Journal articles on the topic 'Thomas Lodge'

The Hawkfield Lodge was one of three emblematic buildings that Sir Thomas Tresham (1543–1605) erected as visible signs of the invisible tenets of his Catholic faith. Tresham was not only a wealthy Elizabethan landowner, with several productive manors and estates in Northamptonshire, but also a prominent Catholic recusant. Construction of all three lodges on two of his estates at Rushton and Lyveden began following his release, in 1593, from a twelve-year period spent primarily at his house in Hoxton, a period in effect an exile from his two family seats that had resulted from his recusancy. The Hawkfield Lodge at Rushton, however, no longer exists, unlike the Warrener's Lodge there (known today as the Triangular Lodge) and the New Bield at Lyveden. Its absence would be of little consequence if the two extant lodges were without the richly emblematic form and ornamentation that have been studied in detail. But it appears to have been a building of a very similar kind, and its construction is well documented. That the masons completed it at least to the level of the roof is clear from the careful reading of the interwoven building accounts that were produced for both the Warrener's and Hawkfield lodges by Tresham's steward at Rushton, George Levens, which include descriptions of the building work, and the payments made for it, and constitute a full volume of the Tresham Papers held at the British Library. Focusing on various details given in these accounts, this article reconstructs the Hawkfield Lodge and presents architectural drawings of its hexagonal ground plan (Fig. 1) and of its reflected ceiling plan or, in other words, the arrangement as seen from below of its elaborate ceiling (Fig. 2). By comparing the plan to those of the two extant lodges (Figs 3 and 4), it also makes clear their symbolic relationships.

Lodge claimed A Margarite of America (1596) was based on a still unidentified “historie in the Spanish tong.” Although several critics have suggested that the romance’s design outlines the structure of a play, the source “historie” has never been sought in the Spanish theatre. This essay proposes Juan de la Cueva’s El príncipe tirano (1583) as the possible Spanish source text of Lodge’s Margarite. After an introduction, the plot is outlined to show, firstly, the romance’s intertextual elements already detected by scholarly criticism and, secondly, others Lodge might have borrowed from El príncipe tirano. This article will supplement current studies on Margarite by shedding new light on the plot and characters.

Through a survey of the translations produced by Richard Hopkins, Francis Meres, Thomas Lodge, and others, this essay investigates the various audiences Luis de Granada's writings had, and the different ways in which they were both received and rendered into English. The translators’ aims, and, in particular, their attitudes to the doctrinal positions they found his writings to espouse, are examined. This involves asking how Granada's works were modified for audiences of different religious persuasions within the general context of Anglo-Hispanic relations in this period, and more particularly of the place of Catholic texts in a no longer Catholic England.

Novelist Rosa Praed's portrayal of colonial Queensland in her fiction was influenced by her social position as the daughter of a squatter and conservative Cabinet Minister, Thomas Lodge Murray-Prior, and limited by the fact that she lived in Australia for much less than one-third of her life. After she left Australia in 1876, she recharged her imagination, during her long novel-writing career in England, by seeking specific information through family letters and reminiscences, copies of Hansard and newspapers. As the decades went by and she remained in England, the social and political dynamics of colonial society changed. Remarkably, she remained able to tum sparse sources into in-depth portrayals of aspects of colonial life.

The THE IMPACT OF SURROUNDINGS ON THE CHARACTERS INTHOMAS HARDY’S NOVELS” is to apply the writers’ knowledge on literature and toshow their interest in reading novels. The writers transfered not only their limitedknowledge in analysing novels as literary works but also building the awareness of theimportance of reading habit to their students of Unswagati because all of them take thesubject of Introduction to English Literature. Reading and analyzing novel is reallybeneficial for students that both can improve the students reading skill but also theirEnglish ability, moreover, they will have the ability in criticizing the novel fromdifferent views. In brief, it will also improve their critical thinking. Afterwards, bydescribing the characters and their attitudes toward each other and how thesurroundings influence them, we also learn about their culture. The theory that is usedin analysing those novels is from Harvey, Murphy, Klarer, and Lodge. The method thatis applied in analysing the characters and the surroundings is descriptive qualiative inwhich the writers take the data by reading the three novels, explain in details about thecharacters and the surroundings involved in the story and some other elementssupported the completeness of the story.

In April 1997 Sir John Meurig Thomas, F.R.S., toured New Zealand, as the 1997 Rutherford Lecturer of the Royal Society of London. He delivered his Rutherford Lecture on Sir Humphry Davy, P.R.S. (1778–1829), and Michael Faraday, F.R.S. (1791–1867), the first and second Directors of the Royal Institution. Many place–names in New Zealand commemorate scientists. There is Mount Davy (1012 m) at 42°23'S, 171°23'E, between Greymouth and Blackball. Mount Faraday, at 42°03'S, 171°30'E, is the highest peak (1485 m) in the Paparoa Range (south of Westport), whose successive peaks from south to north are named Mounts Lodge, Ramsay, Dewar, Priestly, Faraday, Curie, Einstein, Euclid and Kelvin. And Mount Copernicus and Mount Galileo are 10 km east of the Paparoa Range.

AbstractThis study arose from an encounter with some paintings (still lives, Madonnas and other religious or genre scenes of mainly seventeenth-century Northern European origin) at the Queensland Art Gallery in 2012. They were intriguing because they were part of a bequest by squatter and colonial parliamentarian Thomas Lodge Murray-Prior (1819–92), which formed the nucleus of the original Queensland Art Gallery collection when it opened in 1895. Little is known about them, but they raise questions: What part did they play in the life of the donor? Did he collect them merely to burnish his reputation? Were they hung in a town house or in the bush? How did they enter the collection of the Queensland Art Gallery and what reception did they receive? What subsequent use has been made of them? This article examines the collection and the role it played in Murray-Prior's life, arguing that it is a coherent collection of Northern European art and more than a status symbol. Furthermore, it has much to say about a period that saw the development of art collecting and exhibiting. As such, it is the perfect foundation for an art gallery in colonial Australia.

Abstract The rarely discussed epigraph to Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the d’Urbervilles – ‘Poor wounded name! My bosom as a bed | Shall lodge thee’ – at first seems an odd choice. Tess is usually read as a tragedy; the epigraph’s source, Shakespeare’s The Two Gentlemen of Verona, is a comedy. The speaker of these lines in the play is a woman, the ‘wounded name’ a man’s, and the immediate context one of erotic playfulness as Julia tears up Proteus’s love letter and then tenderly gathers up the fragments. Yet the apparent mismatch works, because it gestures towards both the generic instability of Two Gentlemen, and the novel’s own unstable genre. Hardy recurrently raises the question of how Tess Durbeyfield’s story should be read. Tess’s ‘fall’ is at different times and for different people a fatal blot on her prospects, a venial error, and material for an amusing or satirical story. Novel and heroine hover between genres; generic interpretations are complicated by gender and class. Early reviewers who refused to read Tess as a tragedy may seem wrong-headed and puritanical in hindsight, but they were in some ways more alive to the novel’s generic slippages than many later readers. Hardy at once invokes and unsettles generic models, in his choice of epigraph and throughout the book.

Salisbury House is but one example from a significant corpus of architectural patronage carried out by a single family. In two generations, the Cecils created three great ‘prodigy houses’ among a range of notable country houses including Cranborne Manor in Dorset, Pymmes in Hertfordshire, Wothorpe Lodge near Burghley House in Northamptonshire, and Snape Castle in Yorkshire. It was William Cecil, 1st Baron Burghley (1520/21-98), who from the early 1560s initiated this prolific campaign of building with Burghley House in Northamptonshire, Theobalds in Hertfordshire, and Burghley House in London. Both Thomas Cecil (1542-1623) and Robert Cecil (1563-1612) inherited their father’s passion for architecture. Even when Burghley House in the Strand was nearing completion, Thomas continued work on his remarkable Italianate villa in Wimbledon (begun 1588, demolished c. 1720), one of the most innovative houses of the period, with a three-sided plan, built on a steeply sloping hillside that prompted the composition of elaborate terraces. Like the family’s other properties, Wimbledon House was able to offer hospitality to Elizabeth I, while Hatfield House, built by Robert Cecil between 1607 and 1612, was specifically designed to entertain James I and his Queen, Anne of Denmark. In London, Robert Cecil’s architectural patronage started in about 1596 with the improvement and remodelling of Beaufort House in Chelsea, apparently in order to extend his influence into that area, although the scheme was quickly abandoned. Three years later, Robert began Salisbury House in the Strand, while in 1609 he built the first commercial centre in the West End, known as the ‘New Exchange’. From 1612, he also developed a strip of land along the west side of St Martin’s Lane as a new residential area, but did not live to see it completed.

Chaucer's Summoner tells the tale of a corrupt friar who, while trying to obtain a donation from his bedridden and irate patron Thomas, demonstrates his hypocrisy by giving Thomas's wife a very specific dinner order and immediately following it up with a long sermon on the importance of fasting. Like most medieval preachers, Friar John appeals to biblical exempla:“Lo, Moyses fourty dayes and fourty nyghtFasted, er that the heighe God of myghtSpak with hym in the mountayne of Synay.With empty wombe, fastynge many a day,Receyved he the lawe that was writenWith Goddes fynger; and Elye, wel ye witen,In mount Oreb, er he hadde any specheWith hye God, that is oure lyves leche,He fasted longe and was in contemplaunce.… Our Lord Jhesu, as hooly writ devyseth,Yaf us ensample of fastynge and preyeres.”

Caetano Veloso colocou naquele filme dele, Cinema Falado, uma cena onde um rapaz na praia comenta, em alemão, trechos de Thomas Mann sobre o homossexualismo, numa espécie de referência implícita ao filme Morte em Veneza, de Visconti, sobre a obra de Mann. O filme de Caetano tinha um subtítulo que era algo como “um filme de ensaios”, ou coisa parecida, querendo, me parece, sugerir que o filme tinha uma pretensão acadêmica, como se fosse um livro de ensaios críticos, que ao invés de surgirem da maneira convencional, escrita, surgiam filmados, numa exploração das multiplicidades de linguagens de nossa agoridade agônica. Se poderia, nesse sentido, também se pensar, inversamente, em um roteiro ensaístico, fazendo de conta ser um filme toda uma dimensão conceituai tematizada largamente nos círculos acadêmicos. Se poderia ir ainda mais longe e realizar novas inversões, e fazer, por exemplo, as discussões sobre o Brasil ocorrerem em outro lugar, já que já foi dito que aqui é o lugar das “idéias fora do lugar”.

THOMAS DEMPSTER E L'ANTICA ETRURIA: UN COMMENTO ALL'AUTOBIOGRAFIA E AL DE ETRURIA REGALILo studioso scozzese Thomas Dempster (1579–1625) è forse meglio noto come l'autore del de Etruria Regali, la prima esaustiva opera sugli antichi Etruschi. La pubblicazione, avvenuta circa un secolo dopo la sua morte, contribui alla rinascita dell'interesse accademico, e anche mondano, verso la cultura etrusca e allo sviluppo della “Etruscheria”. Non meno interessante della sua opera di studioso fu la storia della sua vita e della sua carriera. A dieci anni Dempster lasciò una burrascosa vita familiare per intraprendere gli studi a Cambridge e in alcune istituzioni cattoliche della Francia, del Belgio e a Roma: qui avvenne l'incontro con celebrati studiosi nella temperie della Controriforma. Laureato con lode, iniziò una brillante carriera che lo portò a essere un noto sebbene controverso, insegante, poeta, scrittore, storico e oratore. La sua reputazione gli assicurò protezione e cariche accademiche: per breve tempo fu Historiographer Royal durante i regni di Giacomo I e VI, ebbe cattedre prestigiose a Pisa e Bologna. Lungi dall'essere uno studioso schivo, Dempster partecipò attivamente alla vita politica dell'epoca e fu spesso al centro di accese discussioni. La sua reputazione è stata sminuita dalla mancanza di un certo giudizio critico, ben chiara nei suo scritti, e dalla tendenza a rivendicare fantasiosi diritti nel momento in cui si trattava della Scozia o del proprio passato. Lettere e documenti hanno comunque contribuito a creare un quadro più completo, in particolare della sua carriera in Italia, e hanno permesso una ridefinizione della sua vita e della sua opera.

<p>Em 1985 Marcel Gauchet publicou seu livro <em>Le désenchantement du monde. Une histoire politique de la religion</em> (Galimard) que veio a preencher uma lacuna em termos de grandes sínteses nos estudos de sociologia da religião. Sua análise da religião mostra que, longe de se reduzir a uma superestrutura, o religioso tem modelado ativamente a realidade coletiva e suas formas políticas. Mobilizado pelo estudo desta obra, há mais de vinte anos atrás, publiquei o artigo “Para ler Gauchet”, na revista Religião e Sociedade (1994). Neste artigo retomo a leitura de <em>Désenchantement du Monde</em> e do meu próprio texto, para pensar criticamente as teses de Gauchet a partir de três linhas de interseção dentro da produção atual das ciências sociais da religião. A primeira está referida à crítica que Thomas Csordas. Na segunda, discuto o lugar subordinado que a religião ocupa no pensamento de Gauchet e proponho a urgência em se superar a dicotomia entre o secular e o religioso. A terceira linha apresenta uma crítica ao pensamento ocidental a partir do pós-colonial.</p><p> </p>

ResumoO presente artigo trata do argumento do creamy layer, segundo o qual uma dada política pública tende a favorecer mais os indivíduos já privilegiados dentro do grupo de beneficiários. Tal argumento lança sobre a política a pecha de ineficiência, quando não de perversidade. Traçamos aqui brevemente a origem histórica do argumento na Índia, sua adoção por parte dos opositores à ação afirmativa nos Estados Unidos e, logo em seguida, sua recepção no Brasil. Usamos como fonte o universo de textos publicados sobre cotas raciais pelos jornais Folha de S. Pauloe O Globo. A investigação mostra que (1) o argumento foi incorporado no Brasil em grande medida pela recepção das ideias de Thomas Sowell, economista conservador norte-americano, (2) que por seu turno usou a Índia como exemplo de país que adotou políticas que privilegiaram um creamy layer, ainda que (3) no debate indiano a acusação de benefício dos privilegiados esteja longe de ser consensual. Por fim, mostramos que, a despeito de o argumento ter sido usado para combater as cotas no Brasil, as políticas reais implantadas em nosso país até 2012 tinham dispositivos explícitos para prevenir o benefício dos mais privilegiados, o que lança por terra o argumento do creamy layer.

AbstractSequential decision plans based on aphid counts and binomial counts of infested plants (presence or absence of aphids) were developed to guide chemical control decisions for die potato aphid, Macrosiphum euphorbiae, on two growth stages of oilseed flax in western Canada. The plans were derived from studies of aphid dispersion among plants in field plots at two locations over 4 years, and verified in samples from 51 commercial fields, in Manitoba. The relationship between variance (s2) and mean aphid density () perplant was loges2 = 0.790 ± 0.050 + (1.649 ± 0.031) loge (n = 69, r2 = 0.98), for both crop growth stages. Neither sweep samples nor pan samples produced reliable estimates of the number of aphids per plant and, therefore, these sampling tools could not replace aphid counts on individual plants. Aphid counts and the binomial method gave similar control decisions with similar amounts of effort, but the aphid counting method required fewer plants to reach a decision. The same decisions were reached in 85–95% of fields by counting aphids on a minimum sample of 25 plants when the crop was in full bloom, or 20 plants at the green boll stage, as with samples of 50–100 plants.

AbstractDuring the years 1814–1819, William Higgins, an Irish chemist who worked at the Dublin Society, claimed he had anticipated John Dalton in developing the atomic theory and insinuated that Dalton was a plagiarist. This essay focuses not on William Higgins, but on his uncle Bryan Higgins, a well-known chemist of his day, who had developed his own theories of caloric and chemical combination, similar in many respects to that of Dalton. New evidence is first introduced addressing Bryan's disappearance from the scientific community after 1803. In his later years, Bryan apparently suffered from a condition resulting in a decline in his mental health, which explains why he never lodged any priority claims of his own against Dalton, or defended those of his nephew. Dalton's mention of Bryan's name in Part II ofA New System of Chemical Philosophy, his laboratory notebook entries, and a fresh look at his correspondence with chemist Thomas Charles Hope indicate that Dalton adopted a Higgins-like caloric model in 1803. Together these factors provide evidence to support the argument that Dalton learned of Bryan's theories via a meeting he had with William Allen on 10 July 1803. Existing evidence related to the origin of the atomic theory is worthy of re-examination in light of Dalton's possible prior knowledge of Bryan's work.

O que é o “humano” no humano? O que faz um ser vivente ser humano? Em caso de dúvida, quem decide se um ser vivente é um ser humano? Uma cultura política liberal baseada no valor dos direitos humanos não pode evitar essas questões. Assim, este artigo usará diferentes quadros interpretativos (Thomas Hobbes, Michel Foucault, Leo Bersani, Giorgio Agamben, Judith Butler, Lee Edelman, Jasbir Puar) para dar conta da permanência de uma decisão soberana sobre o humano no governo biopolítico do presente. Exemplo disso é condição de lésbicas, gays, bissexuais, transgêneros e intersexuais vindos do continente africano para requerer asilo na Europa. Perseguidos em seus países por sua orientação sexual ou identidade de gênero, em muitos casos atravessam o Mediterrâneo em barcos precários até a terra firme – reviravolta do destino – nas mesmas ilhas em que o fascismo italiano costumava confinar homens homossexuais. Lá, são “recebidos” em campos para imigrantes ilegais onde sua completa humanidade, negada por seus países de origem, será examinada por uma comissão. Apenas se reconhecidos como membros autênticos de uma minoria sexual eles se beneficiarão da totalidade dos direitos humanos no continente europeu. Caso contrário, correm o risco de serem forçados a sair da Europa – e da humanidade. Longe de ser uma viagem de esperança, com origem na barbaridade para chegar-se à modernidade, a jornada, iniciada na África e para a Europa, torna-se um arcaico tormento.

The co-creation process within the New Zealand luxury accommodation sector has, until recently, been under researched. However, in 2016, a doctoral thesis was completed [1] with the key question, ‘how is the luxury accommodation experience created?’ Following an interpretivist paradigm, data were collected that included 81 interviews (of 27 guests, 27 employees and 27 managers) within six luxury properties (three luxury hotels and three luxury lodges) which were selected via purposive sampling. Drawing from the findings of the thesis, this article aims to show that co-creation is a valuable tool for hoteliers. Co-creation is about customers creating value for themselves through an interactive relationship with a company. The hospitality industry is a complete veteran at this; for example, the use of à-la-carte menus, whereby a customer has the ability to compose a meal that has value specifically for them. The possible scope of the co-creation process, beyond à-la-carte menus, is now being recognised by the luxury accommodation sector. Co-creation can be described as a joint process that involves a customer and an organisation resulting in an output of value [2]. Co-creation permits and indeed encourages a more active involvement from the customer [1], and is important to organisations as it can ensure that any personal interaction that their customers have adds value to their experience [3]. If co-creation is used to its full potential, it can give an organisation a competitive advantage due to increased customer satisfaction resulting in a positive impact on customer loyalty [4]. Co-creation can also provide continual feedback for improving existing services, presenting a business with constant opportunities to increase their revenue and success [5]. In summary, the main finding of the doctoral research was the consensus among guests, employees and managers that the luxury accommodation experience is materialised through a process of co-creation, involving the many different forms of interaction happening between guests, employees and managers, as well as with external contributors outside of the properties [1]. The practical implications of co-creation cannot be determined without luxury properties first identifying what makes their accommodation a luxury experience. When this has been defined, more interaction between guests, employees and managers should be encouraged to ensure that this particular brand of luxury accommodation experience is created. This could include having staff members dedicated to interacting with guests, and having certain ‘touch points’ throughout the guests’ stay that ensure the type and the amount of engagement that is required happens. External co-creation should also be encouraged; for example, staff visiting the local producers of food and wine, which in turn would enable them to talk more informatively to guests about these products when they are interacting with them during their stay. Another example would be to build relationships with external agents who offer activities to the guests, to enable the continuation of the experience when guests are away from the property. Luxury properties also need to apply co-creation strategies that would enable guests to innovate new products and services. One such strategy is in the form of a digital customer relationship management tool; an example of this being HGRM – Happy Guest Relationship Management, although this technology is still quite innovative. Hotels and lodges need to make sure that they are using Web 2.0 applications such as videos, blogs, fora, wiki, podcasts, chat rooms, YouTube, Twitter and Facebook to encourage communication and social interaction, which is the customer engagement that enables co-creation. For any business that is involved in customer experience, especially hospitality, there is every good reason to go down the route of co-creation, especially when it can give that business a competitive advantage. If you would like to read the PhD thesis this research is based on you can access it here: http://aut.researchgateway.ac.nz/bitstream/handle/10292/9925/HarkisonT.pdf?sequence=3 Corresponding author Tracy is a Senior Lecturer in Hospitality at Auckland University of Technology, New Zealand. Her research passions are hospitality education and the co-creation of luxury accommodation experiences. This has resulted in the completion of her PhD thesis on how the luxury accommodation experience is created. Tracy Harkison can be contacted at: tracy.harkison@aut.ac.nz References (1) Harkison, T. How is the Luxury Accommodation Experience Created? Case Studies from New Zealand; Ph.D. Thesis, Auckland University of Technology, 2016. (2) Prahalad, C. K.; Ramaswamy, V. Co-creation Experiences: The Next Practice in Value Creation. Journal of Interactive Marketing 2004, 18(3), 5–14. https://doi.org/10.1002/dir.20015 (3) Chathoth, P. K.; Ungson, G. R.; Harrington, R. J.; Chan, E. S. Co-creation and Higher Order Customer Engagement in Hospitality and Tourism Services: A Critical Review. International Journal of Contemporary Hospitality Management 2016, 28(2), 222–245. (4) Oyner, O.; Korelina, A. The Influence of Customer Engagement in Value Co-creation on Customer Satisfaction: Searching for New Forms of Co-creation in the Russian Hotel Industry. Worldwide Hospitality and Tourism Themes 2016, 8(3), 327–345. (5) Thomas, A. K.; James, P. S.; Vivek, N. Co-creating Luxury Hotel Services: A Framework Development. Life Sciences Journal 2013, 10(7s), 1005–1012. http://www.lifesciencesite.com 162

How the Grundtvig Society was foundedA paper read by Henning Høirup to the Annual Conference of the GS on 15th January 1988This paper was given close to the fortieth anniversary of the date when the GS made itself known to the public with a press notice announcing its foundation at a meeting, held at Vartov on 13th January 1948 when the Society was formally constituted. The notice includes the names of the fifteen founder members. The reason why the GS has nevertheless insisted on 8th September 1947 as the date of its foundation is given by Bishop Høirup in this paper. The latter date is the correct one, and the place where the GS was founded is the episcopal residence at Ribe, but the six founders (who had come together at a meeting of Grundtvig scholars) agreed to widen the circle so as to include nine co-founders who were present at the meeting on 13th January 1948.Concurring with Albeck Høirup maintains that the renewed interest in Grundtvig began in the Thirties when the literary historian Georg Christensen had completed Svend Grundtvig’s edition of his father’s Poetiske Skrifter, which had come to a standstill after the Editor’s death in 1889. Approximately at the same time the Haandbog i N. F. S. Grundtvig’s Skrifier by Ernst J. Borup and Fr. Schrøder was published. It was also the time of appearance of Edvard Lehmann’s book on Grundtvig in Swedish with a Danish version following later on. All this occured about ten years earlier than the so-called Grundtvig Renaissance launched by Hal Kochs university lectures on Grundtvig in 1940.However, to Høirup the most important event in the Thirties was the appearance of the eleventh edition of the song-book of the folk high school with the scores for tunes by Carl Nielsen, Thomas Laub and Thorvald Aagaard, which gave new life to Grundtvig’s songs and hymns. Høirup’s pastor colleague of the adjacent parish in Funen, Kaj Thaning at Asperup, had started a card index on main concepts in Grundtvig’s work, and the two clerics got permission to take out Grundtvig mss. on loan pledging that they would keep the invaluable fascicles in the fire-proof safes of their vicarages. Bishop Hans .llgaard of Odense supported research on Grundtvig’s theology as when he convened a working synod of his diocese in 1946, where both Thaning and H.irup presented results of the research projects that led to their doctoral dissertations. At the Royal Library in Copenhagen Høirup met other Grundtvig scholars, Steen Johansen, William Michelsen and Helge Toldberg. In September 1947 those three and Høirup came to Ribe to meet Bishop C. I. Scharling and Villiam Grønbæk, the Diocesan Dean, both known as “High Church” men. But all misgivings about them were soon laid aside. Scharling was able to present his book on “Grundtvig and Romanticism”, that appeared in the same year. At this meeting the idea to set up a society for the advancement of cooperation in research and in the editing of documentary scholarly editions of Grundtvig’s writings was discussed along with a proposal from Bishop Øllgaard that a future yearbook be called Grundtvig-Studier. On the following day, Grundtvig’s birthday, regulations were drafted, just as it was agreed to widen the circle so as to include Bishop Øllgaard and Professor Poul Andersen and Hal Koch, as well as the literary historians Gustav Albeck, Georg Christensen and Magnus Stevns. Helge Toldberg was appointed Secretary and Høirup himself Editor of Grundtvig-Studier. The meeting at Ribe was not convened with the foundation of the GS as its aim. The resolve tofound it grew out of a feeling of the value that working together would entail. The proposed co-founders were all in favour and were joined by Pastor Balslev of Vartov. At the meeting at Vartov, where the Society was constituted, Bishop Scharling was elected President. When he died in 1951, Ernst J. Borup, the Warden of Vartov, rightly said that thanks to Scharling the Society “had been taken beyond the limitations of the partisan dominance to which it might otherwise have been confined.” The circle of co-founders were further augmented with Kaj Thaning and Holger Kjær, a folk high school teacher. An invitation to membership was issued, and at the first annual conference in 1948 the membership stood at 333. At the conference Magnus Stevns lectured on “The Kingo Hymn and Grundtvig”, though he was already hampered by the disease that was to bring him to his grave shortly afterwards.After some remarks about the activities of the Society over the past forty years Høirup pointed out that new scholars constantly have come forward including undergraduates, as those who wrote most of the chapters in the book “For the Sake of Continuity” (1977), which was published as a double-volume of Grundtvig Studier.The 1988 volume of Grundtvig Studier opens with an obituary on P. G. Lindhardt. He was a professor of ecclesiastical history in the University of Aarhus and a member of the Committee of the GS from 1956. He is the author of a biography of Grundtvig in English and contributed an article “Some Light Thrown on Grundtvig’s Trip to England in 1843” to Kirkehistoriske Samlinger 1972. He made an edition of Grundtvig’s sermons 1854-56 with a commentary (1974-1977). His monumental scholarly work was chiefly concerned with the rise of the revivalist movements in the 19th century. The obituarist is J. H . Schjørring, D.D ., who was elected a member of the Commitee of the GS in 1988.The Grundtvig Manuscript .Fragen aus Dänemark an die Universitäten Deutscher Zunge., an unpublished fragment lodged in the Grundtvig Archives of the Royal Library in Copenhagen (fasc. 168), dates from the period 1816-1820. It contains an appeal to the professors of German universities that they offer themselves to the German princes as intermediaries between these and their subjects in setting up constitutional rules of government after the Vienna Conference 1815-1816. As the situation changed, when the writer August von Kotzebue was murdered on 23. March 1819, the manuscript was probably written shortly before this date.

Evan Thomas’s recent book, The War Lovers, chronicles the “monumental turning point” of the U.S. declaration of war against Spain in 1898, and the small circle of men who pressed for war, and for an American empire. The central figures, for Thomas, were Theodore Roosevelt, Assistant Secretary of the Navy; his friend Henry Cabot Lodge, hawkish senator and foreign policy adviser to President McKinley; and William Randolph Hearst, editor of the New York Journal, whose paper did its upmost to fan war fervor in 1897-8. These men were inspired by, and had the strong support of Alfred Thayer Mahan a naval officer, history professor, and influential author of The Influence of Sea Power Upon History. Though President McKinley hesitated about war with Spain, Roosevelt and Lodge had long dreamed of a war that would establish the United States as a major player on the world stage. When another prominent politician, Speaker of the House Thomas Reed, opposed substantial increases in naval funding that he thought “invited conflict,” Lodge promptly accused him of harboring “extreme pro-Spanish prejudices.”

In this article, a little-studied problem of the critical analysis of the philosophical and logical position of the representative of German philosophical tradition Christoph Sigwart (1830–1904) in the university philosophy, especially in the work of a Kharkiv private-docent Isidor Prodan (1854–1919/1920) is presented. At first, the main periods of the scientific and creative career of Isidor Prodan, including his studying at the Czernowitz (Chernivtsi) Gymnasium (1864–1872) and the philosophical faculty at the University of Vienna (1872–1875) are considered. His teacher in Vienna was a very famous German and Austrian professor Franz Brentano (1838–1917), the author of the work “Psychology from an Empirical Standpoint” (1874) and the founder of “descriptive psychology” and intentionalism. Then his teaching of logic and philosophy at the Gymnasiums of Kishinev (Moldova), Izmail (Ukraine), Riga (Latvia), Tartu (Estonia), and Moscow (Russia) from 1876 till 1900 is emphasized. Then the features of the teaching and the publications of Isidor Prodan in his “Kharkiv period” (1906–1916) are pointed out, during which he was a private-docent at the department of philosophy. Isidor Prodan’s works at this time comprise three areas: 1) History of logic (Aristotle, Leibniz, Spencer, Sigwart), 2) philosophy of common sense (Thomas Reid and the Scottish School of Common Sense), 3) critique of Kant and Neo-Kantianism (Hermann Cohen, Wilhelm Windelband, Hans Vaihinger, Heinrich Rickert, Ernst Cassirer e. a.). In the last group, his work “The Truth about Kant (A Secret of his Success)” (1914) was of great importance. His very important work was the monograph “The Cognition and its Object (Justification of Common Sense)” (Kharkiv, 1913). The positions of well-known philosophers (Plato, Descartes, Berkley, Leibniz, and Hume) and less-known authors (Lodge, Preyer, and Schneider) were here analyzed. Isidor Prodan’s critical interpretation of the logical viewpoint of Christoph Sigwart in his two-volume work “Logic” (1873, 3rd ed., 1904) occupies an important place in this analysis. In turn, Isidor Prodan’s important achievement was the popularization of the ideas of this German logician and philosopher, in particular, because of his translation of extracts from the work “Logic”.

Richard Owen, The Hunterian Lectures in Comparative Anatomy. May and June 1837 . Edited with an Introduction by Phillip Reid Sloan. Natural History Museum Publications, 1992. Pp. xii + 340, £37.50 hardback, £15.95 paper. ISBN 0-565-011065, 0-565-011448 Jacob W. Gruber and John C. Thackray, Richard Owen Commemoration: Three Studies . Historical Studies in the Life and Earth Sciences No. 1. Natural History Museum Publications, 1992. Pp. x + 181, £29.95. ISBN 0-565-01109 Over the last 10 to 15 years it has become increasingly clear that an astonishing proportion of Victorian natural history and comparative anatomy revolved around the enigmatic figure of Richard Owen - so much so that when the centenary of his death came around in 1992, the commemorations willingly spread themselves over several days and a great diversity of scientific themes. Owen’s life and work thoroughly embraced the industrious spirit of the nineteenth century. In his time he was renowned as Britain’s most gifted anatomist, as a public lecturer, a palaeontologist, taxonomist and philosopher on natural history topics, and, in another more concrete sense, as the man who brought the Natural History Museum in South Kensington into existence. He catalogued John Hunter’s collection while curator at the Royal College of Surgeons, dissected rare animals from the zoo, invented dinosaurs, classified a succession of gigantic fossil species from the outposts of empire, wrote memoirs on the pearly Nautilus, Australian marsupials, the Archaeopteryx , the aborigines of the Andaman Islands, the gorilla and the dodo, took an active role in London’s scientific society, received a shower of medals, including the Royal Medal in 1846 and the Copley in 1851, went to the opera, played chess with Edwin Landseer, visited the Queen at Osborne, and ended up with a knighthood and an attractive grace-and-favour residence in Richmond, known as Sheen Lodge. Yet in spite of being such a man of parts, Owen was not liked. Thomas Henry Huxley hated him and never ignored an opportunity to fight. Charles Darwin lost his temper over a review of the Origin of Species and never talked to him again. Antonio Panizzi did his best to prevent him splitting up the British Museum’s collections. It is one of the many achievements of these two books, published to coincide with the centenary, that Owen’s pugnacious, self-aggrandizing character and famous slipperiness under pressure emerge, not quite sanitized, but as the kind of ambitious qualities that were needed to get things done.

my verie good Sr, after my longe desyer to heare from yow I have now receyved two of yours (not missinge those yow have sent before), the one of the 16 of march, the other of the 28. so that I make account to have receyved all which yow have sent, as for answere to the first, be yow sure that albeit I begynne to grow dymme, yet when iust occasion forceth me, I will not omitt to visit yow with my letters, beinge not ignorant of the consolation that such correspondence bringeth widi it. for the sturre about the booke yow presented take yow no great thought, it can do yow no harme, neither need yow to prosecute that matter for your credit, for I do not conceyve yow have lost it by that means, the sturre about that point is not so great heare as I perceyve yow imagin, albeit one of Late of no small reputation hath once againe obiected the same unto me. but I am not moved ther with, but Lett such speeches passe, wherin I fynd much good, and therfor could wish yow wold also deale no more therwith. for I am told yt will but breed amongst us increase of combustions, your zeale against the oath giveth me great edification, and causeth me iustly to see what the generall opinion is in that place [word deleted], which by the grace of god I meane to hold so longe as I live. In that sense yow say yow are a frend to those of the Clinke, I am also a frend, and I thinke I have shewed the same in as good termes as any other of my brethren hath done.

my verie Rev good Sr, it is now so longe since I hard from yow, and I have written so often, that I beleve I am now even with yow in your nomber of Letters, yf mine be safely come unto yow. I have had such checkes of late concerninge yowr puttinge fa pers. wordes to be censured, that I feare some false measure, yett yf yow communicated the matter first to our vicepr. as it seameth yow did, it will helpe the matter well. I could wish yow to take heede how farre yow deale with vives, die vicep. meant somethinge when he advised yow to the contrarie, a yonge Carmelite called mr dowghtie here in London sendeth me word that your monsignour is wholly crossed in his designes, and therfor I feare yow cannot gett any great favour in dealinge widi him though yow fynd some perticular releife. yet this forenamed Carmelite assureth me that his superiors favour yowr monsignour much, and he offereth me to write unto them in our behalfe, for diat vives is now altogether bent (as he saieth) to convert his charitie to the furtherance of our countrie. which Courtesie I could verie well [‘like’ deleted] like of, but that I feare the issue therof.

My deare s.r yt is not longe since I sente yow a lettre of many matters the confirmation whereof I daylye expecte or if yow have none heereafter then I praye yow not to reckon of that that hathe beene writtne. Nowe I hasten theese lettres bicause I heere that if I can dispatche this lettre in any tyme I maye chance to have him sente & if I omitt this tyme I knowe not howe or when to sende partelye by reason of the difficulties theese tymes afforde but cheefelye bicause I was but yesterdaye in as weeke a case as almoste ever I was by reason of an ague which hangethe uppon mee & hathe brought mee lowe & drivethe mee daylye into many lothesome colde swetts & what will beecom of it & of mee by reason of it I knowe not but hopinge thatt yow will remember mee when I am dedd I intende to keepe tuche with yow whiles I live. & I assure yow that I have not fayled to wright to yow everye monthe this yere (Maye excepted) which I repeete in diverse lettres bicause I feare my lettres miskarry & I woulde fayne by one meanes or other yow shoulde knowe the care I have to satisfye yow in this kinde.

My very good frendes I deferred my wrightinge soe long that I feared mee yow woulde thinke I had forgotten yaw for wante of matter to wright of, and meanes to sende, but nowe I have to to muche matter unlesse yt weare better. Wee weare verry lyke to have loste M.r Wilson whoe abought the latter ende of Aprill fell daingerouslye sicke, abought which tyme hee wrought unto yow, but hee was lyke to have beene in his grave beefore the letters wente owte of the howse. and albeeit hee stande a hylene (as children saye) yett is it generallye thought thatt hee is soe wasted, and spente wrth the sicknes, that hee will scareslye bee able to goe to them which some tymes sende for him. to whome hee had now gone had not his sicknes hindred him. but thankes bee to god he wente not. for when that side [?] hathe him amongst [word illegible] them [?] whatt maye they not doe with him? Accowmpte of him as noe longe liver & provide againste suche a sede vacante whatt is best [‘bee’ deleted] to bee donne.

Very Reverend and beloved Sir. yours of the 19th of may beinge salfly arived unto my handes I would not omitt accordinge to my accoustomed manner to geve yow notice therof, as alsoe to geve yow to understande that the inclosed with yt to Sir w:m Roper, f: Augustine, m:r Rant and mr Ishams sonne are all sent already accordinge as they weare addressed, and now in requitall of your packet I send yow an other as well fraughted yet with the greater part for your self which may make me presume that they shalbe the better welcome; yow shall therfore understand that some few dayes past I receaved from m:r wiliam Howard a Letter dated from doway certefiyinge me of his acquaintance with yow at Rome and Late departure from thence cravinge wzthall my help for the directinge of a little packet from him unto yow which now wzth the rest I here send yow together with one from m:r Mayney to m:r Roper. then further I have receaved this week two Letters together in one packet from our R: Archpriest of two general dates the one of the 16th of March the other of the 22th of Aprill ether of them especially concerninge the matter of the meetinge at doway and noe newes mentioned in them but souch as Longe since I have written unto yow, with thes Letters I receaved alsoe two for your self from him which heare alsoe I sende yow.

IntroductionIn the year 2000, a group of likeminded individuals got together and convened the first annual World Barista Championship in Monte Carlo. With twelve competitors from around the globe, each competitor was judged by seven judges: one head judge who oversaw the process, two technical judges who assessed technical skills, and four sensory judges who evaluated the taste and appearance of the espresso drinks. Competitors had fifteen minutes to serve four espresso coffees, four cappuccino coffees, and four “signature” drinks that they had devised using one shot of espresso and other ingredients of their choice, but no alcohol. The competitors were also assessed on their overall barista skills, their creativity, and their ability to perform under pressure and impress the judges with their knowledge of coffee. This competition has grown to the extent that eleven years later, in 2011, 54 countries held national barista championships with the winner from each country competing for the highly coveted position of World Barista Champion. That year, Alejandro Mendez from El Salvador became the first world champion from a coffee producing nation. Champion baristas are more likely to come from coffee consuming countries than they are from coffee producing countries as countries that produce coffee seldom have a culture of espresso coffee consumption. While Ireland is not a coffee-producing nation, the Irish are the highest per capita consumers of tea in the world (Mac Con Iomaire, “Ireland”). Despite this, in 2008, Stephen Morrissey from Ireland overcame 50 other national champions to become the 2008 World Barista Champion (see, http://vimeo.com/2254130). Another Irish national champion, Colin Harmon, came fourth in this competition in both 2009 and 2010. This paper discusses the history and development of coffee and coffee houses in Dublin from the 17th century, charting how coffee culture in Dublin appeared, evolved, and stagnated before re-emerging at the beginning of the 21st century, with a remarkable win in the World Barista Championships. The historical links between coffeehouses and media—ranging from print media to electronic and social media—are discussed. In this, the coffee house acts as an informal public gathering space, what urban sociologist Ray Oldenburg calls a “third place,” neither work nor home. These “third places” provide anchors for community life and facilitate and foster broader, more creative interaction (Oldenburg). This paper will also show how competition from other “third places” such as clubs, hotels, restaurants, and bars have affected the vibrancy of coffee houses. Early Coffee Houses The first coffee house was established in Constantinople in 1554 (Tannahill 252; Huetz de Lemps 387). The first English coffee houses opened in Oxford in 1650 and in London in 1652. Coffee houses multiplied thereafter but, in 1676, when some London coffee houses became hotbeds for political protest, the city prosecutor decided to close them. The ban was soon lifted and between 1680 and 1730 Londoners discovered the pleasure of drinking coffee (Huetz de Lemps 388), although these coffee houses sold a number of hot drinks including tea and chocolate as well as coffee.The first French coffee houses opened in Marseille in 1671 and in Paris the following year. Coffee houses proliferated during the 18th century: by 1720 there were 380 public cafés in Paris and by the end of the century there were 600 (Huetz de Lemps 387). Café Procope opened in Paris in 1674 and, in the 18th century, became a literary salon with regular patrons: Voltaire, Rousseau, Diderot and Condorcet (Huetz de Lemps 387; Pitte 472). In England, coffee houses developed into exclusive clubs such as Crockford’s and the Reform, whilst elsewhere in Europe they evolved into what we identify as cafés, similar to the tea shops that would open in England in the late 19th century (Tannahill 252-53). Tea quickly displaced coffee in popularity in British coffee houses (Taylor 142). Pettigrew suggests two reasons why Great Britain became a tea-drinking nation while most of the rest of Europe took to coffee (48). The first was the power of the East India Company, chartered by Elizabeth I in 1600, which controlled the world’s biggest tea monopoly and promoted the beverage enthusiastically. The second was the difficulty England had in securing coffee from the Levant while at war with France at the end of the seventeenth century and again during the War of the Spanish Succession (1702-13). Tea also became the dominant beverage in Ireland and over a period of time became the staple beverage of the whole country. In 1835, Samuel Bewley and his son Charles dared to break the monopoly of The East India Company by importing over 2,000 chests of tea directly from Canton, China, to Ireland. His family would later become synonymous with the importation of coffee and with opening cafés in Ireland (see, Farmar for full history of the Bewley's and their activities). Ireland remains the highest per-capita consumer of tea in the world. Coffee houses have long been linked with social and political change (Kennedy, Politicks; Pincus). The notion that these new non-alcoholic drinks were responsible for the Enlightenment because people could now gather socially without getting drunk is rejected by Wheaton as frivolous, since there had always been alternatives to strong drink, and European civilisation had achieved much in the previous centuries (91). She comments additionally that cafés, as gathering places for dissenters, took over the role that taverns had long played. Pennell and Vickery support this argument adding that by offering a choice of drinks, and often sweets, at a fixed price and in a more civilized setting than most taverns provided, coffee houses and cafés were part of the rise of the modern restaurant. It is believed that, by 1700, the commercial provision of food and drink constituted the second largest occupational sector in London. Travellers’ accounts are full of descriptions of London taverns, pie shops, coffee, bun and chop houses, breakfast huts, and food hawkers (Pennell; Vickery). Dublin Coffee Houses and Later incarnations The earliest reference to coffee houses in Dublin is to the Cock Coffee House in Cook Street during the reign of Charles II (1660-85). Public dining or drinking establishments listed in the 1738 Dublin Directory include taverns, eating houses, chop houses, coffee houses, and one chocolate house in Fownes Court run by Peter Bardin (Hardiman and Kennedy 157). During the second half of the 17th century, Dublin’s merchant classes transferred allegiance from taverns to the newly fashionable coffee houses as places to conduct business. By 1698, the fashion had spread to country towns with coffee houses found in Cork, Limerick, Kilkenny, Clonmel, Wexford, and Galway, and slightly later in Belfast and Waterford in the 18th century. Maxwell lists some of Dublin’s leading coffee houses and taverns, noting their clientele: There were Lucas’s Coffee House, on Cork Hill (the scene of many duels), frequented by fashionable young men; the Phoenix, in Werburgh Street, where political dinners were held; Dick’s Coffee House, in Skinner’s Row, much patronized by literary men, for it was over a bookseller’s; the Eagle, in Eustace Street, where meetings of the Volunteers were held; the Old Sot’s Hole, near Essex Bridge, famous for its beefsteaks and ale; the Eagle Tavern, on Cork Hill, which was demolished at the same time as Lucas’s to make room for the Royal Exchange; and many others. (76) Many of the early taverns were situated around the Winetavern Street, Cook Street, and Fishamble Street area. (see Fig. 1) Taverns, and later coffee houses, became meeting places for gentlemen and centres for debate and the exchange of ideas. In 1706, Francis Dickson published the Flying Post newspaper at the Four Courts coffee house in Winetavern Street. The Bear Tavern (1725) and the Black Lyon (1735), where a Masonic Lodge assembled every Wednesday, were also located on this street (Gilbert v.1 160). Dick’s Coffee house was established in the late 17th century by bookseller and newspaper proprietor Richard Pue, and remained open until 1780 when the building was demolished. In 1740, Dick’s customers were described thus: Ye citizens, gentlemen, lawyers and squires,who summer and winter surround our great fires,ye quidnuncs! who frequently come into Pue’s,To live upon politicks, coffee, and news. (Gilbert v.1 174) There has long been an association between coffeehouses and publishing books, pamphlets and particularly newspapers. Other Dublin publishers and newspapermen who owned coffee houses included Richard Norris and Thomas Bacon. Until the 1850s, newspapers were burdened with a number of taxes: on the newsprint, a stamp duty, and on each advertisement. By 1865, these taxes had virtually disappeared, resulting in the appearance of 30 new newspapers in Ireland, 24 of them in Dublin. Most people read from copies which were available free of charge in taverns, clubs, and coffee houses (MacGiolla Phadraig). Coffee houses also kept copies of international newspapers. On 4 May 1706, Francis Dickson notes in the Dublin Intelligence that he held the Paris and London Gazettes, Leyden Gazette and Slip, the Paris and Hague Lettres à la Main, Daily Courant, Post-man, Flying Post, Post-script and Manuscripts in his coffeehouse in Winetavern Street (Kennedy, “Dublin”). Henry Berry’s analysis of shop signs in Dublin identifies 24 different coffee houses in Dublin, with the main clusters in Essex Street near the Custom’s House (Cocoa Tree, Bacon’s, Dempster’s, Dublin, Merchant’s, Norris’s, and Walsh’s) Cork Hill (Lucas’s, St Lawrence’s, and Solyman’s) Skinners’ Row (Bow’s’, Darby’s, and Dick’s) Christ Church Yard (Four Courts, and London) College Green (Jack’s, and Parliament) and Crampton Court (Exchange, and Little Dublin). (see Figure 1, below, for these clusters and the locations of other Dublin coffee houses.) The earliest to be referenced is the Cock Coffee House in Cook Street during the reign of Charles II (1660-85), with Solyman’s (1691), Bow’s (1692), and Patt’s on High Street (1699), all mentioned in print before the 18th century. The name of one, the Cocoa Tree, suggests that chocolate was also served in this coffee house. More evidence of the variety of beverages sold in coffee houses comes from Gilbert who notes that in 1730, one Dublin poet wrote of George Carterwright’s wife at The Custom House Coffee House on Essex Street: Her coffee’s fresh and fresh her tea,Sweet her cream, ptizan, and whea,her drams, of ev’ry sort, we findboth good and pleasant, in their kind. (v. 2 161) Figure 1: Map of Dublin indicating Coffee House clusters 1 = Sackville St.; 2 = Winetavern St.; 3 = Essex St.; 4 = Cork Hill; 5 = Skinner's Row; 6 = College Green.; 7 = Christ Church Yard; 8 = Crampton Court.; 9 = Cook St.; 10 = High St.; 11 = Eustace St.; 12 = Werburgh St.; 13 = Fishamble St.; 14 = Westmorland St.; 15 = South Great George's St.; 16 = Grafton St.; 17 = Kildare St.; 18 = Dame St.; 19 = Anglesea Row; 20 = Foster Place; 21 = Poolbeg St.; 22 = Fleet St.; 23 = Burgh Quay.A = Cafe de Paris, Lincoln Place; B = Red Bank Restaurant, D'Olier St.; C = Morrison's Hotel, Nassau St.; D = Shelbourne Hotel, St. Stephen's Green; E = Jury's Hotel, Dame St. Some coffee houses transformed into the gentlemen’s clubs that appeared in London, Paris and Dublin in the 17th century. These clubs originally met in coffee houses, then taverns, until later proprietary clubs became fashionable. Dublin anticipated London in club fashions with members of the Kildare Street Club (1782) and the Sackville Street Club (1794) owning the premises of their clubhouse, thus dispensing with the proprietor. The first London club to be owned by the members seems to be Arthur’s, founded in 1811 (McDowell 4) and this practice became widespread throughout the 19th century in both London and Dublin. The origin of one of Dublin’s most famous clubs, Daly’s Club, was a chocolate house opened by Patrick Daly in c.1762–65 in premises at 2–3 Dame Street (Brooke). It prospered sufficiently to commission its own granite-faced building on College Green between Anglesea Street and Foster Place which opened in 1789 (Liddy 51). Daly’s Club, “where half the land of Ireland has changed hands”, was renowned for the gambling that took place there (Montgomery 39). Daly’s sumptuous palace catered very well (and discreetly) for honourable Members of Parliament and rich “bucks” alike (Craig 222). The changing political and social landscape following the Act of Union led to Daly’s slow demise and its eventual closure in 1823 (Liddy 51). Coincidentally, the first Starbucks in Ireland opened in 2005 in the same location. Once gentlemen’s clubs had designated buildings where members could eat, drink, socialise, and stay overnight, taverns and coffee houses faced competition from the best Dublin hotels which also had coffee rooms “in which gentlemen could read papers, write letters, take coffee and wine in the evening—an exiguous substitute for a club” (McDowell 17). There were at least 15 establishments in Dublin city claiming to be hotels by 1789 (Corr 1) and their numbers grew in the 19th century, an expansion which was particularly influenced by the growth of railways. By 1790, Dublin’s public houses (“pubs”) outnumbered its coffee houses with Dublin boasting 1,300 (Rooney 132). Names like the Goose and Gridiron, Harp and Crown, Horseshoe and Magpie, and Hen and Chickens—fashionable during the 17th and 18th centuries in Ireland—hung on decorative signs for those who could not read. Throughout the 20th century, the public house provided the dominant “third place” in Irish society, and the drink of choice for itd predominantly male customers was a frothy pint of Guinness. Newspapers were available in public houses and many newspapermen had their own favourite hostelries such as Mulligan’s of Poolbeg Street; The Pearl, and The Palace on Fleet Street; and The White Horse Inn on Burgh Quay. Any coffee served in these establishments prior to the arrival of the new coffee culture in the 21st century was, however, of the powdered instant variety. Hotels / Restaurants with Coffee Rooms From the mid-19th century, the public dining landscape of Dublin changed in line with London and other large cities in the United Kingdom. Restaurants did appear gradually in the United Kingdom and research suggests that one possible reason for this growth from the 1860s onwards was the Refreshment Houses and Wine Licences Act (1860). The object of this act was to “reunite the business of eating and drinking”, thereby encouraging public sobriety (Mac Con Iomaire, “Emergence” v.2 95). Advertisements for Dublin restaurants appeared in The Irish Times from the 1860s. Thom’s Directory includes listings for Dining Rooms from the 1870s and Refreshment Rooms are listed from the 1880s. This pattern continued until 1909, when Thom’s Directory first includes a listing for “Restaurants and Tea Rooms”. Some of the establishments that advertised separate coffee rooms include Dublin’s first French restaurant, the Café de Paris, The Red Bank Restaurant, Morrison’s Hotel, Shelbourne Hotel, and Jury’s Hotel (see Fig. 1). The pattern of separate ladies’ coffee rooms emerged in Dublin and London during the latter half of the 19th century and mixed sex dining only became popular around the last decade of the 19th century, partly infuenced by Cesar Ritz and Auguste Escoffier (Mac Con Iomaire, “Public Dining”). Irish Cafés: From Bewley’s to Starbucks A number of cafés appeared at the beginning of the 20th century, most notably Robert Roberts and Bewley’s, both of which were owned by Quaker families. Ernest Bewley took over the running of the Bewley’s importation business in the 1890s and opened a number of Oriental Cafés; South Great Georges Street (1894), Westmoreland Street (1896), and what became the landmark Bewley’s Oriental Café in Grafton Street (1927). Drawing influence from the grand cafés of Paris and Vienna, oriental tearooms, and Egyptian architecture (inspired by the discovery in 1922 of Tutankhamen’s Tomb), the Grafton Street business brought a touch of the exotic into the newly formed Irish Free State. Bewley’s cafés became the haunt of many of Ireland’s leading literary figures, including Samuel Becket, Sean O’Casey, and James Joyce who mentioned the café in his book, Dubliners. A full history of Bewley’s is available (Farmar). It is important to note, however, that pots of tea were sold in equal measure to mugs of coffee in Bewley’s. The cafés changed over time from waitress- to self-service and a failure to adapt to changing fashions led to the business being sold, with only the flagship café in Grafton Street remaining open in a revised capacity. It was not until the beginning of the 21st century that a new wave of coffee house culture swept Ireland. This was based around speciality coffee beverages such as espressos, cappuccinos, lattés, macchiatos, and frappuccinnos. This new phenomenon coincided with the unprecedented growth in the Irish economy, during which Ireland became known as the “Celtic Tiger” (Murphy 3). One aspect of this period was a building boom and a subsequent growth in apartment living in the Dublin city centre. The American sitcom Friends and its fictional coffee house, “Central Perk,” may also have helped popularise the use of coffee houses as “third spaces” (Oldenberg) among young apartment dwellers in Dublin. This was also the era of the “dotcom boom” when many young entrepreneurs, software designers, webmasters, and stock market investors were using coffee houses as meeting places for business and also as ad hoc office spaces. This trend is very similar to the situation in the 17th and early 18th centuries where coffeehouses became known as sites for business dealings. Various theories explaining the growth of the new café culture have circulated, with reasons ranging from a growth in Eastern European migrants, anti-smoking legislation, returning sophisticated Irish emigrants, and increased affluence (Fenton). Dublin pubs, facing competition from the new coffee culture, began installing espresso coffee machines made by companies such as Gaggia to attract customers more interested in a good latté than a lager and it is within this context that Irish baristas gained such success in the World Barista competition. In 2001 the Georges Street branch of Bewley’s was taken over by a chain called Café, Bar, Deli specialising in serving good food at reasonable prices. Many ex-Bewley’s staff members subsequently opened their own businesses, roasting coffee and running cafés. Irish-owned coffee chains such as Java Republic, Insomnia, and O’Brien’s Sandwich Bars continued to thrive despite the competition from coffee chains Starbucks and Costa Café. Indeed, so successful was the handmade Irish sandwich and coffee business that, before the economic downturn affected its business, Irish franchise O’Brien’s operated in over 18 countries. The Café, Bar, Deli group had also begun to franchise its operations in 2008 when it too became a victim of the global economic downturn. With the growth of the Internet, many newspapers have experienced falling sales of their printed format and rising uptake of their electronic versions. Most Dublin coffee houses today provide wireless Internet connections so their customers can read not only the local newspapers online, but also others from all over the globe, similar to Francis Dickenson’s coffee house in Winetavern Street in the early 18th century. Dublin has become Europe’s Silicon Valley, housing the European headquarters for companies such as Google, Yahoo, Ebay, Paypal, and Facebook. There are currently plans to provide free wireless connectivity throughout Dublin’s city centre in order to promote e-commerce, however, some coffee houses shut off the wireless Internet in their establishments at certain times of the week in order to promote more social interaction to ensure that these “third places” remain “great good places” at the heart of the community (Oldenburg). Conclusion Ireland is not a country that is normally associated with a coffee culture but coffee houses have been part of the fabric of that country since they emerged in Dublin in the 17th century. These Dublin coffee houses prospered in the 18th century, and survived strong competition from clubs and hotels in the 19th century, and from restaurant and public houses into the 20th century. In 2008, when Stephen Morrissey won the coveted title of World Barista Champion, Ireland’s place as a coffee consuming country was re-established. The first decade of the 21st century witnessed a birth of a new espresso coffee culture, which shows no signs of weakening despite Ireland’s economic travails. References Berry, Henry F. “House and Shop Signs in Dublin in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries.” The Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland 40.2 (1910): 81–98. Brooke, Raymond Frederick. Daly’s Club and the Kildare Street Club, Dublin. Dublin, 1930. Corr, Frank. Hotels in Ireland. Dublin: Jemma Publications, 1987. Craig, Maurice. Dublin 1660-1860. Dublin: Allen Figgis, 1980. Farmar, Tony. The Legendary, Lofty, Clattering Café. Dublin: A&A Farmar, 1988. Fenton, Ben. “Cafe Culture taking over in Dublin.” The Telegraph 2 Oct. 2006. 29 Apr. 2012 ‹http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/1530308/cafe-culture-taking-over-in-Dublin.html›. Gilbert, John T. A History of the City of Dublin (3 vols.). Dublin: Gill and Macmillan, 1978. Girouard, Mark. Victorian Pubs. New Haven, Conn.: Yale UP, 1984. Hardiman, Nodlaig P., and Máire Kennedy. A Directory of Dublin for the Year 1738 Compiled from the Most Authentic of Sources. Dublin: Dublin Corporation Public Libraries, 2000. Huetz de Lemps, Alain. “Colonial Beverages and Consumption of Sugar.” Food: A Culinary History from Antiquity to the Present. Eds. Jean-Louis Flandrin and Massimo Montanari. New York: Columbia UP, 1999. 383–93. Kennedy, Máire. “Dublin Coffee Houses.” Ask About Ireland, 2011. 4 Apr. 2012 ‹http://www.askaboutireland.ie/reading-room/history-heritage/pages-in-history/dublin-coffee-houses›. ----- “‘Politicks, Coffee and News’: The Dublin Book Trade in the Eighteenth Century.” Dublin Historical Record LVIII.1 (2005): 76–85. Liddy, Pat. Temple Bar—Dublin: An Illustrated History. Dublin: Temple Bar Properties, 1992. Mac Con Iomaire, Máirtín. “The Emergence, Development, and Influence of French Haute Cuisine on Public Dining in Dublin Restaurants 1900-2000: An Oral History.” Ph.D. thesis, Dublin Institute of Technology, Dublin, 2009. 4 Apr. 2012 ‹http://arrow.dit.ie/tourdoc/12›. ----- “Ireland.” Food Cultures of the World Encylopedia. Ed. Ken Albala. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 2010. ----- “Public Dining in Dublin: The History and Evolution of Gastronomy and Commercial Dining 1700-1900.” International Journal of Contemporary Hospitality Management 24. Special Issue: The History of the Commercial Hospitality Industry from Classical Antiquity to the 19th Century (2012): forthcoming. MacGiolla Phadraig, Brian. “Dublin: One Hundred Years Ago.” Dublin Historical Record 23.2/3 (1969): 56–71. Maxwell, Constantia. Dublin under the Georges 1714–1830. Dublin: Gill & Macmillan, 1979. McDowell, R. B. Land & Learning: Two Irish Clubs. Dublin: The Lilliput P, 1993. Montgomery, K. L. “Old Dublin Clubs and Coffee-Houses.” New Ireland Review VI (1896): 39–44. Murphy, Antoine E. “The ‘Celtic Tiger’—An Analysis of Ireland’s Economic Growth Performance.” EUI Working Papers, 2000 29 Apr. 2012 ‹http://www.eui.eu/RSCAS/WP-Texts/00_16.pdf›. Oldenburg, Ray, ed. Celebrating the Third Place: Inspiring Stories About The “Great Good Places” At the Heart of Our Communities. New York: Marlowe & Company 2001. Pennell, Sarah. “‘Great Quantities of Gooseberry Pye and Baked Clod of Beef’: Victualling and Eating out in Early Modern London.” Londinopolis: Essays in the Cultural and Social History of Early Modern London. Eds. Paul Griffiths and Mark S. R. Jenner. Manchester: Manchester UP, 2000. 228–59. Pettigrew, Jane. A Social History of Tea. London: National Trust Enterprises, 2001. Pincus, Steve. “‘Coffee Politicians Does Create’: Coffeehouses and Restoration Political Culture.” The Journal of Modern History 67.4 (1995): 807–34. Pitte, Jean-Robert. “The Rise of the Restaurant.” Food: A Culinary History from Antiquity to the Present. Eds. Jean-Louis Flandrin and Massimo Montanari. New York: Columbia UP, 1999. 471–80. Rooney, Brendan, ed. A Time and a Place: Two Centuries of Irish Social Life. Dublin: National Gallery of Ireland, 2006. Tannahill, Reay. Food in History. St Albans, Herts.: Paladin, 1975. Taylor, Laurence. “Coffee: The Bottomless Cup.” The American Dimension: Cultural Myths and Social Realities. Eds. W. Arens and Susan P. Montague. Port Washington, N.Y.: Alfred Publishing, 1976. 14–48. Vickery, Amanda. Behind Closed Doors: At Home in Georgian England. New Haven: Yale UP, 2009. Wheaton, Barbara Ketcham. Savouring the Past: The French Kitchen and Table from 1300-1789. London: Chatto & Windus, Hogarth P, 1983. Williams, Anne. “Historical Attitudes to Women Eating in Restaurants.” Public Eating: Proceedings of the Oxford Symposium on Food and Cookery 1991. Ed. Harlan Walker. Totnes: Prospect Books, 1992. 311–14. World Barista, Championship. “History–World Barista Championship”. 2012. 02 Apr. 2012 ‹http://worldbaristachampionship.com2012›.AcknowledgementA warm thank you to Dr. Kevin Griffin for producing the map of Dublin for this article.

Creators and Creation Creation is a troubling word today, because it suggests an impossible act, indeed a miracle: the formation of something out of nothing. Today we no longer believe in miracles, yet we see all around us myriad acts which we routinely define as creative. Here, I am not referring to the artistic performances and works of gifted individuals, which have their own genealogy of creativity in the lineages of Western art. Rather, I am referring to the small, personal events that we see within the mediated spaces of the everyday (on the television screen, in magazines and newspapers) where lives are suddenly changed for the better through the consumption of products designed to fulfil our personal desires. In this paper, I want to explore the implications of thinking about everyday creativity as a modern cultural form. I want to suggest that not only is such an impossible possibility possible, but that its meaning has been at the centre of the desire to name, to gain status from, and to market the products of modern industrialisation. Furthermore I want to suggest that beyond any question of marketing rhetoric, we need to attend to this desire as the ghost of a certain kind of immanence which has haunted modernity and its projects from the very beginning, linking the great thoughts of modern philosophy with the lowliest products of modern life. Immanence, Purity and the Cogito In Descartes' famous Discourse on Method, the author-narrator (let's call him Descartes) recounts how he came about the idea of the thinking self or cogito, as the foundation of worldly knowledge: And so because sometimes our senses deceive us, I made up my mind to suppose that they always did. . . . I resolved to pretend that everything that had ever entered my mind was as false as the figments of my dreams. But then as I strove to think of everything false, I realized that, in the very act of thinking everything false, I was aware of myself as something real. (60-61) These well known lines are, of course, the beginnings of a remarkable philosophical enterprise, reaching forward to Husserl and beyond, in which the external world is bracketed, all the better to know it in the name of reason. Through an act of pretence ("I resolved to pretend"), Descartes disavows the external world as the source of certain knowledge, and, turning to the only thing left: the thought of himself—"I was aware of myself as something real"—makes his famous declaration, "I think therefore I am". But what precisely characterises this thinking being, destined to become the cogito of all modernity? Is it purely this act of self-reflection?: Then, from reflecting on the fact that I had doubts, and that consequently my existence was not wholly perfect, it occurred to me to enquire how I learned to think of something more perfect than myself, and it became evident to me that it must be through some nature which was in fact more perfect. (62) Descartes has another thought that "occurred to me" almost at the same moment that he becomes aware of his own thinking self. This second thought makes him aware that the cogito is not complete, requiring yet a further thought, that of a perfection drawn from something "more perfect than myself". The creation of the cogito does not occur, as we might have first surmised, within its own space of self-reflection, but becomes lodged within what might be called, following Deleuze and Guattari, a "plane of immanence" coming from the outside: "The plane of immanence is . . . an outside more distant than any external world because it is an inside deeper than any internal world: it is immanence" (59). Here we are left with a puzzling question: what of this immanence that made him aware of his own imperfection at the very moment of the cogito's inception? Can this immanence be explained away by Descartes' appeal to God as a state of perfection? Or is it the very material upon which the cogito is brought into existence, shaping it towards perfection? We are forced to admit that, irrespective of the source of this perfection, the cogito requires something from the outside which, paradoxically, is already on the inside, in order to create itself as a pure form. Following the contours of Descartes' own writing, we cannot account for modernity purely in terms of self-reflection, if, in the very act of its self-creation, the modern subject is shot through with immanence that comes from the outside. Rather what we must do is describe the various forms this immanence takes. Although there is no necessary link between immanence and perfection (that is, one does not logically depend on the other as its necessary cause) their articulation nevertheless produces something (the cogito for instance). Furthermore, this something is always characterised as a creation. In its modern form, creation is a form of immanence within materiality—a virtualisation of material actuality, that produces idealised states, such as God, freedom, reason, uniqueness, originality, love and perfection. As Bruno Latour has argued, the "modern critical stance" creates unique, pure objects, by purging the material "networks" from which they are formed, of their impurities (11-12). Immanence is characterised by a process of sifting and purification which brings modern objects into existence: "the plane of immanence . . . acts like a sieve" (Deleuze and Guattari 42). The nation, the state, the family, the autonomous subject, and the work of art—all of these are modern when their 'material' is purged of impurities by an immanence that 'comes from the outside' yet is somehow intrinsic to the material itself. As Zygmunt Bauman points out, the modern nation exists by virtue of a capacity to convert strangers into citizens; by purging itself of impurities inhabiting it from within but coming from the outside (63). The modern work of art is created by purging itself of the vulgarities and impurities of everyday life (Berman 30); by reducing its contingent and coincidental elements to a geometrical, punctual or serialised form. The modern nuclear family is created by converting the community-based connections between relatives and friends into a single, internally consistent self-reproducing organism. All of these examples require us to think of creativity as an act which brings something new into existence from within a material base that must be purged and disavowed, but which, simultaneously, must also be retained as its point of departure that it never really leaves. Immanence should not be equated with essence, if by essence we mean a substratum of materiality inherent in things; a quality or quiddity to which all things can be reduced. Rather, immanence is the process whereby things appear as they are to others, thereby forming themselves into 'objects' with certain identifiable characteristics. Immanence draws the 'I' and the 'we' into relations of subjectivity to the objects thus produced. Immanence is not in things; it is the thing's condition of objectivity in a material, spatial and temporal sense; its 'becoming object' before it can be 'perceived' by a subject. As Merleau-Ponty has beautifully argued, seeing as a bodily effect necessarily comes before perception as an inner ownership (Merleau-Ponty 3-14). Since immanence always comes from elsewhere, no intensive scrutiny of the object in itself will bring it to light. But since immanence is already inside the object from the moment of its inception, no amount of examination of its contextual conditions—the social, cultural, economic, institutional and authorial conditions under which the object was created—will bring us any closer to it. Rather, immanence can only be 'seen' (if this is the right word) in terms of the objects it creates. We should stop seeking immanence as a characteristic of objects considered in themselves, and rather see it in terms of a virtual field or plane, in which objects appear, positioned in a transversally related way. This field does not exist transcendentally to the objects, like some overarching principle of order, but as a radically exteriorised stratum of 'immaterial materiality' with a specific image-content, capable of linking objects together as a series of creations, all with the stamp of their own originality, individuality and uniqueness, yet all bound together by a common set of image relations (Deleuze 34-35). If, as Foucault argues, modern objects emerge in a "field of exteriority"—a complex web of discursive interrelations, with contingent rather than necessary connections to one another (Foucault 45)—then it should be possible to map the connections between these objects in terms of the "schema of correspondence" (74) detected in the multiplicities thrown up by the regularities of modern production and consumption. Commodities and Created Objects We can extend the idea of creation to include not only aesthetic acts and their objects, but also the commodity-products of modern industrialisation. Let's begin by plunging straight into the archive, where we might find traces of these small modern miracles. An illustrated advertisement for 'Hudson's Extract of Soap' appeared in the Illustrated Sydney News, on Saturday February 22nd, 1888. The illustration shows a young woman with a washing basket under her arm, standing beside a sign posted to a wall, which reads 'Remarkable Disappearance of all Dirt from Everything by using Hudson's Extract of Soap' (see Figure 1). The woman has her head turned towards the poster, as if reading it. Beneath these words, is another set of words offering a reward: 'Reward !!! Purity, Health, Perfection, Satisfaction. By its regular daily use'. Here we are confronted with a remarkable proposition: soap does not make things clean, rather it makes dirt disappear. Soap purifies things by making their impurities disappear. The claim made applies to 'everything', drawing attention to a desire for a certain state of perfection, exemplified by the pure body, cleansed of dirt and filth. The pure exists in potentia as a perfect state of being, realised by the purgation of impurities. Fig 1: Hudson's Soap. Illustrated Sydney News, on Saturday February 22nd, 1888 Here we might be tempted to trace the motivation of this advertisement to a concern in the nineteenth century for a morally purged, purified body, regulated according to bourgeois values of health, respectability and decorum. As Catherine Gallagher has pointed out, the body in the nineteenth century was at the centre of a sick society requiring "constant flushing, draining, and excising of various deleterious elements" (Gallagher 90). But this is only half the story. The advertisement offers a certain image of purity; an image which exceeds the immediate rhetorical force associated with selling a product, one which cannot be simply reduced to its contexts of use. The image of perfection in the Hudson's soap advertisement belongs to a network of images spread across a far-flung field; a network in which we can 'see' perfection as a material immanence embodied in things. In modernity, commodities are created objects par excellence, which, in their very ordinariness, bear with them an immanence, binding consumers together into consumer formations. Each act of consumption is not simply driven by necessity and need, but by a desire for self-transformation, embodied in the commodity itself. Indeed, self-transformation becomes one of the main creative processes in what Marshal Berman has identified as the "third" phase of modernity, where, paraphrasing Nietzsche, "modern mankind found itself in the midst of a great absence and emptiness of values and yet, at the same time, a remarkable abundance of possibilities" (Berman 21). Commodification shifts human desire away from the thought of the other as a transcendental reality remote from the senses, and onto a future oriented material plane, in which the self is capable of becoming an other in a tangible, specific way (Massumi 35 ff.). By the end of the nineteenth century, commodities had become associated with scenarios of self-transformation embedded in human desire, which then began to shape the needs of society itself. Consumer formations are not autonomous realms; they are transversally located within and across social strata. This is because commodities bear with them an immanence which always exceeds their context of production and consumption, spreading across vast cultural terrains. An individual consumer is thus subject to two forces: the force of production that positions her within the social strata as a member of a class or social grouping, and the force of consumption that draws her away from, or indeed, further into a social positioning. While the consumption of commodities remained bound to ideologies relating to the formation of class in terms of a bourgeois moral order, as it was in Britain, America and Europe throughout the nineteenth century, then the discontinuity between social strata and cultural formation was felt in terms of the possibility of self-transformation by moving up a class. In the nineteenth century, working class families flocked to the new photographic studios to have their portraits taken, emulating the frozen moral rectitude of the ideal bourgeois type, or scrimped and saved to purchase parlour pianos and other such cultural paraphernalia, thereby signalling a certain kind of leisured freedom from the grind of work (Sekula 8). But when the desire for self-transformation starts to outstrip the ideological closure of class; that is, when the 'reality' of commodities starts to overwhelm the social reality of those who make them, then desire itself takes on an autonomy, which can then be attached to multiple images of the other, expressed in imaginary scenarios of escape, freedom, success and hyper-experience. This kind of free-floating desire has now become a major trigger for transformations in consumer formations, linked to visual technologies where images behave like quasi-autonomous beings. The emergence of these images can be traced back at least to the mid-nineteenth century where products of industrialisation were transformed into commodities freely available as spectacles within the public spaces of exhibitions and in mass advertising in the press, for instance in the Great Exhibition of 1851 held at London's Crystal Palace (Richards 28 ff.) Here we see the beginnings of a new kind of object-image dislocated from the utility of the product, with its own exchange value and logic of dispersal. Bataille's notion of symbolic exchange can help explain the logic of dispersal inherent in commodities. For Bataille, capitalism involves both production utility and sumptuary expenditure, where the latter is not simply a calculated version of the former (Bataille 120 ff.) Sumptuary expenditure is a discharge of an excess, and not a drawing in of demand to match the needs of supply. Consumption thus has a certain 'uncontrolled' element embedded in it, which always moves beyond the machinations of market logic. Under these conditions, the commodity image always exceeds production and use, taking on a life of its own, charged with desire. In the late nineteenth century, the convergence of photography and cartes-de-visites released a certain scopophilic desire in the form of postcard pornography, which eventually migrated to the modern forms of advertising and public visual imagery that we see today. According to Suren Lalvani, the "onset of scopophilia" in modern society is directly attributable to the convergence of photographic technology and erotic display in the nineteenth century (Lalvani). In modern consumer cultures, desire does not lag behind need, but enters into the cycle of production and consumption from the outside, where it becomes its driving force. In this way, modern consumer cultures transform themselves by ecstasis (literally, by standing outside oneself) when the body becomes virtualised into its other. Here, the desire for self-transformation embodied in the act of consumption intertwines with, and eventually redefines, the social positioning of the subject. Indeed the 'laws' of capital and labour where each person or family group is assigned a place and regime of duties, are constantly undone and redefined by the superfluity of consumption, gradually gathering pace throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. These tremendous changes operating throughout all capitalist consumer cultures for some time, do not occur in a calculated way, as if controlled by the forces of production alone. Rather, they occur through myriad acts of self-transformation, operating transversally, linking consumer to consumer within what I have defined earlier as a field of immanence. Here, the laws of supply and demand are inadequate to predict the logic of this operation; they only describe the effects of consumption after desire has been spent. Or, to put this another way, they misread desire as need, thereby transcribing the primary force of consumption into a secondary component of the production/labour cycle. This error is made by Humphrey McQueen in his recent book The Essence of Capitalism: the origins of our future (2001). In chapter 8, McQueen examines the logic of the consumer market through a critique of the marketeer's own notion of desire, embodied in the "sovereign consumer", making rational choices. Here desire is reduced back to a question of calculated demand, situated within the production/consumption cycle. McQueen leaves himself no room to manoeuvre outside this cycle; there is no way to see beyond the capitalist cycle of supply/demand which accelerates across ever-increasing horizons. To avoid this error, desire needs to be seen as immanent to the production/consumption cycle; as produced by it, yet superfluous to its operations. We need therefore to situate ourselves not on the side of production, but in the superfluity of consumption in order to recognise the transformational triggers that characterise modern consumer cultures, and their effects on the social order. In order to understand the creative impulse in modernity today, we need to come to grips with the mystery of consumption, where the thing consumed operates on the consumer in both a material and an immaterial way. This mystification of the commodity was, of course, well noted by Marx: A commodity is . . . a mysterious thing, simply because in it the social character of men's labour appears to them as an objective character stamped upon the product of that labour; because the relation of the producers to the sum total of their own labour is presented to them as a social relation, existing not between themselves, but between the products of their labour. (Marx 43, my emphasis) When commodities take on such a powerful force that their very presence starts to drive and shape the social relations that have given rise to them; that is, when desire replaces need as the shaping force of societies, then we are obliged to redefine the commodity and its relation to the subject. Under these conditions, the mystery of the commodity is no longer something to be dispelled in order to retrieve the real relation between labour and capital, but becomes the means whereby "men's labour" is actually shaped and formed as a specific mode of production. Eric Alliez and Michel Feher (1987) point out that in capitalism "the subjection framework which defines the wage relation has penetrated society to such an extent that we can now speak not only of the formal subsumption of labor by capital but of the actual or 'real' subsumption by capital of society as a whole" (345). In post-Fordist economic contexts, individuals' relation to capital is no longer based on subjection but incorporation: "space is subsumed under a time entirely permeated by capital. In so doing, they [neo-Fordist strategies] also instigate a regime in which individuals are less subject to than incorporated by capital" (346). In societies dominated by the subjection of workers to capital, the commodity's exchange value is linked strongly to the classed position of the worker, consolidating his interests within the shadow of a bourgeois moral order. But where the worker is incorporated into capital, his 'real' social relations go with him, making it difficult to see how they can be separated from the commodities he produces and which he also consumes at leisure: "If the capitalist relation has colonized all of the geographical and social space, it has no inside into which to integrate things. It has become an unbounded space—in other words, a space coextensive with its own inside and outside. It has become a field of immanence" (Massumi 18). It therefore makes little sense to initiate critiques of the capital relation by overthrowing the means of subjection. Instead, what is required is a way through the 'incorporation' of the individual into the capitalist system, an appropriation of the means of consumption in order to invent new kinds of selfhood. Or at the very least, to expose the process of self-formation to its own means of consumption. What we need to do, then, is to undertake a description of the various ways in which desire is produced within consumer cultures as a form of self-creation. As we have seen, in modernity, self-creation occurs when human materiality is rendered immaterial through a process purification. Borrowing from Deleuze and Guattari, I have characterised this process in terms of immanence: a force coming from the outside, but which is already inside the material itself. In the necessary absence of any prime mover or deity, pure immanence becomes the primary field in which material is rendered into its various and specific modern forms. Immanence is not a transcendental power operating over things, but that which is the very motor of modernity; its specific way of appearing to itself, and of relating to itself in its various guises and manifestations. Through a careful mapping of the network of commodity images spread through far-flung fields, cutting through specific contexts of production and consumption, we can see creation at work in one of its specific modern forms. Immanence, and the power of creation it makes possible, can be found in all modern things, even soap powder! References Alliez, Eric and Michel Feher. "The Luster of Capital." Zone 1(2) 1987: 314-359. Bauman, Zygmunt. Modernity and Ambivalence. Cambridge: Polity, 1991. Berman, Marshall. All That is Solid Melts into Air. New York: Penguin, 1982. Bataille, George. "The Notion of Expenditure." George Bataille, Visions of Excess: Selected Writings, 1927-1939. Trans. Alan Stoekl, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1995, pp.116-129. Deleuze, Gilles. Foucault. Trans. Seán Hand, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1988. Deleuze, Gilles and Félix Guattari. What is Philosophy? Trans. Hugh Tomlinson and Graham Burchill, New York: Columbia University Press, 1994. Descartes, Rene. Discourse on Method. Trans. Arthur Wollaston, Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1960. Foucault, Michel. The Archaeology of Knowledge. Trans. A.M. Sheridan Smith, London: Tavistock, 1972. Gallagher, Catherine. "The Body Versus the Social Body in the Works of Thomas Malthus and Henry Mayhew." The Making of the Modern Body: Sexuality and Society in the Nineteenth Century, Catherine Gallagher and Thomas Laqueur (Eds.), Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987: 83-106. Lalvani, Suren. "Photography, Epistemology and the Body." Cultural Studies, 7(3), 1993: 442-465. Latour, Bruno. We Have Never Been Modern. Trans. Catherine Porter, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1993. Karl. Capital, A New Abridgement. David McLellan (Ed.), Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995. Massumi, Brian. "Everywhere You Want to Be: Introduction to Fear" in Brian Massumi (Ed.). The Politics of Everyday Fear. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1993: 3-37. Merleau-Ponty, Maurice. The Visible and the Invisible. Trans. Alphonso Lingis, Evanston: Northwest University Press, 1968. McQueen, Humphrey. The Essence of Capitalism: the Origins of Our Future. Sydney: Sceptre, 2001. Richards, Thomas. The Commodity Culture of Victorian England: Advertising and Spectacle, 1851-1914. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1990. Sekula, Allan. "The Body and the Archive." October, 39, 1986: 3-65.

O direito de liberdade[1] à informação jornalística foi objeto de proteção específica pela nossa Constituição, que, no parágrafo lº, do artigo 220, vedou expressamente qualquer atividade que possa constituir obstáculo ou embaraço ao fluxo informativo. Nesse sentido, o mens constitutionem é clara e incontroversa ao estipular vedação, quer ao Poder Executivo, quer ao Legislativo, para edição de atos ou desempenho de atividades que obstaculizem ou, de alguma forma, embaracem a livre informação jornalística. Na verdade, a informação jornalística foi alçada a um patamar singular de proteção por razões bastante palpáveis. É que a informação jornalística constitui veículo da opinião pública livre. Esta, de sua vez, garantia institucional da democracia e do pluralismo político, indicados, pelo artigo 1º, caput e inciso V, da Constituição Federal, como, respectivamente, essência e fundamento da República Brasileira. O direito de informação jornalística, tal qual os demais direitos fundamentais, não é absoluto. Antes, é limitável, encontrando na existência e na observância dos demais direitos constitucionais as fronteiras demarcatórias da sua extensão. Em diversas situações, o exercício de um direito fundamental pode implicar a ofensa de outro, ou outros direitos, de igual ou diferente natureza. Essas hipóteses, concretizadas amiúde na fenomenilização dos preceitos constitucionais fundamentais, albergam diferentes soluções. Muitas vezes, por exemplo, a própria Constituição se preocupa com a compatibilização dos dois ou mais institutos envolvidos. Por um lado, por exemplo, prescreve o direito fundamental à propriedade privada. De outro, institucionaliza a desapropriação. Contudo, compatibiliza a aparente assincronia, disciplinando a prévia e justa indenização. Em outras ocasiões, o constituinte outorga ao legislador ordinário a faculdade de integrar em eficácia institutos constitucionais, ou ainda faculta a edição de diploma de eficácia de suas normas. São as chamadas normas constitucionais de eficácia restrita e de eficácia contida, obedecendo-se classificação preconizada pelo Professor José Afonso da Silva.[2] Nessas situações não se colidem com os direitos, vez que o advento da legislação ordinária foi previsto e preconizado pela própria Constituição, “mas só tem cabimento na extensão requerida pelo bem-estar social. Fora daí é arbítrio,[3] conforme advertência do precitado jurista. Todas essas situações, no entanto, trazem como nota de similitude a existência de regras, dentro do sistema, de equacionamento desses supostos conflitos. De conseguinte, a questão a merecer maior detença é exatamente aquela em que os direitos colidentes permanecem ao desabrigo de anterior previsão constitucional regulamentar, é dizer, quando o conflito normativo, no qual se enlastram diferentes direitos constitucionais, não advém da abstração regulamentar da norma, mas surge no exercício convergente de dois direitos que, em certa medida, passam a se antagonizar. Tal situação bem se expressa no contraponto entre o exercício do direito à livre expressão do pensamento e o direito à honra ou à intimidade, onde certamente teremos circunstâncias de inconciliabilidade entre o exercício absoluto e ilimitado dos direitos colocados em concreta oposição. São as chamadas “colisões”[4] de direitos fundamentais, onde esses direitos, igualmente protegidos pelo texto constitucional, entram em conflito, visto que o concreto exercício de um direito fundamental implica a invasão da esfera de proteção de outro direito fundamental. Daí se poder afirmar que os direitos fundamentais não são absolutos ou ilimitados. Com pena de mestre, José Carlos Andrade Vieira[5] versa o tema: “Não o são na sua dimensão subjetiva, pois que os preceitos constitucionais não remetem para o arbítrio do titular a determinação do âmbito e do grau de satisfação do respectivo interesse”. Seguindo nessa trilha, resta analisar a problemática da determinação de um critério de compatibilização entre os direitos antagonizantes. Inexiste regra geral a ser observada em todas as situações de conflito, mesmo porque tais colisões não se situam no plano normativo, vale dizer, dentro do raio regulamentar de cada uma das normas, mas, contrariamente, surgem no concreto exercício dos direitos. Ninguém nega validade à norma protetiva da liberdade de imprensa. O mesmo se diga em relação à norma que protege a intimidade. No mundo fenomênico, porém, vezes a fio existirão circunstâncias em que o exercício da liberdade de imprensa implicará possível desrespeito à intimidade, sem que com isso se anule quaisquer das regras em análise, pressupondo-se, contudo, a compatibilização prática de ambas. Acompanhando o precitado mestre português[6], para que se equacione concretamente a questão “exige-se que o sacrifício de cada um dos valores constitucionais seja necessário e adequado à salvaguarda dos outros”. Tal entendimento, aliás, afina-se inteiramente à lição de Canotilho e Vital Moreira, que ensinam: “No fundo, a problemática da restrição dos direitos fundamentais supõe sempre um conflito positivo de normas constitucionais, a saber entre uma norma consagradora de certo direito fundamental e outra norma consagradora de outro direito ou de diferente interesse constitucional. A regra de solução do conflito é da máxima observância dos direitos fundamentais envolvidos e da sua mínima restrição compatível com a salvaguarda adequada de outro direito fundamental ou outro interesse constitucional em causa. Por conseguinte, a restrição de direitos fundamentais implica necessariamente uma relação de conciliação com outros direitos ou interesses constitucionais e exige necessariamente uma tarefa de ponderação ou de concordância prática dos direitos ou interesses em conflito. Não se pode falar em restrição de um determinado direito fundamental em abstrato, fora da sua relação com um concreto direito fundamental ou interesse fundamental diverso”.[7] Segue-se dupla conclusão, a primeira que os direitos fundamentais, não sendo absolutos, são limitáveis, a segunda que essa Iimitabilidade não está plasmada em qualquer regra constitucional de contenção, mas sim aportada no efetivo exercício de direitos colidentes, hipótese em que, no caso concreto, se promoverá a conciliação dos direitos e interesses constitucionais envolvidos a partir da premissa de máxima observância e mínima restrição dos direitos fundamentais relacionados. O raciocínio tem aplicação cabal para a definição do regime jurídico do direito de informação jornalística, o qual, dentre outros, encontra nos direitos da personalidade, em especial a intimidade e a privacidade, limites claros ao seu exercício. Tratamento jurídico singular, no entanto, parece receber o direito de crítica em relação à atividade dos mandatários políticos. Com efeito, o direito de informação jornalística deriva da reunião de dois institutos: a notícia e a crítica. Aquela pode ser singelamente definida pela veiculação de fato cujo conhecimento seja importante para que o indivíduo participe da vida em sociedade. A crítica pode ser conceituada como juízo de valor aportado sobre a notícia. Desde logo, observamos que o presente raciocínio tem aplicação específica: as relações derivadas do exercício do mandato e não a vida íntima ou privada do mandatário. No âmago das relações políticas, o direito de crítica adquire um colorido singular. Razões de duas ordens pelejam para o acerto dessa afirmação. A primeira consistente na exposição pública do mandatário, o qual, no terreno das relações políticas, se vê contingenciado a trazer ao conhecimento do público seus predicados de legislador, de administrador, de líder, enfim, de gestor da coisa pública em determinada polis. Por evidente que nessas condições, em que o indivíduo, por espontâneo ato de vontade, traz a público diversas afirmações quanto aos seus predicados e qualidades, não pode reclamar quanto a eventuais dúvidas ou questionamentos quanto aos mesmos. Essa, aliás, a advertência de Thomas Cooley: “Quando alguém se apresenta candidato a um cargo público, põe voluntariamente em evidência as suas aptidões para o cargo, e todos quantos duvidam d’ellas têm o direito de fazer sentir ao povo as suas dúvidas, e exporem-lhe livremente as razões”.[8] Com efeito, ao concretizar uma postulação política, seus predicados podem e devem ser dissecados por seus eleitores. Em síntese, a pessoa que se oferece ao julgamento de seus concidadãos, com o fito de vir a gerir o patrimônio e as coisas públicas, se coloca em uma situação de manifesta evidência e não pode reclamar o mesmo nível de privacidade de um cidadão comum, pois que é ingênuo à política a exposição ao público, que, desta feita, tem o direito a informações que sejam necessárias para a formação de um juízo quanto à vida pública do mandatário. Afinado a esse mesmo diapasão, o Tribunal Constitucional Espanhol, na sentença de 8 de junho de 1998, assim se manifestou: “...cuando las libertades se ejerciten en conexión con asuntos que son de interés general por las materias a que se refiere y por las personas que en ellos intervienen y contribuyen, en consecuencia, a la formación de la opinión pública, alcanzando entonces su máximo nivel de eficacia justificadora frente al derecho al honor, el cual se debilita proporcionalmente como limite externo de las libertades de expresión e información, en cuanto sus titulares son personas públicas o resultan implicadas en asuntos de relevancia pública, obligadas por ello a suportar un cierto riesgo de que sus derechos subjetivos de la personalidad resulten afectados por opiniones e informaciones de interés general, pues así lo requiere el pluralismo político, la tolerancia y el espíritu de apertura, sin los cuales no existe sociedad democrática”.[9] A segunda ordem de razões, todavia, é mais específica e diz respeito exclusivamente aos atos praticados no exercício do mandato. Com efeito, o mandato aqui referido, obviamente, é o mandato político ou representativo, através do qual o conjunto dos cidadãos outorga a alguns líderes o munus de reger a coisa pública, no Brasil, tanto na órbita legislativa como na executiva. Acompanhando Antonio J. Porras Nadales: “Partiremos de la definición de la representación como un proceso de relación intercomunicativa entre sociedad y Estado centrado en la transmisión de la voz de los ciudadanos sobre la esfera pública. Se trata de un proceso de carácter reductivo, en que se opera una conversión de la pluralidad de intereses y de la multiplicidad de voluntades individuales o grupales, hasta llegar a la unidad final de la voluntad del Estado”. [10] Para efeito da análise aqui empreendida, o principal aspecto do conceito retrotranscrito diz exatamente com essa faceta do mandato de relação intercomunicativa entre sociedade e Estado, pois tal aspecto, é dizer, o caráter intercomunicativo entre sociedade e Estado autoriza um regime jurídico singular do direito de crítica. Com efeito, segundo o precitado autor, a relação de representação política se decompõe em quatro fases, é dizer: 1ª) uma fase originária de debate, em que se procede à formação de uma vontade popular a ser expressa nas urnas; 2ª) uma, estritamente comunicativa, que se estabelece através do mandato, concebido como instrumento jurídico que condiciona determinados conteúdos e limites do processo de representação; 3ª) uma fase de controle de responsabilidade na qual se determina as formas de responsabilização dos mandatários perante a sociedade; e 4ª) a fase de atuação governamental. Essas fases, evidentemente, são compartimentadas, do ponto de vista estritamente teórico, visto que exsurgem imbricadas no cotidiano da relação representativa, servindo tão-só para hiperbolização de especificidades da relação de representação política. Nesse sentido, veja-se que a intercomunicação entre Estado e sociedade, embora peculiaridade da segunda fase, aparece em todas elas, pois a formação da vontade popular, o controle de responsabilidade e a ação governamental estão igualmente nucleadas num processo interativo entre Estado e sociedade, é dizer, ao menos entre a ação daquele e a crítica desta. O presente escorço, contudo, ressalta em importância os contornos apresentados pelo precitado autor no respeitante à segunda fase do processo de representação, a saber: um mandato concebido como instrumento jurídico que condiciona determinados conteúdos e limites do processo de representação. Esses conteúdos e limites, ao que se afigura, podem ser expressos ou tácitos. Do ponto de vista do mandato legislativo, alguns desses limites – expressos – são fixados pela própria Constituição, que, petrificando algumas de suas normas, as tornam intangíveis à manifestação dos mandatários populares. Limites tácitos também são colocados, dentre os quais sobressai com maior evidência a irrestringibilidade normativa do direito de crítica política. Com efeito, na medida em que a intercomunicação é característica intrínseca do mandato, à qual se soma ainda a necessidade de controle popular e de debates para formação da vontade popular, é evidente que os mandantes populares, ao outorgarem o mandato a seus representantes, inscrevem nesse mandato a cláusula tácita de inafastabilidade do direito de crítica da ação desses mandatários, sob pena de se negar a própria natureza de representação (que traz pressuposta a intercomunicação) do mandato político. Não se nega, é evidente, que a projeção generalizadora imposta pelo mandato político[11], em virtude da qual o mandatário representa o conjunto da nação e não seus eleitores singulares, enseja uma separação funcional entre Estado e sociedade, de tal modo a assegurar a esses representantes uma esfera de autonomia para proceder livremente na formação da vontade estatal. Todavia, tal aspecto sobressalente do instituto da representação política longe de negar, só reafirma a conclusão exposta. Com efeito, à míngua de instrumento de controle direto dos eleitores, a relação intercomunicativa, própria do mandato, perpassa por formas de controle ou de intercomunicação difusas, da qual tem maior e mais eficiência social exatamente o exercício da crítica política. Nesse sentido, vem a ponto, mais uma vez, a preleção de Antonio J Porras Nadales, para quem: “Si el control evaluativo de las políticas públicas supone un marco de intercomunicación entre la esfera pública y su propio ambiente o red social susceptible de interpretarse como un modelo innovador de relaciones entre sociedad y Estado, podría plantearse igualmente si en relación con la esfera estrictamente política no ha surgido también un cierto discurso social crítico (alimentado por los abundantes casos de corrupción y disfuncionalidades generadas en el ámbito del Estado de Partidos) alrededor de la propia relación representativa, en el que se expresan las pretensiones de un mayor grado de control social sobe el circuito de la representación política”. Vê-se, pois, que a crítica política, pese embora insuficiente como mecanismo de intercomunicação ou de controle da relação de mandato representativo, constitui-se no principal instrumento de intercomunicação entre mandantes e mandatários na esfera política, mesmo porque, como frisado, mínguam institutos jurídicos que possibilitem o controle direto e identificado entre eleitor e eleito. Reprisando o tema, calha, à perfeição, o escólio de André Hauriou: “Digamos por último que un electo, cuando controla el Gobierno o, con una razón más fuerte aún, cuando él mismo se convierte en gobernante, no habla ni actúa únicamente en nombre de su circunscripción, o más exactamente, de los electores que dentro de esta, circunscripción lo han elegido a él, sino que habla o actúa de toda la nación. Se ha convertido en un representante del Pueblo en conjunto, y no de una parte o una fracción de él”. [12] Assim, não obstante o mandato político não reproduza juridicamente o regime do mandato privado, até porque, como apontado, inexiste uma relação direta de identificação entre eleitor e eleito, fazendo com que este passe a falar difusamente em nome da sociedade, que, com relação a ele, pode se manifestar de forma igualmente difusa, através da crítica política. Dentro dessa esfera, portanto, pode-se, sem rebuços, afirmar que o direito de crítica se traduz num direito residual ao mandato, é dizer, quando o corpo eleitoral, no seu todo, outorga mandato aos eleitos, o faz para que falem em seu nome, tanto no exercício da função executiva, como na da legislativa, todavia essa outorga, por sua natureza ingênita, impõe a exclusão tácita dos poderes para subtrair dos eleitores o direito de criticar seus representantes eleitos no exercício desse munus público. Em termos concretos, tal quer significar que o direito de crítica aos aspectos inerentes ao mandato é ilimitável, ou seja, nenhum outro direito constitucional pode ser evocado como limite externo ao direito de crítica, que, para seu exercício pleno, apresenta como único requisito a identidade entre a crítica esgrimida e o desempenho de mandato político do criticado.

What began as a simple request for a book by one of my former students, at times, has not been so simple. The student, whom I refer to as Carla (name changed), hoped to read about characters similar to herself and her friends. As a teacher, I have often tried to hook my students on reading by presenting books with characters to which they can relate. These books can help increase their overall knowledge of the world, open their minds to multiple realities and variations of the human experience and provide scenarios in which they can live vicariously. Carla’s request was a bit more complicated than I had imagined. As a “Deaf” student who attended a state school for the Deaf and who viewed herself as a member of a linguistic cultural minority, she expected to read a book with characters who used American Sign Language and who participated as members within the Deaf Community. She did not want to read didactic books about deafness but wanted books with unpredictable plots and believable characters. Having graduated from a teacher-preparation program in Deaf Education, I had read numerous books about deafness. While memoirs and biographical selections had been relatively easy to acquire and were on my bookshelf, I had not once read any fictional books for adolescents that included a deaf character. (I refer to ‘Deaf’ as representing individuals who identify in a linguistic, cultural minority group. The term ‘deaf’ is used as a more generic term given to individuals with some degree of hearing loss. In other articles, ‘deaf’ has been used pejoratively or in connection to a view by those who believe one without the sense of hearing is inferior or lacking. I do not believe or wish to imply that. ) As a High School teacher with so many additional work responsibilities outside of classroom teaching, finding fictional books with deaf characters was somewhat of a challenge. Nevertheless, after some research I was able to recommend a book that I thought would be a good summer read. Nancy Butts’ Cheshire Moon (1992) is charming book about thirteen-year-old Miranda who is saddened by her cousin’s death and furious at her parents' insistence that she speak rather than sign. The plot turns slightly mystical when the teens begin having similar dreams under the “Cheshire moon”. Yet, the story is about Miranda, a deaf girl, who struggles with communication. Without her cousin, the only member of her family who was fluent in sign language, communication is difficult and embarrassing. Miranda feels isolated, alienated, and unsure of herself. Because of the main character’s age, the book was not the best recommendation for a high school student; however, when Carla finished Cheshire Moon, she asked for another book with Deaf characters. Problem & Purpose Historically, authors have used deafness as a literary device to relay various messages about the struggles of humankind and elicit sympathy from readers (Batson & Bergman; Bergman; Burns; Krentz; Panara; Taylor, "Deaf Characters" I, II, III; Schwartz; Wilding-Diaz). In recent decades, however, the general public’s awareness of and perhaps interest in deaf people has risen along with that of our increasingly multicultural world. Educational legislation has increased awareness of the deaf as has news coverage of Gallaudet University protests. In addition, Deaf people have benefited from advances in communicative technology, such as Video Relay (VRS) and instant messaging pagers, more coordinated interpreting services and an increase in awareness of American Sign Language. Authors are incorporating more deaf characters than they did in the past. However, this increase does not necessarily translate to an increase in understanding of the deaf, nor does it translate to the most accurate, respectably, well-rounded characterization of the deaf (Pajka-West, "Perceptions"). Acquiring fictional books that include deaf characters can be time-consuming and challenging for teachers and librarians. The research examining deaf characters in fiction is extremely limited (Burns; Guella; Krentz; Wilding-Diaz). The most recent articles predominately focus on children’s literature — specifically picture books (Bailes; Brittain). Despite decades of research affirming culturally authentic children’s literature and the merits of multicultural literature, a coexisting body of research reveals the lack of culturally authentic texts (Applebee; Campbell & Wirtenberg; Ernest; Larrick; Sherriff; Taxel). Moreover, children’s books with deaf characters are used as informational depictions of deaf individuals (Bockmiller, 1980). Readers of such resource books, typically parents, teachers and their students, gain information about deafness and individuals with “disabilities” (Bockmiller, 1980; Civiletto & Schirmer, 2000). If an important purpose for deaf characters in fiction is educational and informational, then there is a need for the characters to be presented as realistic models of deaf people. If not, the readers of such fiction gain inaccurate information about deafness including reinforced negative stereotypes, as can occur in any other literature portraying cultural minorities (Pajka-West, "Perceptions"). Similar to authors’ informational depictions, writers also reveal societal understanding of groups of people through their fiction (Banfield & Wilson; Panara; Rudman). Literature has often stigmatized minority culture individuals based upon race, ethnicity, disability, gender and/or sexual orientation. While readers might recognize the negative depictions and dismiss them as harmless stereotypes, these portrayals could become a part of the unconscious of members of our society. If books continually reinforce stereotypical depictions of deaf people, individuals belonging to the group might be typecast and discouraged into a limited way of being. As an educator, I want all of my students to have unlimited opportunities for the future, not disadvantaged by stereotypes. The Study For my doctoral dissertation, I examined six contemporary adolescent literature books with deaf characters. The research methodology for this study required book selection, reader sample selection, instrument creation, book analysis, questionnaire creation, and data analysis. My research questions included: 1) Are deaf characters being presented as culturally Deaf characters or as pathologically deaf and disabled; 2) Do these readers favor deaf authors over hearing ones? If so, why; and, 3) How do deaf and hearing adult readers perceive deaf characters in adolescent literature? The Sample The book sample included 102 possible books for the study ranging from adolescent to adult selections. I selected books that were recognized as suitable for middle school or high school readers based upon the reading and interest levels established by publishers. The books also had to include main characters who are deaf and deaf characters who are human. The books selected were all realistic fiction, available to the public, and published or reissued for publication within the last fifteen years. The six books that were selected included: Nick’s Secret by C. Blatchford; A Maiden’s Grave by J. Deaver; Of Sound Mind by J. Ferris; Deaf Child Crossing by M. Matlin; Apple Is My Sign by M. Riskind; and Finding Abby by V. Scott. For the first part of my study, I analyzed these texts using the Adolescent Literature Content Analysis Check-off Form (ALCAC) which includes both pathological and cultural perspective statements derived from Deaf Studies, Disability Studies and Queer Theory. The participant sample included adult readers who fit within three categories: those who identified as deaf, those who were familiar with or had been acquaintances with deaf individuals, and those who were unfamiliar having never associated with deaf individuals. Each participant completed a Reader-Response Survey which included ten main questions derived from Deaf Studies and Schwartz’ ‘Criteria for Analyzing Books about Deafness’. The survey included both dichotomous and open-ended questions. Research Questions & Methodology Are deaf characters being presented as culturally Deaf or as pathologically deaf and disabled? In previous articles, scholars have stated that most books with deaf characters include a pathological perspective; yet, few studies actually exist to conclude this assertion. In my study, I analyzed six books to determine whether they supported the cultural or the pathological perspective of deafness. The goal was not to exclusively label a text either/or but to highlight the distinct perspectives to illuminate a discussion regarding a deaf character. As before mentioned, the ALCAC instrument incorporates relevant theories and prior research findings in reference to the portrayals of deaf characters and was developed to specifically analyze adolescent literature with deaf characters. Despite the historical research regarding deaf characters and due to the increased awareness of deaf people and American Sign Language, my initial assumption was that the authors of the six adolescent books would present their deaf characters as more culturally ‘Deaf’. This was confirmed for the majority of the books. I believed that an outsider, such as a hearing writer, could carry out an adequate portrayal of a culture other than his own. In the past, scholars did not believe this was the case; however, the results from my study demonstrated that the majority of the hearing authors presented the cultural perspective model. Initially shocking, the majority of deaf authors incorporated the pathological perspective model. I offer three possible reasons why these deaf authors included more pathological perspective statements while the hearing authors include more cultural perspective statements: First, the deaf authors have grown up deaf and perhaps experienced more scenarios similar to those presented from the pathological perspective model. Even if the deaf authors live more culturally Deaf lifestyles today, authors include their experiences growing up in their writing. Second, there are less deaf characters in the books written by deaf authors and more characters and more character variety in the books written by the hearing authors. When there are fewer deaf characters interacting with other deaf characters, these characters tend to interact with more hearing characters who are less likely to be aware of the cultural perspective. And third, with decreased populations of culturally Deaf born to culturally Deaf individuals, it seems consistent that it may be more difficult to obtain a book from a Deaf of Deaf author. Similarly, if we consider the Deaf person’s first language is American Sign Language, Deaf authors may be spending more time composing stories and poetry in American Sign Language and less time focusing upon English. This possible lack of interest may make the number of ‘Deaf of Deaf’ authors, or culturally Deaf individuals raised by culturally Deaf parents, who pursue and are successful publishing a book in adolescent literature low. At least in adolescent literature, deaf characters, as many other minority group characters, are being included in texts to show young people our increasingly multicultural world. Adolescent literature readers can now become aware of a range of deaf characters, including characters who use American Sign Language, who attend residential schools for the Deaf, and even who have Deaf families. Do the readers favor deaf authors over hearing ones? A significant part of my research was based upon the perceptions of adult readers of adolescent literature with deaf characters. I selected participants from a criterion sampling and divided them into three groups: 1. Adults who had attended either a special program for the deaf or a residential school for the deaf, used American Sign Language, and identified themselves as deaf were considered for the deaf category of the study; 2. Adults who were friends, family members, co-workers or professionals in fields connected with individuals who identify themselves as deaf were considered for the familiar category of the study; and, 3. hearing adults who were not aware of the everyday experiences of deaf people and who had not taken a sign language class, worked with or lived with a deaf person were considered for the unfamiliar category of the study. Nine participants were selected for each group totaling 27 participants (one participant from each of the groups withdrew before completion, leaving eight participants from each of the groups to complete the study). To elicit the perspectives of the participants, I developed a Reader Response survey which was modeled after Schwartz’s ‘Criteria for Analyzing Books about Deafness’. I assumed that the participants from Deaf and Familiar groups would prefer the books written by the deaf authors while the unfamiliar participants would act more as a control group. This was not confirmed through the data. In fact, the Deaf participants along with the participants as a whole preferred the books written by the hearing authors as better describing their perceptions of realistic deaf people, for presenting deaf characters adequately and realistically, and for the hearing authors’ portrayals of deaf characters matching with their perceptions of deaf people. In general, the Deaf participants were more critical of the deaf authors while the familiar participants, although as a group preferred the books by the hearing authors, were more critical of the hearing authors. Participants throughout all three groups mentioned their preference for a spectrum of deaf characters. The books used in this study that were written by hearing authors included a variety of characters. For example, Riskind’s Apple Is My Sign includes numerous deaf students at a school for the deaf and the main character living within a deaf family; Deaver’s A Maiden’s Grave includes deaf characters from a variety of backgrounds attending a residential school for the deaf and only a few hearing characters; and Ferris’ Of Sound Mind includes two deaf families with two CODA or hearing teens. The books written by the deaf authors in this study include only a few deaf characters. For example, Matlin’s Deaf Child Crossing includes two deaf girls surrounded by hearing characters; Scott’s Finding Abby includes more minor deaf characters but readers learn about these characters from the hearing character’s perspective. For instance, the character Jared uses sign language and attends a residential school for the deaf but readers learn this information from his hearing mother talking about him, not from the deaf character’s words. Readers know that he communicates through sign language because we are told that he does; however, the only communication readers are shown is a wave from the child; and, Blatchford’s Nick’s Secret includes only one deaf character. With the fewer deaf characters it is nearly impossible for the various ways of being deaf to be included in the book. Thus, the preference for the books by the hearing authors is more likely connected to the preference for a variety of deaf people represented. How do readers perceive deaf characters? Participants commented on fourteen main and secondary characters. Their perceptions of these characters fall into six categories: the “normal” curious kid such as the characters Harry (Apple Is My Sign), Jeremy (Of Sound Mind) and Jared (Finding Abby); the egocentric spoiled brat such as Palma (Of Sound Mind) and Megan (Deaf Child Crossing); the advocate such as Harry’s mother (Apple Is My Sign) and Susan (A Maiden’s Grave); those dependent upon the majority culture such as Palma (Of Sound Mind) and Lizzie (Deaf Child Crossing); those isolated such as Melissa (Finding Abby), Ben (Of Sound Mind), Nick (Nick’s Secret) and Thomas (Of Sound Mind); and, those searching for their identities such as Melanie (A Maiden’s Grave) and Abby (Finding Abby). Overall, participants commented more frequently about the deaf characters in the books by the hearing authors (A Maiden’s Grave; Of Sound Mind; Apple Is My Sign) and made more positive comments about the culturally Deaf male characters, particularly Ben Roper, Jeremy and Thomas of Of Sound Mind, and Harry of Apple Is My Sign. Themes such as the characters being dependent and isolated from others did arise. For example, Palma in Of Sound Mind insists that her hearing son act as her personal interpreter so that she can avoid other hearing people. Examples to demonstrate the isolation some of the deaf characters experience include Nick of Nick’s Secret being the only deaf character in his story and Ben Roper of Of Sound Mind being the only deaf employee in his workplace. While these can certainly be read as negative situations the characters experience, isolation is a reality that resonates in some deaf people’s experiences. With communicative technology and more individuals fluent in American Sign Language, some deaf individuals may decide to associate more with individuals in the larger culture. One must interpret purposeful isolation such as Ben Roper’s (Of Sound Mind) case, working in a location that provides him with the best employment opportunities, differently than Melissa Black’s (Finding Abby) isolating feelings of being left out of family dinner discussions. Similarly, variations in characterization including the egocentric, spoiled brat and those searching for their identities are common themes in adolescent literature with or without deaf characters being included. Positive examples of deaf characters including the roles of the advocate such as Susan (A Maiden’s Grave) and Harry’s mother (Apple Is My Sign), along with descriptions of regular everyday deaf kids increases the varieties of deaf characters. As previously stated, my study included an analysis based on literary theory and prior research. At that time, unless the author explicitly told readers in a foreword or a letter to readers, I had no way of truly knowing why the deaf character was included and why the author made such decisions. This uncertainty of the author’s decisions changed for me in 2007 with the establishment of my educational blog. Beginning to Blog When I started my educational blog Deaf Characters in Adolescent Literature in February 2007, I did not plan to become a blogger nor did I have any plans for my blog. I simply opened a Blogger account and added a list of 106 books with deaf characters that was connected to my research. Once I started blogging on a regular basis, I discovered an active audience who not only read what I wrote but who truly cared about my research. Blogging had become a way for me to keep my research current; since my blog was about deaf characters in adolescent literature, it became an advocacy tool that called attention to authors and books that were not widely publicized; and, it enabled me to become part of a cyber community made up of other bloggers and readers. After a few months of blogging on a weekly basis, I began to feel a sense of obligation to research and post my findings. While continuing to post to my blog, I have acquired more information about my research topic and even received advance reader copies prior to the books’ publication dates. This enables me to discuss the most current books. It also enables my readers to learn about such books. My blog acts as free advertisement for the publishing companies and authors. I currently have 195 contemporary books with deaf characters and over 36 author and professional interviews. While the most rewarding aspect of blogging is connecting with readers, there have been some major highlights in the process. As I stated, I had no way of knowing why the deaf character was included in the books until I began interviewing the authors. I had hoped that the hearing authors of books with deaf characters would portray their characters realistically but I had not realized the authors’ personal connections to actual deaf people. For instance, Delia Ray, Singing Hands, wrote about a Deaf preacher and his family. Her book was based on her grandfather who was a Deaf preacher and leading pioneer in the Deaf Community. Ray is not the only hearing author who has a personal connection to deaf people. Other examples include: Jean Ferris, Of Sound Mind, who earned a degree in Speech Pathology and Audiology. Ferris’ book includes only two hearing characters, the majority are Deaf. All of her characters are also fluent in American Sign Language; Jodi Cutler Del Dottore, Rally Caps, who includes a deaf character named Luca who uses a cochlear implant. Luca is based on Cutler Del Dottore’s son, Jordan, who also has a cochlear implant; finally, Jacqueline Woodson, Feathers, grew up in a community that included deaf people who did not use sign language. As an adult, she met members of the Deaf Community and began learning American Sign Language herself. Woodson introduces readers to Sean who is attractive, funny, and intelligent. In my study, I noted that all of the deaf characters where not diverse based upon race, ethnicity, and socio-economic status (Pajka-West, "Perceptions"). Sean is the first Deaf American-African character in adolescent literature who uses sign language to communicate. Another main highlight is finding Deaf authors who do not receive the mainstream press that other authors might receive. For example, Ann Clare LeZotte, T4, introduces readers to main character Paula Becker, a thirteen year old deaf girl who uses sign language and lipreading to communicate. Through verse, we learn of Paula’s life in Germany during Hitler’s time as she goes into hiding since individuals with physical and mental disabilities were being executed under the orders of Hitler’s Tiergartenstrasse 4 (T4). One additional highlight is that I learn about insider tips and am then able to share this information with my blog readers. In one instance I began corresponding with Marvel Comic’s David Mack, the creator of Echo, a multilingual, biracial, Deaf comic book character who debuted in Daredevil and later The New Avengers. In comics, it is Marvel who owns the character; while Echo was created for Daredevil by Mack, she later appears in The New Avengers. In March 2008, discussion boards were buzzing since issue #39 would include original creator, Mack, among other artists. To make it less complicated for those who do not follow comics, the issue was about whether or not Echo had become a skrull, an alien who takes over the body of the character. This was frightening news since potentially Echo could become a hearing skrull. I just did not believe that Mack would let that happen. My students and I held numerous discussions about the implications of Marvel’s decisions and finally I sent Mack an email. While he could not reveal the details of the issue, he did assure me that my students and I would be pleased. I’m sure there was a collective sigh from readers once his email was published on the blog. Final Thoughts While there have been pejorative depictions of the deaf in literature, the portrayals of deaf characters in adolescent literature have become much more realistic in the last decade. Authors have personal connections with actual deaf individuals which lend to the descriptions of their deaf characters; they are conducting more detailed research to develop their deaf characters; and, they appear to be much more aware of the Deaf Community than they were in the past. A unique benefit of the genre is that authors of adolescent literature often give the impression of being more available to the readers of their books. Authors often participate in open dialogues with their fans through social networking sites or discussion boards on their own websites. After posting interviews with the authors on my blog, I refer readers to the author’s on site whether it through personal blogs, websites, Facebook or Twitter pages. While hearing authors’ portrayals now include a spectrum of deaf characters, we must encourage Deaf and Hard of Hearing writers to include more deaf characters in their works. Consider again my student Carla and her longing to find books with deaf characters. Deaf characters in fiction act as role models for young adults. A positive portrayal of deaf characters benefits deaf adolescents whether or not they see themselves as biologically deaf or culturally deaf. Only through on-going publishing, more realistic and positive representations of the deaf will occur. References Bailes, C.N. "Mandy: A Critical Look at the Portrayal of a Deaf Character in Children’s Literature." Multicultural Perspectives 4.4 (2002): 3-9. Batson, T. "The Deaf Person in Fiction: From Sainthood to Rorschach Blot." Interracial Books for Children Bulletin 11.1-2 (1980): 16-18. Batson, T., and E. Bergman. Angels and Outcasts: An Anthology of Deaf Characters in Literature. Washington, D.C.: Gallaudet University Press (1985). Bergman, E. "Literature, Fictional characters in." In J.V. Van Cleve (ed.), Gallaudet Encyclopedia of Deaf People & Deafness. Vol. 2. Washington, D.C.: McGraw Hill, 1987. 172-176. Brittain, I. "An Examination into the Portrayal of Deaf Characters and Deaf Issues in Picture Books for Children." Disability Studies Quarterly 24.1 (Winter 2004). 24 Apr. 2005 < http://www.dsq-sds.org >. Burns, D.J. An Annotated Checklist of Fictional Works Which Contain Deaf Characters. Unpublished master’s thesis. Washington, D.C.: Gallaudet University,1950. Campbell, P., and J. Wirtenberg. How Books Influence Children: What the Research Shows. Interracial Books for Children Bulletin 11.6 (1980): 3-6. Civiletto, C.L., and B.R. Schirmer. "Literature with Characters Who Are Deaf." The Dragon Lode 19.1 (Fall 2000): 46-49. Guella, B. "Short Stories with Deaf Fictional Characters." American Annals of the Deaf 128.1 (1983): 25-33. Krentz, C. "Exploring the 'Hearing Line': Deafness, Laughter, and Mark Twain." In S. L. Snyder, B. J. Brueggemann, and R. Garland-Thomson, eds., Disability Studies: Enabling the Humanities. New York: Modern Language Association of America, 2002. 234-247. Larrick, N. "The All-White World of Children's Books. Saturday Review 11 (1965): 63-85. Pajka-West, S. “The Perceptions of Deaf Characters in Adolescent Literature”. The ALAN Review 34.3 (Summer 2007): 39-45. ———. "The Portrayals and Perceptions of Deaf Characters in Adolescent Literature." Ph.D. dissertation. University of Virginia, 2007. ———. "Interview with Deaf Author Ann Clare LeZotte about T4, Her Forthcoming Book Told in Verse." Deaf Characters in Adolescent Literature, 5 Aug. 2008. < http://pajka.blogspot.com/ 2008/08/interview-with-deaf-author-ann-clare.html >.———. "Interview with Delia Ray, Author of Singing Hands." Deaf Characters in Adolescent Literature, 23 Aug. 2007. < http://pajka.blogspot.com/ 2007/08/interview-with-delia-ray-author-of.html >.———. "Interview with Jacqueline Woodson, author of Feathers." Deaf Characters in Adolescent Literature, 29 Sep. 2007. < http://pajka.blogspot.com/ 2007/09/interview-with-jacqueline-woodson.html >. ———. "Interview with Jodi Cutler Del Dottore, author of Rally Caps." Deaf Characters in Adolescent Literature, 13 Aug. 2007. < http://pajka.blogspot.com/ 2007/08/interview-with-jodi-cutler-del-dottore.html >. Panara, R. "Deaf Characters in Fiction and Drama." The Deaf American 24.5 (1972): 3-8. Schwartz, A.V. "Books Mirror Society: A Study of Children’s Materials." Interracial Books for Children Bulletin 11.1-2 (1980): 19-24. Sherriff, A. The Portrayal of Mexican American Females in Realistic Picture Books (1998-2004). University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill: 2005. Taxel, J. "The Black Experience in Children's Fiction: Controversies Surrounding Award Winning Books." Curriculum Inquiry 16 (1986): 245-281. Taylor, G.M. "Deaf Characters in Short Stories: A Selective Bibliography. The Deaf American 26.9 (1974): 6-8. ———. "Deaf Characters in Short Stories: A Selective Bibliography II." The Deaf American 28.11 (1976): 13-16.———. "Deaf Characters in Short Stories: A Selective Bibliography III." The Deaf American 29.2 (1976): 27-28. Wilding-Diaz, M.M. Deaf Characters in Children’s Books: How Are They Portrayed? Unpublished master’s thesis. Provo, Utah: Brigham Young University, 1993.———. "Deaf Characters in Children’s Books: How Are They Perceived?" In Gallaudet University College for Continuing Education and B.D. Snider (eds.), Journal: Post Milan ASL & English Literacy: Issues, Trends & Research Conference Proceedings, 20-22 Oct. 1993.Adolescent Fiction Books Blatchford, C. Nick’s Secret. Minneapolis, MN: Lerner, 2000. Deaver, J. A Maiden’s Grave. New York: Signet, 1996. Ferris, J. Of Sound Mind. New York: Sunburst, 2004. Matlin, M. Deaf Child Crossing. New York: Aladdin Paperbacks, 2004. Riskind, M. Apple Is My Sign. Boston, MA: Houghton Mifflin, 1981. Scott, V. Finding Abby. Hillsboro, OR: Butte, 2000.

Dream, 2008Go to visit a friend with vulvodynia who recently had a baby only to find that she is desolate. I realise the baby–a little boy–died. We go for a walk together. She has lost weight through the ordeal & actually looks on the edge of beauty for the first time. I feel like saying something to this effect–like she had a great loss but gained beauty as a result–but don’t think it would be appreciated. I know I shouldn’t stay too long &, sure enough, when we get back to hers, she indicates she needs for me to go soon. In her grief though, her body begins to spasm uncontrollably, describing the arc of the nineteenth-century hysteric. I start to gently massage her back & it brings her great relief as her body relaxes. I notice as I massage her, that she has beautiful gold and silver studs, flowers, filigree on different parts of her back. It describes a scene of immense beauty. I comment on it.In 2008, I was following a writing path dictated by my vulvodynia, or chronic vulval pain, and was exploring the possibility of my disorder being founded in trauma. The theory did not, in my case, hold up and I had decided to move on when serendipity intervened. Books ordered for different purposes arrived simultaneously and, as I dipped into the texts, I found startling correspondence between them. The books? Neurologist Jean-Martin Charcot’s lectures on hysteria, translated into English in 1889; psychiatrist W.H.R. Rivers’s explication of a biological theory of the neuroses published in 1922; and trauma neurologist Robert C. Scaer’s interpretation, in 2007, of the psychosomatic symptoms of his patients. The research grasped my intellect and imagination and maintained its grip until the ensuing chapter was done with me: my day life, papers and books skewed across tables; my night life, dreams surfeited with suffering and beauty, as I struggled with the possibility of any relationship between the two. Just as Rivers recognised that the shell-shock of World War I was not a physical injury as such but a trigger for and form of hysteria, so too, a few decades earlier, did Charcot insistently equate the railway brain/spine that resulted from railway accidents, with the hysteria of other of his patients, recognising that the precipitating incident constituted trauma that lodged in the body/mind of the victim (Clinical 221). More recently, Scaer notes that the motor vehicle accident (MVA) from which whiplash ensues is usually of insufficient force to logically cause bodily injury and, through this understanding, links whiplash and the railway brain/spine of the nineteenth century (25).In terms of comparative studies, most exciting for a researcher is the detail with which Charcot described patient after patient with hysteria in the Salpêtrière hospital, and elements of correspondence in symptomatology between these and Scaer’s patients, the case histories of which open most chapters of his book, titled appropriately, The Body Bears the Burden.Here are symptoms selected from a case study from each clinician:She subsequently developed headaches, neck pain, panic attacks, and full-blown post-traumatic stress disorder, along with significant cognitive problems [...] As her neck pain worsened and spread to her lower back, shoulders and arms, she noted increasing morning stiffness, and generalized pain and sensitivity to touch. With the development of interrupted, non-restorative sleep and chronic fatigue, she was ultimately diagnosed by a rheumatologist with fibromyalgia (Scaer 107).And:The patient suffers from a permanent headache of a constrictive character [...] All kinds of sound are painful to his ear, and he does his best to avoid them. It is impossible for him to fix his attention to any matter, or to devote himself to anything without speedily experiencing very great fatigue [...] He has insomnia and is frequently tormented by horrible dreams [...] Further, his memory appears to be considerably weakened (Charcot, Clinical 387).In the case of both patients, there was no significant physical injury, though both were left physically, as well as psychically, disabled. In the accidents that precipitated these symptoms, both were placed in positions of terrified helplessness as potential destruction bore down on them. In the case of Scaer’s patient, she froze in the driver’s seat at traffic lights as a large dump truck slowly reversed back on to her car, crushing the bonnet and engine compartment as it moved inexorably toward her. In the case of Charcot’s patient, he was dragging his barrow along the road when a laundryman’s van, pulled at “railway speed” by a careering horse, bore down on him, striking the wheel of his barrow (Clinical 375). It took some hours for the traumatised individuals of each incident to return to their senses.Scaer describes whiplash syndrome as “a diverse constellation of symptoms consisting of pain, neurologic symptoms, cognitive impairment, and emotional complaints” (xvii), and argues that the somatic or bodily expressions of the syndrome “may represent a universal constellation of symptoms attributable to any unresolved life-threatening experience” (143). Thus, as we look back through history, whiplash equals shell-shock equals railway brain equals the “swooning” and “vapours” of the eighteenth century (Shorter Chap. 1). All are precipitated by different causes, but all share the same outcome; diverse, debilitating symptoms affecting the body and mind, which have no reasonable physical explanation and which show no obvious organic cause. Human stress and trauma have always existed.In modern and historic studies of hysteria, much is made of the way in which the symptoms of hysterics have, over the centuries, mimicked “real” organic conditions (e.g. Shorter). Rivers discusses mimesis as a quality of the “gregarious” or herd instinct, noting that the enhanced suggestibility of such a state was utilised in military training. Here, preparation for combat focused on an unthinking obedience to duty and orders, and a loss of individual agency within the group: “The most successful training is one which attains such perfection of this responsiveness that each individual soldier not merely reacts at once to the expressed command of his superior, but is able to divine the nature of a command before it is given and acts as a member of the group immediately and effectively” (211–12). In the animal kingdom, the herd instinct manifests in behaviour that impacts the survival of prey and predator: schools of sardines move as one organism, seeking safety in numbers, while predatory sailfish act in silent concert to push the school into a tighter formation from which they can take orchestrated turns to feed.Unfortunately, the group mimesis created through a passive surrender of the individual ego to the herd, while providing a greater sense of security and chance of survival, also made World War I soldiers more vulnerable to the development of post-traumatic hysteria. At the Salpêtrière, Charcot described in meticulous detail the epileptic-like convulsions of hysteria major (la grande hystérie), which appeared to be an unwitting imitation of the seizures of epileptic inmates with whom hysteria patients were housed. Such convulsions included the infamous arc en circle, or backward-arched bodily semicircle, through which the individual’s body was thrust, up into the air, in an arc of distress only earthed by flexed feet and contorted neck (Veith 231). The suffering articulated in this powerful image stayed with me as I read, and percolated through my dreams.The three texts in which I remained transfixed had issued from different eras and used different language from each other, but all three contained similar and complementary insights. I found further correspondence between Charcot and Scaer in their understanding of the neurophysiology underlying hysteria/trauma. Though he did not have the technology to observe it, Charcot insisted that the symptoms of hysteria were the result of real changes in the nervous system. He distinguished between “organic” causes of disease, and the “functional” or “dynamic” causes of such disorders as hysteria and epilepsy: as he noted of the “hystero-traumatic paraplegia” of a patient, “it depends upon a dynamic lesion affecting the motor and sensory zones of the grey cortex of the brain which in a normal state preside over the functions of that limb” (Clinical 382). He proposed a potentially reversible “dynamic alteration” in the brain of the hysteric (Clinical 223–24). Compare Scaer: “Clinical syndromes previously categorized as ‘nonphysiological,’ ‘psychosomatic,’ or ‘functional’ may be based on demonstrable dynamic neurophysiological changes in the brain” (xx–xxi).Another link between the work of Charcot and Scaer is their insistence on the mind/body as a continuum, rather than separate entities. The perspicacity of the two researcher/clinicians forms bookends to a model separating mind from body that, in the wake of the popularisation and distortion of Freudian theory, characterised the twentieth-century. Said Charcot: “the physician must be a psychologist if he wants to interpret the most refined of cerebral functions, since psychology is nothing else but physiology of a part of the brain” (cited by Goetz 32). Says Scaer: “The distinction between the ‘psychological’ and physical pathological manifestations of traumatic stress, as suggested in the term ‘psychosomatic,’ needs to be discarded” (127). He proposes that, instead, we consider a mind/brain/body continuum which more accurately reflects, “the pathophysiological, neurobiological, endocrinological, and immunological changes induced by trauma” and the bodily manifestations of disease which follow (127).Charcot’s modernity is perhaps most evident in his understanding of equivalence between mind and brain, and his belief in what we now call “neuroplasticity”. Dealing with two patients with hysterical (traumatic) paralysis, Charcot recognised the value of friction, massage, and passive movements of the paralysed limb, not to build muscle strength, but to “revive” the “motor representation” in the brain as a necessary precursor to voluntary movement (Clinical 310). He noted the way in which, through repetition, movement strengthens. The parallel between Charcot’s insight, and recent research and practice which indicates that intense exercise for stroke victims assists the retrieval of motor programmes in the nervous system, in turn facilitating increased strength and movement, is quite astounding (Doidge Chap. 5).Scaer, like Rivers before him, understands the “freeze” or immobility response to threat as a very primitive or arcane level of the survival instinct. When neither fight nor flight will ensure an animal’s survival, it often manifests the freeze response, playing “dead”. After danger has passed, the animal might vibrate and shake, discharging the stored energy, physiologically “effecting” its defence or escape, and becoming fully functional again. Scaer describes this discharge process in animals as being “as imperceptible as a shudder, or as dramatic as a grand mal seizure” (19). The human, being an animal, also instinctually resorts to immobility when that is the reaction that will best ensure survival. As a result of this response, energy that would have been discharged in fighting or fleeing is bound up in the nervous system, along with accompanying terror, rage and helplessness. Unlike other animals that naturally discharge this energy when safe, humans often cognitively override the subtle but essential restorative behaviours that complete the full instinctual response, leaving them in a vicious cycle of fear and immobility and ultimately generating the symptoms of trauma.Scaer writes, “this apparent lack of discharge of autonomic energy after the occurrence of freezing [...] may represent a dangerous suppression of instinctual behavior, resulting in the imprinting of the traumatic experience in unconscious memory and arousal systems of the brain” (21). He proposes a persuasive model of “somatic dissociation” in which the body continues to manifest a threat to survival through impairment of the region of the body that perceived the sensory messages, and disability that reflects the incomplete motor defence (100). He writes of his patients in a chronic pain programme: “We invariably noticed that the patient’s unconscious posture reflected not only the pain, but also the experience of the traumatic event that produced the pain. The asymmetrical postural patterns, held in procedural memory, almost always reflect the body’s attempt to move away from the injury or threat that caused the injury” (84).Scaer’s concept of somatic dissociation, when applied to some of Charcot’s case studies, makes sense of their bodily symptoms. Charcot’s patient P— experiences no life threat, but a shock that involves grief and shame (Clinical 131–39). On a fox-hunting outing, he mistakes his friend’s dog for a fox, accidently shooting it dead. The friend is distraught, and P— consequently deeply distressed. He continues with the hunt, but later, when he raises his fire-arm to shoot a rabbit, collapses with a paralysis of the right side (he is right-handed), and then a loss of consciousness, with consequent confused recollection. Charcot’s lecture focuses on the “word-blindness” P— evidences, apparently associated with post-traumatic memory-deficits, but what is also arresting is the right-sided paralysis which lasts for some days, and the loss of vision on his right side. It is as if the act to shoot again is prevented by a body, shocked by its former action. The body parts affected hold meaning.In the case of the barrow man discussed earlier; although he has no lasting organic damage to his legs, nevertheless, his “feet remain literally fixed to the ground” (Clinical 378) when he is standing, perhaps reproducing the immobility with which he faced the rapidly looming van as it bore down on him. His paralysis speaks of his frozen helplessness, the trauma now locked in his body.In the case of the patient Ler—, aged around sixty, Charcot links her symptoms with a “series of frights” (Lectures 279): at eleven she was terrorised by a mad dog; at sixteen she was horrified by the sight of the corpse of a murdered woman; and, at the same age, she was threatened by robbers in a wood. During her violent hystero-epileptic attacks Ler— “hurls furious invectives against imaginary individuals, crying out, ‘villains! robbers! brigands! fire! fire! O, the dogs! I’m bitten!’” (Lectures 281). Here, the compilation of trauma is articulated through the body and the voice. Given that the extreme early childhood poverty and deprivation of Ler— were typical of hysterical patients at the Salpêtrière (Goetz 193), one might speculate that the hospital population of hysterics was composed of often severely traumatised women.The traumatised person is left with a constellation of symptoms familiar to anyone who has studied the history of hysteria. These comprise, but are not limited to, flashbacks, panic attacks, insomnia, depression, and unprovoked rage. The individual is also affected by physical symptoms that might include blindness or mutism, paralysis, spasms, skin anaesthesia, chronic fatigue, irritable bowel, migraines, or chronic pain. For trauma theorist Peter A. Levine, the key to healing lies in completing the original instinctual response; “trauma is part of a natural physiological process that simply has not been allowed to be completed” (155). The traumatised person stays stuck in or compulsively relives trauma in order to do just that. In 1885, Jean-Martin Charcot lectured at the Salpêtrière hospital in Paris, including among his case studies the patient he names Deb—. She resides more evocatively in my imagination as “the lady in the carriage”, a title drawn from Charcot’s description of her symptoms, and from the associated photographs which capture static moments of her frenzied and compulsive dance:Now look at this patient [...] In the first phase, rhythmical jerkings of the right arm, like the movements of hammering, occur [...] Then after this period there succeeds a period of tonic spasms, and of contortions of the arm and head, recalling partial epilepsy [...] Finally, measured movements of the head to the right and the left occur; rapid movements defying all interpretation, for I ask you, what do they correspond to in the region of physiological acts? At the same time the patient utters a cry, or rather a kind of plaintive wail, always the same [...] You see by this example that rhythmical chorea may be in certain cases a grave affection [affliction]. Not that it directly menaces life, but that it may persist over a very long period of time, and become a most distressing infirmity [...] The chorea has lasted for more than thirty years [...] The onset occurred at the age of thirty-six. About this time, when out driving in a carriage with her husband, she fell over a precipice with the horse and carriage. After the great fright which she had thus experienced she lost consciousness for three hours. This was followed by a convulsive seizure of hysteria major, by rigidity of the limbs of the right side, and cries like the barking of a dog (Clinical 193–95).I found this case study early in my reading of Charcot, but the lady in the carriage stayed with me as a trope of the relentless embodiment of trauma in its drive to be conclusively expressed, properly acknowledged, and potentially understood. Hence the persistent pain and distress of Scaer’s MVA patients; the patients treated by Rivers, with limbs and vocal-chords frozen in a never-ending moment of self-defence; the dramatic hysterical attacks of the impoverished patients in Charcot’s Salpêtrière; and the rhythmical chorea of the lady in the carriage, her involuntary jerky dance a physical re-enactment of her original trauma, when the carriage in which she was driving went over a precipice. Her helplessness in the event which precipitated her hysteria is a central factor in her continuing distress, her involuntary passivity removing her sense of agency and, like the soldier confined endlessly and powerlessly in the trenches waiting for inevitable terrifying action, rendering her unable to fight or flee.The fact that the lady in the carriage may be stuck in a traumatic incident experienced more than thirty years before attests to the way in which trauma insistently pushes to be resolved. Her re-enactment is literal, but Levine acknowledges the relevance of a “repetition compulsion” (181), expressed originally by Freud as the “compulsion to repeat” (19). This describes the often subtle way in which we continue to involve ourselves in situations that are replays of traumatic themes from childhood—symbolic re-enactments. Levine revitalises the idea however, by focusing on the interrupted instinctual response that calls for physiological resolution: “the drive to complete the freezing response remains active no matter how long it has been in place” (111).The knowledge a traumatised person seeks is, in trauma, literally locked in the body/mind. It rises up through dreams and throws itself aggressively at one in memories that are experienced as a terrifying present. It twists limbs in painful contractures and paralyzes the limb that was lifted in defence. The fear of turning to face this knowledge locks the individual in a recurring cycle of terror and immobility. At its end-point, s/he survives in the pathological limbo of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), avoiding any arousal that might trigger all the physiological and emotional events of the original trauma. The original threat or trauma continues to exist in a perpetual present, with the individual unable to relegate it to the past as a bearable memory.It is possible to interpret such suffering in many ways. One might, for instance, focus on the pathology of an apparent system malfunction, which keeps the body/mind inefficiently glued to an unsolvable past. I choose to emphasise here, however, the creativity and persistence of the human body/mind in its drive to resolve the response to trauma, recover equilibrium and face effectively the recurrent challenges of life. As well as physical symptoms which exact attention, this drive or instinct might include the prompting of dreams and the meaningful coincidences we notice as we open our eyes to them, all of which can lead us down previously unconsidered paths. Does the body/mind only continue to malfunction due to our inability to correctly decipher its language? In relation to trauma, the body/mind bears the burden, but it might also hold the key to recovery.References Charcot, Jean-Martin. Lectures on the Diseases of the Nervous System. Trans. George Sigerson. London: The New Sydenham Society, 1877.---. Clinical Lectures on Diseases of the Nervous System: Volume 3. Trans. Thomas Savill. London: The New Sydenham Society, 1889.Doidge, Norman. The Brain That Changes Itself: Stories of Personal Triumph from the Frontiers of Brain Science. Melbourne: Scribe, 2008.Freud, Sigmund. “Beyond the Pleasure Principle.” The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud. Ed. and Trans. James Strachey. London: Hogarth Press, 1955. 7–64.Goetz, Christopher G, Michel Bonduelle, and Toby Gelfand. Charcot: Constructing Neurology. New York: Oxford University Press, 1995.Levine, Peter A. Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma: The Innate Capacity to Transform Overwhelming Experiences. Berkeley, CA: North Atlantic Books, 1997.Rivers, W. H. R. Instinct and the Unconscious: A Contribution to a Biological Theory of the Psycho-Neuroses. 2nd ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1922.Scaer, Robert C. The Body Bears the Burden: Trauma, Dissociation, and Disease. 2nd ed. New York: Haworth Press, 2007.Shorter, Edward. From Paralysis to Fatigue: A History of Psychosomatic Illness in the Modern Era. New York: Free Press, 1992.Veith, Ilza. Hysteria: The History of a Disease. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1965.

By most accounts, “resilience” is a pretty resilient concept. Or policy instrument. Or heuristic tool. It’s this last that really concerns us here: resilience not as a politics, but rather as a descriptive device for attempts in the humanities—particularly in rhetoric and cultural studies—to adequately describe a discursive event. Or rather, to adequately describe a class of discursive events: those that involve rhetorical resistance by victimised subjects. I’ve argued elsewhere (Munro, Descriptive; Reading) that Peircean semiosis, inflected by a rhetorical postulate of genre, equips us well to closely describe a discursive event. Here, I want briefly to suggest that resilience—“discursive” resilience, to coin a term—might usefully supplement these hypotheses, at least from time to time. To support this suggestion, I’ll signal some uses of resilience before turning briefly to a case study: a sensational Argentine homicide case, which occurred in October 2002, and came to be known as the caso Belsunce. At the time, Argentina was wracked by economic crises and political instability. The imposition of severe restrictions on cash withdrawals from bank deposits had provoked major civil unrest. Between 21 December 2001 and 2 January 2002, Argentines witnessed a succession of five presidents. “Resilient” is a term that readily comes to mind to describe many of those who endured this catastrophic period. To describe the caso Belsunce, however—to describe its constitution and import as a discursive event—we might appeal to some more disciplinary-specific understandings of resilience. Glossing Peircean semiosis as a teleological process, Short notes that “one and the same thing […] may be many different signs at once” (106). Any given sign, in other words, admits of multiple interpretants or uptakes. And so it is with resilience, which is both a keyword in academic disciplines ranging from psychology to ecology and political science, and a buzzword in several corporate domains and spheres of governmental activity. It’s particularly prevalent in the discourses of highly networked post-9/11 Anglophone societies. So what, pray tell, is resilience? To the American Psychological Association, resilience comprises “the process of adapting well in the face of adversity.” To the Resilience Solutions Group at Arizona State University, resilience is “the capacity to recover fully from acute stressors, to carry on in the face of chronic difficulties: to regain one’s balance after losing it.” To the Stockholm Resilience Centre, resilience amounts to the “capacity of a system to continually change and adapt yet remain within critical thresholds,” while to the Resilience Alliance, resilience is similarly “the capacity of a system to absorb disturbance and still retain its basic function and structure” (Walker and Salt xiii). The adjective “resilient” is thus predicated of those entities, individuals or collectivities, which exhibit “resilience”. A “resilient Australia,” for example, is one “where all Australians are better able to adapt to change, where we have reduced exposure to risks, and where we are all better able to bounce back from disaster” (Australian Government). It’s tempting here to synthesise these statements with a sense of “ordinary language” usage to derive a definitional distillate: “resilience” is a capacity attributed to an entity which recovers intact from major injury. This capacity is evidenced in a reaction or uptake: a “resilient” entity is one which suffers some insult or disturbance, but whose integrity is held to have been maintained, or even enhanced, by its resistive or adaptive response. A conjecturally “resilient” entity is thus one which would presumably evince resilience if faced with an unrealised aversive event. However, such abstractions ignore how definitional claims do rhetorical work. On any given occasion, how “resilience” and its cognates are construed and what they connote are a function, at least in part, of the purposes of rhetorical agents and the protocols and objects of the disciplines or genres in which these agents put these terms to work. In disciplines operating within the same form of life or sphere of activity—disciplines sharing general conventions and broad objects of inquiry, such as the capacious ecological sciences or the contiguous fields of study within the ambit of applied psychology—resilience acts, at least at times, as a something of a “boundary object” (Star and Griesemer). Correlatively, across more diverse and distant fields of inquiry, resilience can work in more seemingly exclusive or contradictory ways (see Handmer and Dovers). Rhetorical aims and disciplinary objects similarly determine the originary tales we are inclined to tell. In the social sciences, the advent of resilience is often attributed to applied psychology, indebted, in turn, to epidemiology (see Seery, Holman and Cohen Silver). In environmental science, by contrast, resilience is typically taken to be a theory born in ecology (indebted to engineering and to the physical sciences, in particular to complex systems theory [see Janssen, Schoon, Ke and Börner]). Having no foundational claim to stake and, moreover, having different purposes and taking different objects, some more recent uptakes of resilience, in, for instance, securitisation studies, allow for its multidisciplinary roots (see Bourbeau; Kaufmann). But if resilience is many things to many people, a couple of commonalities in its range of translations should be drawn out. First, irrespective of its discipline or sphere of activity, talk of resilience typically entails construing an object of inquiry qua system, be that system an individual, a community of circumstance, a state, a socio-ecological unit or some differently delimited entity. This bounded system suffers some insult with no resulting loss of structural, relational, functional or other integrity. Second, resilience is usually marshalled to promote a politics. Resilience talk often consorts with discourses of meliorative action and of readily quantifiable practical effects. When the environmental sciences take the “Earth system” and the dynamics of global change as their objects of inquiry, a postulate of resilience is key to the elaboration and implementation of natural resource management policy. Proponents of socio-ecological resilience see the resilience hypothesis as enabling a demonstrably more enlightened stewardship of the biosphere (see Folke et al.; Holling; Walker and Salt). When applied psychology takes the anomalous situation of disadvantaged, at-risk individuals triumphing over trauma as its declared object of inquiry, a postulate of resilience is key to the positing and identification of personal and environmental resources or protective factors which would enable the overcoming of adversity. Proponents of psychosocial resilience see this concept as enabling the elaboration and implementation of interventions to foster individual and collective wellbeing (see Goldstein and Brooks; Ungar). Similarly, when policy think-tanks and government departments and agencies take the apprehension of particular threats to the social fabric as their object of inquiry, a postulate of resilience—or of a lack thereof—is critical to the elaboration and implementation of urban infrastructure, emergency planning and disaster management policies (see Drury et al.; Handmer and Dovers). However, despite its often positive connotations, resilience is well understood as a “normatively open” (Bourbeau 11) concept. This openness is apparent in some theories and practices of resilience. In limnological modelling, for example, eutrophication can result in a lake’s being in an undesirable, albeit resilient, turbid-water state (see Carpenter et al.; Walker and Meyers). But perhaps the negative connotations or indeed perverse effects of resilience are most apparent in some of its political uptakes. Certainly, governmental operationalisations of resilience are coming under increased scrutiny. Chief among the criticisms levelled at the “muddled politics” (Grove 147) of and around resilience is that its mobilisation works to constitute a particular neoliberal subjectivity (see Joseph; Neocleous). By enabling a conservative focus on individual responsibility, preparedness and adaptability, the topos of resilience contributes critically to the development of neoliberal governmentality (Joseph). In a practical sense, this deployment of resilience silences resistance: “building resilient subjects,” observe Evans and Reid (85), “involves the deliberate disabling of political habits. […] Resilient subjects are subjects that have accepted the imperative not to resist or secure themselves from the difficulties they are faced with but instead adapt to their enabling conditions.” It’s this prospect of practical acquiescence that sees resistance at times opposed to resilience (Neocleous). “Good intentions not withstanding,” notes Grove (146), “the effect of resilience initiatives is often to defend and strengthen the political economic status quo.” There’s much to commend in these analyses of how neoliberal uses of resilience constitute citizens as highly accommodating of capital and the state. But such critiques pertain to the governmental mobilisation of resilience in the contemporary “advanced liberal” settings of “various Anglo-Saxon countries” (Joseph 47). There are, of course, other instances—other events in other times and places—in which resilience indisputably sorts with resistance. Such an event is the caso Belsunce, in which a rhetorically resilient journalistic community pushed back, resisting some of the excesses of a corrupt neoliberal Argentine regime. I’ll turn briefly to this infamous case to suggest that a notion of “discursive resilience” might afford us some purchase when it comes to describing discursive events. To be clear: we’re considering resilience here not as an anticipatory politics, but rather as an analytic device to supplement the descriptive tools of Peircean semiosis and a rhetorical postulate of genre. As such, it’s more an instrument than an answer: a program, perhaps, for ongoing work. Although drawing on different disciplinary construals of the term, this use of resilience would be particularly indebted to the resilience thinking developed in ecology (see Carpenter el al.; Folke et al.; Holling; Walker et al.; Walker and Salt). Things would, of course, be lost in translation (see Adger; Gallopín): in taking a discursive event, rather than the dynamics of a socio-ecological system, as our object of inquiry, we’d retain some topological analogies while dispensing with, for example, Holling’s four-phase adaptive cycle (see Carpenter et al.; Folke; Gunderson; Gunderson and Holling; Walker et al.). For our purposes, it’s unlikely that descriptions of ecosystem succession need to be carried across. However, the general postulates of ecological resilience thinking—that a system is a complex series of dynamic relations and functions located at any given time within a basin of attraction (or stability domain or system regime) delimited by thresholds; that it is subject to multiple attractors and follows trajectories describable over varying scales of time and space; that these trajectories are inflected by exogenous and endogenous perturbations to which the system is subject; that the system either proves itself resilient to these perturbations in its adaptive or resistive response, or transforms, flipping from one domain (or basin) to another may well prove useful to some descriptive projects in the humanities. Resilience is fundamentally a question of uptake or response. Hence, when examining resilience in socio-ecological systems, Gallopín notes that it’s useful to consider “not only the resilience of the system (maintenance within a basin) but also coping with impacts produced and taking advantage of opportunities” (300). Argentine society in the early-to-mid 2000s was one such socio-political system, and the caso Belsunce was both one such impact and one such opportunity. Well-connected in the world of finance, 57-year-old former stockbroker Carlos Alberto Carrascosa lived with his 50-year-old sociologist turned charity worker wife, María Marta García Belsunce, close to their relatives in the exclusive gated community of Carmel Country Club, Pilar, Provincia de Buenos Aires, Argentina. At 7:07 pm on Sunday 27 October 2002, Carrascosa called ambulance emergencies, claiming that his wife had slipped and knocked her head while drawing a bath alone that rainy Sunday afternoon. At the time of his call, it transpired, Carrascosa was at home in the presence of intimates. Blood was pooled on the bathroom floor and smeared and spattered on its walls and adjoining areas. María Marta lay lifeless, brain matter oozing from several holes in her left parietal and temporal lobes. This was the moment when Carrascosa, calm and coherent, called emergency services, but didn’t advert the police. Someone, he told the operator, had slipped in the bath and bumped her head. Carrascosa described María Marta as breathing, with a faint pulse, but somehow failed to mention the holes in her head. “A knock with a tap,” a police source told journalist Horacio Cecchi, “really doesn’t compare with the five shots to the head, the spillage of brain matter and the loss of about half a litre of blood suffered by the victim” (Cecchi and Kollmann). Rather than a bathroom tap, María Marta’s head had met with five bullets discharged from a .32-calibre revolver. In effect, reported Cecchi, María Marta had died twice. “While perhaps a common conceit in fiction,” notes Cecchi, “in reality, dying twice is, by definition, impossible. María Marta’s two obscure endings seem to unsettle this certainty.” Her cadaver was eventually subjected to an autopsy, and what had been a tale of clumsiness and happenstance was rewritten, reinscribed under the Argentine Penal Code. The autopsy was conducted 36 days after the burial of María Marta; nine days later, she was mentioned for the second time in the mainstream Argentine press. Her reappearance, however, was marked by a shift in rubrics: from a short death notice in La Nación, María Marta was translated to the crime section of Argentina’s dailies. Until his wife’s mediatic reapparition, Carroscosa and other relatives had persisted with their “accident” hypothesis. Indeed, they’d taken a range of measures to preclude the sorts of uptakes that might ordinarily be expected to flow, under functioning liberal democratic regimes, from the discovery of a corpse with five projectiles lodged in its head. Subsequently recited as part of Carrascosa’s indictment, these measures were extensively reiterated in media coverage of the case. One of the more notorious actions involved the disposal of the sixth bullet, which was found lying under María Marta. In the course of moving the body of his half-sister, John Hurtig retrieved a small metallic object. This discovery was discussed by a number of family members, including Carrascosa, who had received ballistics training during his four years of naval instruction at the Escuela Nacional de Náutica de la Armada. They determined that the object was a lug or connector rod (“pituto”) used in library shelving: nothing, in any case, to indicate a homicide. With this determination made, the “pituto” was duly wrapped in lavatory paper and flushed down the toilet. This episode occasioned a range of outraged articles in Argentine dailies examining the topoi of privilege, power, corruption and impunity. “Distinguished persons,” notes Viau pointedly, “are so disposed […] that in the midst of all that chaos, they can locate a small, hard, steely object, wrap it in lavatory paper and flush it down the toilet, for that must be how they usually dispose of […] all that rubbish that no longer fits under the carpet.” Most often, though, critical comment was conducted by translating the reporting of the case to the genres of crime fiction. In an article entitled Someone Call Agatha Christie, Quick!, H.A.T. writes that “[s]omething smells rotten in the Carmel Country; a whole pile of rubbish seems to have been swept under its plush carpets.” An exemplary intervention in this vein was the work of journalist and novelist Vicente Battista, for whom the case (María Marta) “synthesizes the best of both traditions of crime fiction: the murder mystery and the hard-boiled novels.” “The crime,” Battista (¿Hubo Otra Mujer?) has Rodolfo observe in the first of his speculative dialogues on the case, “seems to be lifted from an Agatha Christie novel, but the criminal turns out to be a copy of the savage killers that Jim Thompson usually depicts.” Later, in an interview in which he correctly predicted the verdict, Battista expanded on these remarks: This familiar plot brings together the English murder mystery and the American hard-boiled novels. The murder mystery because it has all the elements: the crime takes place in a sealed room. In this instance, sealed not only because it occurred in a house, but also in a country, a sealed place of privilege. The victim was a society lady. Burglary is not the motive. In classic murder mystery novels, it was a bit unseemly that one should kill in order to rob. One killed either for a juicy sum of money, or for revenge, or out of passion. In those novels there were neither corrupt judges nor fugitive lawyers. Once Sherlock Holmes […] or Hercule Poirot […] said ‘this is the murderer’, that was that. That’s to say, once fingered in the climactic living room scene, with everyone gathered around the hearth, the perpetrator wouldn’t resist at all. And everyone would be happy because the judges were thought to be upright persons, at least in fiction. […] The violence of the crime of María Marta is part of the hard-boiled novel, and the sealed location in which it takes place, part of the murder mystery (Alarcón). I’ve argued elsewhere (Munro, Belsunce) that the translation of the case to the genres of crime fiction and their metaanalysis was a means by which a victimised Argentine public, represented by a disempowered and marginalised fourth estate, sought some rhetorical recompense. The postulate of resilience, however, might help further to describe and contextualise this notorious discursive event. A disaffected Argentine press finds itself in a stability domain with multiple attractors: on the one hand, an acquiescence to ever-increasing politico-juridical corruption, malfeasance and elitist impunity; on the other, an attractor of increasing contestation, democratisation, accountability and transparency. A discursive event like the caso Belsunce further perturbs Argentine society, threatening to displace it from its democratising trajectory. Unable to enforce due process, Argentina’s fourth estate adapts, doing what, in the circumstances, amounts to the next best thing: it denounces the proceedings by translating the case to the genres of crime fiction. In so doing, it engages a venerable reception history in which the co-constitution of true crime fiction and investigative journalism is exemplified by the figure of Rodolfo Walsh, whose denunciatory works mark a “politicisation of crime” (see Amar Sánchez Juegos; El sueño). Put otherwise, a section of Argentina’s fourth estate bounced back: by making poetics do rhetorical work, it resisted the pull towards what ecology calls an undesirable basin of attraction. Through a show of discursive resilience, these journalists worked to keep Argentine society on a democratising track. 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