of the chapters are written by leading specialists in those areas and are highly informative as well as concisely presented. Moreover, a number of chapters are thought-provoking enough to inspire questions that may lead towards a more focused research on hitherto neglected or less well-documented topics. In this sense, The Columbia History of Chinese Literature may also be perceived as a potential major impetus for further developments in the study of pre-modern and modern Chinese literature and related fields. Since the volume aims at bringing the riches of China's literary tradition into focus for a general readership, the majority of chapters can probably be best described as outlines of specific developments that should encourage readers to consult more specialized publications.

This essay explores the use of haunting in two Australian adolescent mystery novels, Victor Kelleher's Baily's Bones (1988) and Anthony Eaton's A New Kind of Dreaming (2001). Both novels mobilise the mystery genre as a means to interrogate Australia's colonial past and neocolonial present. The function of the spatial environments in which the novels take place and the construction and function of haunting in each novel is interrogated. It is argued that haunting is figured as a disruptive process whereby the repressed colonial scene intrudes on the present, such that the haunting the teenage protagonists experience encourages them to enquire into the past. While on the one hand the novels advocate a renewed interrogation of Australia's past in order to develop a more comprehensive understanding of the present, a closer reading of the texts reveals that the novels fail to sustain their postcolonial endeavours. Thus, while adolescent mystery fiction is a genre that can be mobilised in the name of postcolonial enquiry, the difficulty of doing so effectively is illustrative of the wider challenge of achieving decolonisation.

Given the centrality of Shakespeare to the Western canon and, more specifically, to the idea of a national English literary tradition, and given that Shylock is one of his most (in)famous creations, it is hardly surprising that he has proved irresistible to a number of Anglo-Jewish authors. Attempts to rehabilitate Shylock and/or to reimagine his fate are not a recent phenomenon. In the post-war era, however, the task of revisiting Shakespeare’s play took on a new urgency, particularly for Jewish writers. In this essay I look at the ways in which three contemporary British Jewish authors—Arnold Wesker, Howard Jacobson and Clive Sinclair—have revisited The Merchant of Venice, focusing on the figure of Shylock as an exemplar of what Bryan Cheyette has described as “the protean instability of ‘the Jew’ as a signifier”. Wesker, Jacobson and Sinclair approach Shakespeare’s play and its most memorable character in very different ways but they share a sense that Shylock symbolically transgresses boundaries of time and space—history and geography—and is a mercurial, paradoxical figure: villain and (anti-)hero; victim and perpetrator; scapegoat and scourge. Wesker’s play is more didactic than the fiction of Jacobson and Sinclair but ultimately his Shylock eludes the historicist parameters that he attempts to impose on him, while the Shylocks of Shylock is My Name and Shylock Must Die transcend their literary-historical origins, becoming slippery, self-reflexive, protean figures who talk back to Shakespeare, while at the same time speaking to the concerns of contemporary culture.

In the early stages of the development of the Latvian national literature, periodicals used to publish information, reflections, and overviews on foreign culture and literature parallel to (or sometimes even before) the appearance of the corresponding translations in the Latvian cultural space. The material selected for publication determined whether the rendition of the facts was factual or imaginative, saturated with details familiar to the reader, or introduced new information. Furthermore, periodicals quite often reprinted information on situations and characters found in foreign press that seemed curious or odd to their Latvian readership. The popularity of these publications, like that of light fiction, stemmed from the widespread interest in exotic narratives. Narratives about the literary works of foreign authors held a very distinctive position among this idiosyncratic material. A prime example is the overview of Victor Hugo’s writings and biography in the Latvian periodicals at the end of the 19th century, predating the translations of his works in Latvian. The discussion which took place in the public space offers an insight into the contradictory reception process of foreign literature, revealing that the formation of Latvian national identity and literature was influenced both by the openness to otherness and a variety of hermeticism or distancing from otherness.

Abstract Extant criticism of crime and mystery fiction has indicated how protagonists have freedom of choice in dealing with difficult situations in different forms of risky or challenging settings. In this article, previous criticism is evaluated in terms of its reflection of an essential element of the human condition: the Self’s free will to construct the existential and spatial meanings of its phenomenological existence in relation to the Other. The article further indicates that protagonists tend to disregard their freedom and responsibility for their actions, especially when they make existential choices in traumatic or critical situations. Additionally, the dominance of others and variously suppressive spatial contexts can inhibit the protagonists from acknowledging their free will to act responsibly in order to reach their authentic existence. This article integrates Jean Paul Sartre’s concept of the human condition and the corresponding interpretative framework of spatial concepts from different thinkers, such as Edward Relph, Arnold van Gennep, Victor W. Turner and Mikhail M. Bakhtin, who emphasize the significance of places in the meaning-construction of the Self’s identity and its existence in relation to the Other. Through the integration of these theoretical frameworks, the portrayal of protagonists in contemporary crime and mystery novels is examined in order to illustrate individuals’ senses of freedom and responsibility for their own actions in existential and spatial contexts.

In the article there are summarized innovative approaches to artistic mastering of Bible topics in creative work of Ukrainian emigration writers of 1920th – 1970th: Natalena Koroleva, Leonid Mosendz and V. Domontovych (Victor Petrov). Ukrainian tradition of mastering Bible topics was interrupted by Russian occupation; it finds its bright artistic embodiment in artistic historical prose of Ukrainian emigration. This artistic experience enriches Ukrainian writing by mastering of Bible topics and motives via Bible stylizations, renaissance or creation of newly created new genre formations, contaminations of religious and historiosophical problems, searches of new narrative strategies of artistic mastering of the Holy Scripture. The article traces the way biblical stylizations become a style-forming means in the Ukrainian prose of the XX century. Historical novels Quid est Veritas?(What is the Truth?) by Natalena Koroleva and The Last Prophet by Leonid Mosendz are the basic works of fiction wherein they, playing forming roles, become an important element in poetic language and style. The way L. Mosendz uses bible stylizations in his novel The Last Prophet results in a special art amplification. The author conditionally expands his text’s sense by dint of bible stylizations and his allusive returning to the semiotic-semantic significance of the “base-text”. As the latter is the Bible (or, rather, the Old Testament), generating the said allusive amplifications, Mosendz’ novel, thus, sounds in several creative aspects. One of them is “filling up” the gaps in evangelical texts about John the Baptist’s life. Such “fillings up” occur both through the author’s fiction and his artistic reconstruction based on historical sources. The transformed and adsorbed through bible stylizations elements of neoclassicism and neo-romanticism create in the stylistic palette of novel Quid est Veritas? that unique stylistic aura, which represents Natalena Koroleva’s experimentalist attempts both in the genre field (her attempt to create a Ukrainian historical epopee representing the epoch historically very remote from the artist) and in the stylistic domain. One more specific feature of Koroleva’s novel – its epic character – is also created by help of bible stylizations. The allocation of the said stylistic macrostructures enables to present the general exhibitions of each of the author’s basic idiostyle elements.

Resumo: Este artigo objetiva identificar e refletir sobre as estratégias discursivas utilizadas nos prefácios de obras que participam da consolidação do sistema literário brasileiro no século XIX: Primeiros cantos, Lira dos vinte anos, A moreninha e Ressurreição. Busca-se estudar as imagens construídas acerca do Leitor, do Autor e da Obra nos textos introdutórios de Gonçalves Dias, Álvares de Azevedo, Joaquim Manuel de Macedo e Machado de Assis. Parte-se da concepção de paratexto desenvolvida por Gérard Genette (2009) que destaca, especialmente, o aspecto intersticial do prefácio, além do cotejo com dois grandes modelos de prefácio para o Romantismo brasileiro: o Prólogo da Primeira Parte de O engenhoso fidalgo Dom Quixote de La Mancha, de Miguel de Cervantes, e Prefácio ao Cromwell, de Victor Hugo. Ao reafirmar a condição de antessala da obra literária, o prefácio é entendido como um limiar entre realidade e ficção que, para além da função circunstancial e pragmática de apresentação do texto, possibilita a criação de uma verdadeira mise-en-scène discursiva. Nesse sentido, aprecia-se como os autores brasileiros, num contexto literário julgado incipiente, constroem os princípios de um “como e por que ler” indispensáveis à formação de um público-leitor.Palavras-chave: paratexto; prefácio; Romantismo.Abstract: This article seeks to identify and provoke reflections about the discursive strategies used in the prefaces of works that are part of the consolidation process of XIX century Brazilian literature: Primeiros cantos, Lira dos vinte anos, A moreninha and Ressurreição. The aim here is to study the images around the Reader, the Author and the Work within the forewords from Gonçalves Dias, Álvares de Azevedo, Joaquim Manuel de Macedo and Machado de Assis. The article parts from the concept of paratext developed by Gérard Genette (2009), which highlights the interstitial aspect of the preface, besides the comparison between two great preface models for the Brazilian Romanticism: the Prologue from the First Part of The Ingenious Knight Dom Quixote de La Mancha, by Miguel de Cervantes, and Preface to Cromwell, by Victor Hugo. While reaffirming a prelude status in the literary work, the preface is understood as a threshold between reality and fiction and enables the creation of a true discursive mise-en-scène, apart from working as circumstantial and pragmatic tool to present the text. In this regard, the way that Brazilian authors weave the principles of a “way and a reason to read” in a literary context considered incipient is very much appreciated and indispensable for the formation of a readership.Keywords: paratext; preface; Romanticism.

Modern researchers consider the oeuvre of Sigizmund Dominikovich Krzhizhanovsky, the Russian-speaking writer of Polish origin, to be a “literary phenomenon” and a “literary discovery” of the twentieth century. Publications, translations into many world languages and active scholar familiarization with the writer’s heritage begins in the end of XX – at the beginning of XXI centuries. The article examines the Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky’s prose that presents the original artistic heterogeneous universe, where a “multidimensional world” becomes the structure creating model. In the Krzhizhanovsky’s prose a word-creative experiment plays an important role in the creation of many interconnected worlds. The number of writer’s occasional forms even does not undergo an approximate estimation. The second important factor of creating a model of “multidimensional world” is defamiliarization (by Victor Shklovsky) as a phenomenological and gnoseological principle and method. The writer’s artistic consciousness is based on the phenomenon of understanding, connected with the change of vision and understanding, which pulls objects or things out of usual contexts of recognition and re-describing them as a “new discovered” phenomena. Due to this the usual appears unusual, strange. Krzhizhanovsky creates conditional, metaphysical, phantasmagorical and paradoxical worlds. In these strange worlds boundaries of Real and Irreal are blurred, the fiction itself acquires a real image, and reality emerges fantastic. The “logic” of alogism and paradoxes often functions in these worlds. In the artistic language the writer uses the strategy of “morbid” nomination that creatively enriches speech resources and refreshes the literary thesaurus. In the Krzhizhanovsky’s artistic world dominant narrative and pictorial strategies are also based on the next methods: the reviving of things, phenomena and abstract notions, thoughts and words, etc.; materialisation and narrative implementation of metaphors; the use of grotesque. An important role is played by the saturated intertextuality and game modus at different levels: from language and speech to codification of culture. In such a way the author’s model of Philosophy of creativity and philosophy of culture as an endless polyphonic polylog, continuous creative process and boundless creative imagination is realized.

Постмодернистский роман Дж. Уинтерсон “Frankissstein” балансирует между жанрами, являя собой причудливый сплав научной фантастики, сатирического памфлета, готического, любовного романа; психологического романа о трудностях взросления. В диалоге с претекстом, романом «Франкенштейн, или Современный Прометей» (1818) авторства Мэри Шелли, современная писательница размышляет о возможности и оправданности человеческого вмешательства в природу, в том числе половую, уже на новом витке развития цивилизации, в разгар очередной научно-технической революции. Действие романа “Frankissstein” разворачивается в двух временных и пространственных плоскостях, связанных системой героев-двойников. Первая отсылает к истории создания романа «Франкенштейн, или Современный Прометей» и биографии его автора Мэри Шелли. Второй пласт повествования рассказывает о мире, похожем на современный, где доктор Виктор Штейн задействован в долгосрочном научном проекте, связанном с сохранением в замороженном виде тел добровольцев, с целью их дальнейшего воскрешения силами науки, а также делает опыты по восстановлению, в автономии от тела, интеллекта умерших. Феминистская проблематика представлена в романе в оригинальном ключе. Протест против гендерной стереотипизации в романе соседствует с раздумьями о гендерной и сексуальной идентичности и сопряженной с ними дискриминации. The postmodernist novel “Frankissstein” by Jeanette Winterson balances between genres, presenting a fusion of science fiction, satirical pamphlet, gothic, romance novel; psychological novel about growing up, coupled with trauma. In a dialogue with the pretext, “Frankenstein, or Modern Prometheus” (1818) by Mary Shelley, Winterson reflects on the possibility and justification of human intervention in nature, including sexual, already at a new stage of development of civilization, in the midst of another scientific and technological revolution. The novel “Frankissstein” takes place in two temporal and spatial planes, connected by a system of double heroes. The first refers to the history of the creation of the novel “Frankenstein, or Modern Prometheus” and the biography of its author Mary Shelley. The second layer of the narrative tells about a world similar to the modern, where Dr. Victor Stein is involved in long-term research project related to preserving frozen bodies of volunteers, with a view to their future resurrection of the forces of science and doing experiments on the restoration of the autonomy of the body, the intellect of the dead. Feminist issues are presented in the novel in an original way. The protest against gender stereotyping in the novel is juxtaposed with reflections on gender and sexual identity and the discrimination associated with them.

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Mental Health Policy development and implementation in Ghana, South Africa, Uganda and Zambia</strong></p><p>Alan J Flisher, Crick Lund, Michelle Frank, Arvin Bhana, Victor Doku, Natalie Drew, Fred N Kigozi, Martin Knapp, Mayeh Omar, Inge Petersen, Andrew Green andthe MHaPP Research Programme Consortium</p><p><strong>12. What indicators should be used to monitor progress in scaling uo services for people with mental disorders?</strong></p><p>Lancet Global Mental Health Group (Alan J Flisher, Dan Chisholm, Crick Lund, Vikram Patel, Shokhar Saxena, Graham Thornicroft, Mark Tomlinson)</p><p><strong>13. Does unipolar mania merit research in South Africa? A look at the literature</strong></p><p>Christoffel Grobler</p><p><strong>14. Revisiting the Cartesian duality of mind and body</strong></p><p>Oye Gureje</p><p><strong>15. Child and adolescent psychopharmacology: Current trends and complexities</strong></p><p>S M Hawkridge</p><p><strong>16. Integrating mental illness, suicide and religion</strong></p><p>Volker Hitzeroth</p><p><strong>17. Cost of acute inpatient mental health care in a 72-hour assessment uniy</strong></p><p>A B R Janse van Rensburg, W Jassat</p><p><strong>18. Management of Schizophrenia according to South African standard treatment guidelines</strong></p><p>A B R Janse van Rensburg</p><p><strong>19. Structural brain imaging in the clinical management of psychiatric illness</strong></p><p>F Y Jeenah</p><p><strong>20. ADHD: Change in symptoms from child to adulthood</strong></p><p>S A Jeeva, A Turgay</p><p><strong>21. HIV-Positive psychiatric patients in antiretrovirals</strong></p><p>G Jonsson, F Y Jeenah, M Y H Moosa</p><p><strong>22. A one year review of patients admitted to tertiary HIV/Neuropsychiatry beds in the Western Cape</strong></p><p>John Joska, Paul Carey, Ian Lewis, Paul Magni, Don Wilson, Dan J Stein</p><p><strong>23. Star'd - Critical review and treatment implications</strong></p><p>Andre Joubert</p><p><strong>24. Options for treatment-resistent depression: Lessons from Star'd; an interactive session</strong></p><p>Andre Joubert</p><p><strong>25. My brain made me do it: How Neuroscience may change the insanity defence</strong></p><p>Sean Kaliski</p><p><strong>26. Child andadolescent mental health services in four African countries</strong></p><p>Sharon Kleintjies, Alan Flisher, Victoruia Campbell-Hall, Arvin Bhana, Phillippa Bird, Victor Doku, Natalie, Drew, Michelle Funk, Andrew Green, Fred Kigozi, Crick Lund, Angela Ofori-Atta, Mayeh Omar, Inge Petersen, Mental Health and Poverty Research Programme Consortium</p><p><strong>27. Individualistic theories of risk behaviour</strong></p><p>Liezl Kramer, Volker Hitzeroth</p><p><strong>28. Development and implementation of mental health poliy and law in South Africa: What is the impact of stigma?</strong></p><p>Ritsuko Kakuma, Sharon Kleintjes, Crick Lund, Alan J Flisher, Paula Goering, MHaPP Research Programme Consortium</p><p><strong>29. Factors contributing to community reintegration of long-term mental health crae users of Weskoppies Hospital</strong></p><p>Carri Lewis, Christa Kruger</p><p><strong>30. Mental health and poverty: A systematic review of the research in low- and middle-income countries</strong></p><p>Crick Lund, Allison Breen, Allan J Flisher, Ritsuko Kakuma, Leslie Swartz, John Joska, Joanne Corrigall, Vikram Patel, MHaPP Research Programe Consortium</p><p><strong>31. The cost of scaling up mental health care in low- and middle-income countries</strong></p><p>Crick Lund, Dan Chishlom, Shekhar Saxena</p><p><strong>32. 'Tikking'Clock: The impact of a methamphetamine epidemic at a psychiatric hospital in the Western Cape</strong></p><p>P Milligan, J S Parker</p><p><strong>33. Durban youth healh-sk behaviour: Prevalence f Violence-related behaviour</strong></p><p>D L Mkize</p><p><strong>34. Profile of morality of patients amitted Weskoppies Psychiatric Hospital in Sout frican over a 5-Year period (2001-2005)</strong></p><p>N M Moola, N Khamker, J L Roos, P Rheeder</p><p><strong>35. One flew over Psychiatry nest</strong></p><p>Leverne Mountany</p><p><strong>36. The ethical relationship betwe psychiatrists and the pharmaceutical indutry</strong></p><p>Margaret G Nair</p><p><strong>37. Developing the frameor of a postgraduate da programme in mental health</strong></p><p>R J Nichol, B de Klerk, M M Nel, G van Zyl, J Hay</p><p><strong>38. An unfolding story: The experience with HIV-ve patients at a Psychiatric Hospital</strong></p><p>J S Parker, P Milligan</p><p><strong>39. Task shifting: A practical strategy for scalingup mental health care in developing countries</strong></p><p>Vikram Patel</p><p><strong>40. Ethics: Informed consent and competency in the elderly</strong></p><p>Willie Pienaar</p><p><strong>41. Confronting ommonmoral dilemmas. Celebrating uncertainty, while in search patient good</strong></p><p>Willie Pienaar</p><p><strong>42. Moral dilemmas in the treatment and repatriation of patients with psychtorders while visiting our country</strong></p><p>Duncan Ian Rodseth</p><p><strong>43. Geriatrics workshop (Psegal symposium): Medico-legal issuess in geriatric psyhiatry</strong></p><p>Felix Potocnik</p><p><strong>44. Brain stimulation techniques - update on recent research</strong></p><p>P J Pretorius</p><p><strong>45. Holistic/Alternative treatments in psychiatry</strong></p><p>T Rangaka, J Dill</p><p><strong>46. Cognitive behaviour therapy and other brief interventions for management of substances</strong></p><p>Solomon Rataemane</p><p><strong>47. A Transtheoretical view of change</strong></p><p>Nathan P Rogerson</p><p><strong>48. Profile of security breaches in longerm mental health care users at Weskoppies Hospital over a 6-month period</strong></p><p>Deleyn Rema, Lindiwe Mthethwa, Christa Kruger</p><p><strong>49. Management of psychogenic and chronic pain - A novel approach</strong></p><p>M S Salduker</p><p><strong>50. Childhood ADHD and bipolar mood disorders: Differences and similarities</strong></p><p>L Scribante</p><p><strong>51. The choice of antipsychotic in HIV-infected patients and psychopharmacocal responses to antipsychotic medication</strong></p><p>Dinesh Singh, Karl Goodkin</p><p><strong>52. Pearls in clinical neuroscience: A teaching column in CNS Spectrums</strong></p><p><strong></strong>Dan J Stein</p><p><strong>53. Urinary Cortisol secretion and traumatics in a cohort of SA Metro policemen A longitudinal study</strong></p><p>Ugash Subramaney</p><p><strong>54. Canabis use in Psychiatric inpatients</strong></p><p><strong></strong>M Talatala, G M Nair, D L Mkize</p><p><strong>55. Pathways to care and treatmt in first and multi-episodepsychosis: Findings fm a developing country</strong></p><p>H S Teh, P P Oosthuizen</p><p><strong>56. Mental disorders in HIV-infected indivat various HIV Treatment sites in South Africa</strong></p><p>Rita Thom</p><p><strong>57. Attendanc ile of long-term mental health care users at ocupational therapy group sessions at Weskoppies Hospital</strong></p><p>Ronel van der Westhuizen, Christa Kruger</p><p><strong>58. Epidemiological patterns of extra-medical drug use in South Africa: Results from the South African stress and health study</strong></p><p>Margaretha S van Heerden, Anna Grimsrud, David Williams, Dan Stein</p><p><strong>59. Persocentred diagnosis: Where d ps and mental disorders fit in the International classificaton of diseases (ICD)?</strong></p><p>Werdie van Staden</p><p><strong>60. What every psychiatrist needs to know about scans</strong></p><p>Herman van Vuuren</p><p><strong>61. Psychiatric morbidity in health care workers withle drug-resistant erulosis (MDR-TB) A case series</strong></p><p>Urvashi Vasant, Dinesh Singh</p><p><strong>62. Association between uetrine artery pulsatility index and antenatal maternal psychological stress</strong></p><p>Bavanisha Vythilingum, Lut Geerts, Annerine Roos, Sheila Faure, Dan J Stein</p><p><strong>63. Approaching the dual diagnosis dilemma</strong></p><p>Lize Weich</p><p><strong>64. Women's mental health: Onset of mood disturbance in midlife - Fact or fiction</strong></p><p>Denise White</p><p><strong>65. Failing or faking: Isses in the fiagnosis and treatment of adult ADHD</strong></p><p>Dora Wynchank</p>

-Jay B. Haviser, Jerald T. Milanich ,First encounters: Spanish explorations in the Caribbean and the United States, 1492-1570. Gainesville FL: Florida Museum of Natural History & University Presses of Florida, 1989. 221 pp., Susan Milbrath (eds)-Marvin Lunenfeld, The Libro de las profecías of Christopher Columbus: an en face edition. Delano C. West & August Kling, translation and commentary. Gainesville FL: University of Florida Press, 1991. x + 274 pp.-Suzannah England, Charles R. Ewen, From Spaniard to Creole: the archaeology of cultural formation at Puerto Real, Haiti. Tuscaloosa AL; University of Alabama Press, 1991. xvi + 155 pp.-Piero Gleijeses, Bruce Palmer Jr., Intervention in the Caribbean: the Dominican crisis of 1965. Lexington KY: University Press of Kentucky, 1989.-Piero Gleijeses, Herbert G. Schoonmaker, Military crisis management: U.S. intervention in the Dominican Republic, 1965. Westport CT: Greenwood Press, 1990. 152 pp.-Jacqueline A. Braveboy-Wagner, Fitzroy André Baptiste, War, cooperation, and conflict: the European possessions in the Caribbean, 1939-1945. Westport CT: Greenwood Press, 1988. xiv + 351 pp.-Peter Meel, Paul Sutton, Europe and the Caribbean. London: Macmillan Caribbean, 1991. xii + 260 pp.-Peter Meel, Betty Secoc-Dahlberg, The Dutch Caribbean: prospects for democracy. New York: Gordon and Breach, 1990. xix + 333 pp.-Michiel Baud, Rosario Espinal, Autoritarismo y democracía en la política dominicana. San José, Costa Rica: Ediciones CAPEL, 1987. 208 pp.-A.J.G. Reinders, J.M.R. Schrils, Een democratie in gevaar: een verslag van de situatie op Curacao tot 1987. Assen, Maastricht: Van Gorcum, 1990. xii + 292 pp.-Andrés Serbin, David W. Dent, Handbook of political science research on Latin America: trends from the 1960s to the 1990s. Westport CT: Greenwood, 1990.-D. Gail Saunders, Dean W. Collinwood, The Bahamas between worlds. Decatur IL: White Sound Press, 1989. vii + 119 pp.-D. Gail Saunders, Dean W. Collinwood ,Modern Bahamian society. Parkersburg IA: Caribbean Books, 1989. 278 pp., Steve Dodge (eds)-Peter Hulme, Pierrette Frickey, Critical perspectives on Jean Rhys. Washington DC: Three Continents Press, 1990. 235 pp.-Alvina Ruprecht, Lloyd W. Brown, El Dorado and Paradise: Canada and the Caribbean in Austin Clarke's fiction. Parkersburg IA: Caribbean Books, 1989. xv + 207 pp.-Ineke Phaf, Michiel van Kempen, De Surinaamse literatuur 1970-1985: een documentatie. Paramaribo: Uitgeverij de Volksboekwinkel, 1987. 406 pp.-Genevieve Escure, Barbara Lalla ,Language in exile: three hundred years of Jamaican Creole. Tuscaloosa AL: University of Alabama Press, 1990. xvii + 253 pp., Jean D'Costa (eds)-Charles V. Carnegie, G. Llewellyn Watson, Jamaican sayings: with notes on folklore, aesthetics, and social control.Tallahassee FL: Florida A & M University Press, 1991. xvi + 292 pp.-Donald R. Hill, Kaiso, calypso music. David Rudder in conversation with John La Rose. London: New Beacon Books, 1990. 33 pp.-Mark Sebba, John Victor Singler, Pidgin and creole tense-mood-aspect systems. Amsterdam and Philadelphia: John Benjamins, 1990. xvi + 240 pp.-Dale Tomich, Pedro San Miguel, El mundo que creó el azúcar: las haciendas en Vega Baja, 1800-873. Río Piedras, Puerto Rico: Ediciones Huracán, 1989. 224 pp.-César J. Ayala, Juan José Baldrich, Sembraron la no siembra: los cosecheros de tabaco puertorriqueños frente a las corporaciones tabacaleras, 1920-1934. Río Piedras, Puerto Rico: Ediciones Huracán, 1988.-Robert Forster, Jean-Michel Deveau, La traite rochelaise. Paris: Kathala, 1990. 334 pp.-Ernst van den Boogaart, Johannes Menne Postma, The Dutch in the Atlantic slave trade, 1600-1815. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990. xiv + 428 pp.-W.E. Renkema, T. van der Lee, Plantages op Curacao en hun eigenaren (1708-1845): namen en data voornamelijk ontleend aan transportakten. Leiden, the Netherlands: Grafaria, 1989. xii + 87 pp.-Mavis C. Campbell, Wim Hoogbergen, The Boni Maroon wars in Suriname. Leiden, the Netherlands: E.J. Brill, 1990. xvii + 254 pp.-Rafael Duharte Jiménez, Carlos Esteban Dieve, Los guerrilleros negros: esclavos fugitivos y cimarrones en Santo Domingo. Santo Domingo: Fundación Cultural Dominicana, 1989. 307 pp.-Rosemarijn Hoefte, Hans Ramsoedh, Suriname 1933-1944: koloniale politiek en beleid onder Gouverneur Kielstra. Delft, the Netherlands: Eburon, 1990. 255 pp.-Gert Oostindie, Kees Lagerberg, Onvoltooid verleden: de dekolonisatie van Suriname en de Nederlandse Antillen. Tilburg, the Netherlands: Instituut voor Ontwikkelingsvraagstukken, Katholieke Universiteit Brabant, 1989. ii + 265 pp.-Aisha Khan, Anthony de Verteuil, Eight East Indian immigrants. Port of Spain: Paria, 1989. xiv + 318 pp.-John Stiles, Willie L. Baber, The economizing strategy: an application and critique. New York: Peter Lang, 1988. xiii + 232 pp.-Faye V. Harrison, M.G. Smith, Poverty in Jamaica. Kingston: Institute of social and economic research, 1989. xxii + 167 pp.-Sidney W. Mintz, Dorian Powell ,Street foods of Kingston. Mona, Jamaica: Institute of social and economic research, 1990. xii + 125 pp., Erna Brodber, Eleanor Wint (eds)-Yona Jérome, Michel S. Laguerre, Urban poverty in the Caribbean: French Martinique as a social laboratory. New York: St. Martin's Press, 1990. xiv + 181 pp.

- Victoria J. Baker, Anthony Jackson, Anthropology at home, ASA monographs 25, London: Tavistock Publications, 1987, 221 pages. - Thomas Bargatzky, Martin A. van Bakel, Private politics; A multi-disciplinary approach to ‘Big-Man’ systems, Studies in Human Society, Vol. I, Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1986. x, 220 pp., illustrations, maps, index., Renée R. Hagesteijn, Pieter van de Velde (eds.) - W.E.A. van Beek, Victor W. Turner, The anthropology of experience, (with an epilogue by Clifford Geertz). Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1986., Edward M. Bruner (eds.) - W. van den Broeke, H. Meyer, De Deli Spoorweg Maatschappij; Driekwart eeuw koloniaal spoor, Zutphen: Walburg Pers, met medewerking van F.A.J. Heckler. 1987; 152 blz. - R. Buijtenhuijs, S. Bernus et al., Le fils et le neveu: Jeux et enjeux de la parenté tourarègue, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge/Editions de la Maison des Sciences de l’Homme, Paris, 1986, XI, 343 pp. - R. Buijtenhuijs, Dominique Casajus, La tente dans la solitude: La société et les morts chez les Touaregs Kel Ferwan, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge/Editions de la Maison des Sciences de l’Homme, Paris, 1987, 390 pp. - H.J.M. Claessen, Christine Ward Gailey, Kinship to kingship; Gender hierarchy and state formation in the Tongan Islands. Austin: University of Texas Press (Texas Press Sourcebooks in Anthropology, No. 14.), 1987. 326 pp., figs., index, bibl. - Alfred E. Daniëls, Richard B. Davis, Muang metaphysics, Bangkok: Pandora Press,1984. - Alfred E. Daniëls, Gehan Wijeyewardene, Place and emotion in northern Thai ritual behaviour, Bangkok: Pandora Press, 1986. - P.M.H. Groen, Jacques van Doorn, The process of decolonization 1945-1975; The military experience in comparitive perspective, CASP publications no. 17, Erasmus Universiteit Rotterdam, 1987, 46 pp., Willem J. Hendrix (eds.) - Rosemarijn Hoefte, Luis H. Daal, Antilliaans verhaal. Zutphen: De Walburg Pers, 1988, Ted Schouten (eds.) - W.L. Idema, Claudine Salmon, Literary migrations; Traditional Chinese fiction in Asia (17th-20th centuries), Beijing: International culture publishing corporation, 1987, 11 + vi + 661 pp. - P.E. de Josselin de Jong, Sharon A. Carstens, Cultural identity in Northern Peninsular Malaysia, Athens, Ohio: Ohio University Monographs in international studies, Southeast Asia series no. 63, 1986. 91 pp. - P.E. de Josselin de Jong, Robert Wessing, The soul of ambiguity: The tiger in Southeast Asia. Northern Illinois University, Center for Southeast Asian studies, Special report no. 24, 1986. 148 pp., glossary, bibliography. - G.W. Locher, Martine Segalen, Historical anthropology of the family, Cambridge University Press, 1986, 328 pp. - Bernd Nothofer, Hans Kähler, Enggano-Deutsches Wörterbuch. Aus dem Nachlass herausgegeben und mit einem Deutsch-Enggano-Wörterverzeichnis versehen von Hans Schmidt, Veröffentlichungen des Seminars für Indonesische und Südseesprachen der Universität Hamburg, Band 14, Berlin: Dietrich Reimer Verlag, 1987. XIII + 404 pp. - J.D.M. Platenkamp, Brigitte Renard-Clamagirand, Marobo; Une société ema de Timor. Langues et civillisations de l’Asie du sud-est et du monde insulindien no. 12, Paris: Selaf, 1983, 490 pp. - H.C.G. Schoenaker, Leo Frobenius, Ethnographische Notizen aus den Jahren 1905 und 1906; II: Kuba, Leele, Nord-Kete; III: Luluwa, Süd-Kete, Bena Mai, Pende, Cokwe. Bearb.u.hrsg. von Hildegard Klein. Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1987; 1988. 223 S., 437 Zeichnungen, 11 fotos, 5 karten; 268 S., 500 Zeichnungen, 15 fotos, 12 karten. - M. Schoffeleers, I.M. Lewis, Religion in context: Cults and charisma, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986, X + 139 pp. - B. Schuch, Ingrid Liebig-Hundius, Thailands Lehrer zwischen ‘Tradition’ und `Fortschritt’; Eine empirische Untersuchung politisch-sozialer und pädagogischer Einstellungen thailändischer Lehrerstudenten des Jahres 1974. Beiträge zur Südasienforschung, Band 85, Weisbaden: Steiner Verlag, 1984, 342 pp. - Henke Schulte Nordholt, S.J. Tambiah, Thought and social action; An anthropological perspective, Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard Univ. Press, 1985, 411 pp. - Nico G. Schulte Nordholt, Shamsul Amri Baharuddin, From British to Bumiputra rule: Local politics and rural development in Peninsular Malaysia, Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian studies, 1986. 282 pp. - A. Teeuw, I. Syukri, History of the Malay kingdom of Patani - Sejarah Kerajaan Melayu Patani, by Ibrahim Syukri (pseudonym), translated by Conner Bailey and John N. Miksic. Athens, Ohio: Ohio University Center for International studies, monographs in international studies Southeast Asia series number 68, 1985. xx + 90 pp. - Truong Quang, Andrew Vickerman, The fate of the peasantry: Premature `transition to socialism’ in the democratic republic of Vietnam, Monograph No. 28, Yale University, Southeast Asia studies, 1986. 373 pp., incl. bibliography. - Adrian Vickers, H.I.R. Hinzler, Catalogue of Balinese manuscripts in the library of the University of Leiden and other collections in the Netherlands, vol. I: Reproductions of the drawings from the Van der Tuuk collection; vol. II: Descriptions of the Balinese drawings form the Van der Tuuk collection. Leiden: E.J. Brill/Leiden University Press, 1987.

-Leonard Y. Andaya, Michel Jacq-Hergoualc'h, The Malay Peninsula; Crossroads of the maritime silk road (100 BC-1300 AD). [Translated by Victoria Hobson.] Leiden: Brill, 2002, xxxv + 607 pp. [Handbook of oriental studies, 13. -Greg Bankoff, Resil B. Mojares, The war against the Americans; Resistance and collaboration in Cebu 1899-1906. Quezon city: Ateneo de Manila University, 1999, 250 pp. -R.H. Barnes, Andrea Katalin Molnar, Grandchildren of the Ga'e ancestors; Social organization and cosmology among the Hoga Sara of Flores. Leiden: KITLV Press, 2000, xii + 306 pp. [Verhandeling 185.] -Peter Boomgaard, Emmanuel Vigneron, Le territoire et la santé; La transition sanitaire en Polynésie francaise. Paris: CNRS Éditions, 1999, 281 pp. [Espaces et milieux.] -Clara Brakel-Papenhuyzen, Raechelle Rubinstein, Beyond the realm of the senses; The Balinese ritual of kekawin composition. Leiden: KITLV Press, 2000, xv + 293 pp. [Verhandelingen 181.] -Ian Caldwell, O.W. Wolters, History, culture, and region in Southeast Asian perspectives. Ithaca, NY: Southeast Asia program, Cornell University/Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian studies, 1999, 272 pp. [Studies on Southeast Asia 26.] -Peter van Diermen, Jonathan Rigg, More than the soil; Rural change in Southeast Asia. Harlow, Essex: Prentice Hall / Pearson education, 2001, xv + 184 pp. -Guy Drouot, Martin Stuart-Fox, Historical dictionary of Laos. Second edition. Lanham, Maryland: The Scarecrow Press, 2001, lxi + 527 pp. [Asian/Oceanian historical dictionaries series 35.] [First edition 1992.] -Doris Jedamski, Elsbeth Locher-Scholten, Women and the colonial state; Essays on gender and modernity in the Netherlands Indies 1900-1942. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2000, 251 pp. -Carool Kersten, Robert Hampson, Cross-cultural encounters in Joseph Conrad's Malay fiction. Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2000, xi + 248 pp. -Victor T. King, C. Michael Hall ,Tourism in South and Southeast Asia; Issues and cases. Oxford: Butterworth-Heinemann, 2000, xiv + 293 pp., Stephen Page (eds) -John McCarthy, Bernard Sellato, Forest, resources and people in Bulungan; Elements for a history of settlement, trade and social dynamics in Borneo, 1880-2000. Jakarta: Center for international forestry research (CIFOR), 2001, ix + 183 pp. -Naomi M. McPherson, Michael French Smith, Village on the edge; Changing times in Papua New Guinea. Honolulu: University of Hawai'i Press, 2002, xviii + 214 pp. -Gert J. Oostindie, Peter van Wiechen, Vademecum van de Oost- en West-Indische Compagnie Historisch-geografisch overzicht van de Nederlandse aanwezigheid in Afrika, Amerika, Azië en West-Australië vanaf 1602 tot heden. Utrecht: Bestebreurtje, 2002, 381 pp. -Gert J. Oostindie, C.L. Temminck Groll, The Dutch overseas; Architectural Survey; Mutual heritage of four centuries in three continents. 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Claus Emmeche: “Do You Tell Me? Knowledge about Friendship in Literature and Scholarship” Friendship as an interpersonal relation is discussed through the perspective of history of knowledge as a historically contingent relation that can be modelled in fiction, literature, and different academic disciplines, like for instance philosophy, anthropology, and history. The opposing claims of philosopher Alexander Nehamas and literary critic Gregory Jusdanis on the adequacy of the novel to describe friendship is discussed, partly drawing on literary friendship studies by Janet Todd and Victor Luftig. Starting from the Neapolitan Novels by Elena Ferrante (depicting a difficult, close, life-long friendship between two women and the precarious knowledge emerging from this relationship) and recent scholarship on Ferrante’s work, the article shows how these novels are not just inspired by but also comment critically upon the work on narrative friendship by philosopher Adriana Cavarero.

Abstract This essay attends to the presence of a small portrait carried by an enslaved character, Georges, in Victor Séjour’s 1837 sketch “Le Mulâtre” (“The Mulatto”). While most eighteenth- and nineteenth-century fiction deploys miniature portraits to mediate social ties and signal emotional connection, in “Le Mulâtre” the carrying of a miniature departs from this trope, marking alienation, not affiliation. Reading Séjour’s text against popular depictions and material histories of ivory portrait miniatures, I demonstrate that these familiar objects of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century life function not merely as emblems of intimacy, as past scholars have argued, but rather as tools of what Elizabeth Maddock Dillon calls “intimate distance”—a social configuration that depends on asserting closeness with geographically distributed white populations while disavowing intimacy with physically present Black and Indigenous peoples. Although the portrait is said to depict Georges’s father, who readers know is also the man’s white enslaver, the object remains hidden from view in a bag until the final moments of the sketch, which concludes with the father’s beheading and the son’s suicide. I argue that by emplotting the miniature in a moment of bloodshed rather than of sentiment, Séjour registers the affective and material violence that undergirds white colonial definitions of the family, and invites broader critical comparison of the ways that both sentimental and colonial structures depend on racialized distributions of affections. In the concluding portion of this essay, I turn to the “little buckskin pouch” containing Alfred’s miniature and consider how its resemblance to Afro-Atlantic folk charms recasts the racialized binaries traditionally advanced by miniature portraits, calling attention to whiteness as a ritualized notion dependent on material signifiers.

Introduction Crime fiction is one of the world’s most popular genres. Indeed, it has been estimated that as many as one in every three new novels, published in English, is classified within the crime fiction category (Knight xi). These new entrants to the market are forced to jostle for space on bookstore and library shelves with reprints of classic crime novels; such works placed in, often fierce, competition against their contemporaries as well as many of their predecessors. Raymond Chandler, in his well-known essay The Simple Art of Murder, noted Ernest Hemingway’s observation that “the good writer competes only with the dead. The good detective story writer […] competes not only with all the unburied dead but with all the hosts of the living as well” (3). In fact, there are so many examples of crime fiction works that, as early as the 1920s, one of the original ‘Queens of Crime’, Dorothy L. Sayers, complained: It is impossible to keep track of all the detective-stories produced to-day [sic]. Book upon book, magazine upon magazine pour out from the Press, crammed with murders, thefts, arsons, frauds, conspiracies, problems, puzzles, mysteries, thrills, maniacs, crooks, poisoners, forgers, garrotters, police, spies, secret-service men, detectives, until it seems that half the world must be engaged in setting riddles for the other half to solve (95). Twenty years after Sayers wrote on the matter of the vast quantities of crime fiction available, W.H. Auden wrote one of the more famous essays on the genre: The Guilty Vicarage: Notes on the Detective Story, by an Addict. Auden is, perhaps, better known as a poet but his connection to the crime fiction genre is undisputed. As well as his poetic works that reference crime fiction and commentaries on crime fiction, one of Auden’s fellow poets, Cecil Day-Lewis, wrote a series of crime fiction novels under the pseudonym Nicholas Blake: the central protagonist of these novels, Nigel Strangeways, was modelled upon Auden (Scaggs 27). Interestingly, some writers whose names are now synonymous with the genre, such as Edgar Allan Poe and Raymond Chandler, established the link between poetry and crime fiction many years before the publication of The Guilty Vicarage. Edmund Wilson suggested that “reading detective stories is simply a kind of vice that, for silliness and minor harmfulness, ranks somewhere between crossword puzzles and smoking” (395). In the first line of The Guilty Vicarage, Auden supports Wilson’s claim and confesses that: “For me, as for many others, the reading of detective stories is an addiction like tobacco or alcohol” (406). This indicates that the genre is at best a trivial pursuit, at worst a pursuit that is bad for your health and is, increasingly, socially unacceptable, while Auden’s ideas around taste—high and low—are made clear when he declares that “detective stories have nothing to do with works of art” (406). The debates that surround genre and taste are many and varied. The mid-1920s was a point in time which had witnessed crime fiction writers produce some of the finest examples of fiction to ever be published and when readers and publishers were watching, with anticipation, as a new generation of crime fiction writers were readying themselves to enter what would become known as the genre’s Golden Age. At this time, R. Austin Freeman wrote that: By the critic and the professedly literary person the detective story is apt to be dismissed contemptuously as outside the pale of literature, to be conceived of as a type of work produced by half-educated and wholly incompetent writers for consumption by office boys, factory girls, and other persons devoid of culture and literary taste (7). This article responds to Auden’s essay and explores how crime fiction appeals to many different tastes: tastes that are acquired, change over time, are embraced, or kept as guilty secrets. In addition, this article will challenge Auden’s very narrow definition of crime fiction and suggest how Auden’s religious imagery, deployed to explain why many people choose to read crime fiction, can be incorporated into a broader popular discourse on punishment. This latter argument demonstrates that a taste for crime fiction and a taste for justice are inextricably intertwined. Crime Fiction: A Type For Every Taste Cathy Cole has observed that “crime novels are housed in their own section in many bookshops, separated from literary novels much as you’d keep a child with measles away from the rest of the class” (116). Times have changed. So too, have our tastes. Crime fiction, once sequestered in corners, now demands vast tracts of prime real estate in bookstores allowing readers to “make their way to the appropriate shelves, and begin to browse […] sorting through a wide variety of very different types of novels” (Malmgren 115). This is a result of the sheer size of the genre, noted above, as well as the genre’s expanding scope. Indeed, those who worked to re-invent crime fiction in the 1800s could not have envisaged the “taxonomic exuberance” (Derrida 206) of the writers who have defined crime fiction sub-genres, as well as how readers would respond by not only wanting to read crime fiction but also wanting to read many different types of crime fiction tailored to their particular tastes. To understand the demand for this diversity, it is important to reflect upon some of the appeal factors of crime fiction for readers. Many rules have been promulgated for the writers of crime fiction to follow. Ronald Knox produced a set of 10 rules in 1928. These included Rule 3 “Not more than one secret room or passage is allowable”, and Rule 10 “Twin brothers, and doubles generally, must not appear unless we have been duly prepared for them” (194–6). In the same year, S.S. Van Dine produced another list of 20 rules, which included Rule 3 “There must be no love interest: The business in hand is to bring a criminal to the bar of justice, not to bring a lovelorn couple to the hymeneal altar”, and Rule 7 “There simply must be a corpse in a detective novel, and the deader the corpse the better” (189–93). Some of these directives have been deliberately ignored or have become out-of-date over time while others continue to be followed in contemporary crime writing practice. In sharp contrast, there are no rules for reading this genre. Individuals are, generally, free to choose what, where, when, why, and how they read crime fiction. There are, however, different appeal factors for readers. The most common of these appeal factors, often described as doorways, are story, setting, character, and language. As the following passage explains: The story doorway beckons those who enjoy reading to find out what happens next. The setting doorway opens widest for readers who enjoy being immersed in an evocation of place or time. The doorway of character is for readers who enjoy looking at the world through others’ eyes. Readers who most appreciate skilful writing enter through the doorway of language (Wyatt online). These doorways draw readers to the crime fiction genre. There are stories that allow us to easily predict what will come next or make us hold our breath until the very last page, the books that we will cheerfully lend to a family member or a friend and those that we keep close to hand to re-read again and again. There are settings as diverse as country manors, exotic locations, and familiar city streets, places we have been and others that we might want to explore. There are characters such as the accidental sleuth, the hardboiled detective, and the refined police officer, amongst many others, the men and women—complete with idiosyncrasies and flaws—who we have grown to admire and trust. There is also the language that all writers, regardless of genre, depend upon to tell their tales. In crime fiction, even the most basic task of describing where the murder victim was found can range from words that convey the genteel—“The room of the tragedy” (Christie 62)—to the absurd: “There it was, jammed between a pallet load of best export boneless beef and half a tonne of spring lamb” (Maloney 1). These appeal factors indicate why readers might choose crime fiction over another genre, or choose one type of crime fiction over another. Yet such factors fail to explain what crime fiction is or adequately answer why the genre is devoured in such vast quantities. Firstly, crime fiction stories are those in which there is the committing of a crime, or at least the suspicion of a crime (Cole), and the story that unfolds revolves around the efforts of an amateur or professional detective to solve that crime (Scaggs). Secondly, crime fiction offers the reassurance of resolution, a guarantee that from “previous experience and from certain cultural conventions associated with this genre that ultimately the mystery will be fully explained” (Zunshine 122). For Auden, the definition of the crime novel was quite specific, and he argued that referring to the genre by “the vulgar definition, ‘a Whodunit’ is correct” (407). Auden went on to offer a basic formula stating that: “a murder occurs; many are suspected; all but one suspect, who is the murderer, are eliminated; the murderer is arrested or dies” (407). The idea of a formula is certainly a useful one, particularly when production demands—in terms of both quality and quantity—are so high, because the formula facilitates creators in the “rapid and efficient production of new works” (Cawelti 9). For contemporary crime fiction readers, the doorways to reading, discussed briefly above, have been cast wide open. Stories relying upon the basic crime fiction formula as a foundation can be gothic tales, clue puzzles, forensic procedurals, spy thrillers, hardboiled narratives, or violent crime narratives, amongst many others. The settings can be quiet villages or busy metropolises, landscapes that readers actually inhabit or that provide a form of affordable tourism. These stories can be set in the past, the here and now, or the future. Characters can range from Edgar Allan Poe’s C. Auguste Dupin to Dashiell Hammett’s Sam Spade, from Agatha Christie’s Miss Jane Marple to Kerry Greenwood’s Honourable Phryne Fisher. Similarly, language can come in numerous styles from the direct (even rough) words of Carter Brown to the literary prose of Peter Temple. Anything is possible, meaning everything is available to readers. For Auden—although he required a crime to be committed and expected that crime to be resolved—these doorways were only slightly ajar. For him, the story had to be a Whodunit; the setting had to be rural England, though a college setting was also considered suitable; the characters had to be “eccentric (aesthetically interesting individuals) and good (instinctively ethical)” and there needed to be a “completely satisfactory detective” (Sherlock Holmes, Inspector French, and Father Brown were identified as “satisfactory”); and the language descriptive and detailed (406, 409, 408). To illustrate this point, Auden’s concept of crime fiction has been plotted on a taxonomy, below, that traces the genre’s main developments over a period of three centuries. As can be seen, much of what is, today, taken for granted as being classified as crime fiction is completely excluded from Auden’s ideal. Figure 1: Taxonomy of Crime Fiction (Adapted from Franks, Murder 136) Crime Fiction: A Personal Journey I discovered crime fiction the summer before I started high school when I saw the film version of The Big Sleep starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. A few days after I had seen the film I started reading the Raymond Chandler novel of the same title, featuring his famous detective Philip Marlowe, and was transfixed by the second paragraph: The main hallway of the Sternwood place was two stories high. Over the entrance doors, which would have let in a troop of Indian elephants, there was a broad stained-glass panel showing a knight in dark armour rescuing a lady who was tied to a tree and didn’t have any clothes on but some very long and convenient hair. The knight had pushed the visor of his helmet back to be sociable, and he was fiddling with the knots on the ropes that tied the lady to the tree and not getting anywhere. I stood there and thought that if I lived in the house, I would sooner or later have to climb up there and help him. He didn’t seem to be really trying (9). John Scaggs has written that this passage indicates Marlowe is an idealised figure, a knight of romance rewritten onto the mean streets of mid-20th century Los Angeles (62); a relocation Susan Roland calls a “secular form of the divinely sanctioned knight errant on a quest for metaphysical justice” (139): my kind of guy. Like many young people I looked for adventure and escape in books, a search that was realised with Raymond Chandler and his contemporaries. On the escapism scale, these men with their stories of tough-talking detectives taking on murderers and other criminals, law enforcement officers, and the occasional femme fatale, were certainly a sharp upgrade from C.S. Lewis and the Chronicles of Narnia. After reading the works written by the pioneers of the hardboiled and roman noir traditions, I looked to other American authors such as Edgar Allan Poe who, in the mid-1800s, became the father of the modern detective story, and Thorne Smith who, in the 1920s and 1930s, produced magical realist tales with characters who often chose to dabble on the wrong side of the law. This led me to the works of British crime writers including Arthur Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie, and Dorothy L. Sayers. My personal library then became dominated by Australian writers of crime fiction, from the stories of bushrangers and convicts of the Colonial era to contemporary tales of police and private investigators. There have been various attempts to “improve” or “refine” my tastes: to convince me that serious literature is real reading and frivolous fiction is merely a distraction. Certainly, the reading of those novels, often described as classics, provide perfect combinations of beauty and brilliance. Their narratives, however, do not often result in satisfactory endings. This routinely frustrates me because, while I understand the philosophical frameworks that many writers operate within, I believe the characters of such works are too often treated unfairly in the final pages. For example, at the end of Ernest Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms, Frederick Henry “left the hospital and walked back to the hotel in the rain” after his son is stillborn and “Mrs Henry” becomes “very ill” and dies (292–93). Another example can be found on the last page of George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four when Winston Smith “gazed up at the enormous face” and he realised that he “loved Big Brother” (311). Endings such as these provide a space for reflection about the world around us but rarely spark an immediate response of how great that world is to live in (Franks Motive). The subject matter of crime fiction does not easily facilitate fairy-tale finishes, yet, people continue to read the genre because, generally, the concluding chapter will show that justice, of some form, will be done. Punishment will be meted out to the ‘bad characters’ that have broken society’s moral or legal laws; the ‘good characters’ may experience hardships and may suffer but they will, generally, prevail. Crime Fiction: A Taste For Justice Superimposed upon Auden’s parameters around crime fiction, are his ideas of the law in the real world and how such laws are interwoven with the Christian-based system of ethics. This can be seen in Auden’s listing of three classes of crime: “(a) offenses against God and one’s neighbor or neighbors; (b) offenses against God and society; (c) offenses against God” (407). Murder, in Auden’s opinion, is a class (b) offense: for the crime fiction novel, the society reflected within the story should be one in “a state of grace, i.e., a society where there is no need of the law, no contradiction between the aesthetic individual and the ethical universal, and where murder, therefore, is the unheard-of act which precipitates a crisis” (408). Additionally, in the crime novel “as in its mirror image, the Quest for the Grail, maps (the ritual of space) and timetables (the ritual of time) are desirable. Nature should reflect its human inhabitants, i.e., it should be the Great Good Place; for the more Eden-like it is, the greater the contradiction of murder” (408). Thus, as Charles J. Rzepka notes, “according to W.H. Auden, the ‘classical’ English detective story typically re-enacts rites of scapegoating and expulsion that affirm the innocence of a community of good people supposedly ignorant of evil” (12). This premise—of good versus evil—supports Auden’s claim that the punishment of wrongdoers, particularly those who claim the “right to be omnipotent” and commit murder (409), should be swift and final: As to the murderer’s end, of the three alternatives—execution, suicide, and madness—the first is preferable; for if he commits suicide he refuses to repent, and if he goes mad he cannot repent, but if he does not repent society cannot forgive. Execution, on the other hand, is the act of atonement by which the murderer is forgiven by society (409). The unilateral endorsement of state-sanctioned murder is problematic, however, because—of the main justifications for punishment: retribution; deterrence; incapacitation; and rehabilitation (Carter Snead 1245)—punishment, in this context, focuses exclusively upon retribution and deterrence, incapacitation is achieved by default, but the idea of rehabilitation is completely ignored. This, in turn, ignores how the reading of crime fiction can be incorporated into a broader popular discourse on punishment and how a taste for crime fiction and a taste for justice are inextricably intertwined. One of the ways to explore the connection between crime fiction and justice is through the lens of Emile Durkheim’s thesis on the conscience collective which proposes punishment is a process allowing for the demonstration of group norms and the strengthening of moral boundaries. David Garland, in summarising this thesis, states: So although the modern state has a near monopoly of penal violence and controls the administration of penalties, a much wider population feels itself to be involved in the process of punishment, and supplies the context of social support and valorization within which state punishment takes place (32). It is claimed here that this “much wider population” connecting with the task of punishment can be taken further. Crime fiction, above all other forms of literary production, which, for those who do not directly contribute to the maintenance of their respective legal systems, facilitates a feeling of active participation in the penalising of a variety of perpetrators: from the issuing of fines to incarceration (Franks Punishment). Crime fiction readers are therefore, temporarily at least, direct contributors to a more stable society: one that is clearly based upon right and wrong and reliant upon the conscience collective to maintain and reaffirm order. In this context, the reader is no longer alone, with only their crime fiction novel for company, but has become an active member of “a moral framework which binds individuals to each other and to its conventions and institutions” (Garland 51). This allows crime fiction, once viewed as a “vice” (Wilson 395) or an “addiction” (Auden 406), to be seen as playing a crucial role in the preservation of social mores. It has been argued “only the most literal of literary minds would dispute the claim that fictional characters help shape the way we think of ourselves, and hence help us articulate more clearly what it means to be human” (Galgut 190). Crime fiction focuses on what it means to be human, and how complex humans are, because stories of murders, and the men and women who perpetrate and solve them, comment on what drives some people to take a life and others to avenge that life which is lost and, by extension, engages with a broad community of readers around ideas of justice and punishment. It is, furthermore, argued here that the idea of the story is one of the more important doorways for crime fiction and, more specifically, the conclusions that these stories, traditionally, offer. For Auden, the ending should be one of restoration of the spirit, as he suspected that “the typical reader of detective stories is, like myself, a person who suffers from a sense of sin” (411). In this way, the “phantasy, then, which the detective story addict indulges is the phantasy of being restored to the Garden of Eden, to a state of innocence, where he may know love as love and not as the law” (412), indicating that it was not necessarily an accident that “the detective story has flourished most in predominantly Protestant countries” (408). Today, modern crime fiction is a “broad church, where talented authors raise questions and cast light on a variety of societal and other issues through the prism of an exciting, page-turning story” (Sisterson). Moreover, our tastes in crime fiction have been tempered by a growing fear of real crime, particularly murder, “a crime of unique horror” (Hitchens 200). This has seen some readers develop a taste for crime fiction that is not produced within a framework of ecclesiastical faith but is rather grounded in reliance upon those who enact punishment in both the fictional and real worlds. As P.D. James has written: [N]ot by luck or divine intervention, but by human ingenuity, human intelligence and human courage. It confirms our hope that, despite some evidence to the contrary, we live in a beneficent and moral universe in which problems can be solved by rational means and peace and order restored from communal or personal disruption and chaos (174). Dorothy L. Sayers, despite her work to legitimise crime fiction, wrote that there: “certainly does seem a possibility that the detective story will some time come to an end, simply because the public will have learnt all the tricks” (108). Of course, many readers have “learnt all the tricks”, or most of them. This does not, however, detract from the genre’s overall appeal. We have not grown bored with, or become tired of, the formula that revolves around good and evil, and justice and punishment. Quite the opposite. Our knowledge of, as well as our faith in, the genre’s “tricks” gives a level of confidence to readers who are looking for endings that punish murderers and other wrongdoers, allowing for more satisfactory conclusions than the, rather depressing, ends given to Mr. Henry and Mr. Smith by Ernest Hemingway and George Orwell noted above. Conclusion For some, the popularity of crime fiction is a curious case indeed. When Penguin and Collins published the Marsh Million—100,000 copies each of 10 Ngaio Marsh titles in 1949—the author’s relief at the success of the project was palpable when she commented that “it was pleasant to find detective fiction being discussed as a tolerable form of reading by people whose opinion one valued” (172). More recently, upon the announcement that a Miles Franklin Award would be given to Peter Temple for his crime novel Truth, John Sutherland, a former chairman of the judges for one of the world’s most famous literary awards, suggested that submitting a crime novel for the Booker Prize would be: “like putting a donkey into the Grand National”. Much like art, fashion, food, and home furnishings or any one of the innumerable fields of activity and endeavour that are subject to opinion, there will always be those within the world of fiction who claim positions as arbiters of taste. Yet reading is intensely personal. I like a strong, well-plotted story, appreciate a carefully researched setting, and can admire elegant language, but if a character is too difficult to embrace—if I find I cannot make an emotional connection, if I find myself ambivalent about their fate—then a book is discarded as not being to my taste. It is also important to recognise that some tastes are transient. Crime fiction stories that are popular today could be forgotten tomorrow. Some stories appeal to such a broad range of tastes they are immediately included in the crime fiction canon. Yet others evolve over time to accommodate widespread changes in taste (an excellent example of this can be seen in the continual re-imagining of the stories of Sherlock Holmes). Personal tastes also adapt to our experiences and our surroundings. A book that someone adores in their 20s might be dismissed in their 40s. A storyline that was meaningful when read abroad may lose some of its magic when read at home. Personal events, from a change in employment to the loss of a loved one, can also impact upon what we want to read. Similarly, world events, such as economic crises and military conflicts, can also influence our reading preferences. Auden professed an almost insatiable appetite for crime fiction, describing the reading of detective stories as an addiction, and listed a very specific set of criteria to define the Whodunit. Today, such self-imposed restrictions are rare as, while there are many rules for writing crime fiction, there are no rules for reading this (or any other) genre. People are, generally, free to choose what, where, when, why, and how they read crime fiction, and to follow the deliberate or whimsical paths that their tastes may lay down for them. Crime fiction writers, past and present, offer: an incredible array of detective stories from the locked room to the clue puzzle; settings that range from the English country estate to city skyscrapers in glamorous locations around the world; numerous characters from cerebral sleuths who can solve a crime in their living room over a nice, hot cup of tea to weapon wielding heroes who track down villains on foot in darkened alleyways; and, language that ranges from the cultured conversations from the novels of the genre’s Golden Age to the hard-hitting terminology of forensic and legal procedurals. Overlaid on these appeal factors is the capacity of crime fiction to feed a taste for justice: to engage, vicariously at least, in the establishment of a more stable society. Of course, there are those who turn to the genre for a temporary distraction, an occasional guilty pleasure. There are those who stumble across the genre by accident or deliberately seek it out. There are also those, like Auden, who are addicted to crime fiction. So there are corpses for the conservative and dead bodies for the bloodthirsty. There is, indeed, a murder victim, and a murder story, to suit every reader’s taste. References Auden, W.H. “The Guilty Vicarage: Notes on The Detective Story, By an Addict.” Harper’s Magazine May (1948): 406–12. 1 Dec. 2013 ‹http://www.harpers.org/archive/1948/05/0033206›. Carter Snead, O. “Memory and Punishment.” Vanderbilt Law Review 64.4 (2011): 1195–264. Cawelti, John G. Adventure, Mystery and Romance: Formula Stories as Art and Popular Culture. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1976/1977. Chandler, Raymond. The Big Sleep. London: Penguin, 1939/1970. ––. The Simple Art of Murder. New York: Vintage Books, 1950/1988. Christie, Agatha. The Mysterious Affair at Styles. London: HarperCollins, 1920/2007. Cole, Cathy. Private Dicks and Feisty Chicks: An Interrogation of Crime Fiction. Fremantle: Curtin UP, 2004. Derrida, Jacques. “The Law of Genre.” Glyph 7 (1980): 202–32. Franks, Rachel. “May I Suggest Murder?: An Overview of Crime Fiction for Readers’ Advisory Services Staff.” Australian Library Journal 60.2 (2011): 133–43. ––. “Motive for Murder: Reading Crime Fiction.” The Australian Library and Information Association Biennial Conference. Sydney: Jul. 2012. ––. “Punishment by the Book: Delivering and Evading Punishment in Crime Fiction.” Inter-Disciplinary.Net 3rd Global Conference on Punishment. Oxford: Sep. 2013. Freeman, R.A. “The Art of the Detective Story.” The Art of the Mystery Story: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. Howard Haycraft. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1924/1947. 7–17. Galgut, E. “Poetic Faith and Prosaic Concerns: A Defense of Suspension of Disbelief.” South African Journal of Philosophy 21.3 (2002): 190–99. Garland, David. Punishment and Modern Society: A Study in Social Theory. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1993. Hemingway, Ernest. A Farewell to Arms. London: Random House, 1929/2004. ––. in R. Chandler. The Simple Art of Murder. New York: Vintage Books, 1950/1988. Hitchens, P. A Brief History of Crime: The Decline of Order, Justice and Liberty in England. London: Atlantic Books, 2003. James, P.D. Talking About Detective Fiction. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2009. Knight, Stephen. Crime Fiction since 1800: Death, Detection, Diversity, 2nd ed. New York: Palgrave Macmillian, 2010. Knox, Ronald A. “Club Rules: The 10 Commandments for Detective Novelists, 1928.” Ronald Knox Society of North America. 1 Dec. 2013 ‹http://www.ronaldknoxsociety.com/detective.html›. Malmgren, C.D. “Anatomy of Murder: Mystery, Detective and Crime Fiction.” Journal of Popular Culture Spring (1997): 115–21. Maloney, Shane. The Murray Whelan Trilogy: Stiff, The Brush-Off and Nice Try. Melbourne: Text Publishing, 1994/2008. Marsh, Ngaio in J. Drayton. Ngaio Marsh: Her Life in Crime. Auckland: Harper Collins, 2008. Orwell, George. Nineteen Eighty-Four. London: Penguin Books, 1949/1989. Roland, Susan. From Agatha Christie to Ruth Rendell: British Women Writers in Detective and Crime Fiction. London: Palgrave, 2001. Rzepka, Charles J. Detective Fiction. Cambridge: Polity, 2005. Sayers, Dorothy L. “The Omnibus of Crime.” The Art of the Mystery Story: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. Howard Haycraft. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1928/1947. 71–109. Scaggs, John. Crime Fiction: The New Critical Idiom. London: Routledge, 2005. Sisterson, C. “Battle for the Marsh: Awards 2013.” Black Mask: Pulps, Noir and News of Same. 1 Jan. 2014 http://www.blackmask.com/category/awards-2013/ Sutherland, John. in A. Flood. “Could Miles Franklin turn the Booker Prize to Crime?” The Guardian. 1 Jan. 2014 ‹http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/jun/25/miles-franklin-booker-prize-crime›. Van Dine, S.S. “Twenty Rules for Writing Detective Stories.” The Art of the Mystery Story: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. Howard Haycraft. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1928/1947. 189-93. Wilson, Edmund. “Who Cares Who Killed Roger Ackroyd.” The Art of the Mystery Story: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. Howard Haycraft. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1944/1947. 390–97. Wyatt, N. “Redefining RA: A RA Big Think.” Library Journal Online. 1 Jan. 2014 ‹http://lj.libraryjournal.com/2007/07/ljarchives/lj-series-redefining-ra-an-ra-big-think›. Zunshine, Lisa. Why We Read Fiction: Theory of Mind and the Novel. Columbus: Ohio State UP, 2006.

Over the last two decades the female forensic pathologist investigator has become a prominent figure in crime fiction. Her presence causes suspicion on a number of levels in the narrative and this article will examine the reasons for that suspicion and the manner in which it is presented in two texts: Patricia Cornwell’s Postmortem and Tess Gerritsen’s The Sinner. Cornwell and Gerritsen are North American crime writers whose series of novels both feature female forensic pathologists who are deeply involved in homicide investigation. Cornwell’s protagonist is Dr Kay Scarpetta, then-Chief Medical Examiner in Richmond, Virginia. Gerritsen’s is Dr Maura Isles, a forensic pathologist in the Boston Medical Examiner’s office. Their jobs entail attending crime scenes to assess bodies in situ, performing examinations and autopsies, and working with police to solve the cases.In this article I will first examine Western cultural attitudes towards dissection and autopsy since the twelfth century before discussing how the most recent of these provoke suspicion in the selected novels. I will further analyse this by drawing on Julia Kristeva’s concept of the abject. I will then consider how female pathologist protagonists try to deflect their colleagues’ suspicion of their professional choices, drawing in part on Judith Butler’s ideas of gender as a performative category. I define ‘gender’ as the socially constructed roles, activities, attributes, and behaviours that Western culture considers appropriate for women and men, and ‘sex’ as the physical biological characteristics that differentiate women and men. I argue that the female forensic pathologist investigator is portrayed as suspicious in the chosen novels for her occupation of the abject space caused by her sex in her roles as investigator and pathologist, her identification with the dead, and her performance of elements of both masculine and feminine conventional gender roles. Scholars such as Barthes, Rolls, and Grauby have approached detective fiction by focusing on intertextuality, the openness of the text, and the possibility of different meanings, with Vargas being one example of how this can operate; however, this article focuses on examining how the female forensic pathologist investigator is represented as suspicious in mainstream crime novels that attract a readership seeking resolution and closure.A significant part of each of these novels focuses on the corpse and its injuries as the site at which the search for truth commences, and I argue that the corpse itself, those who work most closely with it and the procedures they employ in this search are all treated with suspicion in the crime fiction in this study. The central procedures of autopsy and dissection have historically been seen as abominations, in some part due to religious views such as the belief of Christians prior to the thirteenth century that the resurrection of the soul required an intact body (Klaver 10) and the Jewish and Muslim edicts against disfigurement of the dead (Davis and Peterson 1042). In later centuries dissection was made part of the death sentence and was perceived “as an abhorrent additional post-mortem punishment” that “promised the exposure of nakedness, dismemberment, and the deliberate destruction of the corpse,” which was considered “a gross assault on the integrity and the identity of the body, and upon the repose of the soul” (Richardson 154). While now a mainstay of many popular crime narratives, the autopsy as a procedure in real life continues to appall much of the public (Klaver 18). This is because “the human body—especially the dead human body—is an object still surrounded by taboos and prohibitions” (Sawday 269). The living are also reluctant to “yield the subjecthood of the other-dead to object status” (Klaver 18), which often produces a horrified response from some families to doctors seeking permission to dissect for autopsy. According to Gawande, when doctors suggest an autopsy the victim’s family commonly asks “Hasn’t she been through enough?” (187). The forensic pathologists who perform the autopsy are themselves linked with the repugnance of the act (Klaver 9), and in these novels that fact combined with the characters’ willingness to be in close proximity with the corpse and their comfort with dissecting it produces considerable suspicion on the part of their police colleagues.The female sex of the pathologists in these novels causes additional suspicion. This is primarily because women are “culturally associated [...] with life and life giving” (Vanacker 66). While historically women were also involved in the care of the sick and the dead (Nunn and Biressi 200), the growth of medical knowledge and the subsequent medicalisation of death in Western culture over the past two centuries has seen women relegated to a stylised kind of “angelic ministry” (Nunn and Biressi 201). This is an image inconsistent with these female characters’ performance of what is perceived as a “violent ‘reduction’ into parts: a brutal dismemberment” (Sawday 1). Drawing on Butler’s ideas about gender as a culturally constructed performance, we can see that while these characters are biologically female, in carrying out tasks that are perceived as masculine they are not performing their traditional gender roles and are thus regarded with suspicion by their police colleagues. Both Scarpetta and Isles are aware of this, as illustrated by the interior monologue with which Gerritsen opens her novel:They called her the Queen of the Dead. Though no one ever said it to her face, Dr. Maura Isles sometimes heard the nickname murmured in her wake as she travelled the grim triangle of her job between courtroom and death scene and morgue. [...] Sometimes the whispers held a tremolo of disquiet, like the murmurs of the pious as an unholy stranger passes among them. It was the disquiet of those who could not understand why she chose to walk in Death’s footsteps. Does she enjoy it, they wonder? Does the touch of cold flesh, the stench of decay, hold such allure for her that she has turned her back on the living? (Gerritsen 6)The police officers’ inability to understand why Isles chooses to work with the dead leads them to wonder whether she takes pleasure in it, and because they cannot comprehend how a “normal” person could act that way she is immediately marked as a suspicious Other. Gerritsen’s language builds images of transgression: words such as murmured, wake, whispers, disquiet, unholy, death’s footsteps, cold, stench, and decay suggest a fearful attitude towards the dead and the abjection of the corpse itself, a topic I will explore shortly. Isles later describes seeing police officers cast uneasy glances her way, noting details that only reinforce their beliefs that she is an odd duck: The ivory skin, the black hair with its Cleopatra cut. The red slash of lipstick. Who else wears lipstick to a death scene? Most of all, it’s her calmness that disturbs them, her coolly regal gaze as she surveys the horrors that they themselves can barely stomach. Unlike them, she does not avert her gaze. Instead she bends close and stares, touches. She sniffs. And later, under bright lights in her autopsy lab, she cuts. (Gerritsen 7) While the term “odd duck” suggests a somewhat quaintly affectionate tolerance, it is contrasted by the rest of the description: the red slash brings to mind blood and a gaping wound perhaps also suggestive of female genitalia; the calmness, the coolly regal gaze, and the verb “surveys” imply detachment; the willingness to move close to the corpse, to touch and even smell it, and later cut it open, emphasise the difference between the police officers, who can “barely stomach” the sight, and Isles who readily goes much further.Kristeva describes the abject as that which is not one thing or another (4). The corpse is recognisable as once-human, but is no-longer; the body was once Subject, but we cannot make ourselves perceive it yet as fully Object, and thus it is incomprehensible and abject. I suggest that the abject is suspicious because of this “neither-nor” nature: its liminal identity cannot be pinned down, its meaning cannot be determined, and therefore it cannot be trusted. In the abject corpse, “that compelling, raw, insolent thing in the morgue’s full sunlight [...] that thing that no longer matches and therefore no longer signifies anything” (Kristeva 4), we see the loss of borders between ourselves and the Other, and we are simultaneously “drawn to and repelled” by it; “nausea is a biological recognition of it, and fear and adrenalin also acknowledge its presence” (Pentony). In these novels the police officers’ recognition of these feelings in themselves emphasises their assumptions about the apparent lack of the same responses in the female pathologist investigators. In the quote from The Sinner above, for example, the officers are unnerved by Isles’ calmness around the thing they can barely face. In Postmortem, the security guard who works for the morgue hides behind his desk when a body is delivered (17) and refuses to enter the body storage area when requested to do so (26) in contrast with Scarpetta’s ease with the corpses.Abjection results from “that which disturbs identity, system, order. What does not respect borders, positions, rules” (Kristeva 4), and by having what appears to be an unnatural reaction to the corpse, these women are perceived as failing to respect systems and boundaries and therefore are viewed as abject themselves. At the same time, however, the female characters strive against the abject in their efforts to repair the disturbance caused by the corpse and the crime of murder that produced it by locating evidence leading to the apprehension of the culprit. Ever-present and undermining these attempts to restore order is the evidence of the crime itself, the corpse, which is abject not only for its “neither-nor” status but also because it exposes “the fragility of the law” (Kristeva 4). In addition, these female pathologist characters’ sex causes abjection in another form through their “liminal status” as outsiders in the male hierarchy of law enforcement (Nunn and Biressi 203); while they are employed by it and work to maintain its dominance over law-breakers and society in general, as biological females they can never truly belong.Abjection also results from the blurring of boundaries between investigator and victim. Such blurring is common in crime fiction, and while it is most likely to develop between criminal and investigator when the investigator is male, when that investigator is female it tends instead to involve the victim (Mizejewski 8). In these novels this is illustrated by the ways in which the female investigators see themselves as similar to the victims by reason of gender plus sensibility and/or work. The first victim in Cornwell’s Postmortem is a young female doctor, and reminders of her similarities to Scarpetta appear throughout the novel, such as when Scarpetta notices the pile of medical journals near the victim's bed (Cornwell 12), and when she considers the importance of the woman's fingers in her work as a surgeon (26). When another character suggests to Scarpetta that, “in a sense, you were her once,” Scarpetta agrees (218). This loss of boundaries between self and not-self can be considered another form of abjection because the status and roles of investigator and victim become unclear, and it also results in an emotional bond, with both Scarpetta and Isles becoming sensitive to what lies in wait for the bodies. This awareness, and the frisson it creates, is in stark contrast to their previous equanimity. For example, when preparing for an autopsy on the body of a nun, Isles finds herself fighting extreme reluctance, knowing that “this was a woman who had chosen to live hidden from the eyes of men; now she would be cruelly revealed, her body probed, her orifices swabbed. The prospect of such an invasion brought a bitter taste to [Isles’s] throat and she paused to regain her composure” (Gerritsen 57). The language highlights the penetrative nature of Isles’s contact with the corpse through words such as revealed, orifices, probed, and invasion, which all suggest unwanted interference, the violence inherent in the dissecting procedures of autopsy, and the masculine nature of the task even when performed by a female pathologist. This in turn adds to the problematic issue here of gender as performance, a subject I will discuss shortly.In a further blurring of those boundaries, the female characters are often perceived as potential victims by both themselves and others. Critic Lee Horsley describes Scarpetta as “increasingly giv[ing] way to a tendency to see herself in the place of the victim, her interior self exposed and open to inspection by hostile eyes” (154). This is demonstrated in the novel when plot developments see Scarpetta’s work scrutinised (Cornwell 105), when she feels she does not belong to the same world as the living people around her (133), and when she almost becomes a victim in a literal sense at the climax of the novel, when the perpetrator breaks into her home to torture and kill her but is stopped by the timely arrival of a police officer (281).Similarly, Gerritsen’s character Isles comes to see herself as a possible victim in The Sinner. When it is feared that the criminal is watching the Boston police and Isles realises he may be watching her too, she thinks about how “she was accustomed to being in the eye of the media, but now she considered the other eyes that might be watching her. Tracking her. And she remembered what she had felt in the darkness at [a previous crime scene]: the prey’s cold sense of dread when it suddenly realises it is being stalked” (Gerritsen 222). She too almost becomes a literal victim when the criminal enters her home with intent to kill (323).As investigators, these characters’ sex causes suspicion because they are “transgressive female bod[ies] occupying the spaces traditionally held by a man” (Mizejewski 6). The investigator in crime fiction has “traditionally been represented as a marginalized outsider” (Mizejewski 11), a person who not only needs to think like the criminal in order to apprehend them but be willing to use violence or to step outside the law in their pursuit of this goal, and is regarded as suspicious as a result. To place a woman in this position then makes that investigator’s role doubly suspicious (Mizejewski 11). Judith Butler’s work on gender as performance provides a useful tool for examining this. Because “the various acts of gender create the gender itself” (Butler 522), these female characters are judged as woman or not-woman according to what they do. By working as investigators in the male-dominated field of law-enforcement and particularly by choosing to spend their days handling the dead in ways that involve the masculine actions of penetrating and dismembering, each has “radically crossed the limits of her gender role, with her choice of the most unsavoury and ‘unfeminine’ of professions” (Vanacker 65). The suspicion this attracts is demonstrated by Scarpetta being compared to her male predecessor who got on so well with the police, judges, and lawyers with whom she struggles (Cornwell 91). This sense of marginalisation and unfavourable comparison is reinforced through her recollections of her time in medical school when she was one of only four women in her class and can remember vividly the isolating tactics the male students employed against the female members (60). One critic has estimated the dates of Scarpetta’s schooling as putting her “on the leading edge of women moving into professionals schools in the early 1970s” (Robinson 97), in the time of second wave feminism, when such changes were not welcomed by all men in the institutions. In The Sinner, Isles wants her male colleagues to see her as “a brain and a white coat” (Gerritsen 175) rather than a woman, and chooses strategies such as maintaining an “icy professionalism” (109) and always wearing that white coat to ensure she is seen as an intimidating authority figure, as she believes that once they see her as a woman, sex will get in the way (175). She wants to be perceived as a professional with a job to do rather than a prospective sexual partner. The white coat also helps conceal the physical indicators of her sex, such as breasts and hips (mirroring the decision of the murdered nun to hide herself from the eyes of men and revealing their shared sensibility). Butler’s argument that “the distinction between appearance and reality [...] structures a good deal of populist thinking about gender identity” (527) is appropriate here, for Isles’s actions in trying to mask her sex and thus her gender declare to her colleagues that her sex is irrelevant to her role and therefore she can and should be treated as just another colleague performing a task.Scarpetta makes similar choices. Critic Bobbie Robinson says “Scarpetta triggers the typical distrust of powerful women in a male-oriented world, and in that world she seems determined to swaddle her lurking femininity to construct a persona that keeps her Other” (106), and that “because she perceives her femininity as problematic for others, she intentionally misaligns or masks the expectations of gender so that the masculine and feminine in her cancel each other out, constructing her as an androgyne” (98). Examples of this include Scarpetta’s acknowledgement of her own attractiveness (Cornwell 62) and her nurturing of herself and her niece Lucy through cooking, an activity she describes as “what I do best” (109) while at the same time she hides her emotions from her colleagues (204) and maintains that her work is her priority despite her mother’s accusations that “it’s not natural for a woman” (34). Butler states that “certain kinds of acts are usually interpreted as expressive of a gender core or identity, and that these acts either conform to an expected gender identity or contest that expectation in some way” (527). Scarpetta’s attention to her looks and her enjoyment of cooking conform to a societal assumption of female gender identity, while her construction of an emotionless facade and focus on her work falls more in the area of expected male gender identity.These characters deliberately choose to perform in a specific manner as a way of coping and succeeding in their workplace: by masking the most overt signs of their sex and gender they are attempting to lessen the suspicion cast upon them by others for not being “woman.” There exists, however, a contradiction between that decision and the clear markers of femininity demonstrated on occasion by both characters, for example, the use by Isles of bright red lipstick and a smart Cleopatra haircut, and the performance by both of the “feminised role as caretaker of, or alignment with, the victim’s body” (Summers-Bremner 133). While the characters do also perform the more masculine role of “rendering [the body’s] secrets in scientific form” (Summers-Bremner 133), a strong focus of the novels is their emotional connection to the bodies and so this feminised role is foregrounded. The attention to lipstick and hairstyle and their overtly caring natures fulfill Butler’s ideas of the conventional performance of gender and may be a reassurance to readers about the characters’ core femininity and their resultant availability for romance sub-plots, however they also have the effect of emphasising the contrasting performative gender elements within these characters and marking them once again in the eyes of other characters as neither one thing nor another, and therefore deserving of suspicion.In conclusion, the female forensic pathologist investigator is portrayed in the chosen novels as suspicious for her involvement in the abject space that results from her comfort around and identification with the corpse in contrast to the revulsion experienced by her police colleagues; her sex in her roles as investigator and pathologist where these roles are conventionally seen as masculine; and her performance of elements of both masculine and feminine conventional gender roles as she carries out her work. This, however, sets up a further line of inquiry about the central position of the abject in novels featuring female forensic pathologist investigators, as these texts depict this character’s occupation of the abject space as crucial to the solving of the case: it is through her ability to perform the procedures of her job while identifying with the corpse that clues are located, the narrative of events reconstructed, and the criminal identified and apprehended.ReferencesBarthes, Roland. S/Z. Trans. Richard Miller. London: Jonathan Cape. 1975. Butler, Judith. “Performative Acts and Gender Constitution: An Essay in Phenomenology and Feminist Theory.” Theatre Journal. 40.4 (1988): 519–31. 5 October 2011 ‹http://www.jstor.org/stable/3207893›Cornwell, Patricia. Postmortem. London: Warner Books, 1994. Davis, Gregory J. and Bradley R. Peterson. “Dilemmas and Solutions for the Pathologist and Clinician Encountering Religious Views of the Autopsy.” Southern Medical Journal. 89.11 (1996): 1041–44. Gawande, Atul. Complications: A Surgeon’s Notes on an Imperfect Science. London: Profile Books, 2003.Gerritsen, Tess. The Sinner. Sydney: Random House, 2003. Grauby, Francois. “‘In the Noir’: The Blind Detective in Bridgette Aubert’s La mort des bois.” Mostly French: French (in) detective fiction. Modern French Identities, v.88. Ed. Alistair Rolls. Oxford: Peter Lang. 2009.Horsley, Lee. Twentieth Century Crime Fiction. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2005.Klaver, Elizabeth. Sites of Autopsy in Contemporary Culture. Albany: State U of NYP, 2005.Kristeva, Julia. Powers of Horror: Essays on Abjection. New York: Columbia UP, 1982.Mizejewski, Linda. “Illusive Evidence: Patricia Cornwell and the Body Double.” South Central Review. 18.3/4 (2001): 6–20. 19 March 2010. ‹http://www.jstor.org/stable/3190350›Nunn, Heather and Anita Biressi. “Silent Witness: Detection, Femininity, and the Post Mortem Body.” Feminist Media Studies. 3.2 (2003): 193–206. 18 January 2011. ‹http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/1468077032000119317›Pentony, Samantha. “How Kristeva’s Theory of Abjection Works in Relation to the Fairy Tale and Post Colonial Novel: Angela Carter’s The Blood Chamber and Keri Hulme’s The Bone People.” Deep South. 2.3 (1996): n.p. 13 November 2011. ‹http://www.otago.ac.nz/DeepSouth/vol2no3/pentony.html›Richardson, Ruth. “Human Dissection and Organ Donation: A Historical Background.” Mortality. 11.2 (2006): 151–65. 13 May 2011. ‹http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/13576270600615351›Robinson, Bobbie. “Playing Like the Boys: Patricia Cornwell Writes Men.” The Journal of Popular Culture. 39.1 (2006): 95–108. 2 August 2010. ‹http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/j.1540-5931.2006.00205.x/full›Rolls, Alistair. “An Uncertain Place: (Dis-)Locating the Frenchness of French and Australian Detective Fiction.” in Mostly French: French (in) Detective Fiction. Modern French Identities, v.88. Ed. Alistair Rolls. Oxford: Peter Lang. 2009.---. “What Does It Mean? Contemplating Rita and Desiring Dead Bodies in Two Short Stories by Raymond Carver.” Literature and Aesthetics: The Journal of the Sydney Society of Literature and Aesthetics. 18.2 (2008): 88-116. Sawday, Jonathon. The Body Emblazoned: Dissection and the Human Body in Renaissance Culture. London: Routledge, 1996.Summers-Bremner, Eluned. “Post-Traumatic Woundings: Sexual Anxiety in Patricia Cornwell’s Fiction.” New Formations: A Journal of Culture/Theory/Politics. 43 (2001): 131–47. Vanacker, Sabine. “V.I Warshawski, Kinsey Millhone and Kay Scarpetta: Creating a Feminist Detective Hero.” Criminal Proceedings: The Contemporary American Crime Novel. Ed. Peter Messent. London: Pluto P, 1997. 62–87. Vargas, Fred. This Night’s Foul Work. Trans. Sian Reynolds. London: Harvill Secker, 2008.

The short story Le Mulâtre (1837) recounts the tragic history of a slave during Haiti’s turbulent 1790s. The first published work of Victor Séjour, it is the first known work of fiction by an African-American writer. At first glance a typical melodramatic tale of brigands, betrayal and revenge, the work is anything but typical in its stark depiction of Caribbean slavery and in its sophisticated use of narration and voice. Written when slavery was still being practiced by both France and the United States, this overt yet sensitive critique is a triumph of the narrative art.This article highlights a modern Structuralist analysis of narration. Séjour not only moves subtly through levels of narration but also through shifts of point of view within discourse and even within speech acts which form an almost unconscious commentary on the action. Moreover, the apparently standard tragic trope is undermined by a complex weaving of life histories in which the triumph of humanity overturns the notion of tragic loss. Thus a story of oppression and inevitability is structured within a voice of commentary, insight, and agency: Séjour succeeds in connecting the humanity on both sides of an inhuman war and in underscoring what is at stake for both master and slave in the continued exploitation of human being by human being.

At last year’s Tour de France—the three-week cycling race—the winner of one stage was disqualified for allegedly obstructing a competitor. In newspapers and on social media, cycling fans immediately started a heated debate about the decision and about the actual course of events. They uploaded photographs and videos, which they had often edited and augmented with graphics to support their interpretation of the situation or to direct attention to some neglected detail (Simpson; "Tour de France").Due to their competitive character and their audience’s partisanship, modern media sports continuously create controversial moments like this, thereby providing ample opportunities for what Jason Mittell—with respect to complex narratives in recent TV drama—called “forensic fandom” ("Forensic;" Complex), in which audience members collectively investigate ambivalent or enigmatic elements of a media product, adding their own interpretations and explanations.Not unlike that of TV drama, sport’s forensic fandom is stimulated through complex forms of seriality—e.g. the successive stages of the Tour de France or the successive games of a tournament or a league, but also the repetition of the same league competition or tournament every (or, in the case of the Olympics, every four) year(s). To articulate their take on the disqualification of the Tour de France rider, fans refer to comparable past events, activate knowledge about rivalries between cyclists, or note character traits that they condensed from the alleged perpetrator’s prior appearances. Sport thus creates a continuously evolving and recursive storyworld that, like all popular seriality, proliferates across different media forms (texts, photos, films, etc.) and different media platforms (television, social media, etc.) (Kelleter).In the following I will use two examples (from 1908 and 1966) to analyse in greater detail why and how sport’s seriality and forensic attitude contribute to the highly dynamic “transmedia intertextuality” (Kinder 35) of media sport. Two arguments are of special importance to me: (1) While social media (as the introductory example has shown) add to forensic fandom’s proliferation, it was sport’s strongly serialized evaluation of performances that actually triggered the “spreadability” (Jenkins, Ford, and Green) of sport-related topics across different media, first doing so at the end of the 19th century. What is more, modern sport owes its very existence to the cross-media circulation of its events. (2) So far, transmedia has mainly been researched with respect to fictional content (Jenkins; Evans), yet existing research on documentary transmedia forms (Kerrigan and Velikovsky) and social media seriality (Page) has shown that the inclusion of non-fiction can broaden our knowledge of how storytelling sprawls across media and takes advantage of their specific affordances. This, I want to argue, ensures that sport is an insightful and important example for the understanding of transmedia world-building.The Origins of Sport, the Olympics 1908, and World-BuildingSome authors claim that it was commercial television that replaced descriptive accounts of sporting events with narratives of heroes and villains in the 1990s (Fabos). Yet even a cursory study of past sport reporting shows that, even back when newspapers had to explain the controversial outcome of the 1908 Olympic Marathon to their readers, they could already rely on a well-established typology of characters and events.In the second half of the 19th century, the rules of many sports became standardized. Individual events were integrated in organized, repetitive competitions—leagues, tournaments, and so on. This development was encouraged by the popular press, which thus enabled the public to compare performances from different places and across time (Werron, "On Public;" Werron, "World"). Rankings and tables condensed contests in easily comparable visual forms, and these were augmented by more narrative accounts that supplemented the numbers with details, context, drama, and the subjective experiences of athletes and spectators. Week by week, newspapers and special-interest magazines alike offered varying explanations for the various wins and losses.When London hosted the Olympics in 1908, the scheduled seriality and pre-determined settings and protagonists allowed for the announcement of upcoming events in advance and for setting up possible storylines. Two days before the marathon race, The Times of London published the rules of the race, the names of the participants, a distance table listing relevant landmarks with the estimated arrival times, and a turn-by-turn description of the route, sketching the actual experience of running the race for the readers (22 July 1908, p. 11). On the day of the race, The Times appealed to sport’s seriality with a comprehensive narrative of prior Olympic Marathon races, a map of the precise course, a discussion of the alleged favourites, and speculation on factors that might impact the performances:Because of their inelasticity, wood blocks are particularly trying to the feet, and the glitter on the polished surface of the road, if the sun happens to be shining, will be apt to make a man who has travelled over 20 miles at top speed turn more than a little dizzy … . It is quite possible that some of the leaders may break down here, when they are almost within sight of home. (The Times 24 July 1908, p. 9)What we see here can be described as a world-building process: The rules of a competition, the participating athletes, their former performances, the weather, and so on, all form “a more or less organized sum of scattered parts” (Boni 13). These parts could easily be taken up by what we now call different media platforms (which in 1908 included magazines, newspapers, and films) that combine them in different ways to already make claims about cause-and-effect chains, intentions, outcomes, and a multitude of subjective experiences, before the competition has even started.The actual course of events, then, like the single instalment in a fictional storyworld, has a dual function: on the one hand, it specifies one particular storyline with a few protagonists, decisive turning points, and a clear determination of winners and losers. On the other hand, it triggers the multiplication of follow-up stories, each suggesting specific explanations for the highly contingent outcome, thereby often extending the storyworld, invoking props, characters, character traits, causalities, and references to earlier instalments in the series, which might or might not have been mentioned in the preliminary reports.In the 1908 Olympic Marathon, the Italian Dorando Pietri, who was not on The Times’ list of favourites, reached the finish first. Since he was stumbling on the last 300 meters of the track inside the stadium and only managed to cross the finish line with the support of race officials, he was disqualified. The jury then declared the American John Hayes, who came in second, the winner of the race.The day after the marathon, newspapers gave different accounts of the race. One, obviously printed too hastily, declared Pietri dead; others unsurprisingly gave the race a national perspective, focusing on the fate of “their” athletes (Davis 161, 166). Most of them evaluated the event with respect to athletic, aesthetic, or ethical terms—e.g. declaring Pietri the moral winner of the race (as did Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in The Daily Mail of July 25). This continues today, as praising sport performers often figures as a last resort “to reconstruct unproblematic heroism” (Whannel 44).The general endeavour of modern sport to scrutinize and understand the details of the performance provoked competing explanations for what had happened: was it the food, the heat, or the will power? In a forensic spirit, many publications added drawings or printed one of the famous photographs displaying Pietri being guided across the finish line (these still regularly appear in coffee-table books on sports photography; for a more extensive analysis, see Stauff). Sport—just like other non-fictional transmedia content—enriches its storyworld through “historical accounts of places and past times that already have their own logic, practice and institutions” (Kerrigan and Velikovsky 259).The seriality of sport not only fostered this dynamic by starting the narrative before the event, but also by triggering references to past instalments through the contingencies of the current one. The New York Times took the biggest possible leap, stating that the 1908 marathon must have been the most dramatic competition “since that Marathon race in ancient Greece, where the victor fell at the goal and, with a wave of triumph, died” (The New York Times 25 July 1908, p. 1). Dutch sport magazine De Revue der Sporten (6 August 1908, p. 167) used sport’s seriality more soberly to assess Hayes’ finishing time as not very special (conceding that the hot weather might have had an effect).What, hopefully, has become clear by now, is that—starting in the late 19th century—sporting events are prepared by, and in turn trigger, varying practices of transmedia world-building that make use of the different media’s affordances (drawings, maps, tables, photographs, written narratives, etc.). Already in 1908, most people interested in sport thus quite probably came across multiple accounts of the event—and thereby could feel invited to come up with their own explanation for what had happened. Back then, this forensic attitude was mostly limited to speculation about possible cause-effect chains, but with the more extensive visual coverage of competitions, especially through moving images, storytelling harnessed an increasingly growing set of forensic tools.The World Cup 1966 and Transmedia ForensicsThe serialized TV live transmissions of sport add complexity to storytelling, as they multiply the material available for forensic proliferations of the narratives. Liveness provokes a layered and constantly adapting process transforming the succession of actions into a narrative (the “emplotment”). The commentators find themselves “in the strange situation of a narrator ignorant of the plot” (Ryan 87), constantly balancing between mere reporting of events and more narrative explanation of incidents (Barnfield 8).To create a coherent storyworld under such circumstances, commentators fall back on prefabricated patterns (“overcoming bad luck,” “persistence paying off,” etc.) to frame the events while they unfold (Ryan 87). This includes the already mentioned tropes of heroism or national and racial stereotypes, which are upheld as long as possible, even when the course of events contradicts them (Tudor). Often, the creation of “non-retrospective narratives” (Ryan 79) harnesses seriality, “connecting this season with last and present with past and, indeed, present with past and future” (Barnfield 10).Instant-replay technology, additionally, made it possible (and necessary) for commentators to scrutinize individual actions while competitions are still ongoing, provoking revisions of the emplotment. With video, DVD, and online video, the second-guessing and re-telling of elements—at least in hindsight—became accessible to the general audience as well, thereby dramatically extending the playing field for sport’s forensic attitude.I want to elaborate this development with another example from London, this time the 1966 Men’s Football World Cup, which was the first to systematically use instant replay. In the extra time of the final, the English team scored a goal against the German side: Geoff Hurst’s shot bounced from the crossbar down to the goal line and from there back into the field. After deliberating with the linesman, the referee called it a goal. Until today it remains contested whether the ball actually was behind the goal line or not.By 1966, 1908’s sparsity of visual representation had been replaced by an abundance of moving images. The game was covered by the BBC and by ITV (for TV) and by several film companies (in colour and in black-and-white). Different recordings of the famous goal, taken from different camera angles, still circulate and are re-appropriated in different media even today. The seriality of sport, particularly World Cup Football’s return every four years, triggers the re-telling of this 1966 game just as much as media innovations do.In 1966, the BBC live commentary—after a moment of doubt—pretty soberly stated that “it’s a goal” and observed that “the Germans are mad at the referee;” the ITV reporter, more ambivalently declared: “the linesman says no goal … that’s what we saw … It is a goal!” The contemporary newsreel in German cinemas—the Fox Tönende Wochenschau—announced the scene as “the most controversial goal of the tournament.” It was presented from two different perspectives, the second one in slow motion with the commentary stating: “these images prove that it was not a goal” (my translation).So far, this might sound like mere opposing interpretations of a contested event, yet the option to scrutinize the scene in slow motion and in different versions also spawned an extended forensic narrative. A DVD celebrating 100 years of FIFA (FIFA Fever, 2002) includes the scene twice, the first time in the chapter on famous controversies. Here, the voice-over avoids taking a stand by adopting a meta-perspective: The goal guaranteed that “one of the most entertaining finals ever would be the subject of conversation for generations to come—and therein lies the beauty of controversies.” The scene appears a second time in the special chapter on Germany’s successes. Now the goal itself is presented with music and then commented upon by one of the German players, who claims that it was a bad call by the referee but that the sportsmanlike manner in which his team accepted the decision advanced Germany’s global reputation.This is only included in the German version of the DVD, of course; on the international “special deluxe edition” of FIFA Fever (2002), the 1966 goal has its second appearance in the chapter on England’s World Cup history. Here, the referee’s decision is not questioned—there is not even a slow-motion replay. Instead, the summary of the game is wrapped up with praise for Geoff Hurst’s hat trick in the game and with images of the English players celebrating, the voice-over stating: “Now the nation could rejoice.”In itself, the combination of a nationally organized media landscape with the nationalist approach to sport reporting already provokes competing emplotments of one and the same event (Puijk). The modularity of sport reporting, which allows for easy re-editing, replacing sound and commentary, and retelling events through countless witnesses, triggers a continuing recombination of the elements of the storyworld. In the 50 years since the game, there have been stories about the motivations of the USSR linesman and the Swiss referee who made the decision, and there have been several reconstructions triggered by new digital technology augmenting the existing footage (e.g. King; ‘das Archiv’).The forensic drive behind these transmedia extensions is most explicit in the German Football Museum in Dortmund. For the fiftieth anniversary of the World Cup in 2016, it hosted a special exhibition on the event, which – similarly to the FIFA DVD – embeds it in a story of gaining global recognition for the fairness of the German team ("Deutsches Fußballmuseum").In the permanent exhibition of the German Football Museum, the 1966 game is memorialized with an exhibit titled “Wembley Goal Investigation” (“Ermittlung Wembley-Tor”). It offers three screens, each showing the goal from a different camera angle, a button allowing the visitors to stop the scene at any moment. A huge display cabinet showcases documents, newspaper clippings, quotes from participants, and photographs in the style of a crime-scene investigation—groups of items are called “corpus delicti,” “witnesses,” and “analysis.” Red hand-drawn arrows insinuate relations between different items; yellow “crime scene, do not cross” tape lies next to a ruler and a pair of tweezers.Like the various uses of the slow-motion replays on television, in film, on DVD, and on YouTube, the museum thus offers both hegemonic narratives suggesting a particular emplotment of the event that endow it with broader (nationalist) meaning and a forensic storyworld that offers props, characters, and action building-blocks in a way that invites fans to activate their own storytelling capacities.Conclusion: Sport’s Trans-Seriality Sport’s dependency on a public evaluation of its performances has made it a dynamic transmedia topic from the latter part of the 19th century onwards. Contested moments especially prompt a forensic attitude that harnesses the affordances of different media (and quickly takes advantage of technological innovations) to discuss what “really” happened. The public evaluation of performances also shapes the role of authorship and copyright, which is pivotal to transmedia more generally (Kustritz). Though the circulation of moving images from professional sporting events is highly restricted and intensely monetized, historically this circulation only became a valuable asset because of the sprawling storytelling practices about sport, individual competitions, and famous athletes in press, photography, film, and radio. Even though television dominates the first instance of emplotment during the live transmission, there is no primordial authorship; sport’s intense competition and partisanship (and their national organisation) guarantee that there are contrasting narratives from the start.The forensic storytelling, as we have seen, is structured by sport’s layered seriality, which establishes a rich storyworld and triggers ever new connections between present and past events. Long before the so-called seasons of radio or television series, sport established a seasonal cycle that repeats the same kind of competition with different pre-conditions, personnel, and weather conditions. Likewise, long before the complex storytelling of current television drama (Mittell, Complex TV), sport has mixed episodic with serial storytelling. On the one hand, the 1908 Marathon, for example, is part of the long series of marathon competitions, which can be considered independent events with their own fixed ending. On the other hand, athletes’ histories, continuing rivalries, and (in the case of the World Cup) progress within a tournament all establish narrative connections across individual episodes and even across different seasons (on the similarities between TV sport and soap operas, cf. O’Connor and Boyle).From its start in the 19th century, the serial publication of newspapers supported (and often promoted) sport’s seriality, while sport also shaped the publication schedule of the daily or weekly press (Mason) and today still shapes the seasonal structure of television and sport related computer games (Hutchins and Rowe 164). This seasonal structure also triggers wide-ranging references to the past: With each new World Cup, the famous goal from 1966 gets integrated into new highlight reels telling the German and the English teams’ different stories.Additionally, together with the contingency of sport events, this dual seriality offers ample opportunity for the articulation of “latent seriality” (Kustritz), as a previously neglected recurring trope, situation, or type of event across different instalments can eventually be noted. As already mentioned, the goal of 1966 is part of different sections on the FIFA DVDs: as the climactic final example in a chapter collecting World Cup controversies, as an important—but rather ambivalent—moment of German’s World Cup history, and as the biggest triumph in the re-telling of England’s World Cup appearances. In contrast to most fictional forms of seriality, the emplotment of sport constantly integrates such explicit references to the past, even causally disconnected historical events like the ancient Greek marathon.As a result, each competition activates multiple temporal layers—only some of which are structured as narratives. It is important to note that the public evaluation of performances is not at all restricted to narrative forms; as we have seen, there are quantitative and qualitative comparisons, chronicles, rankings, and athletic spectacle, all of which can create transmedia intertextuality. Sport thus might offer an invitation to more generally analyse how transmedia seriality combines narrative and other forms. 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First, we would like to follow up on news about award shortlists reported in the last issue of the Deakin Review. The UK’s Chartered Institute of Library and Information Professionals (www.cilip.org.uk ) announced the winners for the 2012 Carnegie and Kate Greenaway Children’s Book Awards. Interestingly, both the Carnegie Medal for outstanding book for children and the Kate Greenaway Medal for distinguished illustration in a book for children were awarded for the same book - A Monster Calls published by Walker Books. Patrick Ness received the Carnegie award as author and Jim Kay the Kate Greenaway award as illustrator. In fact, Patrick Ness also won the award in 2011 for Monsters of Men. It sounds like a book not to be missed! www.carnegiegreenaway.org.uk/carnegie/ and www.carnegiegreenaway.org.uk/greenaway/ For its part, the Canadian Library Association (CLA) announced the winners of its three children’s literature awards at the CLA conference in Ottawa at the end of May. The Whole Truth by Kit Pearson (HarperCollins Canada) won the Book of the Year for Children Award, My Name is Elizabeth illustrated by Matthew Forsythe (Kids Can Press) was awarded the Amelia Frances Howard-Gibbon Illustrator’s Award, and All Good Children by Catherine Austen (Orca) was chosen for the Young Adult Book Award. http://www.cla.ca/AM/Template.cfm?Section=Book_Awards&Template=/CM/HTMLDisplay.cfm&ContentID=12660 As for upcoming awards, the Canadian Children’s Book Centre (www.bookcentre.ca/award ) recently released the finalists for each of its seven children’s book award with winners to be announced at the TD Canadian Children`s Literature Awards and Prix TD de littérature canadienne pour l’enfance et la jeunesse events in Toronto and Montreal later this Fall. Notably, this year marks the inaugural year for the new Monica Hughes Award for Science Fiction and Fantasy. Reviews of a few of the finalists have appeared in the Deakin Review. Pussycat, Pussycat, Where have you been? is up for the Marilyn Baillie Picture Book Award (see Deakin review here: ejournals.library.ualberta.ca/index.php/deakinreview/article/view/17078) while This Dark Endeavour: The Apprenticeship of Victor Frankenstein is in contention for the Geoffrey Bilson Award for Historical Fiction for Young People (see Deakin review here: ejournals.library.ualberta.ca/index.php/deakinreview/article/view/17096) On a local note since we are based out of the University of Alberta, Edmonton writer Nicole Luiken is a finalist for the inaugural Monica Hughes Award for Science Fiction and Fantasy for her book Dreamline. Also, we note that Gail de Vos, a professor at our very own School of Library and Information Studies at the University of Alberta is the chair of the jury for this award. Finally, we would like to note a few changes here at The Deakin Review of Children’s Literature. Sarah Mead-Willis who was the communication editor for the first four issues (and rare book cataloguer at the Bruce Peel Special Collections Library at the University of Alberta has, as she remarks, “moved to the other end of occupational spectrum” and is enrolled in a professional cooking program at the Northwest Culinary Academy of Vancouver. We wish her well and thank her for her contributions.Also, Maria Tan has joined the team filling in for Kim Frail who is off on maternity leave and Nicole Dalmer has stepped in as intern editor.Have a wonderful summer filled with great reads.David Sulz, Communications Editor

Roslynn D. Haynes, From Faust to Strangelove, Representations of the Scientist in Western Literature , Baltimore and London. The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1994, Pp.417, paperback £16.50, (Hardback £45.50). ISBN 0-89263-314-X. Roslynn Haynes, who is Associate Professor of English at the University of New South Wales, has written a scholarly tour de force ; a detailed study of the way in which scientists have been represented in Western literature from the late fourteenth to the late twentieth centuries. Though Chaucer’s deceitful alchemist, the Canon of the Canon’s Yeoman’s Tale , was probably the earliest scientist to appear in Western literature, she settles upon the Faust story, in its several manifestations, as archetypical: the scientist seen as one whose arrogant search for knowledge, usually by arcane means, destroys his humanity, encroaches on matters forbidden by God, and ultimately brings terrible retribution. Dr Faustus, Victor Frankenstein and Dr Strangelove provide her with temporal landmarks in a wide-ranging exploration of the fluctuating literary images of scientists down the centuries, extending into film and pulp science fiction. Amoral, arrogant, bumbling, clumsy, deceptive, devious, forgetful, insensitive, irreligious, power-obsessed, at best grossly misguided, the scientist has usually been anathema to the holistic, religious, naturalistic, aesthetic writer over the centuries. It is almost a relief to come across periods when the benefits of advancing technology briefly overrode fear and loathing of science, and scientists were depicted more positively, as in the mid nineteenth century, (e.g. the upright, reforming Dr Lydgate of George Eliot’s Middlemarch ), or the early twentieth century (e.g. Holsten, who salvages civilization in H.G. Wells’s The World Set Free ). I wish she had included William Cooper’s subtle corrective to C.P. Snow, The Struggles of Albert Woods (1952), an accurate and amusing account of the scientist as a Perfectly Ordinary Person, which was seminal among other post-war British writers such as Kinglsey Amis. However, Roslynn Haynes’s report on her area of literature is generally comprehensive and well indexed, and the notes fill out the text admirably, often with fascinating snippets, such as the origin of the name ‘Bovril’ for a proprietary meat extract, or the titles of the nineteen Frankenstein spin-off films.